Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Table 16, skinny, usual order chef. " The waitress relayed the same phrase to the kitchen everyday for the past 7 months. " Order up. " The chef passed the plate of brown toast and a glass of tap water through the hatch with a sigh. It was n' t an exciting breakfast to make and he knew it would only go in with the scraps anyway but he obliged still every day. At least he could find solace in that it was n' t a complete waste of a meal, besides, it was a good way of using up the stale bread - not as if she' d notice eh? The waitress laid the solemn looking breakfast in front of the lady and went back to the till to voyeur from a safe distance. The lady methodically cut the toast in 16 equal pieces, a usual part of the ritual it would seem. Pushed the plate away from herself and gazed out of the window. Her movements and expression did n' t give away much but there was a melancholy aura around her. She took a sip of water, gulping hesitantly as if the motion of swallowing hurt. She looked back at her plate and reached her hand towards a fraction of the toast, as if she was really going to go for it but pulled back at the last second. Another part of the' ritual'. Shaking her head, she stood up, holding her hand against her body and walked out, head down, avoiding the waitress at the counter. " Did she go for it this time? " The chef called through the hatchet, hearing the door ring as the lady left. The waitress pulled herself away from the counter and turned back to the kitchen. " Naw, I really thought she was going to try today though. " Edit: removed " Of course at first it was " Brown toast and tap water please chef " but as the routine developed the working staff at the diner became familiar and the' skinny lady' s' habits became ingrained to the working morning. " after' for the past 7 months'


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: White: the color of light, of pureness, and synonym of all the blissful stuff existing. That is what a writer thinks of, from angels to God ( s ), when setting a theme, intertwining a symbolic web and final denouement. To me it is a mirror reflecting *incompetence*. In the dim-light room, staring at a *blank* page on word document, i start to think that the lighting of my room had little to do with the tear in my eye. I hear my phone ping. Definitely another *Game of thrones* theory video or *Jyn Erso* fanboy-ism beyond control because Star Wars. Maybe i should bury myself in these never ending reminders of legends being and nitpick it and feel better. Or see a motivational video till i feel sleepy. *Next day*, i would lie to myself, *and then nothing can stop me from becoming Stan Lee*. Or should i post some previous shit i wrote long ago and make the mods review it, give him a piece of hell he/she just has to say **full of potential**. Maybe that false hope will set me in a better mood of acceptance of failure. A twenty year old, no friends and fun but a compliment from a person I do n' t know. Wow.. sounds fun. But not today. In another December 18, seventy years back to be exact, was the day Spielberg was born. I do n' t think he would have thought he would make war movies with Tom Hanks when he filmed wrecking trains in his backyard. Fuck it, ill type something and get some negative comments as well but i will be happy displaying my wreck, though this belongs in r/GetMotivated. At the end of the day i may have failed but i can proudly say **I TRIED**


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: https: //www. reddit. com/r/SubredditSimulator/comments/3j3k0w/i_was_surfing_the_wikipedia_when_i_look_up_and/culxidp Defeated, she put her hand on the ticker tape, stopping it for a long time, *I* *loved* *an* *artist*. She looked out over the street below, bustling with life. The ticker tape strewn from windows above fluttered down like snow in the cold January air. Soldiers marched gleefully down the boulevard, Sherman tanks grumbling over the pavement not far behind. Her eyes glistened as tears began to form. Her heart was conflicted. These men had loved him, even as a soldier. She shook herself. He was never a soldier. A boy, at the most, never a soldier. She could hardly contain herself. Every part of her wanted to cry out in pain and loneliness. Still the men marched and cheered as they streamed down Broadway like a river of men and metal, each proclaiming life, and joy at having retained it. She hated them. She hated herself for hating them. They did not kill her son, and yet still she felt nothing but contempt for the military that had ripped her boy from his mother' s embrace and the art he had lived for, bled for, before being made to bleed for his kin and country. She closed her eyes and stood at the window for a moment, the sounds of the street below washing over her. He would n' t have wanted this. He would never have held onto hate, no matter how justified he would feel doing it. She felt the cold sting of her tears on her cheeks. She threw the ticker tape.