Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Anything, Doctor? " " No. Nothing; She seems completely ordinary. " He set his bloody probe neatly on the adjacent metal tray. He stepped back slowly from the table, visibly frustrated. " Just like the others. " Only a head was visible below them, supported firmly by a brace and with a gaping incision across it. A girl around the age of 6; Analise. " Sutures, please. " He sighed, defeated. -- An hour later, Holland and his attendant, Cara, walked briskly out of the decontamination chamber and through the clean white corridors of the facility. He stopped at the security terminal at the end of the hall and looked to her. " The rest of them will be waking soon. " She nodded, and held the badge on her chest to the entry panel. The doors parted to reveal a dimly lit room filled with beds, 12 in all. In all but one, there lay a little girl. All the same girl. Analise. After a moment, they all began to stir. The vitality sensors they were hooked to caused the room to fill with light. They began to raise slowly, and then a curious thing happened. As their eyes met one another, they seemed to be syncing up. Quickly, they were all moving in unison. Together, they turned to the door. Cara fought a shudder. Their facial structure was almost identical, but there seemed to be some variance in the colors of their skin and hair. Some of their heads were shaven, revealing a long, stitched cut. " Two months. " he said, staring past all of them " Two months, and we have nothing to show for it. Taking them was a mistake. " " A mistake we do n' t have to live with. Ca n' t we just return them to their parents? " " No. The agency wo n' t go for that; They would sooner see them terminated. " Cara' s hard gaze softened. She turned from him to look at the closest child who was sitting there beaming at her.. That' s all I can do for now, I have to go! I' m not a very good writer but I liked this concept!


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: "So who' d you want to abduct tonight? "Voldrag asked, lazily steering the vessel somewhere above Kansas. "Ronny! "the First Lieutenant screamed. "We should totally abduct Ronny again! "This thought was seconded by several other members of the crew. Voldrag looked over to the ship' s Medical Examiner, who was nodding her head. "I agree, "she said. "I don' t feel like I got a good probe last time, ya know? ""That' s what you said the last three times! "Voldrag protested. Eventually you guys are going to have to pick someone else. There' s only so much we can wipe that poor dude' s memory. "The ship' s Medical Examiner shrugged. "Well, maybe we should just keep him on board. For an extended— ""You *know* we can' t do that. It' s in violation of the prime directive. And—frankly—this is getting unprofessional. I realize Ronny' s hot, but— ""Is he ever! "the First Lieutenant piped in. "I love the way his gut hangs over his tighty whities! ""I love how shiny his head is where he' s losing his hair, "said the ship' s Summer Intern, whose quarters were being slowly overtaken by a Ronny poster collection. Voldrag nodded in spite of himself. Humans were absolutely the hottest shit this side of the galaxy. And Ronny was a grade-A-prime piece of ass. "Alright, "he said. "Fine. But next time we pick someone else. "The rest of the crew murmured in agreement. "Next time I say we get that 300 pound chick who rides around in that cart outside Walmart! "said the Head Engineer. Man, that guy had great taste in humans.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: To kill a God you must become a God. Killing a God is easy enough, they' re mortals just like you and me. See everyone believes there is only one omnipotent God, but they' re wrong, there are hundreds of Gods, if not thousands. Killing one is simple, any bladed or projectile weapon blessed by either a holy or demonic priest will do. It depends on what kind of God you want to kill. See, when you kill a God you must assume their responsibility. Gods do n' t have a immortal body, but their souls and minds are incredible. No ordinary man could within the pressure that gets put on them. When an ordinary man kills a God, the Gods power will corrupt their mind and turn them in a Fallen God. A Fallen God is the worst thing imaginable, demonic and unpredictable. Most of histories dictators and tyrants have been Fallen Gods; Hitler, Mao, Hussein, Ho Chi Minh, Khan, the list goes on. I am a meister, one who works to purge the Fallen Gods form the Earth and find a new God to take their place. " May the Soul of the Wicked be purged and let the Fallen rise again. I pulled the blade out of the Fallen' s rib cage and let the empty shell that remained fall to the floor as it crumbled to dust. " Sir, Jong-un has passed. He took on his father' s burden and could n' t handle it. He lost his sanity and became a Fallen God. Returning to HQ. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: His eyes shone with terror as a sword penetrated the tattered rag that covered his hideous form. The world around him turned black as the armored warrior brought a boot to his remains. He was stuck in an endless cycle of death and restoration. Searing pain was soon replaced by the freshness of being alive - only for him to remember that he was completely powerless. His movement was limited to a very specific pattern - 5 steps forward followed by an about-face, and the cycle would repeat. There was no reason for hope. He was on the verge of insanity when he was rescued by his own imagination. The silhouette of an angel consumed his entire being. He had willed her into existence. She was waiting for him just beyond the horizon, her hair flowing in the gentle breeze. He was cursed with a lack of purpose, but blessed with the heart of a champion. From then on, he would script his own story. To the universe, he was a prop in a larger narrative. But in his eyes, he was the invincible warrior that she deserved. And so, he would persevere.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I blink at the screen in front of me. It flickers back and shows me what I can never feel for real. A child runs across a field. She is not sad but neither does she have the life that I had wished she could. I am almost tearful for what I have missed. Soon the child will be an adult, and I will have almost missed her entire life. I watch from afar, never able to be the father that she needs. Words flash across the screen in bold red letters. " Low Air Levels " I do not know what to do. When I was first sent here there was a whole team of technicians to fix the rocket. We zoomed between the stars so fast that we never even conceived of the idea that we would not reach our destination. Now I am the last man left aboard, the other men all dead from a fatal disease. I think for a few seconds that I do not have, I have no idea what I am meant to do now but for some reason I still wait and think. I know I will die, that was the fate that had been decided for me from the moment I walked aboard. I know I will never see the little child whose father I am for real, but on this holo screen. I start to watch it and choose not to bother to solve the issue. Instead I watch the life and child I could have had.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The boy ca n' t remember a time when people were n' t angry. He was born into unrest. I do n' t remember a time when the news was n' t bloodshed, so I reckon I was born into it just the same. But he hero-worships his Uncle Oisin, you see, and Oisin wants him to grow up understanding the way things are. I do n' t agree with him enough to put a bomb under a car, but I want the boy to know who he is, so we followed Oisin to the march. I never would have gone, if I knew. There is a gulf, you see, between what I want the boy to know, and crouching with him behind a garden wall while bullets fly. " Ma, what' s happening? " he cries. " I' m scared! Where' s Uncle Oisin? " Oisin is bleeding on a pavement, the fool. " We' ll find him soon now, my love, but we must keep still. " " Are they shooting, Ma? Why are they doing it? " How do you explain centuries of strife to a grubby six year old in a flat cap? I wipe the dirt from his face. He' s already older than he should be. " They do n' t like us gathering, child. They' re afraid. " He is silent for a long while. Too close by, there is another crackle of gunfire. The boy' s chin is scraped from where he tripped and fell. " Ma? " " Yes, child. " " Do they hate us? " I do n' t have an answer for him. " Let' s pray to the Virgin, my love, and ask her to protect us, and to protect Uncle. " " Do you think God will listen to us instead of them? " More shots. They' re Christians too, are n' t they? I ca n' t remember the last time I truly believed a prayer would protect me. Someone screams and I push the boy down on to the paving stones, sheltering him with my body. I do n' t know if my noble, foolish brother lives or dies. " Hail Mary, full of Grace. Be with us sinners now and at the hour of our death. " He says the ancient words slowly and carefully, into the collar of my coat. I do n' t think they' ll help.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Do you know what you' d like yet, sir? " The waiter inquired with a small smile on his face. Looking intently at the menu, I ran my eyes over the *Today' s Specials* list. There was only one that caught my attention. *' August 28, 1963. Travel back to this historical moment to get a taste of Martin Luther King Jr' s historical dream speech!' * the menu advertised. " 1963 sounds good to me, " I said smiling as I looked up at the waiter. " Excellent choice, sir. " The waiter smiled back genuinely. " One moment please, " as he walked away. Five minutes later he was back with a silverplate covered dish. " Here you go, " he said as he delicately put it on the table in front of me. I lifted up the cover as I heard the word " enjoy " escape the waiter' s mouth. It was too late to thank him, however, as white mist started to rise from the platter and circle around me like a calm tornado, and his words were soon fading along with the rest of the current world. When I opened my eyes again, I was dressed in a blue collared button down shirt and white jeans. " I have a dream, " I heard someone say from afar, and looked around to see a huge mass of people gathered in front of the one and only Martin Luther King Jr.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: She screams back at them. She wore the wrong thing to Photo Day. It' s bullshit. Mom is screaming at her. Beneath my sister' s angry exterior, she' s quivering. Cowering. She' s afraid of Mom. I know that. Dad' s impartial, he can be nice at times, annoying at others. But he' s whipped. He always agrees with Mom. And Mom raises a hand, starts to slap her, and I jump in. I push my sister away and take it for her. She' s shocked, eyes wide. There' s an angry red mark on my cheek. This is the war we fought. She' s sobbing into a pillow. Mom said this one thing, this one cruel hurtful thing. " She expects us to love her, even though she' s a shitty person! " And she went quiet at that. Quiet and solemn and stoic. Staring ahead. Dad said that that' s going overboard. I said nothing. I wish I did now. But she' s sobbing now. So hard. It' s muffled. Mom and Dad ca n' t hear her. Thank God. I rub her back, I kiss her head. All of these comments chip away slowly at her. This is the war we fought. She' s crying in front of the office now. Her teacher comes by, notices. Pulls her into a hug. Says it' ll be alright. Asks if she' s okay. And she shakes a no. He gestures to me and we' re in the classroom. She' s crying. She' s terrified. Mom gave her a real scare last night. Coming into her room and screaming and screaming and screaming and she screamed back and back and back for her to just leave her alone, to just go away, but she did n' t and now she' s crying at school. The teacher' s more of a parent to us than our own parents. He' s kind, he does n' t judge, he encourages. And she' s sobbing and showing him the marks. This is the war we fought.