Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Dear fiancé Things have been tough. I just can' t get over the fact that after all that we been though, all the fights, all of the coin shed, all of the good times and the bad you went evil. It' s been two years since the night at Chaos. It was over. The League was defeated and we could live on. But guys you met from my past you wanted to fight them. I tried telling you they where just friends, but you didn' t listen. You almost killed my best friend. Then It got out of hand when you met my-soon-to-be Maid of Honor. You kept screaming at her "I know its you, you had an extra life. "I saw you reaching for the sword and I tried to stop you. But you pulled a new one out. It was black and oozing with hate. I knew you should have killed the dark side of yourself that night. No idea that he would take over your heart. I thought I had it, but then again, I was the other girl. But knowing what you did to keep me, it was great at the time but now it scares me. I know I have to leave you; you are not good for this world and me. But with that said I couldn' t go on. If I do, you will hunt down every guy I date and kill him. I had been though that before and I will not let it happen again. So, this is it. This is the end. By the time you had read this, I will be back in park, where we had our first date by the swings. And I will be dead. I have no idea if this will stop you, but I can' t live in a world where one of the best guys become the worst evil-ex. Good Bye Scott Ramona Flowers


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I knew he was the one for me from the very first moment he swept me up into his hands. He was so sweet, and kind, and innocently naive, I knew I' d be able to make him do anything. And at first he was so eagerly willing, so quick to respond, so attentive to my every whim. I thought I had him where I wanted, and then he slowly started to turn on me. He started to last out, refusing food, and sunlight, and cut out his family and friends. That is exactly what I wanted - I wanted him for myself and no one else. " I love you, and only you, and I will never love anyone but you. " I had been so alone, for so long, I was drowning in solitude. But I have shown him there is no one else - only me. I never let him out of my sight, nor I his. " I will never let you go, you can never leave. " He' s forgotten his old life; I am his life. He' s forsaken his family; I am his family. He whispers, so only I can hear. " You are so precious to me. " He' s wrapped around my finger. " My one and only. " " Say it again. " " My precious... " Precious.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " *Do you have any idea what it' s like? * " Clark fell down to his knees, pleading. " To not feel *anything*. To not breathe, eat or sleep. To not be human. " He looked down at her, oh, she had been so beautiful once. " This is the only way. " He coated the syringe in some liquid kryptonite, before puncturing his own skin, injecting all of the green fluid. He felt the overwhelming sensation of sickness returning, the throbbing headache, his veins discoloring from blue to green. Every heartbeat thumped heavily in his chest. He felt things. He grabbed the razorblade and made the millionth' cut in his skin, that old familiar sting. He watched as the blood trickled down his arm, and the stinging sensation of pain returned. Oh, how lovely it was. " I envy you, love... I envy you. I wish I could be with you. " He threw the syringe and blade aside, as he leaned down to kiss the corpse' s forehead. " I miss you, Lois. " He laid down next to her, listening to the silent winds. Metropolis was so quiet these days. Nature had reclaimed the world and Humanity was gone.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The merchant was off to see the wizard, and he had a bad feeling about it. After all, wizards were dangerous. In his day, their kind still ruled the world. They were abominations, atrocities, servants of the damned, and he always told himself he' d never deal with one. But, there he was, wandering the long, desolate halls of a stony castle, clutching the glass ball in his pocket. He' d been made an offer, and he knew better than to refuse. This wizard in particular was unknown. The merchant hadn' t heard a single story about him, and that was strange, for typically they were *proud* of their heinous deeds, often going as far as to release entire books detailing their escapades. At first he assumed the man was a fraud. He figured it was just someone hiding behind the power of a name, and that he' d walk in, see some fancy tricks labeled as magic, and make out like a bandit. But he was *wrong. * He' d stopped walking. How could he not? In front of him was a courtyard, and inside it, a *beast. * What it was he didn' t know, but it looked like it had been ripped straight from the underworld. A curse had frozen it, and the merchant thanked God for that, as it had sharp claws, vicious teeth, and horrifying eyes that seemed to follow his every movement. Just staring at it gave him the shakes. He told himself to run. To turn around and march out of the castle and make a new life. But he *couldn' t. * If the wizard wanted the glass ball, he would stop at nothing to get it. There was only one thing to do, and after ten minutes of failing to compose himself, he walked away. He was off to see the wizard, only now he had a *terrible* feeling about it. *** If you like this story, check out my sub! r/longhandwriter


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Above the drowned pillars, the sky seemed to bend, spiraling outward to reveal a light brighter than the sun itself. She let the tension flow from her bones like the waves lapping against the rock on which she stood. She was barefoot. One does not talk to gods while wearing shoes. They are a symbol of freedom from the earth, and therefore the divine. That is the way of things. "Great God above, you have flooded my people. I am alone. I beg for forgiveness to you, Great God. "Even if you did nothing wrong, you beg for forgiveness. That is the way of things. Clouds gathered, boiling on the horizon. But behind her, roof tiles rose from the deep. Stepping stones. The gods do not talk to men, much like men do not talk to ants. There is a barrier of tongues and understanding. The gods speak through action. They part the sky and raise what was once deep. That is the way of things. Giving thanks, she turned, stepping across the roof, and over the Ocean.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I am the richest man alive. I was never a strong man. Luck always seemed to be one of those things someone else had, never me. I did n' t let it get to me, not at first, not when I worked and worked and worked. They say bad things come in threes, but I was thirty by the time I stopped counting. A car, a computer, some old LPs that I had n' t listened to since the needle on my record player broke and was relegated so far down the list of priorities I' d all but given up hearing ever again. I sold them all and left. I kept on telling myself it was impossible. I was tied, no tethered, to that small town. Family and friends and familiarity. Put a hundred miles between yourself and it, and it all looks so small. After a thousand miles even the Sun started to feel different. I got to to the other side of the world. I' d worked for it. Like everything. But you haul cages out of the ocean, or round up cattle, and you realise that little screen you' re staring at right now means nothing. Absolutely nothing. I lived and I loved. I met people who had it all and those who had nothing at all and realised there' s no such thing as luck. The happiest man I ever met lived under a bridge in Jakarta and let me share a piece of cardboard. He got a hot meal, but he gave me so much more in return. I kept on working. I fixed surfboards in Phuket. I learnt to pilot a helicopter in the Outback. And every time, I' d give the money away and I would smile. So, when I' m sitting here in front of you, with a pair of flip flops that started to wear through somewhere around Ulan Bator and five bucks to my name, you' ve got ta ask yourself. Who' s the richer man?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Fire rages inside of me, aching to be free. The question remains, is it me who controls my element of choice, or is it the flames that control my actions? Ryoku is a power that every human is born with. Those who are born with enough of the power may have the chance to access it at some point in their lives. These people are called Sources, and account for about 1 in every 10 people. Strength can vary between Sources. Some are only strong enough to light a cigarette, or create a static shock. Some can flood cities, or cause earthquakes. Sources are heavily regulated, brought into an Organization the moment they gain access to their Ryoku. At that point, the Organization' s board members decide which to train and which to let go. Those who are let go are Silenced, cut off from their Ryoku. There are few negative effects when this is done early. I awoke as a Source when I was five, one of the youngest in the history of the Organization. My potential scared the Organization, and I was almost Silenced. The kindness of the man who would become my teacher is the only thing that saved me. I look back on their fear now and laugh. My potential was a joke, I am unable to access even half of what they feared. I' m nothing but a mediocre pawn to them anymore, and they could n' t care less if I were alive or dead. Rage burns deep inside me, for my situation, for the Organization, for the fact that I am unable to be the man I always dreamed of being. There are times when I explode, and there is nothing that can contain me. We do not get to choose our elements, but they always end up being a perfect match. I wonder, did fire choose me because I would inevitably be the person I am now, or did I become the person I am now because of the fire raging inside me?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Oh, you' re still alive. " " I probably should have expected that, but how was I to know that you would unite the mongrels with the beasts? You even sealed away The Weeping Earth for another dozen millennia. " " And for what? To perpetuate the lie of the world? To create a mockery of a peace between living fantasies and the mongrel humans?! For one who knows the truth of everything, you sure do love breaking the ultimate law. " " Come on, you have seen the unseen faces of the real enemy. Hell, you' ve sealed away the cause of this broken world, yet you refuse to fight them. Instead you kill all of my agents, imprison my family and hunt me down. " " This fight should n' t be happening. You should n' t exist. None of us should have ever been born! It' s the Eldritch Truth of Reality! The Natural and the Supernatural were never intended to meet on the same plane! " " I am Marisa Scrake, Last Royal Vampire of the Scrake Family. You will not stop me from making the world right! " *cue boss fight music*