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: As I calmly walk into the bank SGT. Doomhand had taken hostage I make sure to check on the 15 or so people laying on the ground. SGT. Doomhand comes around the corner to see me standing there causing him to jump and drop his giant metal hand on the ground. I sigh and shake my head before saying, " what are you doing Harold ( Doomhand' s real name )? How could you hurt all these people? Harold I' m not mad at you I' m just disappointed in you. I want you to know that I have called your mother and father told them what you have done. When I told your mother she burst into tears and your father told me he would leave work early and be right over. " When I finished speaking Doomhand' s face because as pale as a vampires ass cheek. The word " Disappointed " hit Doomhand like a runaway train causing him to cough up blood from shame. Hearing he made his mother cry felt like he was struck by a tidal wave made of guilt that made him feel sick and woozy. And the fear he felt from hearing that not only had his father heard of what he did and that he made his mom cry but that he had to leave work early and was on his way caused Doomhand fall to the ground and start crying. I was able to save all 15 hostages and thwart Doomhand' s plan to rob the bank. Once again I was able to prove that words are mightier than the sword. Fortunately I was able to leave before Doomhand' s father Gen. Doomblade arrived. I hear Harold works in a library now days.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " The date is June 22, 2222. It is approximately 15: 11 and 26 degrees Celsius. Alright, we will start by placing the entire object under the 3-D imaging camera so a model will be reflected onto our screen and saved into our system. This is so Bill does n' t accidentally blow up the artifact again. Alright, now that that is done let' s see what we have. The object is precisely 5. 08 cm tall. 2. 81 cm wide, and 13. 97 cm in length and as the chemical tests show, is composed of poly ( vinyl chloride ) [ plastic ]. The poly ( vinyl chloride ) [ plastic ] has an indented groove slightly smaller than the width which seems to be coated with a sticky, binding cloudy residue. At the slightly curved end there appears to be a composition of Fe2O3. nH2O ( s ) [ rust ]. The test of the cloudy residue is coming back as an unknown substance directly related to C6H10O5 [ cellulose ]. The object is now carefully being split in half with our laser. Something is sifting out of the cracks. After closer examination it appears to be sand. What is this? Bill I am stepping out. Clean up the lab. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The singing, pinging, ringing sound that lives in side your ear That continuous, constant, ceaseless noise is currently here -' There is no medication,' the doctors say,' Live with it,' they said' There is no magic cure for this, not medicine, not bed.' -' Merely a hallucination, and that can not be fixed. " Just live your life, and do n' t, on it, be transfixed.' - That' s easy for them to say, the doctors and the nurses They do n' t have to live inside their heads with an ever-ringing circus - But *you* know what' s it' s like, you know the constant pain You feel the pinging, always there, the noise inside your brain - But if you knew the reason that you hear the endless ringing If you knew why it was really here, if you knew the nature of his singing - You would n' t be complaining; you' d know that you' re blessed For it conceals the secret wanderings of your unknown guest - He latches onto you and hides behind your mind He' s chosen you to veil himself, to you to be confined - Whilst he conducts his hidden, despicable business The events that he would not want you to witness - He makes the noise, that' s him, he puts it in your ear Because without it, you' d know that he was here - And if you knew, well, that just would n' t go He' d leave your mind and drag you down below


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " I have to go on a Hajj, Jim. " " A what? " " A Hajj. I' m going to Mecca. " His mouth fell open. " You... what? " " Do I really have to say it again? " " No, no, it' s just... Are you serious? " She clenched her jaw and averted her eyes. " Oh my God, you are, are n' t you? " Clenching her suitcase in hand, she started ambling towards the door, one hand on her stomach. He moved to stop her. " You ca n' t do this, not right now. You know you wo n' t survive, it' s become airborne! " " In less than a month I wo n' t be able to walk, Jim. I have to do this while I can. " " Jo, listen to me, I was okay when you picked up Islam. I was okay with banning the foods you did n' t want in here. I even cut contact with Jack after what he said. But this? I just- I ca n' t let you. " " Ca n' t let me? You ca n' t stop me. I' m going on this Hajj, and I' ll be back before it' s time. Allah will protect me, Jim, even if it is airborne. " " Just because you think he' ll protect you does n' t mean he will, and I do n' t know how I could live without you two. " " Then come with us, make the journey. Allah will protect your Hajj as well, and the little one' s. " With a hand on the massive bolt that kept them protected, she thrust the other out. He just stood with his arms at his sides, but stepped forward to follow her. She struggled with the massive bolt for a moment before jerking it out of place, and stepped out into the air. " Jo, just- just know I loved you. I did. " And with that he snapped the door shut behind her and fell to the ground, sobbing. It was nearly an hour before he gained the courage to stand and a year before he gained the courage to join them. Their corpses rested not six feet from the door.