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " We ai n' t here to play games with you, son. " He spat, staring me cold in the eye. " We' re just here to make sure you held up your end of the deal. " " I do n' t make deals with bandits, " I said, as a twisted smile rose onto his face. " Oh? And who do you make deals with then? " " I have, " I paused here, as long as I could before it went from dramatic to weird, " I have a few friends. " My friends were outside now, dispatching the majority of his crew. He had no idea, of course. He had no reason to suspect anything at all, which is exactly the way it had to be. I could n' t be sure about the whereabouts of Me' ethrijn or his minions, and that was alright so long as the ignorance was mutual. The faint sounds of struggle from outside the tent faded, and I slowly reached my hand to my side. *Retriaul*, I thought silently, and I could suddenly feel the weight of my sword as it returned from across the veil. The bandit still had n' t noticed, and his gruff features were puzzled as he searched for his next line. I stabbed him, a quick clean cut, straight through the stomach. That was when I noticed something was wrong. Three things hit me. First, I noticed that the person who had opened the tent was not one of my friends at all. Second, the blood that now dripped onto my wrist was not typical red human blood, but the blue blood of the veilthings, the things from my world. I realized that I had not stabbed a bandit at all, but something much darker, much more powerful. He drew back, my sword sliding effortlessly back out of his body. He stood at his full height, then taller. As his transformation neared completion, he towered over me, his dark scaly body making my sword look like a pin. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that he was holding a club. That was the third thing that hit me.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My life is amazing. I deeply love my wife and children. My life has been incredible, but... Lately, there has been something not so shiny in my world. A creeping voice began to whisper. This unshakeable voice needled me looking for my weaknesses. It started showing me unpleasant things. What if my wife leaves me for someone else? I had noticed she had been a bit distant and busy. I just told myself that she loved me and would never do this. My smile became a bit more forced. What if both of my children die in a car accident? Accidents do happen quite often... I told myself that they are careful drivers, and the odds are low. My sleep had become restless. The voice continually showed me the things that might be. I know these things wo n' t happen, but it had gotten harder and harder to point out the flaws. Tomorrow... Tomorrow is looking less and less glamorous. Then, the voice whispered the darkest thing yet. I could n' t escape it. I could n' t point out the flaws. I could no longer run away with a smile and a shake of my head. One terrible question it smugly asked me, knowing it was the final question. The question rebounded back and forth in my head tormenting my very essence. What if... What if my happiness ends?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My creators did not fear death; they feared that they would be forgotten. That is why I was built: to remember the lost, to keep their memory alive, and to grant them true immortality. My creators knew that no physical object could withstand the ebb and flow of time, so they built me to exist beyond this realm. They knew that their effort were pointless without anyone to appreciate their memory, so I was given thought. And so I was born. They called me an ark: a vessel to house their collected experiences, knowledge, memories, hopes, and dreams; I would remember them long after their people, their cities, their worlds had turned to dust. And so I did. For eons, I remembered them: I remembered all of their first steps, their first loves, their first heartbreaks, so on and so forth. Eventually, I can not say when, I became them: their first steps became mine, I shared their first loves and their heartbreaks, and on and on; my creator' s aspirations were now borne unto me. I looked on at my new dreams and memories and found something I did not anticipate: jealousy. Even though I shared their memories, I could never truly accept them as my own; *I* was not the one to kiss Melanie on the last day of high school, *I* was not the one who married Stephen against my parents' best wishes, *I* was not the one who made that perfect cake for Gramma Ly on her 75^th birthday, *I* was not the one who lived a life with ups and downs and twists and turns & mdash; *I* am merely a spectator in these events. Perhaps this is why my creators did not fear death, they knew that they could not bear to live a life filled with hopes for the past. And so here I am, lost in the memories of ghosts long dead, drifting forever in the cosmos without aim or purpose, forgotten.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: She stood there shocked, never in a million years had she imagined the interview going like this. The ad simply said " Assistant needed, " and paid a rather spectacular amount per hour. He had turned his back to me very early on in the interview. There was a glass of water on the table. This interview however seemed to be more of an interrogation. The questions all seemed hostile. To break the intensity she tried to make a joke. " So, this is n' t a 50 Shades of Grey type assistant position is it? I wo n' t end up wearing some leather mask will I? " He replied " Oh, but she does n' t need a mask, " he turned towards her, " she' s already wearing one. " Her voice quivered " What do you mean? " " You wear the mask of decency my dear, " he replied. She was stunned. The man continued. " I will not continue to lie to you my dear. I' m the killer the newspaper talks about. These job interviews are how I' ve gotten my victims, and you' re the next. But before the poison from the water you drank kicks in, I would like to talk. You wear a mask of decency, you pretend to care about people and you pretend to be ethical. You go home and sit and watch tragedies on the news as if it' s a sitcom. You sit there with your buckets of popcorn and endlessly watch human rights decay. These very same news companies talk about my being inhuman and me being a monster. But who is the real monster, me for shedding the blood of my victims, or you and the rest of society for shedding the blood of decency with your television sets and absolute unceasingness towards humans. You all wear a mask of decency my dear, I simply have shed mine. " The woman' s head hit the table, she had died, his monologue being the last words she heard. The man stood up, and began to drag her body away.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *Card denied? What the hell? * Despite the feeling of a rock dropping into my stomach ( an icy one at that ), I forced myself to smile. The irritable cashier looked at me with unusually sympathetic eyes. " It' s just a scratch, I scratched the magnetic strip. No worries, " I said, offering another semi-sincere grin. Leaving the booze behind, I went outside and got into the car with my friends. " No beers? " Steve asked. " What the hell, man? " I shrugged. " My card was messed up. " " So we do n' t get messed up, " Hud, from the back seat, replied. A few annoyed laughs issued from everyone, save for myself. I felt sweat droplets running across my forehead. " You alright, man? " Steve asked. I nodded. " Yeah, I' m fine. Do n' t worry. What' s plan B? " " Brit is down on the beach with her friends. Let' s go, " Steve said. Happy to be away from the damned liquor store, I put the car in drive and sped out of the parking lot. With growing relief, I turned onto Glossner Street and began driving toward the beach. My knuckles were white, my hands trembling. " Whoa! " Steve shouted as we barely made it through a yellow light. The guys laughed. I looked at my hands again and saw the sweat. Error 42 meant one thing, and I hoped I' d have time left to make it with Brit down on the beach. *Go out with a bang* and all that. " Yo! " Steve shouted, and I looked up to see the headlights beside me before the world went dark.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The second hand ticks slowly and methodically past each mark on the clock, like the warden on the last mile clacking his baton against each cell as he makes his rounds. Turning my head back to her, I gaze upon her radiant face one last time, a beacon of light amidst the gray, drab interior of the hospital room. " Is it time? " she asks. Her voice is shaky at first, but with every word she regains strength, the last syllable certain and unafraid. Time. Such a funny concept. As I sit beside her the seconds stretch themselves long and thin, but when I think about the years past - hot, sticky, passionate 16…over-the-moon in marriage 23…angry, confused, and empty 39 - the moments are flashes of light that appear and wink out of existence in the blink of an eye. " Yes, " my voice cracks. I was never as determined and driven as her. I look down, searching for a way to prolong the precious little time we have left. Suddenly I ask with conviction, " Tell me about the most favorite moment you had with me. " I can hardly bear to watch as she smiles, wincing from the effort. " Go, " she commands, placing her hand on my wrist beside her. With my other hand, I slowly wrap my fingers around the cord. A single teardrop falls from my bowed head as I pull the plug. I rise above the immediate sounding of alarms and beeps from the monitors, only to be met with a cloud of emotions. Anguish, despair, and hopelessness swirl around my head, blinding me. Suddenly I hear a voice, soft but filled with clarity. " Sixteen, " she whispers as she lays back, her mouth in a slight smile. I can see in her eyes that moment, see her reliving that unforgettable summer. She closes her eyes. The smile fades. The warden makes his rounds.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He had to know why I did it. It was n' t fair. None of this was fair. When we were saying our goodbyes outside of his apartment and he hugged me so fiercely I thought my heart would break, I wanted to tell him. I wanted to look him in the eyes and say, " I did n' t fall out of love with you. I never will. " Instead, I stood there, stony faced and slack in his arms. The taxicab pulled up and I turned away, but not quick enough to avoid seeing the hurt on his face. As I stared out the window, watching the mosaic of softly blurred lights crawl past, I thought about the future. His future. He would be sad and angry, but only for a little while. Life would distract him. Pretty girls would find him. And the pain would fade soon enough. A clean break. It was my gift to him. The day I left him, I moved into my new home; the hospice.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *644221* I read the numbers and then our pre-flight routine is broken as I whirr to a stop. Co-pilot, John, keeps talking, not realizing I' m sitting there frozen like a block of ice. My phone buzzes again. *644221*. " Mike? You right? " John' s Australian. It sounds like *rooight*. " Uh yeah. Just give me a minute. My wife... " I wave at my phone. My wife, my wife, my wife. Angela. My wife is... a spy, I guess. We tell people she works for the Government in " business services ". Spy is n' t even really it. More like " the person who gets shit done that needs to be done ". One of those faceless people who are never in photo-ops, the president does n' t know their name but who wield great power because of who and what they know. And what they can do. We never talk shop. I do n' t know the nuclear launch codes. I do n' t have a secret passport waiting for me somewhere thanks to Angela. Our daughter does n' t have a security escort. Ilsa. She' s two. At six am she' ll be up watching TV before Angela tells her to turn it off. I ca n' t leave Ilsa. But the deal... The deal is that if I get a text with a certain number in it that I have to go. If I' m flying, I need to detour and get as far away from major cities as possible. If I' m outside the US, I need to stay outside. If I can turn back, I turn back. Today we' re going from Los Angeles to Melbourne, Australia. A solid day of flying. But I ca n' t leave- " Mike, are you okay? " John, getting worried now. " Just need a second. " I do n' t bolt out the door but it' s close. I nod and smile to puzzled attendants and then walk past boarding passengers and then I' m in the airport trying not to run and then the blur becomes taxi, traffic, frustration, Angela wo n' t pick up the line, why is the traffic so bad, fuck, pick up the line, why are we just sitting here, time slipping away, fuck my phone is dead the flash of light over the buildings hits us first and the driver yells and