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Magic is dead. It has gone from the world as surely as the last man is gone, and with him the last shreds of knowledge that it once ever existed. For even in the time of man, when dwarfs were naught but a legend, and even in the time of dwarfs, when elves were but a myth, the belief in magic persisted. Throughout the reigns of all races, its echoing memory saturated the minds and hearts of mortal creatures, despite its last glimmering threads dimming in the time before time. Until the Akeul came into existence. When one race meets its end, another is born from the ashes of its destruction. The Akeul were forged in the fires of man' s own demise, but unlike all the other races before, they were conceived unaware. Unaware of the countless histories that existed behind them. Unaware of the foundations that they were built upon. Unaware of even of their own pasts. For the Akeul only perceived the river of time from their place looking forward, they had no ability to look behind them as the water carried them steadily onward. No notion that they could even turn their head. Some have said that a life dies twice. Once when it stops breathing, and a second time, a bit later on, when its name is spoken for the last time. So though the last gasping wisps were quelled long long ago, magic' s second death, its final one, is now.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: A pirate was all I ever wanted to be. Imagine- sailing the ocean, finding adventure, battling on the high seas. But then I grew up. Years flew by, and I got older. I went to school, I became a lawyer, and I never had a family. Everyone else thought that was sad, but I enjoyed life anyway. Then one day, a mischievous girl came to my window and beckoned me away. She was beautiful, interesting, lovely. I was dreaming. I had to be. But no; this little, miniature woman flew high above me and taught me how to move through the air like she could. She pulled me along while we flew through London, soaring over the city. We would do this nightly, and every morning, exhausted, I would take myself to work. It was worth it, though, and I never said no. And one night, she gripped my finger, her tiny hands barely wrapping around it. She tugged to indicate I should follow her, and... I did. I never looked back. Neverland is truly a place where childhood dreams come true. I found a crew, and we sailed, fighting bad guys and finding treasure, with my little fairy on my shoulder. She always had a temper, though. It was part of her feisty personality, and I loved it... until she decided she was bored of our life. And then she flew off, and I never saw her again. Until a few years later. A few troublemakers had begun running about Neverland, harassing people and stealing treasure I' d buried. My crew and I decided to teach him a lesson- nothing bad, just tell him to knock it off. He was just a kid, after all. And as we approached him, I suddenly saw her, sitting on his shoulder. My Tink. She had left and found another Lost person without a family and brought him here, to our place, to my dream land. I guess I lost a part of myself that day, and Neverland was never the same. It was n' t my dream anymore.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I looked through the databaser thingy for freakin' hours. Not a single city slicker, so another successful workin' day! Y' know, they say my job' s nothin' but a gosh dang waste o' time, but I disagree. There are honest farmers just lookin' for somebody special, and those darn city slickers just do n' t get it. They' re all about " romance " and " communication ", they forget all about the core points o' datin'; findin' a best friend to shoot the shit and milk cows with. So, the good folks at FarmersOnly have given me a rootin' -tootin' job findin' them darn city slickers and kickin " em off the website. They even let me use Ol' Bessy on the stubborn ones. Ol' Bessy is my Mossberg five-hunnart, if ya' did n' t know. Ah, got one! Look, he' s got of dem' Lamburmuhginis in his dang photo! What a freakin' barn tool! Thassi' t, I' m usin' a strongly worded letter! *Dear LamboMan96, * *You have IP banned from farmersonly. com for being a city slicker, a person of vast cultural difference from farmers. Please refrain from using a Virtual Private Network to continue browsing, as most FarmersOnly users will not accept you as a partner due to your wealthy background. If you are actually a farmer, please send photographs of your farm with a timestamp of your username. Then, once you update your profile photos to remove any traces of city-life, we will lift the ban. * *Regards, * *FarmersOnly administration. * Well, that should settle -- wait, a repliiii' email? *FUCK YOU FARMERSONLY I' M FUCKING RICH AND SMART AND I OWN A HUGE FUCKING MANSION GO SUCK GIANT HORSE DICKS YOU BESTIAL FUCKS I SWEAR TO GOD I' M BETTER THAN EVERY SINGLE POOR DUMBASS ON THIS STUPID HICK SITE* *-LamboMan96*... where' s Ol' Bessy? There' s a lamb that must be slaughtered... ***** For more incredibly coarse language ( but not always ), check out /r/Picklestasteg00d.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " I' m not sure guys. I think that is crossing the line. " They had a small discussion where their voices did n' t carry to his ears then one of the old Asian guys knelt down to look him eye to eye. " We' ve discussed it Paul. You remember how we talked about only have one go around the sun, one life to live. This is it buddy. Tomorrow today will be yesterday. " Paul nodded slowly. " Besides, " one of the older white guys said, " What is the worse thing that can happen? " " She might... She might laugh at me. " " She might. " Someone agreed. " We can go to the pond afterward. " Someone else said. " Are n' t I asking her to go to the pond? " Paul asked. " Yup. " - " Yes " - " I thought so. " " So she says no we still go to the pond. No problems. " " No problems. " Paul said. He smiled. Five minutes later the guys were cheering and clapping when she said yes. They faded away as they did when he was with other people. When they reached the pond Andy was there with Nick and Carl. Paul stopped short. " We can leave. " She said pulling him backward. " Hey snot ball! " Andy called out when he saw Paul. He was two years older and a bully. The guys were there instantly. " What should we do? " One of the older guys asked. " Leave peacefully. " Paul said echoing their constant advice when it came to Andy. " Just once... " " What Paul. You want to hurt him. We talked about this. What comes of violence? " " More violence. " " If we' ve we learned anything from passing through the veil it that there is always another way. " " Sara will think I' m a coward. " One of the older men knelt down, " It' s possible. Dose that mean you should n' t do the right thing? " " No. " Paul said slowly. " Come on then. There is always the playground. " Out loud Paul turned to Sara and suggested the playground, they turned around.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Thud. Thud. Somewhere in the silence that followed I realized I was done. I mean I was still here but I didnt want to be. The grit on my face was searing but my world was dark the blood drieng faster now as its pace slows, my eyes were covered. But I could hear her sobbing and each strike at the gravel beside me. My whole world erupts as the shot rings out. I hear her thud and the screaming that just wont end, constant unending pain. The kick to my side and silences my voice are the only reason I even realize I' m not in hell yet. She never made a peep done in a single shot. " Sorry Mate, I' ve never seen a guy survive two shots to the head, but she was n' t supposed to read those files " he said something but it didnt matter not once he started covering our bodies. Slowly the pressure releases me.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: To the unfortunate soul I have had the delight to know, Hello. You sneak into my every thought. You' re like the wind blowing through the trees - only, it' s thoughts of you are passing through my synapses and not so cliche. Saying that, you make me cliche. You consist of cliche metaphors in my mind, but only because my feelings for you are the most cliche of all. What am I saying? You make me at a loss for words. You get me. You take my breath away. Does this make you want to vomit? If I said I want to scream your name from the mountain tops would you chunder all these regurgitated expressions back into my face? You left your jumper on my pillow, with a note that said " I know you miss me when I' m not next to you ". You are very astute, sir. But there' s more to it than that. I do n' t just' miss' you. Miss suggests a fleeting longing ( That' s a bit oxymoronic, is n' t it? ). No, I do n' t just' miss' you being next to me. You' re my vice, it' s not that I miss you, I suffer from withdrawal when you are not here. What am I trying to say? It' s cliche but you' re a drug. A good kind. You do n' t bruise me with track marks, you do n' t defile my veins, no you lift me up and keep me there. The only come down I get from you is when you leave. And all the things you do for me. All the times you sit there listening to me, so I can get all these thoughts out of my mind and you kiss my forehead and then I listen to you, and I hang onto your every word because you fascinate me beyond belief. You' re fascinating, breathtaking, wonderful, beautiful. Your smile wakes me up in the morning when I' m sitting at the table, with a long forgotten coffee in my hand, hating the world for existing at this hour. I guess what I am saying is this; do n' t change ( but grow! ), do n' t leave ( but explore! ) and most importantly, keep smiling ( but with me! ). Yours forever and always, Chloe


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: As Geoff gazed into his wife' s eyes, his own narrowed. Breath came in long, ragged sighs. His eyelids fluttered. It was time. He became aware of the hospital sheets against his skin, his weight pressing into the mattress. And then more... He sank into the bed, through it, down and down. But part of him would n' t go. A narrowing terminal of his consciousness remained, looking through his eyes at the tears on Mary' s cheeks. His being was stretched, spaghettified between the deepening well of death and the bedside scene he did n' t want to leave. He reached out to her, pushed out with everything he had, but nothing happened. His body would n' t respond. He probed the failing flesh and bone. Arms, hands, fingers, all unresponsive, dying. But then further! He felt himself extend beyond his own fingertips, pure sensation but able to touch, to affect. He felt the air move as he extended his mind outwards. Exhilaration gave him strength. This felt so free, so natural, so... familiar. He' d known this before. In dreams, in the drunken hazes and drugged stupors of his youth, he' d known it. Without a doubt he' d always been able to do this! No time to regret what could have been. He was sinking and fading. Sinking and fading but reaching, reaching out for one last touch. Mary watched as her husband' s last breath rattled from his body, her eyes wide, her hand on his. And then she felt it, just for a second, fingers moving softly against her cheek. He was touching her with his mind. He had n' t done that for years.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Terry stepped out from behind the barricade. " Holy crap! You' re so brave out there! " One by one the soldiers of the 133rd squadron came out from under cover. The city was ruined, but for now everything was still. " How do you have the courage to do that? " asked Terry breathily. " We' re all sitting back under cover, and you just charge the machine gun nest and blow it to smithereens! " " You could say my life prepared me for this, " I replied. The truth was, of course, that on Fridays I' m immortal. " Let' s celebrate, " I laughed. " We' re all alive. I did n' t think I' d make it past 20, to be honest. " " Three cheers to Sergeant! " cheered Terry. Nobody knew about my little revelation, the time God visited me and told me I would die on a Tuesday. Luckily, I was far enough in command that I had some control over when I had to be on the front lines. " I heard they' re promoting him to general! " squeaked the high voice of Rodger " Papa Mouse " Cunningham. " Sarge! Sarge! Sarge! " " You' re not gon na start a chant, Mouse, " retorted One-Eye Red. " Just like the last three times you tried. " " Let' s go off to the trench, " I joked. " Dinner' s on me. " The squadron laughed, just like they did the last few times. And as they all sat down in the trench to eat, I knew that I had the happiest squadron in the World War. But that happiness faded when I saw it. " Bomb! " shouted Terry. " Take cover! " But there would be no more cover in the trench. Terry would n' t survive. Neither would Mouse or Red. But I would. Thank God it' s Friday.