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Tod could n' t believe it. Back to school late in life and he was already wasting his time. The year was 3090 and the human race had decided the only way to choose who belonged to the social elite had been through an intellectual hierarchy. Procrastination could in a sense be a death wish, if you did n' t have your shit together not only could you be shut out of the higher society, but it meant you were destined to interact with everyone else thrown to the bottom of the heap, so to speak. Tod was working on Chemistry. Well, Bio-Chemistry to be specific, his homework assignment was to recreate a self-sustaining protein which could be used in cats to make them immortal. It was elementary stuff for the time, immortality had long been discovered, but regardless of how long a person could live cognitive plasticity did not change. In other words there was a limit to how much knowledge a person could obtain, and if they were lazy and did n' t keep up with their work atrophy would cognitively set in and sooner or later they would forget everything. Tod was n' t young or old, leaning more on the young side he idealized making something of himself but found himself getting stuck over and over, day in and day out. Little did he know that a reservoir of sub-conscious resentment kept him from progressing. He hated himself too much to let himself succeed. He would n' t become anything in this futuristic world. Hopefully the atrophy would come quickly.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I feel that the goal of any story I write ( after choosing what demographic I want to reach ) is to get the most ( content-wise ) out of the least ( word-wise. ) This often means that I spend a fair amount of time looking up words or simply thinking about what I want a reader to feel or think after reading a line, paragraph, etc. And after I' ve written something down, even more time goes into editing what I' ve written. I do n' t think anyone should be discouraged based on what a website tells them though. If you feel that your lexicon needs some sprucing up, read the works of others or just cross-reference some of your own words with a thesaurus/dictionary. You might find that there are words that express what you want to say even better. As far as feeling inferior to others, that is a natural feeling in the world of literature. No one is a master of all art-forms ( and few are a master of even one. ) Yet, there are people who exist in the world as literary giants. So feeling inferior is okay as long as you do n' t fall into despair about it. If you are inferior, expand your vocabulary and improve your skills. You could even look at those websites as challenges to overcome or test your limits. So keep at it, Wr_2213.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Someone knocked on the door. I pause my Youtube video and trudged to the front door to check out the peephole. It' s a small boy who looked quite lost. Dern hooligan, I jokingly thought and open the door. The businesswoman tapped her foot impatiently. " Yes, I require assistance. I' m looking for 256 Oak Trail, and I' ve checked the whole street. Do you know that address? " Annoyed, I replied curtly, " This is 256 Oak Trail, ma' am, what do you need? " " Oh, how delightful! " The thin grunge teen exclaimed. " I' m looking for an, um... " The lady checked her notebook, " Samantha? " Panic filled me, what could I have done? I do n' t remember doing anything bad enough to warrant a house visit. " I am Samantha, sir. " " Well, in that case, I regret to inform you that today is the day you die. " He solemnly informed me. Relief and confusion flooded me. " What? How would you know? " She raised her notebook with a frail, shriveled hand, " I am Death, and these are your peers for today. " Joy. Tinged with worry. " Will I get a moment to tell my family I love them? " He studied me carefully, " You are n' t scared or mad. " It was n' t a question, but I answered, " Depression is a hell of a thing. I' m glad it is n' t me, to be honest. " They grimaced but inclined their head, " Make your calls and texts. It will be tonight, but not now. " Why am I staring at my neighbor' s lawn? With a scoff and a sudden urge to text my family out of the blue, I retreated into my home. Happy.