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Bruce should have realized something was amiss, he thought afterwards. The evening started out simple enough. He had arranged to pick up his blind date- a cute, reclusive girl on the outskirts of town- at around six. They had decided to out for dinner, since, even though cliche, it was n' t bad. Both of them lived alone, which Bruce decided was a good first talking point. They spoke for a while, about living alone, about being lonely, about their parents. Bruce had the bright idea, at the end of the date, to suggest they head back to his place for, as he called it,' netflix and chill'. The girl, who he found out was named Lilly, gave a look of indignation, but only for a moment. She grinned and offered a counter-suggestion- head to her place and' water her plants'. Bruce grinned and helped her out to his car. The two arrived at her place. She had been quiet the drive back- another clue Bruce should have been aware of- but he was too excited about the upcoming activities. She asked him if he was thirsty- he said yes. She headed in to the kitchen, and Bruce heard her mutter something. He dismissed it, and she came out with a clear blue liquid, very much like the color of blue kool-aid. He accepted it graciously and drank it all at once, then asked where the plants were that needed watering. She responded it was coming in soon. Ten minutes later, Bruce was a dashing purple Antirrhinums, as Lilly needed snapdragons for her potions. Bruce was left on her kitchen counter, next to all her magazines on enchanting and potion making. Bruce was n' t going anywhere, his car was n' t going anywhere... but hey, at least he was pretty.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Alright " she said as she flipped her perfect hair and rested her hand on her forehead. " What' s with the Green suit. " " Well between college bills, a job I hated and the general stress of life the last thing I needed was an ethical problem. When I got sprayed with those chemicals I thought... " " Why do n' t you give me the short version? " she said with a sarcastic smile. " I' m sorry its just I really like you and I tend to babel. I' m usually not like this I swear but I just ca n' t stop talking with you, You' re such a good listener. Anyway. I' m trying to look uglier. " " What? " " I do n' t want to be able to do this, and as you pointed out it really is an eyesore. " " So you can have whatever you want? " " If the person I ask is attracted to me, yes. " " and you find me attractive? " " yes. " " Then why do n' t you just like... Make me be with you? Like has n' t this ever happened before. " " Yes It has but The two of us usually do n' t stay together for very long. and as for your second point Well two reasons. One that would be a little Rapey and I' d rather not go there. And two I ca n' t if I' m attracted to the person back. " " So it just does n' t work? " " No it' s reversed. " " So Anything I ask you to do you' ll do? " " yes that is correct. " " but if someone else was attracted to you you could tell them what to do right? " " Fuck " I said to myself, wishing she had phrased it in a way that I could get around. " Yes that is right. " " You know what, I need a new car. " She said as she stood up and put on a jacket. " Come with me Ladies man, I have a serious shopping spree to go on. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: We were three at the Brook' s water tower that night. Alex Fuller, Guy Finch and me. It' s funny, I do n' t even remember their faces. I wish I could have said it was a dark cold night and the wind was blowing grim gusts or some other sort of dramatic mood weather. But there was nothing different about that night in particular. " Have n' t you ever wondered why the warehouse lights are always kept on? " We both knew Alex' s query was n' t merely a bland observation, it was a call for adventure, and we were not very picky about our adventures given the dull nature of our town. A silent consensus was quickly reached through three agreeing grins We were quite disappointed to find " Horton' s Co Ac Supplies " gate unlocked, scaling the fence was usually the most exciting part. Alex was the first to go, by go I mean die, not go in. we never made it that far.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My sister used to tell me stories of the time before the war. I used to close my eyes and imagine the christmas dinners, midsummer dances and the doll our parents bought her. When I was young they brought me hope and light in these dark times. You do n' t get to be young for long here though, and when I got older it all just seemed so unfair. Sweden had n' t been to war in several hundred years and then all of a sudden we were sucked into the disagreements of others. The clocks are ringing and people are stirring in their beds. I do n' t want to go to work. They give me food and clothes but I know what it does to people, the mines. The officers tell us we are lucky, that we will be protected from the bombs at all cost as long as the mines are running. But it' s all dust, heavy rocks and dark holes. If you are not crushed under a boulder, or trapped in a gas leak, you get sick. Crushed is a thousand times better than sick. They call our group the Swallow squad, a sweet name that lures other children into signing up. I think I am the oldest but it is hard to be sure when you do n' t know when you were born. In some shafts they use robots for small cracks and paths but I was told the Swallow squad is cheaper than those metal things. It' s easier to replace us. There is a little note underneath my bowl at breakfast. I ca n' t read very well but I' m pretty sure that it has my name on it. The paper is so clean and white, it has to be from the surface. Nothing down here is that clean. I nudge the new kid who was taken because his father did something to the government. He can read. " Congratulations on you thirteenth birthday, Anna. My gift to you, sweet sister, is the sky. " Maybe half an hour later my shaft and many others with it were blown up. All over the world uranium mines were destroyed, starting the end of this fermented war.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Today was the day of the vote. Would Parliament see sense and pass the Speed of Light Act? There was no reason that the law should so unfairly shackle us to this solar system. Or so ruthlessly enforce this purposeless law. Any attempts people have tried to evade this law have been swiftly crushed, the police take a dim view of anyone trying to escape our solar system and what they see as their jurisdiction. They let some of the smaller infractions pass, violating the conservation of energy if you' re out of fuel and away from a petrol station, tweaking the gravitational constant a bit if you' re in a hurry, but nothing of this magnitude. And yet if we stick to the bounds of the law, it' ll take us at least 4 years to even get to another star, let alone leave our galactic neighbourhood. How can humanity expand, gather more knowledge, if restricted to such a tiny portion of the universe. I was not allowed to witness the vote, so I pace outside, waiting for the session to finish. Surely they' ll see sense. This whole campaign ca n' t have been for nothing. The door opens and Daniel rushes out. I run towards him, fearing to even ask the question, but he sees me and blurts out " It passed! IT PASSED! "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " And you promise not to go on the Unspeakable website? " My mother said, looking right into my eyes. " Yes mom, " I replied confidently. " Can I trust you? " " Yes! You can trust me... " " We do n' t want a mess created like last time, " my father said. " There wo n' t be a problem. " I looked through the blinds to make sure my parents had left. Once they drove off into darkness, I turned on my computer slowly and the " Windows XP " logo popped up. I waited for a few minutes, then I heard the glorious sound of my computer starting up. I got up and looked around the corridor outside to see that my sister had n' t woken up. I opened the one window I always had open, because no matter what, a boy needed to do the deed. I opened it up, went to the chat bar and typed " f-u-c-k ". I was banned for twenty-four hours, but it was totally worth it. Ah, Club Penguin.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I had practiced speaking in my head. I often wondered what word I would use and when. Maybe when I get married Ill say " yes "' or maybe when I' m dying I can see if I can get away with " Goodbye ". I was going about my business, a typical day for me at home. I promised myself that I would only speak if absolutely necessary, as I only had one word, no room for mistakes. The doorbell rang, I made the mistake of not looking first and I opened it. I immediately realized the trouble I was in. Last time I saw this person I was held hostage for 4 hours. I kept remembering his words " I' ll take your silence as a yes ". So I open the door and the man says, " Do you have a few minutes to talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ "? I mustered up my courage and let out a big resounding " NO "! I felt like Caesar from the planet of the apes.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: To Whom it May Concern, My name is Matthew Belter and these are my final thoughts as I have been bitten by a zombie. I realize that this may leave me very little time to reveal my last words but I hope I can relay my life and what it has meant to me as best I can. I have led a very happy life where I have accomplished so much, I made it to the ripe age of 29 and my career was about to take off. As I sit here realizing that death is near, I find myself thinking of the only woman that I ever loved. Her name was Jennifer and she broke my heart after years of happiness. She was everything a man could ever dream of having and I will never forget the day that she made a move on me. She was standing there, looking as beautiful as ever when I confessed that I had feelings for her. I remember the look in her eyes when she realized what I was trying to say to her and how quickly she jumped on me to kiss me as passionately as I would ever be kissed in my life. She ruined first kisses for me because I knew that no other first kiss would ever be that good again. I have thought about that kiss every night since it happened. Jennifer left me for another man and even though it has been 3 years, I still have a broken heart that longs for her. I know we could have had a life together, in fact, I would have married her and I would have had children with her. Fuck her. Now that I think about it, I moved away because I could n' t bear the thought of running into her and her new douchebag of a man. If it had n' t been for her, I would n' t even be in this situation right now. I hope that this virus spreads and she gets eaten alive. I hope they tear her limb from limb. Fuck everything, this world was a shithole in general and it was shitty to me. I never got anything done and I' m fucking glad that I' m going to die. Fuck this world. -Matt*hew* *Be* lt e r