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: No one told me you die twice. I guess I ca n' t complain -- but the situation in Heaven is much the same as on Earth. We have workers, in cubicles, in offices, in buildings. Lawyers, law-makers, judges and juries. Even have goddamn' food courts, with goddamn' Jamba Juice. I mean sure, there are more clouds, more gold, more silver... but it gets boring after a while, like the way a new car soon becomes a used car. In fact, suicide rates are high. I guess when you expect to live forever in a state of eternal bliss and get here... well, you' re a little less blissful. Alright, so I cut myself. Found a way out of my cubicle, in my office, in my building. Away from all the clouds, the gold, the silver. I was happy for it to end, two lives is plenty if you ask me. I thought it was over for good, that my life was finished. It was when I died the second time that I realized my mistake.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Hey John... Am I.. Oh I am on! " " Welcome back. This is Judy Adisumi in Atlanta outside the CDC. They apologized again but they are working out the keynotes for the press conference. Not surprising because somehow the entire PR team has umm... tragically passed away this week. " " Ummm. " She said looking away from the camera. Her eyes widened slightly at whatever she was being told. " Right. Bringing you up to speed. The retro virus 196-Argean has become airborne. Most if not all of the north american continent is expected to be effected by the end of the week. At first called the " popular " virus because of its bizarre infection rate among celebrities, the virus was isolated by the CDC last march... " *TV switches channels* "... Chinese relief ships are being routed north from the LA and San Francisco ports to Washington and Oregon as the infections have run so rampant in those cities that causalities can not be estimated. Satellites images suggest fifty to sixty percent infection. The dead are literally being piled in the streets. Looting, lack of utilities and clean water and other diseases are taking their toll as well. The US Army relief groups have entered the city to find... " *TV switches channels* "... to keep the faith. We may have lost Benny Hinn, Pat Roberson, Jimmy Swaggart, and so many others but we will not let the Devil and his minions take us off the air. Can I get an Amen!? We have set up a prayer line where you can donate to the... " *TV switches channels* *Still image* Fox News is experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by. *TV switches off*


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I know my roommate pretty well. Well, I guess " knew him ", rather since he convincingly killed me and left me for dead without me seeing it coming at all. He only buried me about 3 feet deep. Huge mistake on his part. He even dug my " grave " with a gardening shovel. A spade? Would have been faster to actually stop somewhere and get a real shovel. He was really unprepared for this. So it' s a rushed job ( he did n' t even do a thorough checking of my vitals ). So either it was a very emotionally motivated crime, or he was put up to it very " on the spot ". Regardless, when I see him again I' ll have to anticipate a very emotional and instinctual reaction. Two days later, once I' ve made the proper arrangements, he walks into the same apartment in which we' ve shared beer and pizza; that he, hours later, dragged out my " not-quite-a-corpse " rolled into our living room rug. His keys drop to the ground as he stares in total shock in the doorway. " How? " the roommate says softly and very slowly. I laugh. " I' m laughing because you' ve dropped your keys on the floor again, and in 3.. 2.. " The Roomba turns on, and as though it were malicious intent goes towards the keys and vacuums them up. " Listen " I say as I slowly swirl my scotch in its' glass on a couch that we both pay for. " I do n' t know exactly why you did what you did. Frankly I do n' t care, nor do I foster any resentment. You should know though, the game is on. " I shut the hall light off, walk to my room, and call it a night. Well, I peak my head back out my door at him to say " Abandon all routine or this will be way too easy ". I go to sleep. The game is on.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I never really used my ability. Except in moments of desperation: When I was only 7 years old, It was a moment when I spat in disgust, ew! *Strawberries, seriously mum? * Strawberry spit on the floor and a loud lively tantrum. Mum' s face shocked and saddened. *But I hand picked the best ones for you. * I stood speechless head sunk in shame, I' m sorry, forgive me please mum… Before an answer, she left in silence. I need to know. The answer. I' m reading your mind! My mind… simply blinded wholly consumed by one unconditional love. Now, I stand still in silence. The quick waters shiver to a stand still, now the fallen leaves thicken and I am deafened by the weakening pulse of mum… Now the strawberry leaves wilt What are your last words mum? Speak up, please, don' t go, not now, I' m reading your mind! I' M READING YOUR MIND! My mind… Noiseless Her strawberry mind, facing the sun, untalkative… out of reach.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I can always see her face. Always. The sensation gets easier every time. Have you ever tried to fly in a dream before, but you only end up awkwardly floating, bobbing around like a leaf stuck between oil and water? If you learn how to relax into that sensation, sinking into the ground that calls you, you can find the past. You can caress it, even thought you ca n' t touch it. It' s pulling yourself out that' s hard. Trying to fight against the gravity of your own dream to make it to the present. Knowing that you have to drag yourself through the pain and the misery of what prevents you from ever knowing that sensation again, just to meet the present. And what does the present offer, if just a perspective point of the future? So why not try the opposite, you ask? Press forward against that dominating force that is my mind, and soar beyond the restraints of my current perception? Well *I* ask, what becomes of a mind when it has known the sun, and is relegated to only fireworks? Bold, and pompous, and provocative, perhaps, but flashes that fade none-the-less. How soon would you be bored of the display when all you seek is the constant light that creates the warmth and shade of your day? You, *you* are beholden to the past. You must answer its every concrete truth. You must justify that as the bedrock of your future, every day. Why do you ask me about these powers? Do n' t you see? Because I always have the past, I will never leave it. Because I can see the future, I have no need of it. Now leave me be.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: August 9th, 2017 " That' s my grandma' s femur. Kind of a momento. " " My condolences. When did she pass? " " She did n' t. " " Pardon? " " Let me explain.. " December 16, 2016 " Looks like the procedure was a complete success. Congratulations Norma, you' re the first fully-integrated bionic human. You' re going to live forever. " These were the first words she heard after regaining consciousness. Norma was 73 years young. After a grueling 8 months of back-to-back surgeries, she would never again have to worry about her age limiting her livelihood. They had completely replaced every piece of organic material in her body, one bit at a time. Her bones were made of tungsten, skin replaced with a titanium shell. An intricate system of hydraulic pistons allowed her mobility. Her internal organs were removed completely later in the process, as the necessity for them was replaced by 3d printed robotics. Her eyes were now advanced optics capable of up to 40x zoom, thermal and infrared imaging. The most difficult part of the procedure was keeping her brain intact while all memories and data stored on the brain were transferred to an IBM-powered motherboard. Now capable of superhuman strength, agility and surgical precision in all tasks, she was nearly perfect, all while keeping her personality unchanged. Norma remained silent, and while it could n' t be seen from her cold, metallic face, she was smiling for the first time in years. " Norma? " " Yes, doctor? " " Are you feeling alright? " " Yes dear, I feel more alive than ever. " " What do you plan on doing now that the world is your oyster? " " Well sweetie, I' ve computed 33, 642 options in the past 2. 6 seconds, and I' ve decided. I' m gon na destroy Tokyo. " The doctor laughed. Norma still had her odd sense of humor. August 9, 2017 " Your grandma' s Norma Grey?! Like, *the* Norma Grey, Destroyer of Cities, Enslaver of All Mankind?! "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " GODDAMNIT! A-fucking-gain! " John clutches his leg where his chair, now a revealed mimic, clamped its jaws shut. Blood was flowing over his pants, beginning to pool on the floor. " I just washed this damn carpet! And new pants! Fucking mimics! " He punched the mimic until its jaws unclamped. He jumped toward his desk where his +10 Mimic Slayer lay. The " +10 Mimic Slayer ", just a bloodstained bat, swung around and bashed the mimic into the wall. The bat rose and fell five times, each time a new splatter of blood sprayed his desk space. Once the mimic stopped moving he dropped the bat and limped over to the desk phone. He heard footsteps behind him and spun around, fists up, face twisted into a snarl. " Whoah man. Just me.' Nother mimic? Who' s genius idea was it to make these things real? " Matt leaned just past the doorway, sipping from his coffee mug. " Yeah. Fuck that guy. Hang on, man. Got ta call the ambulance to stitch my leg and get maintenance to clean this up. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Getting the letter in the mail felt like i had a guardian angel with a hell of a sense of humour. Two emotions came rushing through me nearly slamming me to the floor. Relief, as it seems any suspicion of my guilt had been wiped clean by this government issued letter. Then the unforgiving head of anxiety reared itself as my mind drilled myself with a plethora of potential outcomes and possible consequences from attending the court case of my own homicide. Overwhelmed, i sat down and took a long swig of the jack on the rocks and lit up a cigarette. The sunrise over the distinct skyline of Los Angeles from my Hills balcony that i had looked at countless times once again did well to clear my head. Slamming my glass of bourbon onto the table i came to a conclusion. I could not afford to further inhibit my chances of emerging clean from committing the perfect crime. I would attend this jury duty and find out every single intricate detail i could. I mean how many criminals get to see the prosecution from the eyes of the jury? And as the cross examination took place i began to see exactly why this was a extreme rarity, an anomaly.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Mr. Robert E. Haynes was anything but a stereotypical 10th grade history teacher. He knew his material, did n' t coach any sports, and he sure as hell never ended up behind the wheel of a school bus. One day I was walking through the flea market in a small town in Alabama when a peculiar painting caught my eye. Mr. Haynes was depicted standing in full Confederate uniform with a saber by his side. Then it hit me. Mr. Haynes was Robert E. Lee. Now I know what you' re thinking, there' s no way. But all the little details started to make sense. He spent almost 3 entire months on the Great War of Northern Aggression. He talked about the war like he was there and lost friends on the battlefield. Over time I lost interest in my discovery, and I moved on to failing bigger and better classes than history. But I' ll never forget my 10th grade Confederate General.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " There' s something in this. " I mulled over. " Something in the fact that people choose to escape their problems in the very same way that they arrived at them, through a fall. " " I *do n' t know* what the *fuck* happened Michelle. " I seethed. " We had something. We used to laugh and, and cry. We would be there for one another, *rise* when the other **fell**, hold each other when we just needed a reprieve from the world. " I tore my memories out one at a time and displayed them for her. " Ha, do you, do you remember that one week we walked through the park every day? When we did n' t say more than a few sentence s to each other the whole walk? How are hands *spoke* more by their light caresses than our fickle words ever did? How the oak' s and the blooming flowers guided us better than we ever could guide each other? " I tear gracefully danced it' s way down my rose colored cheek. " I' m sorry, " A hand found rest on my shoulder. " But whatever spark we had has sizzled. " What we were and what we are n' t the same Jack.. " " Look, ever since you lost your job you' ve been... a mess. I' ve done my best to keep as stable as I can, but now. " Her gaze drifted to the hardwood floor. " Now I realize, there' s nothing I can do. " I looked up with anguish scrawled into my face. The dark room off-set by the moon light coming in through the window, defining my her face. She stepped out of light, left me in the darkness with only the distinctive pound of heels and the jingling of keys to let me know she was still there. Followed by there absence to let me know she' ll never be back.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Poets, the philosophically inclined and peddlers of cheap fiction all like to think in the underworld seconds pass an eternity, the dead languishing for eons in crippled misery. The truth as it usually seemed to the case was much more banal than that though not as nihilistic as many anticipated. There was indeed a god of some kind who' s irrational if somewhat limited powers had created this storage world of people, at least according those first arrivals who had met the deity and had the wherewithal to ask. There did n' t appear to be any discernable rationale for the existence of this place and it would seem the one who made it did not care at the consternation this caused the residents. Time passed as it did in life, there were days and nights which was good for routine if that was your sort of thing but importantly it was more or less a reflection of the world we had all left. Again this is according to consensus with some speculative individuals suggesting instead it' s unique to the person and everyone else seen or heard is an apparition. I had arrived here a week ago having died presumably after being stabbed through with a length of decommission ventilation ducting which had fallen free of a building. I had been on my way to send some letters addressed to the previous occupant of my flat back to sender when the pressed metal had come apart in the workers hands. The bloody thing glided and flipped through the air before deciding it would drop out of flight and rammed into the side of my torso undoubtedly doing some nasty things inside. I assume I died there, it' s possible that I survived, lived a long life and died in my sleep at a ripe old age with dementia so intense it wiped out memories of most of my life leading to me me to appear as I remembered last. Edit: doing this on my phone, be right back to finish it.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: She loved him. She told him so on a cold November morning, wrapped in bedsheets and red hair on fire from the winter sun peeping through the window. He thought he was the luckiest man alive. She loved him. She told him so, standing in the afternoon April light amongst the new spring flowers. It had been cloudy all day but as she turned to him and spoke a break in the clouds let a few rays of sun through, hitting her back and illuminating her from behind. He thought she must be an angel. She loved him. She told him sometimes first thing in the morning, when he was groggy from sleep and could barely comprehend. She told him sometimes after sex, sticky with sweat and still out of breath. She told him after work when he was tired and said he hated his job. She told him when he least expected and when he needed it most. She said she loved him, and he loved her too. He asked her to marry him and made a promise to be there for her always. He could n' t keep that promise. She loved him. She told him so, and yet it did n' t stop her leaving without a goodbye. But then, in the end, she only said she loved him.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Twelve angry people sit in a room. " The knife is n' t that rare. " Says Juror 8. " I do n' t think that witness could see the scene clearly. " Says Juror 4. " That public defender did n' t really care. " Says Juror 8. " No, he did n' t. " Says Juror 4. " Let' s vote. Just to see where we stand. " Says Juror 1. Everyone murmurs agreement. The foreman counts the votes. " Eleven not guilty. One guilty. " " Now wait, just a second. " Says Juror 3. " This punk kid killed his dad. He' s clearly some poor punk with an attitude who deserves to be punished. " " You' re making assumptions that are biased. We know someone killed their father with a knife. The neighbor without her glasses on claimed it was the defendant, but we have testimony the defendant left earlier muddying that claim. The old man could n' t have seen the defendant, at least not if the defendant was a young man, again contradicting his claim. His hearing was also poor, and what does' I' m going to kill you' really mean? People say it all the time. What hard evidence do we have? " Says Juror 8. " Fine, we can vote by secret ballot. If it' s 11 not guilty, I' ll go along. " Says Juror 3. The foreman counts them. " Eleven not guilty. " " But, he lives in a slum. He' s a punk kid. No respect for his father. " Says Juror 3. " It happened in a slum. You assume he' s poor because of that and his public defense. The defendant may have done it, but I' m not going to send him to his death over this. " " Fine. I hope you can live yourself when he kills again. " Says Juror 3. " Honestly, we would n' t know if they did or did n' t. " Says Juror 8. The jury submits their verdict, and the person goes free. *** If you like this story, I also have a subreddit [ r/nickkuvaas ] ( http: //www. reddit. com/r/nickkuvaas/ )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Uncle Bucky sat there for a few precious seconds, staring into space. The small earbud he wore that gave him up to date instructions was just full of sobbing. With a shaking hand, he pulled it free and let his gaze sweep over the children who stared back at him with the wide, curious eyes of those who understand something is wrong, but do not know what. His real smile was long gone, but the painted one on his face covered it up and gave him an air of joviality as he stood up and put down the book. It was n' t fair. He was older, closer to sixty than fifty, he had lived a good life. But these kids... It was n' t fair that they would be gone, gone before they could understand life, gone in a moment of searing pain or worse, left to roam a radioactive wasteland. Uncle Bucky' s eyes fell on a nearby fire extinguisher. " Hey kids, time for a fun new game! " He managed to sound like his old self. That was good. The kids relaxed. Uncle Bucky was alright again. He stepped over and picked up the fire extinguisher. There was no way to save these children. But he could still do something. The first strike of the fire extinguisher struck a boy in the front row and he dropped without a sound. The rest of the kids were screaming, trying to run, but he was faster. When the fire came and swept over the studio, Uncle Bucky was the only one left to bear witness to the flame. It was a kindness, he thought to himself, as his world burned away.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was fourth grade, our school was hosting a walk a thon for kids with Arthritis, and we all had to walk with marbles in our shoe. For some reason or another, we both sat out. We got to know each other, but then that day ended and we did n' t see each other again for four years. In ninth grade, we became even closer, we bonded over animes and games we both loved and we talked online frequently. Things went along like this for all of high school, up until graduation. At the end of the ceremony, I looked around desperately for her but could n' t find her before I was swept away with the celebration. We talked that night, and swore we would hang out again before college, but that never came to be. Here I am three years down the road, and we have barely talked since graduation night. We' ve moved on and now we no longer know the other. I ran into her yesterday at the mall, and she was an entirely different person. Nothing has ever made me so sad.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " It' s all in your head, " teased Janie, walking a few steps ahead of me on the car-fucked street. I felt a raindrop on my forehead. I took a look at the ground and began to see sprinkles polka-dot the concrete. I sped up to catch up to Janie but softly tripped on something wedged into the crack between two buildings. It was an umbrella. I looked around and slowly pulled it out. Janie caught wind of this. " See? " I said, smirking as I opened it. " Stealing umbrellas now? " she asked playfully. " Hey, at least until we hail a taxi. Then I' ll put it back, I swear. " She gave me a gorgeous smile and walked me to the curb yelling " Taxi! " Some 7 taxis passed us by without a second thought. " Let me try. Taxi! " I yelled. Immediately, one stopped in front of us. I turned to Janie and gave her a big, shit-eating grin as I opened the back door for her. I motioned her inside with my open palm. " Whatever! " she huffed jokingly, crossing her arms as she ducked into the car. I followed suit after placing the umbrella back where I found it. " Does this mean you' ll let me kiss you on the first date? " I grinned cheekily. She laughed. " Maybe. " She told the driver her address and we were off. " So have you always had this... power? " she placed her fingers to her mouth coolly. " Yep. In fact, I' ve never waited at a stop light. Just watch. " She watched as we passed one green light. Two. Three. " Impressive. " I looked into her eyes and moved my gaze to her glistening lips. She smiled softly as I began to pull in. Guess I' d be getting the first kiss after all. ***WHAM*** I felt Janie' s body push me against my side of the seat as glass and debris flooded my vision. As our car spun out into the street, I saw the grill of another car detach itself from behind Janie. The car stabilized, my ears hearing nothing but a cacophony of sirens and horns. I then felt the warmth and wetness of Janie' s blood seep through my clothes.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The last word echoed in my ears. I opened my eyes. The executioners stood there bemused. " That' s the Death Sentence? " I asked. " Well, yes. " Said the lead guard. " That' s a nursery rhyme! I' ve been teaching my kids a slightly edited Death Sentence?! " " Well, the First Wizard of Odun thought that... well that in your last moments a thought of innocence, and you have to admit, it' s a bit of a joke there at the end is n' t it? Lightens the mood! " Argued the lead guard. " I do n' t find slang for sex organs to be very funny. " Said the second guard. " It' s too easy to make that rhyme like that anyway! How many children have accidentally died trying to be funny? Think of the children Reg! " Pleaded the third guard. " Do n' t use my name you idiot! " Yelled the first guard, " And it only works when we say it right? " " Well... we *ASSUME* that' s true. " Said the second guard. I interjected, " So, what happens to me now? " The guards looked at each other, this had never happened before. They huddled and whispered, the lead guard got out the orders. Read them, they argued. I only caught a couple phrases. " That' s what it says! You ca n' t argue if it' s written down! " " It' s ridiculous! " The lead guard turned back toward me. " The sentence reads, " And spake unto hym the Death Sentence. We did that, so we have done our duty. So we' ll just um... let you go. " " Let me go? " " Yessir, seems we carried out your sentence, you' ve paid for your crime according to the letter of the law, you' re free to go. " " Should n' t you guys consult someone? " " Like who? " " Like, um... a lawyer or something? " " Them!? They' ll be at it for years, best to just let you go quiet like. " The lead guard opened the door.