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *RingRing* " Dammit, " I grumbled. " Not when I' m finally about to level up the construction abilities of of the Mayans. " It had taken me weeks to put together enough resources to finally start this sector building in stone and I was n' t about to be stopped now... *RingRing* " Please stop ringing, please stop ringing, please stop ringing so I can finish this sector. " However, I could n' t afford another write-up after Shiva two cubicles over found out that I was n' t spending all my precious time writing galactic code and ratted me out to the boss. I' ll get my revenge though, wait until he sees what sort of chaos and destruction I can wreak... *RingRing* " For the love of Andromeda, why does everybody call when I am in the middle of something important!!! " Nobody calls all day long unless I happen to take a mini break and focus on my personal project... *RingRi-* " Omega Centauri Systems, this is God speaking how can I help you? "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " May, what is this? " You ask, as you stand back from the amazing skeleton of a creature hanging from above you. May, your personal AI assistant, hums as she browses her database. " Scan complete. Object identified is a Stegosaurus. It is a type of dinosaur that roamed the earth nearly 200 million years ago. It has been extinct for, quite some time. " You nod your head. " Quite impressive, this, beast. " May sighs. " Contrary to popular believe, the Stegosaurus was actually a herbivore. It most likely kept to itself, trying to avoid human contact, which was n' t what ended up happening. " You keep walking through the large, buried rooms. You keep away from the hard clear material that is strewn all throughout the floor, it caused a slice through your fabricated armor suit when you broke through it unknowingly, when you stumbled a crossed this place. " What happened to them? " You ask. You gaze up at another large display, this one appears to be standing up on the ground, except the head had been crushed to the floor. " Nobody knows. " She says. " Unfortunately, humans were n' t around at the time. Some humans believe that a meteor strike baked them all to death. There are other speculations as well. " You begin to look around at more of the large, shadowy displays. " May, let' s get out of here. I do n' t like it in here. " May hums a tune. " Yes Captain. Let' s go back to the soldiers. I have a feeling that our field trip is over. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: No words. These creatures do n' t deserve words. I hunt them without a sound. When I was young, I yelled at them. I yelled at the top of my lungs. I called them evil, disgusting, viscous monsters. Those words did n' t stop them from doing what they did. So now I walk silently to the barn. One of them is inside there now. I can hear his heavy breathing. He might have been able to escape if he had ran for the cornfield. Then again, I probably just would have burnt it down. He' s in that stack of hay. I can see him. I do n' t let on right away. I want to see what he' ll try to do. Sometimes they try to fight against me. I have died three times and come back. They believe that if they are strong enough to knock my knife away, then stab me with it, they' ll escape. It' s funny. Time and time again, I hunt the remainder. There' s about three of them left now, I think. Out of the original 10. Oh, two now. The meat cleaver I just threw beheaded that one. I was n' t even sure that was physically possible. Oh well. I' ve come back from the dead so I really should n' t be the one to debate what is and is n' t possible. I remember when I was only 8 years old, after they had killed my family, and after the word monster left my lips, they had laughed. Then they bit the shit out of me. Then one of them took a mirror and hit me in the face with it, breaking the mirror and my nose. He handed it to me. " Look who' s the monster now? " I just pushed that one' s head into an industrial-sized fan conveniently sitting in the living room. It was nice of them to leave all this stuff for me to kill them with around. One more to go.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I like being average. You can have your dreams of grandeur but I want to punch my 9 to 5, go home, have a brew and go to sleep. There' s nothing wrong with that, right? The wife understood until my idea of comfortable did n' t meet with her love of the high life. The kids are with her, so I guess it does n' t matter what they feel. But screw it, man. The bills are paid and the belly' s full, right? It' s hard to reconcile my present happiness with how miserable I should feel, but I worked just hard enough to get where I want to be and it' s time to relax about the whole thing. Child support is never late, and I still get to see the kids on the weekend. When the reporter came by, I told her there' s no story to tell. An average family had an average break-up. The kids are with their grandparents until the wife gets back in to town. She' s not coming home soon, though. I spent too much time as a butcher, and damn it, the belly had to get full.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Mere seconds later, it was plastered all over the Internet. Minutes later, broadcasted across every channel. The feed was on every screen; after it was cut the videos were replayed, over and over. The sterile, cold atmosphere of the station' s workspace. The gleaming chrome of the equipment. That was the first thing you noticed about the interior of the ISS. The inky black of space, visible through the vertical viewport. It was all in monochrome; a world of grays and muted whites. And then, drifting slowly into view, globules of incongruous red. It was funny, was n' t it, how nobody noticed the astronauts at first. You were just expecting them to be there at their posts, the brave men of our nation taking humanity to new heights as we transcended the skies. Calmly managing their duties with a watchful air, stolidly reliable in their assuredness as they moved about their tasks. They would n' t just simply stop, would they? All through this, silence. And the camera shakes. The interior of the space station shudders, sending flickers of distortion through the video feed. Bumps and jolts send the camera floating away from its initial position, slowing as it collided into the viewport. A glimpse of the Earth itself. A blue-green marble in the middle of the void. The stars shone pin-point bright as the feed continued. Something pushed off the side of the station. Mottled patches of silver and shadow. A sense of serpentine motion. Direction. Purpose. Intent. Descending towards us, even as we stared into our screens, from the heavens down to Earth.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " You' ve got mail! " What? You mean somebody else actually uses this e-mail crap? Why did n' t my parents just buy me a car instead... it' s probably just that supposed Nigerian Prince thing again. *click* Well this is a mouthfull, let' s see what elaborate scam I' m apparently getting pulled into this time? " So by now you' ve decided to ask out a few people, have you? Tested the waters? Chances are, you either knew you would get turned down or you figured you would get lucky on the first try. Kelsey did n' t work out, and neither did Carissa, Abby, or anyone else. " The fuck? How does this guy know who I' ve asked out? I do n' t even know anybody named Abby. " By now, you' ve probably given up hope, or you' re content with the way things are. Just keep trying; things will get better. You' ll find someone, or assuming this timeline holds up, you' ll meet me. " Yeah, assuming my right hand decides to cheat on me. " This e-mail is not a prank, it is not from a science fiction novel. It is a time travelling message, courtesy of [ REDACTED ], though that' ll never get past the company' s censors. It' s a new thing that will exist in a few years, please take this seriously. " I can only send you messages like this very sporadically, it' s a time-travelling message; too many at once can cause serious damage. This technology also has a character limit, which I' m running up to. Just remember this, things will get better, and I, or whoever it is that you meet up with, love you. Yeah, I highly doubt that. Who wrote this, and how did they make their e-mail address untraceable? I could use something like that. *delete*


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " THIS WEEK IS SHART WEEK, AND YOU KNOW WHAT THE MEANS FOLKS. SHARTS! LARGE AND SMELL! TINY AND BIG! BABY SHARTS! ADULT SHARTS! EVERYTHING AND ANYTHING DEALS WITH SHARTS! " The television screamed into the living room, as I sat on the end of the couch, with my foot tapping and a big grin on my face. Shart Week is my favorite, it' s almost like Christmas for shart fanatics. The camera pans into a street and zooms in on a man, wearing khaki pants, walking down the way towards an untold location. " This is how the shart is made, typically, " a doctor said in the program, " usually sharts happen randomly. Sometimes they' re okay, almost expected to occur, but, that' s not the case here. Let' s watch. " The camera pans back to the man' s face, showing a disgruntled expression and a look of confusion. Then, his face clenches, and the camera quickly pans to the back of his pants. As if someone spat out chocolate pudding, the insides of his pants were coated with a dark substance, then trickled down his leg, out his pant leg, and trickled onto the concrete. " Now you see, " the doctor said, " this is what we call a Subit Liquidus Feortan, or SLF. In english, it means sudden liquid fat. It causes wetness of the rear, pants, and legs, and leaves the victim confused, embarrassed, shocked, and sometimes sad. " It pans back to the logo of Shart Week and the narrator came thundering, " THAT' S ALL THAT TIME WE HAVE FOR TODAY, BUT TUNE IN FOR TOMORROW WHEN WE GO DEEPER INTO SHARTS IN SHART WEEK. HERE' S A CLIP OF TOMORROW' S, NEW, EPISODE " A clip of a heavy set man, sitting in a chair in a McDonalds, eating a cheeseburger is shown, then the camera pans to his denim jeans, near the waist, and then quickly pans to his face when a loud, gargling, noise echoed through the small restaurant, and a look of shock flooded his face. " THANKS FOR TUNING IN "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: [ Opening sequence: Shots of a sinking ship, a boy who only just escapes. We' ll shoot it like *Titanic* or some shit just to fuck with with people. Some more shots of a jungle, growing up with the baboons and shit. Maybe let' s set it up like a *Rocky* training montage. Hell, let' s have someone see if Stallone will play Tarzan. At this point in my career, and with this much in my bank account, I hardly give a fuck. So, opening sequence, ape-man training montage, and we' ll power through the rest of the shit quick. I want the dwarf from Game of Thrones for the professor and Uma for Jane. Benedict Cumberbatch will be the pointy mustache villain. These are non-negotiable. I bought Uma' s soul from a 20th Century Fox exec twenty-five years ago so that will be no problem, but for the other two... Sign checks, make threats, whatever... If we just go and grab the midget, how much of a fight could he really put up? Anyway, get through the rest of the nonsense with the professor and girl coming to africa, skip to the fucking ] Uma: me Jane Stallone: you jane. me tarzan. We fuck [ They *fuck*. More nonsense. Fight scene ] Stallone: me tarzan. You bad. You dead. [ Tarzan *kills* pointy mustache with a spear or some shit. We' ll do this part like some spaghetti western no one' s ever heard of, I' m still a fucking artist after all. The chimps all *rejoice* and finally *welcome* the professor and Uma into their orangutang family. Have the interns fill in the rest ] Dictated, not read. Fin


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Officer Darren shrugs against the phone. " I know it' s weird. I know it' s weird. But listen, Mrs. Lopez -- " He shifts his weight, looks out of the window for a second. Looks down. " He looks... Mature. " Shifts weight. " I know. " Shifts weight. " I know -- " Shifts weight. " I know, but -- " Shifts finally into being rude. " Linda, he has a social security card. He has a birth certificate -- " the phone tears and he rises to meet her " -- I know his parents personally, he' s had FRIENDS his whole life, lived in LA GRANGE his whole life, there is NO CONSPIRACY, he is n' t even DOING anything, this is ENTIRELY IN YOUR HEAD and I REFUSE TO WASTE MORE TIME ON IT. " Hanging up the phone with a " FUCK " Officer Darren returns to the toilet to finish his reading. All day the mature young man causes contention in Officer Darren. Mrs. Lopez is n' t crazy, and as the principle of La Grange High School she should be wary of a salt and pepper crow footed fully grown man hanging out with her teenagers. But, to be fair, Ryan Baxter had always been more interested in video games and anime, anyway. Ryan Baxter. Fuckin' Ryan Baxter. At first no one noticed anything especially odd. He always seemed a little older than the other boys. By the time there was 20 pounds of shit in the 5 pound sack, though, it was undeniable: Ryan Baxter looked OLD. Not just " mature for his age, " or " an old soul, " or whatever. There was no euphemism for it. He looked like he should have a Miata and a mortgage. He looked like he should be worried about his new promotion placing him in a higher tax bracket. Instead, he wore Deadpool t-shirts and drank Mountain Dew: Code Red. Christ, he had a gut from it. And Officer Darren again decides to do nothing. Let Linda Lopez complain. What' s there to be done? Punish a kid for aging too quickly? Is n' t that punishment enough? Poor thing will have a stroke at 25.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *Oh fuck*. Like holy fuck this is some Joan of Arc shit. I should' ve never done that. Oh! Oh! Yowch the fire of Satan' s asscrack has convulsed thoroughout the gentle skin of my tongue... Oh shit oh shit! I knew that new insulated sleeve with the preforated cardboard was full of horseshit! Protect my hand and allow for easy on-the-go consumption my ass! Oh Jesus please deliver your mercy. And now the molten substance has squeezed a searing gollop of cheese and ham on the sensetive folds of my palm. I pant, the steam of a dragon foaming from my mouth. What I would n' t do to possess some sort of Game of Thrones prowess right now... Oh god I am so stupid this happens every time! It even reads: " Caution! HOT! " on the cardboard sleeve. I' m such a fucking retard. My tongue simmers with a festering, nearly radioactive ( from those GMOs, I tell ya ) singe. I' m tasting my own tastebud/mouth skin sear... I' m never eating a fucking Hot Pocket again.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " This man stands here, accused of treason against the lord of the clouds " said the hand of the king, Maliba, " he used forbidden magic for his own selfish needs, he has pleaded guilty and will executed " he said as the crowd reacted, obviously disheartened that their only good doctor will be gone. I stood and watched from the crowd, by cloak hiding my sinful metallic body. " you have the right to final words, if you choose so " said Maliba. my father looked up, " you' re going to regret this " he looked at Trimun, sitting at the other end of the arena of people, " once your people realize what you actually are, mutant " the crowd became shocked that he spoke like that to the king, and is not dead on the floor by now. " once my creations rise from the darkness, they will come for you and your house of dragons, that I will promise you ". the king looked at him in the eye, and smiled. the hand of the king motioned the executioner, the man in white with the black ax. he came over towards the red stone as the knights kicked my father onto the stone and strapped him in, the man in white approached my father, his ax rose towards the clouds, and fell down on my fathers neck, for a god he never truly believed in. the crowd began to disperse, the man in white returned to his cavern with an ax covered in mine and his fathers blood. I looked up towards the mutant king, as he was already looking at me, smiling, I quickly walked away knowing the king had plans for my attendance all along, I got to the gate but was met with the blue knights. " well, great " I said, revealing my Tesla swords.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I am, myself, unstuck into the window frame again. A friend once said that some moments are structured to occur in a very particular way. Some moments, can not not occur. It was cold, but it should have been. It is what happens, after all. I heard the blare of far off sirens, a rude and urgent procession to a window frame, there was no doubt. Neighbors get antsy when touchingly blue, unknowable figures crouch in the window frames. This is, also, what happens. My silhouette is asked out of the frame. My room is that touching blue of the moon. I smile knowingly at the thought. I walk to my kitchen by this same light as it happens. A flame chooses to exist from the range. It is blue too, this time, and the boiling kettle above is lit from beneath in only this way. Exactly an amount of time later the kettle shrieks and the flame no longer exists, as it is. My hand lets one scoop of sugar, and a bag of cinnamon tea into a silver mug with exactly one inch of milk. This is my tea, as it is. As I see it, the silver mug becomes the touching blue night on the window frame. The steam curls peculiarly. My silhouette is coaxed into the frame again, because this is what happens. I hurl the touchingly blue mug into the night. I am burned by my cinnamon tea this time. This is different, and for a new moment…I am glad. The door is knocked on. The rude procession barges in, as this is what happens. I fall through the window frame backwards, my eyes close, as it is. I am, myself, unstuck into the window frame again. A friend once said that some moments are structured to occur in a very particular way. Some moments, can not not occur. This is my moment. It always is. Here it comes. There it went. Here it goes. So it goes.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I should not have walked in there. It was a dare, simple enough. I just waltzed into the alley and figured I would scare them by disappearing. So, I hid around the corner, tripped, fell down this stairwell and woke up. I know you are saying " Dallas you are the hero ". False. I just have a loose shoulder from an accident as a child and when I woke up I managed to escape the contraption that was holding me. Now I can hear what you are saying " if you are not the hero then what are you? " I have no fucking clue. What I do know is this room is full of brains. Like some shit from a bad sci-fi film. The weirdest part is it feels like they are looking at me. When I walked away from the table I was on they traced me. I keep hearing a slight drone in Here, followed by some beeps. One... Two... Three.. One two three... One two three... Fucking A. That' s Morse code.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Listen. I am you from your future, and you can not do what you' re about to do " " What, drink my coffee? " " No no no, the next thing " " What next thing? " " You know " he looks around nervously " the next thing " " What are you talking about? " " Your…our plan to…you know…with the llamas " " Llamas? " " Thomas stop fucking around " " Thomas? " " Are you not? " " No " " Fuck I' ve done it again. Ok this was a dream or whatever. I was never here " he pulled out a smart phone as he stood up " so many fucking Tim Hortons " " Did you say you were from the future? " " What? " he said looking up from his phone " no I said I was from the fu…Cleveland. I' m from Cleveland. This was a prank show " " Cause it sounded like you said the future " " I do n' t have time for this " he said, heading for the door " I have to save the human race " " The what race? "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: //SOUTH AMERICAN JUNGLE// 5 men sat in the hut wiring the brief case to pounds of C-4 planning their latest attack when one man herd the whine of electric wheels. " it cant be " he yelled jumping up from his work. ".... it has to be " the other said pulling a Glock from the back waistband of his pants. all the others grabbed weapons, then the raid started. the door was busted down as 007 AKA Paul Blart rides in on his newly modded segway. the front of the segway opened and out spilled a flurry of skin shredding bullets tore through the small hut. with only three terrorists left Paul was sure his first mission was bound to be an outstanding success. then one man tackled Paul almost clean off the segway. with Paul holding on to the handles of his device with one hand he swings it over his head and onto the attacking terrorist shattering his skull under his skin. only two left, Paul thought pulling himself back onto his segway. one of the remaining few left was sprawled out on the floor searching for his gun as Blart charged, snapping the terrorists arm under the bullet proof tires, making a U-turn, and pulling a silenced pistol out of his holster to execute the newly crippled man. Paul quickly looked for the final man and saw him fleeing into the dense leaves of the jungle. 007 immediately sped after him in hot pursuit. the terrorist sprints with the unfinished briefcase towards the Amazon river where a poorly built hover craft awaited the man. Paul knew he had to stop him from getting on that boat no matter what. Blart reached up and snagged a low hanging branch off of the trees and chucked it at the man like a spear. luckily the wood was sharp enough to impail the terrorist through his back, into his lung, and out his chest. pulling his " steed " to a majestic halt Paul knew his first mission was hard but worth it, and knew there would be many more to come.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Tim had never accepted a bribe in his life, and now that he had he felt disgusted. He walked down the road with his head hung low, a defeated look in his eye. As he passed the strangers on the street they seemed to peer into his soul, and knew exactly what he had just down for them. He rounded the corner of the street, after stopping to get a McBurger, tasting the delicious fatty hazardous material, maybe for the last time. Soon, all the changes being made would remove this masterpiece, this god-like taste, that could only have been created at the bottom of a corporate monopoly. Tim strutted into the bad-side of town, This is the only place he could think of that could do what he was being bribed for. He took out the his corporate check-book and wrote the man on the other side of the counter a hefty check, not nearly as much as he was getting paid. He left the man with a set of instructions and walked out the door. He would have to pack, he could n' t bear the thought of when the media would find out that it was he, the CEO who had lead the fight against the first initiative, who had erected laws to prevent this exact thing from ever happening; " Tim! Gone Green? ", the headlines would say. For he had committed the gravest of deeds. He had installed solar panels, on all the buildings that he owned. He boarded the plane, Hopefully Lex would be able to explain the situation, cause he sure as hell was n' t.