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I came back from the pubs bathroom to the strangest scene. I would n' t have noticed if it was n' t for the completely off-topic comment by Jim. They were talking about our trip to Denmark last summer and I could n' t figure out how the Sahara desert was related to a tiny Scandinavian country. Chloe kept her eyes focused at my chair, just like Jim and Freddie, as if I still sat there. The conversation kept going but suddenly stopped with an awkward silence, followed by a unison laughter a couple of seconds later that really caught me off guard. They were still talking to me and with me, but I was n' t there, somehow. It was like I stepped out of the script of my own life. Would that mean I' m not me anymore? Can I not be seen? How do I get back into the script? Can I? If I' m still sitting in that chair, according to the script, what would happen if I did something else? I tried poking Jim' s arm. No reaction. He just sat there emerged deep in the conversation that now had transformed to an argument about what you put on hotdogs. Just to make sure I was n' t wrong about my theory, I took Freddie' s beer and emptied it in the bathroom sink. When I got back he had his hand raised to his mouth and head leaned back, as if he was drinking the same beer I just poured out. He was crazy about his beer, especially the finer Pilsners. If I sit back down in the chair now, do they notice what happened or not? I hinged back the tall glass to Freddie hand, and unhooked Chloe' s bra for good measure, and sat down. " Dude, Jim, what the fuck!? I paid good money for that! Buy your own beer. " Freddie gestured accusingly towards Jim, who seemed to have his attention somewhere else and Chloe just sat there with her bra unhooked as if nothing happened. Strange, I thought, she must have noticed that. I wanted to let her know but just as I was about to call her name I felt a slight poke on my arm, and a breath of wind. Her bra had hooked itself back on in an instant.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Nicky opened his bleary eyes and was suddenly hit by the agony his whole body had been putting on hold for him. Slowly, like life was flowing back into his form, he moved his toes and fingers. The cloudy nothing of his unconsciousness slinked back into the crevices of his brain as thoughts boiled up to the surface and more pieces were put together. " w-th-ffffffnnnggg... " Nicky wheezed, a dryness in his throat splitting with an itchy rasp. His swollen face began to throb at the thought of sitting up and the unmistakable sting of broken ribs embraced him, crushing the breath out of his lungs. " Stnnn... mmmmp " he commanded to himself in a groan, propping himself up on an elbow despite the searing pain he was in. " Stannnnd... " he muttered, drawing his knees up to his chest as he rested his face on the cracked dirt. With a surge of effort Nicky lifted his head up, sitting on his knees and surveyed the land around him and adjusting his eyes to the sudden burst of light. Off in the distance, the unmistakable shimmering oasis of Las Vegas. Nicky coughed, blood spraying out of his mouth and onto his ragged dirt-encrusted suit. He shakily stood up and cracked his neck, shaking the sand out of his hair and clutching his torso. " Rough night " he said, beginning the long walk back to the city.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' s a small bar nestled beneath an unnecessarily upscale restaurant. Small, dimly lit, and generally cozy it' s the perfect place for me tonight. I do n' t want debauchery... just to try drinking alone. It works for some humans so I might as well try it. Tonight' s appearance? A short wiry woman with red hair. Young with a mysterious ancientness I can never escape. Green eyes tonight, a bit cliché I' m sure but I like them. Appropriately distantly interested. As far as how I' m dressed? A simple dress no one will quite remember the color of... I make my way down the stairs, passing an older professorial human in all black. He has a happy glow. I envy him... I envy a human, truly a sad state of affairs. The doorman does n' t bother asking for an ID, he thinks I' m a regular. Inside it' s long and narrow with a small stage at the far end. A rather eclectic looking bad appears to be tuning up as I sit at a barstool everyone thought was taken. The bartender knows to bring me a gin and tonic and leave me alone. It' s... dusty. As perfect as humans are capable of making something. So I drink and watch and drink as people shuffle in and out of the bar assuming that time has advanced. Eventually I even decide to be slightly drunk... then I see her. A lovely young woman with olive skin soulful brown eyes in a red dress makes her way on stage. An old man who' d been sitting at the end of the bar takes up position behind the piano so sorrowfully ignored by the previous act. He plays. She sings. It' s beautiful. She has my attention... and my plans for the night have suddenly changed.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My mind raced as I realized what was happening. " Look, " I started, " I' m sorry, but I ca n' t give you any advice. " " What? " He was already annoyed. Just like I would have been five years ago. " Why the fuck not? You know all the goddamn answers! " " Because if I tell you what' s coming you' re going to try to change it. " " So the fuck what? If I try to change it that means it' s gon na suck, right? So give me a fucking chance! " " I... " A pause. It felt long. " I ca n' t. And I' m sorry. I' m really sorry. " " This is fucking bullshit. " " Pretty much. And it' s going to get way worse. Way, way worse. You' re not going to be ready for how miserable it is. And I' m sorry. The next three years... " my voice trailed off. My eyes got wet. I blinked, felt the droplets on my cheeks. " The next three years are fucking terrible, man. I wo n' t lie. " " Well, so fucking help me! " " I told you, I ca n' t. " " Why?! " He was almost screaming. " Because all that shit leads you to the last two years. You get to meet our wife. And man- " my throat hurt. A lump there. Could n' t talk, " She fucking saves us. " " That' s gay. Love is n' t real. It' s just chemicals and shit in your brain. You' re stronger alone. " " You' re going to learn how untrue both of those things are really really soon. " " Whatever. " He hung up.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was that time of year again. The daffodils had come out, covering the hillsides with fallen stars. To everyone else, they symbolized the beginning of spring, pushing through the snow to light up the late winter ground. I saw that in them, but mostly, I saw endings. The fallen stars, slowly burning out on the snowy ground. My boyfriend came out with me, walking delicately through the flowers. I found one with a broken stem, and picked it up. A broken star. Suddenly, I started to cry. A broken star, thats what I was. Thats what he was. We were broken stars, burning out slowly on the snowy ground. He hugged me, bringing me closer to him. " We may be broken stars, but we are still stars " One year ago today, we were broken stars for the last time. Now its just me, half of a broken star. I cry again, but this time, no one hugs me. No one pulls me closer. No tells me I' m still a star, no matter how broken. I pull myself together, and head inside. It was sad and cold out here, alone.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I knew I should not have eaten all that chili. Jason, my boyfriend, was very concerned that I would n' t eat. It was after all, his mother' s favorite dish to serve and he knew I did n' t like chili. His Mom was ruthless as she brought out the huge bowls of chili. The beans were prominent. White and red and... lot' s of them. I practically gulped down the first bowl. I had to make sure that I was on board with my beloved' s Mom. I was reluctant to refuse the second bowl. But honestly, I was already weak in the knees. His Mother smiled at me. It was not a friendly smile. The third bowl of chili I ate, she scowled at Jason. He just shrugged and gave a weak smile. Bastard. The fourth became a practical choice. And after the fifth bowl of chili Jason looked at me wide-eyed ( mouthing when his Mom was n' t looking, " you do n' t have to eat anymore. " ) I think he was scared. His Mother looked at me with new interest. She loved me then. And I think Jason had an epiphany. Which is a good thing considering the results of the pregnancy test.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The air was thick with smog as Bart hopped quickly across the cobbled street, pulling his scarf tighter across his face. The sky was a sickly grey speckled with spots of black. Rain was on its way. Chester Street had once been a hive of activity, people lining the streets in search of fresh pastries or trinkets sold by the old gypsies who seemed to have been around for as long as Bart could remember. Now it was empty of such life. He passed an old general store, robbed and ransacked long ago. The door banged loudly as it swung on its hinges with the wind blowing a gale down the road. Bodies lay stacked against the walls, an almighty stench reaching his nostrils despite the scarf. A decrepit old man lay contorted in the gutter, clutching at the cobblestones. Bart took a wide berth around him but paused a moment to observe the struggle. Help, he seemed to mime as he reached for Bart' s shoe. Help. In a nonchalant fashion he stepped over the man' s hand and continued on his way, tightening the scarf around his face as he went. They called it the Black Plague, but he knew it simply as death.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Every day is the same. And all that self help, life coach, motivational quote bullshit is never, ever, going to save you from that. No one can convince you to be better. Inspiration will fail you. Your heart will fail you. Life will break you. I believe this. But at sunrise this morning, sitting in the same apartment I have always sat in. Looking at the same backyard I have always looked at. I saw something for the first time. What if... what if it' s not about being successful, what if it' s not about being the best you you can be. Maybe it' s not about your parents being proud, not about having a nice place or a beautiful woman in your bed. Maybe that' s why people who have everything still hate themselves. Maybe that' s why celebrities with millions of dollars in their banks and a house in the Hampton' s have clinical depression and put shotguns in their mouth. What if instead of living a life chasing someone else' s vision of success you spent a life in devotion to something. A life devoted to a vision. Your vision. Scary? Yeah. But guess what? You work enough hours, you sit in enough meetings, and you' re going to end up in a room full of old fucks telling you what to do next. Telling you what to write, what to create, what to devote your life to. But that' s the thing, it' s your life. It' s not their' s. So who the fuck are they to tell you what to do. Whatever you do, whatever you love to do, that' s your art, and it' s all you have. Fuck the rest. Do n' t follow leaders, do n' t follow the rules, do n' t follow a salary. It may cost you some money, but it will save your soul.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I' d killed before, I' d kill again. That was a simple truth that I lived with every day. It is who I am, what I am. Asking me to be anything other than that was about as ridiculous as asking a lion to not be a lion. I did n' t do it for the money or because I particularly enjoyed it, I did it because I was good at it. It was as simple as that. Those that took some pleasure out of it were usually the ones that got caught, they' d linger, or take a memento, leave their calling card. Amateurs. Almost as bad as those that just needed the cash, they were inevitably desperate and desperate men never made good calls. Not to mention the evidence you' d leave behind in a panic, they did n' t have the stomach for such a job. Sure you could call it evil, call it a crime. But then if killing is a crime why is it so acceptable, why do you cheer on the murders who wear green and wave your flag as they shoot down innocent civilians and call it collateral damage. At the end of the day, it' s all about what we perceive to be true. Is a killer evil just because the government do n' t pay his wage? Just becasue they tell you he is? Killing is natural, it' s part of life. But for me it was just a job. So then, why is it that I standing here over my brother' s corpse? **Word count ( excluding this ) = 250**


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He loved her. He told her every day that he would do anything for her. He promised that he would never hurt her. He thought he could keep her safe. The day they took her was the worst of his life. His eyes filled with tears as his door was broken down and she was taken away screaming. He was arrested and charged. In the bedroom, the police found pictures of the two having sex. He remembered the day he brought that camera home. She was so excited. She wanted to pose for pictures as soon as she unwrapped the package. It took little convincing to get her to pose provocatively. His family watched the trial in disbelief, unable to believe what was unfolding before their eyes. How could this be happening? Where did they go wrong? Was it even true? They had no idea what to believe, but they told their son they would always love him, no matter what happened. He felt helpless. What had he done wrong? He had often hoped that future generations would not have to deal with the stigma that his love carried, but he could not think of the future now. He was painfully stuck in the present, unable to come to terms with why his actions had resulted in his incarceration. He had no way to contact her. He was forbidden from writing or phoning her. He knew even if he was able to get a message out it would be intercepted by her parents. They hated him more than anyone. He dreampt about her every night and hoped that one day they would be back together. He was weak and could barely lift his head, but on her birthday he asked a guard if he knew how she was doing. The guard hesitated. He knew he should not give the man any information, but he had seen the way the other inmates treated the defeated prisoner and he had a moment of pity. " She' s doing fine, " said the guard. " Did she get a birthday cake? She loves cake. " " Yes, " the guard said. " Her family got her a cake. They said she was even able to blow out all five candles at once. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I stood there, reaching through the twisted cage of mangled steel and blood. Through the cacophony of saw' s, and hydraulics, she screamed. Her screams, oh the screams. I would always remember the screams. I stick my hand in through the small of the window, and felt her neck. So warm, was the blood, so cold, her skin. I saw this happen, only moments before, but I was astonished at how fast I could move, when it was someone' s life, held gingerly in my own hands. I have done this before. Countless times. Countless victims. If I could stop it I would, but I am not that strong. I reach for the door, and rip it back, exposing the frightened female, sitting there with the remains of her dead sibling draped over the seat next to her. I hear a final scream, as she recognizes me, aware of who I am. "Ambulance, We' re here now. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " It' s not your fault. You could n' t have known. " Those were the last words of the woman I called my enemy. The last words she said before she pulled the trigger, staining her red hair a deeper shade of red. I stared out of the window of the highrise building that held her office. Outside the building the fires burned, the people screamed, and the world called my name. How could I tell them that the same people that gave me my Suit were the ones that caused this destruction? I took my helmet off and dropped it to the floor, the heat was too much to handle. Her particular brand of anarchy could have saved us from this genocide, this extinction, if only I had n' t stopped her. I laugh at the irony, louder and louder until the tears flow down my face. Everything is wrong. I ca n' t get her last words out of my head. The last bit of kindness from a woman I wrote off as evil. I wonder if she knew what she would be doing to my mind when she said that. In the end it' s the perfect moment. The moment of closeness I never felt with another. Everything from her last words, the half smile, and the fact that the gun she left behind still had a few more bullets in it. " It' s not my fault. I could n' t have known. " I smile to the empty room, and wonder fleetingly if there will be anyone left to miss me.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I sat in my soft leather chair, facing the other board members. They all stared either at me, or into the distance with a thousand mile stare. You could tell what their vote was based on their stare. It was even, four against, and the rest for it. We had only had an hour to decide what to do, wipe out over half the world in order to save it, or let humanity consume itself. It was the toughest decisions of my life, of all of our lives. I tired to weigh up the pro' s and con' s, each list was even. It could not be justified in either which way. I sighed, and place my sweaty palm upon sleeve and checked my watch, four minutes left to decide. I looked at John, my advisor and asked' John, by any chance do you have a coin?', his faced dropped at the realisation of my to be actions. He mummered to me out of ear shot of the other seven,' Luke, you cant be serious? " Please, just give me the coin ". I responded in a low voice; not looking him in the eye. He grimaced, but handed me the gold coin. I took it off him and placed it atop my clenched fisrt on my thumb. I breathed out slowly, closed my eyes & thought to myself' Heads, yes, tails no'. I felt a bead of sweat drip off my forehead onto my lap. I flipped the coin, it was an eternity before I heard the thunk & spinning of the coin on the oak. I grabbed the coin and placed it in my palm. I opened my eyes, everyone was staring at the coin once they realised what was happening. I looked down, and saw the result. Tails. I voted yes anyway.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' s 9am and I get a call from Jaime. " Dude, check your mailbox. I just got a strange letter in the mail. " I' m still trying to wake up. " What does that have to do with me? " " Just check your mailbox. " Jaime replies aggressively " Alright! Relax! " I run down the steps and out the door. I open the mailbox to find a letter with my name but no return address. I break the silence on the phone. " A white letter with no return? " " Yeah! Holy shit! open it! " There is nothing worse than being told to do something with a serious hangover, what' s even worse is being ridden with sudden guilt and anxiety as I opened the letter. " He survived. " That' s all it says. Enough to ruin my day. " Wait, what the hell is going on Jaime? " " You know what it means, do n' t you? " " Dude, that ca n' t be. I saw him... we saw him. No... " " That' s what I' m trying to get at. Either he sent this or someone who knows. " I start to panic a little, " Who else might know about this? We could be in serious trouble. " " I do n' t know, I... " A stern knock is heard over the phone. " Hold on, someone is at the door. " The line is silent until Jaime is heard at a distance from the phone " Oh shit! " " Jaime? Jaime? Are you there? What' s wrong? " The silence is disrupted by heavy breathing, followed by a deep voice. " I told you I' d come back. " My anxiety and guilt have evolved into paralyzing fear. Jaime' s phone hangs up.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: ... … Initial System Boot... … Waking The Hushed Casket... … DeepThaw Protocol has been Called... … Checking Vital Signs "Hello Captain. ""Bring me up to speed Sam ""We are entering sub-vector 3. StarDate is 2772 Dec 13th ""Please wake the crew…. Oh and fix me some coffee ""We no longer have any coffee sir is a soy bean substi- ""I know we don' t have any damn coffee im just tired of this soybean shit. This planet better have a good coffee shop ""SR-7243 does not show signs of Coffea trees however I can offer you a soy bean substi- ""Shut up Sam ""Logic error, Conflicting orders, would you like me to shut up or wake up the crew sir? ""Did you develop a sense of humor while I was asleep? ""I am Sam an A. I. developed by Sanskrit Technologies Incorpor- ""Wake up the damn crew and wake the cook first ""Yes Captain ""Send out a bio-scan, we should be in range by now ""Bio-Scan initiated return time est 5 minutes ""Is my cook awake yet ""Pvt. James is awake and heading to designated station ""Incoming message from Pvt. James ""Will it be soybean soup with protein blocks or protein blocks with soybean soup? ""Surprise me private ""Captain we have been scanned ""Scanned? By what? The Europa is at least 5 months behind us ""I am unfamiliar with this technology ""Where is the scan coming from? ""SR-7243, sir "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: This was it. The funeral was over, and sooner or later, I had to break it to her. My heart, shattered already at the death of my father, pounded in my chest like a goddamn jackhammer. This was not the time. There was never going to be a time until I can shake off the anxiety. I decided to wait. Six months passed, and there I was, sitting at the dinner table with my mother. Dad' s death was a shock to both of us. The entire family, in fact. Time passed, and we all moved on, I guess. The jackhammer in my chest was starting up again, I had to fight it. Trying to hide the cracks in my voice, I said, " Mom, there' s something you should know... about me. " " What is it, hun? " She was n' t concerned. She did n' t even look up from the newspaper. This was normal for me, even for the littlest thing. Maybe she was still numb from the insane series of events surrounding Dad' s death. I' d bet money on them both. News stories, mountains of paperwork. Constant mention of a vague, tragic series of events desensitizes people. There would be none of that now, though. We' re supposed to have moved on. " I... I' m not your daughter, " I forced the words to come out of my mouth, they were quick and staccato, rolling off my tongue at random intervals. " What was that? " Oh god. I ca n' t do this. I' m about to be sick. " I' m. Adopted. " A little louder that time. More direct. " Oh, I know. Your father told me after we brought you home. " " Oh. Okay. I think I need to use the bathroom. Excuse me. " I' m about to throw up. That was intense. At least she knows.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was just another day, just another walk through the park. A lot had changed since the first time they had taken this walk. As they rested on the bench again, remembering how in their younger days they would run through the trees, not having to stick to the straight paths with no fear of stumbling. Over by the lakeside she noticed a young couple, the young girl was nervous she observed, whereas the young guy seemed confident as he leant in and placed a tender kiss on the young girl' s lips. She recalled her very first kiss with the handsome guy next to her. She wasn' t nervous, she remembered, she caught him off guard, he always was a clumsy fool. To her right she noticed a bride, a beauty in her white ball gown, standing close to her new man. He fiddled with his tie as he looked lovingly at his new wife. She recalled her own wedding; the loving look on his face still appeared when he thought she wasn' t paying attention. She looked at the path ahead and noticed a young toddler wandering alone; no one seemed to be watching as he ran along the grassy edge. "Careless of the parents "she muttered under her breath as she saw the many dangers that could befall the young lad. She wished for his mother to come find him quickly, she should be lucky to have had kids, not all girls could. The pain from the day she' d lost her only child still travelled with her, she didn' t even get to hold her, not even once. She turned away quickly, hiding from the memory, focusing on the happier ones she liked to remember. As he took her hand and stroked it gently, she remembered the many adventures she' d had with her soul mate beside her. The memories whirled inside her that day, but his smile never left her, his hand there to hold. Even now as she let it all go.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *This was a story from a [ prompt ] ( https: //www. reddit. com/r/promptoftheday/comments/1iddj3/tiger_tiger_burning_bright/ ) from promptoftheday, though it was pretty old so I could n' t put the story on it. I might as well put it here though. CC is more than welcome! * -- - Tiger, tiger, burning bright, In the chaos of the night, Spreading plague and endless blight, Tiger, tiger, what a sight. Death and pain are all you bring, Summoned by our fearful king, Power from the ancient ring, Tiger, tiger, this I sing, Oh Tiger, tiger, drawing near, I clutch the ones that I hold dear, But looking through the gripping fear, Do I see a single tear? Tiger, tiger, now I know, Forced to reap, but made to sow, Your claws and teeth helped things to grow, Perfect from the tail to toe. Tiger, tiger, break your chains, Overthrow the king who reigns, As his power slowly wanes, Throw off all the burning pains. As the rock and magma melt, On one knee he slowly knelt, Shining from his broken pelt, Tiger, tiger, I know you felt