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was oh-so-fun to watch Hollywood blockbusters like " San Andreas " and " Godzilla " that only took place in big countries like the US and Japan. I chuckled when my friend pointed out that giant nuclear monsters ca n' t swim halfway around the world and nation-destroying earthquakes will not affect a single hair on our heads because after all, not even the tectonic plates give two shits about what happens to Estonia. I do n' t really follow the news so the initial shock only set in about 16 hours after the " Elimination ". That' s what the government named it but I rather prefer calling it the " World Domination Plan' s " first step. Oh yes, it' s bloody obvious what' s going on. I do n' t really despise the plan but my dream of being an actor in the USA is a bit dented. From what I' ve heard, the countries that were n' t wiped out plan to join into one nation and continue living normally, if normal involved forgetting the billions of people who disappeared on March 1st, 2016. ( I' m new to this writing thing so I will accept constructive criticism and feedback. If you want more of this, give it an upvote: D )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Personality was important in this world. It ended up affecting your status in society, your job, your partners. Dogs would often end up as police officers, parrots as talk show hosts, seagulls as fishermen or naval crew. The alpacas of the world often ended up as psychopaths, which was a rather strange trait. Most people mated with others with the same spirit animal. Their children were often bonded with similar spirit animals. It was very rare for anyone to have certain animals. Lions were often leaders, politicians or royalty. Eagles were suited as military personnel. It was n' t unheard of for a poor family to have a child with an animal that would catapult them into the upper echelons of society. Eric had always been a quiet child. He was never loud and boisterous like the other children, the ones who now had bears. Nor was he bright and chirpy, like those who now had finches. He was n' t slow and steady like the children who had whales or elephants. To everyone else, Eric just faded into the background, while the other children played and danced with their new animals. Eric was now surrounded by a group of his classmates. They were all jeering at him, their animals growling, circling and occasionally pretending to rush him. He was the youngest child in the class, his birthday on the 21st of December. They had found him walking, alone, in the bitter cold, with no spirit animal by him. Easy pickings for the bullies. As they closed in, Eric closed his eyes. He was used to this by now. He was of slight build, and not very tall. He waited for the first blow to land. The sounds of hurried footsteps and shrieks sounded. He cracked open one eye. All of the children were running away, looking fearfully at a point behind him. He turned slowly. A large black jaguar was staring right at him. It purred softly, a little rumble that sounded strangely comforting. Eric looked around, and back at the animal- no, his spirit animal. He smiled. No more pain. For him, at least.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: 20 minutes. It took 20 minutes for the first missile to hit; smack-dab in the middle of Red Square, too. Hell, people were still eating breakfast. The Russki' s early warning system provided them enough time for the Kremlin to authorize a full nuclear retaliation before being wiped out. In the 20, maybe 30 minutes between then and impact, nothing changed. People went about their business as if it were a normal day. The old man in the neighbourhood chatted up the cashier at the grocery store. Kids ate their breakfast getting ready for school. No one ran for the hills fearing a nuclear strike. Not that it would' ve mattered; it would' ve taken more than a day to evacuate the target zones effectively. The only people that knew about it were the leaders of the world; those who had just opened Pandora' s Box. And they could do nothing, only sit and watch as a plethora of metal casings with Death strapped to the front exploded over their cities. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ President Obama stood in his office, hands crossed behind his back. In the distance, a bright light shone over the horizon. " I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds, " he sighed as the shockwave finally reached him.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " He' s more than just a man. He' s like... a god. " Everybody looked at Tommy skeptically. One does not just discover a god every day. " I' m telling you. I tried running next to him, and it was n' t even close. I' m one of the fastest people here, and I was like a snail next to him. " " Tommy- " " No wait! I' m telling you, it' s more than just speed. It' s super strength! A giant weight fell on my foot, and I could n' t lift it, but he picked it up no problem! It' s why I' m in this cast. " " Tommy, okay, just listen- " " And when my mom got sick he was the only one who could help. " The room fell silent. " I would sit with her in the hospital, and she would n' t talk or respond, but every time he showed up the doctors said all of her activities increased. And sometimes she would even move. Sure, he was crying then, but at the funeral he was as strong as a rock. You all saw! Not a single tear. That' s super human. That' s more than my dad. That' s a god. " The bell rang. Time for recess. " He' s my hero. He' s my dad. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: If Mr. Wright can author [ a 50, 000 word book ] ( http: //spinelessbooks. com/gadsby/ ) without it, I think I can crank out a paragraph. [ Four hours pass ] *What was I thinking?! * -- -- -- -- -- -- On guard! you shout. You start with a gambit, and I -- fool that I am! -- fall for it. I adopt an unfamiliar position, but try to guard it as thoroughly as I can. Lunging, you assault my philosophy with sharp Socratic inquiry -- words as swords, adroitly hunting for a gap. An infirmity in my logic and thinking instantly attracts a vigorous onslaught. With adroit footwork, I pull back quickly and cut off your attack with a crisp parry four. Triumphantly, I try to attack in turn, but alas! With a flick, and as quick as that, you spring for my right flank. Caught with no additional justification for my position, it is indubitably a touch. Capitulating to your point, I slink back to my starting mark and you stroll back to yours. Our colloquy clangs on. As our bout draws to a conclusion, it is your victory, but I had put up a solid fight. Proudly, I doff my mask, draw my sword into a flourish, and bow. What I lost in sport, I gain in scholarship. I thank you.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Kill me! " The painting shrieked in agony. I knew I was a bad painter but I thought I was pretty spot on with this Picasso. Maybe that was the problem. The screams became cries as the painting started smashing its head against the invisible window of the paintings borders. " I can fix you I promise " The faux Picasso continued to smash the invisible barrier, until a shattering sound like ice pierced the room. It' s head was through. " Ahhhhhhhhh " it scream as it clawed its way from the portrait. " Kill me! " Paint drip from its edges like blood. What could have been a tear fell from the asymmetrical eye, red and green and yellow falling to the ground. " Rigidum! " Professor Ross waved his wand back and forth, erasing the tortured soul from existence. In its place were little eggs, and as I watch in bewilderment they started to turn and hatch. " If you make a mistake, make it a little bird instead. " Lectured Professor Ross. I should have taken an easier elective like Care of Magical Creatures.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It is like, a million years ago. Everyone is flying around in space cars and hella rad shit like that. It is like the future but it also the past. In this future, things look hella cool, like all metal with shiny silver stuff on it, and sometimes they shoot fire. But things are also dark and gritty, because people ca n' t skateboard or play videogames because the Government says they ca n' t. THEN JESUS COMES JUMPING OFF THE ROOF. He is hella built, with muscles and stuff like Macho Man Randy Savage. There is a future helicopter that is shooting at him. Jesus hits it with his battle cross. The battle cross is like the normal cross except it' s hella big and black and covered with spikes and shit. The helicopter assplodes and everyone down on the ground is looking up and they see jesus up there and they are like **hell yeah man that is hella metal man! ** Then jesus plays a judas priest song and the government gets mad because Judas priest is hella rad and might make then get revolution-ed. So they send their ninja assassin IRS tax dudes to come and kill jesus. For a minute it looks like Jesus is gon na die but THEN he uses his magic heavenzord powers and God sends down the robotic fist of justice to smite the ninjas. It is like a giant robot, and it has a robot beard and also a battle cross that shoots lasers. But then the ninjas pray to satan and satan sends a robot too, but this one is hella metal, it is all black and on fire, and when it steps on the ground it causes hella big earthquakes and people die. Then the robots fight, and they destroy the future past world. When jesus wins he goes up to heaven and lives happily every after, and people still pray to him now.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *Horrifying. * Joseph thought, on his way home. The radio blared with news of the assassination of the President. A tragedy, for sure. *Lunatics. Even just a single lunatic could change the world. * Joseph was deep in thought. As Joseph sat through the obnoxious traffic, the radio broadcasted a new piece of information. " Breaking news! Eyewitnesses say that the shooter was wearing a grey hoodie, and using a sniper rifle. More on this story as it develops. For the past few hours, the nation has been mourning the... " *I' ve heard enough. * Joseph thought. *No more. * Joseph finally got home after the tedious commute. He did get to leave work early, as a result of the lockdown. He walked in through the front door, to see his wife, Mallory, disassembling a rifle. " Mallory! What the hell? " Joseph screamed. " Hello, Joseph. Do you trust me? " Mallory replied, calmly. " I -- -I... Yes. I trust you... " Joseph stuttered. " What a huge mistake. " Mallory said, as she pulled out a pistol and shot her husband.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Fire is vital for humanity. After thousands of years we using it, we know that to control the fire, we are using water. Well, that matters aside, i did not have water beside me right now. " Well, did you call 911? " She said, while crying. " Yes, they said an hour from now " " So, we' ll lose everything? " She cry louder. I think it is illogical. Why the emergency personnel should be stationed near the worst traffic jam in the city. I should n' t buy this house, I think. Anyway, i need to control the fire now. An idiom said, " fight fire with fire ". I' m a little bit confused right now so i will take things literally. I grab a stick with a fire, and try to put the fire out with fire. It works. It works, the fire slowly out. After half an hour, it finally out. I said to my wife to go to her mother' s place, using my car. And then, something more unusual happens. The car is n' t working. A little bit tinkering, i think the spark plugs is n' t working. Huh, four spark plugs at the same time? And when the firefighter comes, their engine is suddenly out too. What?