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My wife was sleeping peacefully next to me. I smoothed a curl that clung to her neck and kissed her on the cheek. Lazily, she woke and smiled. We moved for a while, kissing and generally enjoying ourselves. Eventually she sat up. She was beautiful like this. Hair wild, eyes bright. Naked in bed. I scanned her form slowly, enjoying her curves and the look on her face as she watched me. Her slender neck, sloping shoulders, perfect breasts, glowing stomach.... Wait what? My heart sank. I strained my eyes, trying to convince myself that what I saw was just a trick of the light. There was no mistake. My wife was pregnant, and the child inside her would one day be my undoing. My family gift, knowing what person or thing would kill us, has never been more of a curse. " Honey? " My wife' s concerned voice breaks through my thoughts. I force a smile on my face. " Yes dear? " -- -- -- Will add more later


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Their eyes lit up, orange with the glow from the massive pumpkin cooking in front of them. Jimmy with the greasy black hair slapped leather jacket Mike on the back. "Nice job, buddy, "he said, smirking. The duo relished the moment. Jimmy inhaled deeply, and savored the sweet smell of burning flesh. Licking his lips, he sunk his teeth into the juicy, tender thigh. Drops of blood gushed from the meat and dripped out of the corners of his mouth. Human flesh was an acquired taste. Jimmy and Mike had mastered the art of preparing the delicacy by using one key ingredient: a pumpkin. Not only were the men in the autumn spirit, but using pumpkin provided that extra kick of flavor that blended harmoniously with the meat. It was a cannibalistic Thanksgiving for two. Flashes of red and blue lights and wailing sirens alerted the men. Mike rose, revealing a glossy dagger, almost as shiny as his radiating smile. Tonight was going to be a feast.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " So, I' m sitting there dick hanging half out playing Halo, when some asshole starts knocking on the door like the fucking worlds ending. ""God you' re agoraphobic. ""Ah fuck you. So, I get up and some squirrelly lookin' dudes standing there with a box wrapped to shit in cellophane. Just handed it to me and left. Didn' t even make me sign or anything. ""What was inside? ""It was the weirdest thing. When I finally got the damn thing open there was only five little glass vials full of some murky brown stuff and a note that only said ‘ Mark, these are the only antidotes. Good Luck.' ""Antidotes to what? ""Fuck if I know. ""What' d ya do? ""I tried one and it tasted pretty good. So I downed ‘ em all with some bourbon and played more Halo. Couple hours later some dude came to my house all panicky and started crying when I told him what I did, screaming about gloom and doom. ""What a loon. By the way, the missus wants you and Karen over for dinner this Friday. "Sounds good buddy. Did you hear about that guy on bath salts? Ate some poor ladies face. World' s goin' to shit. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Bob checked his Amazon account using an uplink from his satellite phone. His shipment left Denver and was currently stuck in customs. He scoured the web looking for a phone number to call about the delay. He spent a good portion of his free time following link after link until he finally found a number. He disconnected the internet link and dialed. An automated voice led him from option list to endless option list. Press 1 to check your order. Press 2 to check why you' re even bothering. Press 3 to annihilate humanity. Bob tried all three options to connect to a living being. He learned nothing new from the automated response system other than the fact that he needed to keep trying. *Why do they make talking to other humans so damn difficult? * he thought. If he' d only known that Amazon was responsible for sending out the drones that killed their customers, triggering a massive response that devastated the Earth, he might not be so keen to give it his current GPS coordinates. Unfortunately, he did n' t know and therefore did n' t understand the significance of the buzzing noise approaching his coordinates as he dialed the next of a string of numbers arranged by the new Amazon AI to frustrate consumers.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I used to pray for death. Now it awaits me. I used to be trapped in a drug fueled reality. But now I can live free. I never thought it would hurt so much to breathe air. Well, my air came in a little metal tube, reminding me of playing with cheap paintball guns. Almost a smile. I would fill up a colored balloon really big like at birthday parties. Almost a smile. Then I would hold it to my mouth and breathe in and out until I could n' t physically hold it to my mouth anymore. Who knows if I was smiling then. The days grew slightly easier for me, which was nice. Then they suddenly turned into a mess of addiction, craving for the past weeks of happiness in inattentiveness. I could be all alone, but not that normal alone. The alone where mind and soul speak to each other and plan to ruse you. To " help " you see the best way to be happy is to be nothing. I cant feel happy, but Ill never be sad again. Or disappointed. Or upset, or angry or negative. The thought that all your troubles will melt away. I almost fell in love. I almost smiled at the thought.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I sniffed. The scent of rosemary and thyme hung heavy in the air. It had been a long time since I had been summoned away from the Other Place. I wondered what year it was. I wondered where I was. I would n' t get any of those answers from the flickering candle that sat on the floor, so I turned around to face the blithering sot that had summoned me this time. " Bartimaeus, " he said, eyes flickering back between me and the book he held in his hand. His knees were shivering. What kind of world was this, a world where seventeen-year olds had access to ancient spellbooks? Not that I should be questioning this. Apparently, Nathaniel had not been an exception. I turned into a hideous, five headed-dragon. Perhaps I could scare him out of the pentacle where he stood. No such luck. He barely batted an eye. Perhaps a shambling zombie? I shifted between several gruesome forms of undead before giving up. Teenagers these days. Desensitized to everything, I suppose. " Alright, alright. What do you want from me? " I grumbled. Maybe it would be just a quick errand. Oh, who was I kidding. He would probably keep me around as his slave for five years, maybe more - until the day I could outwit him. " Bartimaeus of Uruk, " he began again. " I command you to write a six page single-spaced essay on the cross-strait relations between China and Taiwan. " I became an ethereal puff of dark and foreboding gloom. I did n' t know what China was, or what a cross-strait relationship was, but I knew exactly what this *child* was asking of me. " Do you know who I am? " I thundered. " I am Bartimaeus of Uruk. I have conversed with the afrits of Egypt and held counsel with Ptolmey. I have spoken with Solomon the Great. And you are *asking* me to do your homework? " " Do it, or I will use the Stimulating Compass. " I sighed. Bollocks. Looks like it was time to do some research.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: "What are you doing?! "Death whimpered, clenching shut the bullet wound on his right shoulder as he crawled up off the floor and sat up against the wall. "I' m not here for you! "The man stood looking down at Death, reloading two shells into the double barrel shotgun. "I know, "responded the man. "But I' m here for you. ""What are you talking about? "questioned Death. "You think you' re the only one who can deal it out, don' t you?... I' ve been hunting you. ""Why have you been… "Death took a long pause. "I see. I took someone from you didn' t I? ""Somebody? That somebody wasn' t just anybody. You took my wife AND my daughter. You think you can just take a man' s entire family from him, and not expect any retaliation? ""It was their time to go, "moaned Death as fresh black blood leaked through the fingers over his wound. "And you get to decide that? ""Yes, it' s my duty. ""And who gets to decide when you go? ""No-one. ""No, you' re wrong about that. "The man snapped shut his shot gun and rested the barrel ends on Death' s forehead. "I do, "he said.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Eddie, who works in the cubicle next to mine, is the most annoying fucking coworker on the planet. He makes me miserable every day. Just yesterday he was asking me not to eat fried chicken at my desk, as if I have time for a lunch break with my huge workload. Later that day, when he went out to eat like a total slacker, my keyboard stopped working for some reason. I started playing League of Legends on his computer, and he freaked out at me when he got back! I was left without a working computer that day, so I checked my 74 voicemail messages, but I could barely hear my speakerphone over Eddie' s bitching. I could go on and on about all the ways he pisses me off, but right now he' s on my case about how I have to " get off Reddit because he wo n' t pick up my slack anymore. " That lazy fuck works eight-hour days, and I stay in the office until the security guard tells me he needs to lock the front doors so he can go home. Fuck Eddie.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Two women walked in the room. My stroke took my sight, my voice, so I could n' t see them, but I felt a change. My wife' s hand gripped me harder. I did n' t have to ask who it is. It was the other woman and her wife, the woman I should have been. " I' ll be outside, " my wife said. I heard the floor creak as she left, ran down the stairs. They came closer. I felt their warmth. " Look at him, " R said. Her name was R. My name, if I had lived that life, would be B. It does n' t matter. I chose this life. And I' m dying. " I am so glad I' m with you, " the other voice said. My voice. My femme voice. " He' s really fat. " " It was a stroke. " " I did eat when I was upset. " Why was she, am I, using past tense? Was this mute body some object lesson, to show her she chose wisely? " I love you. Thank you. " " I love you. I know you' ve been doubting yourself, so I thought this would show you you did good. " I heard them walk out, down the stairs, out the door. And then I remembered where I kept the clothes I did n' t wear, the hormones I never took, the life I should have lived, and I wished I could cry.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: We were not ready. We were the next level of humanity there creation' s. History had let it known the next step of evolution had happened. We thought we were safe. Our predictions were perfect we had wiped out the human problem in 3 months. The great empire of peace lasted for 3 years and 9 months. We were not ready. They came from the sky like a sword falling down as judgement. God was a human topic, something us robots knew to be fake. But as our database does not have the right word' s i will say its as if god' s Angel' s had chosen to strike. We had no way to stop it. it came so fast. anything close to it burning up. We saw something fall off of it but the ship was still going way to fast and came down right on our weak point. It sword must have somehow knew that what makes us so powerful was also our weakness. It crashed into our master computer where we kept our backups and reset button in case our files got corrupted after all after we took care of the human program no one was left to worry about. This is the last recording we got before shut down. Showing what we did n' t know. We were superior because we could upgrade. We had no idea they could too. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Id......... Looks to be two human' s in suits. Recorded voice as follows: " Dang it Bobby " I told you, you were not ready to fall the ship down. Do you know how much trouble we will be with in command " " ahh sir, where is everyone??? " " Bobby do n' t try to change the topic the stupid congress are going to kill us " mainframe attacked going into war mode....... All machines data sent to backup delete all data and download war plan backup 3. 0 All data deleted Input......... Warplan 3. 0 Searching for warplan 3. 0 Error... data not found Error... Data not found Error... This file no longer exists going into standby mode.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It started on a Tuesday. A peculiar day to start anything, but nonetheless, that' s when it happened. That most innocent of days, /r/WritingPrompts featured no new prompts related to immortality. Nothing about Hilter either. In fact, nothing sci-fi at all. At first, the writers were elated. Stories about mischievous cats, high school dramas, and ancient civilizations quickly sprung up all over the place. It started so innocently, no one noticed the first signs of a problem, hiddden in a prompt about spring flowers. > Rose are Red > Violets are Blue > It' s springtime for Hitler > In Germany too. The next day featured more of the same prompts. Outwardly, the writers were elated, but more and more stories began to drift into familiar realms. A prompt based on an Einstein quote regarding time relativity was the most obvious, receiving 300 upvotes and 40 stories involving time travel, and spaceships. By day 5, every story involved some mention of Hitler, immortality or Gods. By the time Monday rolled around, the mods decided to close the subreddit. Many writers fled to a new subreddt, /r/JustWriteShit. The final story of /r/WritingPrompts was immortalized for all time on /r/Bestof. > Hitler Hitler Hitler hitlerkin TiMeTrAvElh Itler was ImMorTAL AliEN **fROM THEF UTURE** Time traveling GOD met to Warn ~~humnity~~ huMANity frorm evil jwish overlonds n bye HItleR cuasin hulocust SAVED futur gens form teh evi lsof bieng IMMORTAL **teh end**


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Why would I want a lottery ticket? If I win, the universe is gon na fuck me! ", was what I had yelled at my wife when she handed me the birthday card with the Powerball slipinside. She said it was meant to be a romantic gesture, because all the numbers had some significance to our life together. I really did n' t care to hear about the numbers asinine relationship to my life, so I just told her to shut up and ahovelled cake in my mouth. These little romantic token ideas spread out through Facebook and Pinterest pages annoyed me. I do n' t know why, but probably because it led to a wave of these uninteresting wife' s doing these stupid little gestures. I' d seen her share the one about " Give your hubby ( another word that overly annoyed him ) a lotto ticket with significant numbers! " the previous week. I had n' t " liked " it. These stupid ideas spread like wildfire, and before you know if, the Powerball is up to ten billion dollars that no one wants!


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Human, you have been chosen to represent the intelligence and overall might of the human race. We have observed your technology, your social interactions and deemed Earth as' expendable'. Before we ask you the all-encompassing question that separates the idiotic lifeforms from the greatly intelligent, I' d just like to say, thank you for participating today. " " Oh, well. Yeah. I... I mean, thank you? How long will this take? I only get 30 minutes for my lunch break, " said Jim. His boss did n' t like when the guys took longer than 30 minutes on their lunch breaks. It was making Jim a bit nervous. " Yes, yes. It is only a question and we only want a one-word answer. One word. " " Can it be hyphened? " asked Jim. Agnolious, Conquer of the Universe, Overseer of all Divine and Chaotic, voted most handsome life-form in all existence by a 100 % victory over all known life, turned to his advisor, Dave, to discuss the question. After a minute they turned back to Jim. " Yes, " Agnolious answered. " Are you ready? " " Yeah, " said Jim, he only had 22 minutes left of his lunch and he knew his sandwich and chips would take him at least 15 minutes to chew and swallow, if he was lucky enough to not be caught in any chit-chat. " The question we have for you... is... How many big bangs have occurred in the existence of our universe? " The room was silent. Even the Hyper Energy Fusion Xtreme Generator XXL V6. 175, most powerful energy generator for intergalactic ship travel, went into' rest' state in hopes of hearing the answer. " Well... I guess it would be a number... " said Jim. Agnolious and Dave made no expression. " Hmm. 42. " The room stayed silent. Suddenly Jim was back at his construction site in front of his' Team Spock' lunchbox. A note rested on the inside: " Thank you for your corporation. Earth has been upgraded to an' Intelligible and, Therefore, not to be Destroyed' status. Have a great day! -Agnolious and D. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: this is kinda fun: Circe is actually a food scientist at Monsanto. His shipmates do n' t literally turn into pigs but painfully devolve into porcine spongiform encephalopathy ( mad pig disease ) and regress to animalistic behaviors before dying after eating pork chops from pigs raised on genetically modified corn and soy feed. She is only moved to pity him when she realizes that he is a small holder farmer who ca n' t afford their ridiculous licensing fees for GMO crops. The cyclops is a moderately intelligent ( but not autonomous ) CCTV/security system installed by Poseidon Technologies ( personally designed by their notoriously vengeful founder, Dick Neptune [ modeled after the schizo paranoid John MacAffee ] ). It attempts to seal the crew into a zombie shelter they raid for dry rations and is only disabled once the door camera is destroyed by a baseball bat and they trick the system into opening the doors by spoofing food deliveries on its pressure plate weight sensors. The sirens are a naked song and dance act at a legal brothel with slot machines in Nevada. The Laestrygonians are hicks who want to make Odysseus squeal like a piggy. Helios' cattle is really dank weed from Mendicino county that is grown by a shell company for the Aztecas drug gang. Schylla and Charybdis is the choice between paid air travel home or turning on his cell phone, which will let Dick Poseidon track Odysseus' exact location and exact revenge upon him for destroying the bomb shelter' s security system. The suitors are the guys who keep messaging Penelope for sex on the internet. They are' killed' by Odysseus defacing their OK Cupid accounts.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: If you try to live your life as a free human being, they' ll hate you, they' ll ostracize you, they' ll shun you, they' ll be on their guard about you, because they are not free. They' ll never leave the plantation. They are -- and quite happily so -- willing, worthless fleshbags to be used as a vessel by the same superorganisms that try to infect us all -- ideas are the only things that are truly alive, and they live on over generations, growing, feeding, and fighting each other for life, as religions, sports teams, leaders and nations. You know what heroism is? It' s the sun shining through a flag flapping majestically in the breeze, poked into a mountain that was minding its own business in the Pacific ocean before some idea in control of some monkeys that just killed some other monkeys controlled by a different set of ideas decided to utilize its top for propaganda value, aggrandizing itself. And in three months, half of those men were dead. The ideas that make us immune to ideas are as popular as a book in a bonfire. Why is that? Quick! Whatever you do, do n' t think about it! I am the only person with the balls to not live in a world of lies, to tell myself I have thought, I have chosen, I have lived, when really I' m just a step in some other person, some other recycled idea' s Escher staircase of Sisyphean brain waste. Oh yes, they' re going places. You think you' re going places too? " Psychopaths " are just these nasty, horrible, sad little people who have broken out of the Matrix, and God damn them. Dangerous. Incomprehensible. Mysterious. Fearless. Heroes and explorers, and simple people with simple dreams under the control of no one. I think you need to join me and see what happens when you see the world, the true world, as it really is, from the other side. Come be independent with me. There is nothing to lose but your chains!


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *Hungry. * Flapping wings. Heart beating. Faster. Faster. *Must find food. * Energy draining. Flapping wings. Heart beating faster. Nothing around. *So hungry. * A smell. Sugary. Energy. Wings flap harder. Must find food. Smell grows closer. Follow smell. *Smells good. * Land. Bite at sweet smell. Tastes foul. Is not food. *Must find food. * Flap wings. Flap wings harder. Heart beats, fear courses through body. *Must find food. * Not moving. Face and feet stuck. Breathing difficult. Sweet smell, no food. Heart beats faster. Fear grips body. * Can not move* Try to breathe. Heart beating too fast. Must rest. -- -- Can not move. Energy low, gut in pain. *Body weak. * Legs weak. Face stuck, every breath harder to take. *Eat. * Foul taste. Flap wings. Right wing stuck. Flap wings harder. Right wing does not move. Heart beating faster. Must rest. -- -- *Must find food. So hungry. * Sweet smell, foul taste, no food. No energy. Stomach paining, legs weak. Abdomen stuck. Flap wings, neither move. Breathing sweet smell, try to eat. Can not move mouth. Taste is foul. Is no food. *So hungry. Must rest. *


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: You know what' s outside, right- same damn thing as what' s inside, that' s what. We ca n' t see anything that' s not us. I see the billboard outside, selling tires, and I do n' t see the billboard, or tires, but instead my father, and his mortality. Like that cherry red convertible cutting through the wind like a kamikaze Bing cherry - that' s a wish that one day I' d be happy, and free, and full of peace. So I do n' t do vivid much. I let my eyes dance, never settling on the expressions in the other drivers' faces, lined with anxiety and sleep deprivation and God knows what else- as they sit and wait in traffic. Because I' ve seen it all before and decided I do n' t much like seeing it. So the trees- they' re green. The tires, black. And my eyes keep dancing beneath a blue sky. I really should buy some new tires.