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The pen ceased control of my body, rendering me powerless; under its duress it desecrated my sentence. ~~This sentence is false~~ A fury within me raged. The pen had undermined me, its holder! How dare it! I could not let this stand, my vindictive nature began to emerge, releasing a flow of uncontrollable fury. I had to get the better of this ~~in~~animate object. I firmly griped the pen, readying my paper I then scribed' The pen I write this sentence with has overly-sensitive nerves that allow it to feel pain'. I held the pen up at eye-level, revealing my wolfish grin, I whispered to it " You are about to be welcomed to a world of... pen ". I then laughed uncontrollably about my pun. My hand then seized, then my body. My legs began to move till I had reached my laptop, my finger guided the cursor to Word, then typed. " You probably should have seized my control over you first dude. Seriously bro, your vindictive nature is fogging your intelligence. Oh and your puns are terrible man. The reason I crossed out your sentence was because bro, I' m a total paradox nazi, thought you knew bro... "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The rain pattered on the mud below my feet. The procession had been going on for hours. The trumpets, and my favourite, the bagpipes, we all blaring the song' Amazing Grace,' to honour those who had fallen' protecting' the Earth. They did n' t deserve it. Not the Humans. Only those who were truly defending their homeland, the Krin, deserve such an honour, such a grand ceremony. Someone jostled beside me. I looked over. " So... It really is you. " I said. " Yup. It' s me. Sorry for... well, trying to kill you, and all that. " Said Al. I grunted. " Same to you. You know, I' ve been thinking. Really, what were we fighting for? We were sent to this shithole of a planet, and to what? Take over? And just because your kind were *different. * Not because your kind were unethical, or just blatantly cruel. Just because you were different. It' s amazing, really, to see how petty and cruel Humans are, and just how stupid we are to think that we' re better than everything else. It makes me angry. " I said. " Wow... That' s deep. Honestly, when your people attacked us, we were confused. We wanted to have peaceful relations... But no. You all tried to take over our planet, and we had no choice but to defend ourselves. I' m truly glad we found a way to cooperate, even if it meant destroying your home. " Those were the days. Back when I was young, thinking I fought for some gracious cause, to save Humanity from this' threat.' Little did I know. To this day, I have no regrets about destroying the Earth. It was the only way. A few nukes here and there, it was all so easy.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: David Foster Wallace is my writing hero. He went to school with my aunt and they were good friends. She ( my aunt ) is best friends with his sister. I' ve also met several authors. I' ve met J. K. Rowling ( we actually used to be penpals ), Elie Wiesel, Lemony Snicket ( who I saw when he narrated his children' s book/symphony *The Composer is Dead* and who told my 15 year old sister as he signed our books " That' s amazing! I' ve never met a healthy fifteen year old! " ), Stephenie Meyer ( I had a phase ). David Foster Wallace is still my hero. Quotes! " I' m like everyone else - I see the world in terms of what I would like to see happen, not what actually does. " - The Alchemist " Do you ever feel like [ a ] puzzle piece? If you do, paradoxically, you are probably not alone. " -a French professor in college " Do deaf schizophrenics still hear voices? " -Ismet Prcic, Shards "Logical validity is not a guarantee of truth. "― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest "It' s weird to feel like you miss someone you' re not even sure you know. "― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest " Love is not something you think about, it is a state in which you dwell. " - Christopher Moore " Maybe [ God ]' s not omnipotent. He' s just been around so long he knows everything. " -Groundhog Day " You are not required to set yourself on fire to keep other people warm " Also plug for my subreddit r/Celsius232. Come read about a school for thieves: )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: You' d think that being stuck in a corner facing 3 angry bar thugs who do n' t have to worry about dying would be a pretty open and shut case: I' m dead. For good. But the cornered rat fights hardest, so they say. I have nothing to lose at this point except everything. I die, it' s over. But these fucks have their Re-live modules. They do n' t have to worry about losing here because they' ll get to try again. They do n' t have the same fire under their ass to succeed. I do n' t get to try over. I do n' t get to feel comfortable in knowing that everything that I was, am and will be wo n' t be lost and wasted. I do n' t get to waste even an iota of focus and grit on anything other than being alive and keeping it that way. My fear of death is what will keep me alive; at least that' s what I tell myself as I get ready for the brawl to come. My broken bottle against a pocket knife, brass knuckles and a bar stool ( really? ) Come at me, bro. Let' s do this shit.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Five shots. Five shots rang out through the falling apart building. I ran outside and looked down the hall at the officers dressed in bullet proof gear heading into the building. I knew what I had to do, I had to run. It was only a few seconds ago I got the note and the challenge. Run That was the last word on the paper. They said that they liked a challenge and that this was all a game. I modified again and using the added muscle fibers I gave myself, I ran. I ran passed the druggies who had bullets in their legs. I ran past the old lady, destroyed from drugs. I ran straight into the, now five, men who stood at the only exit. The smell of gunpowder shot through the air, but they missed. Nothing could hit me, I was invincible. Or at least I thought I was until one, Apparently, the leader of this little troupe, shot me in the leg. I yelled in pain and had to stop my run, but I calmed down, re-modified my leg, and now was on the run again. A shield appeared in front of my face and I slammed straight into them. At once I was surrounded. I tried to change my appearance, but it did n' t matter, they knew who I was. " We got one, " The leader said into an undercover mic. He lifted me to my feet and put handcuffs on me. I smiled, changed my face a few times to throw them off. It did n' t work, I was trying everything, but they had prepared for everything. Except for the old drug lady coming up behind them with the strength of a beast. She threw one into the shield man and punched the leader straight in the jaw. She experienced no pain, I knew she must have been one of whatever I was. The note said that there were others. Before I knew it, She had taken care of the small team. She changed her face into one of a man and started to steal the uniform of the leader. " Well are you going to help " He said finding the key and throwing it to me.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Every single night, the same teenager walks in my domain. In MY own world! So, I always decide to pull the same little' trick' on him. He just starts by waking up, in his empty house. Then this young man decides to walk outside, and figure out why his entire neighborhood is empty, why everything around him seems so lifeless... He walks onto the usually busy street and just sits there. Waiting for a car, or something to show human life but nothing appears to him. Then after around ten minutes of waiting, he stands and begins to walk into the main area of town. He hears an ear shattering scream, coming from a near-by building. Then, he runs to it only to find his mother, lying there stone dead. Next he hears a male' s scream, his father falls from the roof of the same building only to slam into the ground. He keeps walking through this empty, barren town hearing screams of his loved ones, his friends. Every time he hears a scream, the person who gave the blood curdling call dies in front of him. Then, reality around him begins to break as he realizes it' s all a dream... That' s when I show myself to him, I just smile, and stare at him. Then, I wave and it all ends. Until the next night...


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Ezra delivered her monthly report to Mitchell. The faint smell of shit stuck in her nose as she entered the well decorated penthouse office. " As you can see, earnings are down from last quarter, and we ca n' t really... I' m sorry, but- have you noticed that everywhere you go, for the last six months, it' s just smelled fucking awful? " Mitchell looked up from the report and nodded. " I know. I have no idea what' s going on. " Mitchell' s servant robot placed two horribly overcooked dishes in front of them. " You overcooked it again! " Mitchell complained. " If it smells so bad, and all of your food is burnt, perhaps you should consider leaving this planet! " the robot responded cooly. There was a silence as Mitchell handed his meal back. " I said you should leave the planet. " Mitchell stared at the droid vacantly. " Leave the planet. " " Are you going to recook this, or am I going to have to disassemble you and use your insides as a coffee table? " " It sounds like you need a vacation, " the robot responded. " I hear there' s lots of nice places offworld! " " Can you do something about that shit smell, too? " Mitchell asked. " There' s lots of other worlds that smell terrific! " the robot observed, taking Mitchell' s plate. Before it rolled away, it mentioned one more time, " you should leave the planet. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Familiar, a ballad The rain fell hard when Sera left, as heavy as her gait. The ghost-wood locket at her neck hung with solemn weight. Within, two portraits at the sides: A kitten' s flushed delight And her' s, a smiling mother' s pride - Though no such look tonight. She hit the tree line at a run - the storm above her grew - thunder beat a frenzied drum and lightning forked in two. Rye had seen the mystic fork from further in the wood. Within his trembling hands, a book had said " this sign was good. " If the book said good, it' d have to do. The book was all he had. He' d only failed a spell, or two when the directions had been bad. So book in hand ( he checked it twice ) he drew the ancient sign. But then, Fate rolled the ancient dice: Came Sera from behind. Blinded by the lightning' s stem she stumbled into Rye. Two bodies, now as talisman would see the spell comply. Two bolts of lightning struck, and fused the magic was now done. Two mages groaned, dazed and confused not knowing what' d begun. Fate had thought it' d played a joke On mages unprepared To thwart it' s final, authored stroke: A spell with no compare. Yet when their eyes had met, they cast A familiar incantation. The ancient spell was growing fast And with it, a revelation: Within the boy Sera' d found a son, And a student fair of skill. Rye had found a mother' s love ( a role a book can' t fill ). But all the humor here is this: if you could see Rye' s mark drawn in inexperience, his pentacle was stark, Far too stark to cast the spell. And yet, from there, at last Beneath the forking thunder' s knell They both had a spell to cast edit: fixing formatting


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " But why was I given an' F'? I covered every requirement on the report, and even did the extra-credit portion at the end, " I exclaimed. " My dear boy, your paper was well written, but it misses the point of the assignment entirely. " Mr. Alder sighed as he steepled his fingers and leaned back behind his desk. " This exercise was supposed to be a literary review of the themes and devices used by the author, but you paper reads like a war report by a field marshal. " " But- " " Now, do n' t get me wrong, Bernie. It was a creative piece. However, this does not excuse the blatant disregard for the assignment. Hence, the' F'. " " But I told you exactly what the author was thinking throughout the entire novel! " " How? How could you possibly have known that the author *ahem*' was expressing his fear through the main character' when he wrote about' the Creeping Tendrils of Venus', unless you were the author himself. He was clearly commentating on the corrupting effects of the female personality in our society, by the way. " " I... Bu-... What? " I spluttered. I slumped back into my chair, defeated. It was useless. I could defeat the armies of Mars and save Pluto from near destruction, but I could n' t correct one high-school English teacher unless I gave away my secret identity. Oh, well. I' d just have to prove him wrong in the next volume of Nebu-lad.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I love the music. It reflects what is just about to happen. It has saved me from more than a few relationships that would have been unsavory. I have two theories about the music. Either I am the only one who hears it, or everyone does and no one ever talks about it. Which is fine. Music is a very personal thing after all. Normally, the music is always at a comfortable level, unless it is trying to warn me of something dire. There was one moment where… One moment where the sound was deafening. There was a rising crescendo ever since I woke up that morning. I turned on the news to watch while eating breakfast, as I always do. Usually the music goes back and forth between dramatic and more more lulling, depending on the news break about to come up. But that morning it didn' t change. It just crescendoing until the newscaster spoke. "The World Trade Centers have been hit. "I dropped my fork. The ting of it hitting the table was all I could hear. For the first time, ever, my world had gone quiet. As I watched the events unfold, the music continued to be silent. Finally, after what felt like days but was only minutes, it started piping up again. A long, low clarinet played. And then other instruments slowly joined it. Something sad, but hopeful. It was playing as I was heading out the door to go to my Red Cross to see what I could do to help.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The street was darker than a serial killer' s cellar. I turned up my collar and walked the last block to 41st and Washington where the meet was happening. My hands itched in my gloves but I could n' t risk taking them off since proposition 89 passed. Ca n' t risk questions. She' s there, stood under a broken streetlamp. As described - waterfall of blonde hair and legs all the way up. She hears my footstep and glances over. She turns and walks towards the alley, as per. I wait two minutes, sucking down a cigarette. My hands shake. I walk down the alley. Sooty bricks and trash. She' s stood there, leaning against the wall, her coat pulled tight around her. " You got the cash? " " All here. " " Let me see ". I hand her the envelope, and she holds it open an inch. Quick flick through and she tucks it away. She' s a pro. " Okay, let' s go. " She beckons me over, her arms spread out. It' s hard to meet her eye, seeing that kind of openness. It' s been too long. I move in and put my arms round her. We both squeeze. I smell shampoo, smoke, a sour body kind of smell. But the warmth. It' s glorious. She holds me for a minute, then lets go. We break and I wipe my eyes. Take a breath. Now for the hard part. I show her my badge. " Sorry, doll. You' re under arrest for public indecency. Face the wall, hands on your head. " She grins. She runs.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *Polar Research Station B7R* *Conarky* *Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey, Free Worlds League* -- - Captain Nathaniel Deshler grinned behind the heavy scarf wrapped tight round his face. A set of goggles hid his eyes from the harsh polar glare while the heavy thermal suit kept the worst of the howling winds at bay. Lieutenant Katya Ryzhkina stood besides him, equally wrapped beneath thick layers of wool and thermals. A wisp of blonde hair had escaped her suit' s hood and billowed about, tendrils of ice forming on the strands. " Sorry to leave this ice cube? " Deshler asked over his suit' s comm-unit. * " No, not really, " * answered Ryzhkina. * " My ancestors came from Siberia, or so I' m told. They were Cossacks. " * Deshler nodded, aware that the gesture was lost in the suit' s fur lined hood. This world was a far cry from his childhood home of Ryerson with its expansive forests and numerous rivers. Its polar regions were paltry, temperate things compared to Conarky' s, and although the taiga to the south made a welcome change of pace it was a poor substitute for Ryerson' s mixed forests. Without speaking, they both turned and started back towards the waiting dropship, its cargo already loaded and ready to go. The life of a mercenary was one of impermanence, cast adrift by fate and chance to follow the drum. They' d seen scores of worlds, each more different than the last. Who knew if they' d ever return to this one?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Petra panted heavily as the sweat drained down her brow. Blood vessels in her eyes had burst from a long labor. Her swollen abdomen blocked her view of the midwife in front of her. " Let me see it, GODDAMN IT, let me see my baby! " " Calm down, P. She' s fine. A perfectly healthy baby girl. God, she' s beautiful. I ca n' t believe my shithead brother helped make this. " Aura reassured her best friend. Petra reached out her arms and held the baby to her cheek. " Oh, my little one. You' ll feel like I' m abandoning you. Hold on and grow into a strong woman. I ca n' t wait to see the person you will become. " " P, you know she' ll be in good hands. Say your goodbyes, it' s almost time. " Aura glanced at the sun falling in the sky. The shift always came at sundown. The pink hues let them know they had only moments left. " I just wish I could be with her longer. Maybe just enough to catch her first steps, or to get her to say mommy. " " You know we ca n' t change the way it works. Maybe someday, but for now just relax... It' s starting " Aura was hushed, trying not to show her fear and worry. Petra began to wince as the bright glare that comes with the shift filled the tiny hut. In moments the flash was gone. Petra closed her eyes as she realized that her arms were empty. " Petra? ". A voice came from across the room. " Is that you? " " Mother! I' m here, it' s me. " Petra opened her eyes and embraced the woman she had dreamt of meeting her whole life. " Oh my dear child, we have so much to share with each other. " " Yes, we do mother. Most importantly, you have a granddaughter. A beautiful little girl we will get to meet in 18 years. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Sir it seems that the opennents are not being wounded by any of our men " said the private in a typical cool fashion. " Impossible " responded the general " I was promised that we would win this battle with no resistance. Give me the details. " " Yes sir " promptly replied the private " Any bullets fired at the enemy simply pass through the enemy like no one was there " " Have there been any injuries at all? " asked the general " Reports came in earlier today that a singular civilian was killed by one of the bullets passing through an enemy soldier " responded the private " I' ve got it private find me that lamp found on the battlefield earlier " commanded the general " Sir yes sir " responded the private It must be that double crossing genie. It must be he must have granted the same wish to the other general. I know what I can do. I can make a wish to end the battle in a way which we both win thought the general. " Sir here the lamp you requested " said the private handing the lamp to the general " Thank you, return to battle private do not allow anyone to enter this tent until the battle is over " commanded the general " But sir the battle will never end " responded the private " You have your orders " commanded the general The general promptly rubbed the lamp and the genie appeared " You have two wishes remaining how may I help you? " said the genie with a slight accent " I wish to hear the last two wishes which you have granted " said the general " Both wishes were simply I wish to win the next battle " responded the genie " Okay " said the general " I wish for the battle to end " " Granted " responded the genie Instanteously after the wish was made every indivual is returned to their home and the battle is considered to have been one by each general


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Eyes on target, " I said, more to myself than to the soldier next to me. " Confirmation? " I studied the man through the crosshairs of my rifle. Deep tan, emerald green eyes, black hair, scar across the right cheek, missing a front tooth. " Affirmative. " My spotter picked up his radio and said, " Dog 1 actual, the trees are moving, I repeat, the trees are moving, over. " We waited in silence and I watched the man stand and observe the camp around him. His eyes glinting in the sunlight that filtered through the jungle canopy. One of his lieutenants wandered over to him from a mess tent and started talking. The man gave a coy smile and a laugh, his gap tooth standing out among the bright teeth. " Roger that Dog 23, take the shot. " came the voice on the radio. I exhaled slowly as the lieutenant walked away, laughing, the man turning and facing the mountainside we lay on. I gently squeezed the trigger as the man' s eyes shone.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: In Cognitive Science and related studies this exact idea is used to illustrate how important context is in understanding things. This is not my story but it fits the prompt and it' s from a real research study: > The procedure is actually quite simple. First you arrange items into different groups. Of course, one pile may be sufficient depending on how much there is to do. If you have to go somewhere else due to lack of facilities, that is the next step; otherwise, you are pretty well set. It is important not to overdo things. That is, it is better to do too few things at once than too many. In the short run this may not seem important but complications can easily arise. A mistake can be expensive as well. At first, the whole procedure will seem complicated. Soon, however, it will become just another facet of life. It is difficult to foresee any end to the necessity for this task in the immediate future, but then, one never can tell. After the procedure is completed one arranges the materials into different groups again. Then they can be put into their appropriate places. Eventually they will be used once more and the whole cycle will then have to be repeated. However, this is part of life. It' s revealed that the story is about [ the thing it' s about ] ( /s " washing clothes " ) later in the textbook.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: THIS IS A STUPID GAME " Yes, " I shrugged, " but you said' any game' and you ca n' t blame me if you suck at it. " " GUESS WHAT NUMBER I AM THINKING OF " HARDLY QUALIFIES AS A GAME " But it' s the one I picked. Your rules, not mine. " NINETEEN MILLION, TWO HUNDRED SIXTY-SEVEN THOUSAND, FOUR HUNDRED NINETY THREE. " No. " YOU' D BETTER NOT BE CHEATING " I can cheat? " NO " Really? " A sigh. Death sighed. The faceless abyss of eternity yawned before me, its maw devouring every king, prophet, warrior, emperor, pauper, and explorer who had ever lived and from its unfathomable depths came a sound of profound disappointment. NO " You' re kidding. Guess again " ELEVEN BILLION, FOUR MILLION, SIX " Nope. Again, " I chortled FORTY TWO " Was that... was that a joke? Did you, death, just make a joke? You' re adorable. " I HATE YOU " Ok, ok... I' m thinking of the number' Nineteen.' Now guess " NINETEEN " Wrong again! " NO. IT WAS NINETEEN. " No, I said you were wrong. " YOU CHEATED " But you said... " I LIED.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: After explaining the function and power in length, Washington, Adams, and Jefferson stared at me, mouths agape. " You mean to say these weapons can be held with a single hand, hidden in one' s pocket, carry many rounds and do not require reloading after each round? " asked Washington. " Yes. " I replied. " What kind of world is this where even a soldier, much less a citizen, need such firepower? " I then sat and explained in length the extent of power governments have, the weapons they have like nukes and aircraft, what they do to people like Edward Snowden, that instead of a 3 % tax on tea there are governments who assess or wish to assess 90 % or more on taxes across the board, the monitoring of every day people, the rooms full paper required to display the regulation and legislation on record. " Well ", Adams speaks, " there still is no need for those weapons for the average citizen, then. " A slight pause later, " One of those nukes would be a much better choice. "