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was late at night and i was eating popcorn and binging on shows, the popcorn tasted funny but after a while I became really sleepy, It was almost past 5 and I could n' t stop myself from watching the show. The TV turned off quickly after a bright light shined from the sky like dominoes, as If it was being shined from a big lamp, I was shocked, I could n' t use anything, my phone was turned off and it was n' t out of charge, I tried using the landline but nothing worked, suddenly a group of military personnel opened the door, I was scared and I tried to talk but before i could' ve done anything. *Freeze all motor functions* *this one stayed up, take him to the camp* My body froze as if I was paralyzed, but I could see everything they took me in the camp, threw me in a cell like looking room with only a bag there. I could barely see outside but after a while my body began unfreezing I took a peak outside and saw rows of humans standing in a line in a white lab, they moved so perfectly like they were controlled, each went into a room but I could n' t see anything. Suddenly another military personnel came, before I could say anything my body started moving, I started wearing my clothes and then went into a shuttle looking vehicle. *Welcome soldiers* Westworld inspirations; )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was time. We all took our places in the ritual circle underneath the starlit sky, while the old medicine lady chanted and sang in the middle. Each person eagerly awaited their transformation. As the moon reached its apex, slowly, everyone began to change. Skin grew hairier, teeth grew sharper, eyes grew wilder. Everyone began changing into the spirit animals they saw in their visions. Well, everyone except me, that is. As my friends changed into wolves, eagles, bears, snakes, they all saw that I retained my human form. A few laughed at me and mocked for being stuck in this pitiful existence. Some pitied me for not being able to experience the new freedom and strength that came with a new form. Others looked at me with revulsion, and considered me unworthy and unclean. One by one, as each one completed the transformation, they slipped into the night. The old lady shook her head at me and sighed, suggesting that perhaps I did n' t pray hard enough. Her eyes were filled with frustration and pity. Yes, I' ll try again next year; yes, I' ll bring a better offering; yes, I' ll pray more fervently; and all that stuff. I ca n' t say that I was too disappointed by my lack of transformation, though. I was n' t exactly distressed. I *am* a shapeshifter, after all.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: SCENE: Generic mall food court, moderately busy, empty STAGE at end opposite frame. CAL and HIRO are chatting over pizza. CAL "... so basically if Jess is cool with it we' re gon na open our first gig on Sunday right over there. " CAL gestures at opposite end of food court at STAGE. HIRO: *looking in direction CAL indicated* " Dude, that' s awesome! I think it' s great that your retro-futurist synthpop darkwave jam band Karate Fever is finally taking off! What was it, 200k on YouTube? " CAL *jokingly* " Yeah, I ca n' t wait to live that rockstar life. " NEIMAN CYS enters FOOD COURT wearing jet black kung fu uniform with silver trim. He is accompanied by PUNKS. NEIMAN' s eyes widen as he notices CAL and HIRO looking right at him. HIRO " NEIMAN CYS! My old Kempo nemesis! " CAL " Heh, your nemesis was named Neiman Cys? Who names their kid tha- " CAL is interrupted by HIRO, who has leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over and clenching his hands into fists. To Be Cont' d when I get off work


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Eleanor was trying to be happy for her daughter. Her only child' s upcoming wedding was only a week away. To her friends and family, Eleanor appeared to be the proud, excited mother of a beautiful girl soon to be wed, but no matter how hard she tried, she could n' t truly be happy for Annabelle. Eleanor was always proud of her daughter. She was smart, independent, and wildly ambitious. Annabelle found success in almost everything she tried, love seemed to be the only exception. The absence of a partner for most of Annabelle' s life was certainly not due to a lack of suitors. Boy' s and girls alike vied for her attention since grade school. A few were lucky enough to be considered as " friends ", but no one had ever been able to call her their girlfriend. As High School and college passed, Eleanor had certainly noticed that her daughter had still never been in a relationship, but Annabelle was doing so well with everything else in her life, she never let herself worry about it. So when her daughter called her out of the blue six months ago, and told her she was engaged, it was quite a shock.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *Went for a more dystopian approach* -- - In the world we live in, each and every human being is connected by an intricate system of artificial neurons. Data flows between continents; it traverses oceans. Anything we could ever want to know is at the tips of our fingers. Our knowledge grows each day, and our experiences entwine and spin a beautiful web. A web that we can not touch or see with our own eyes, only through the interfaces that allow it. Our thirst for understanding has taken us great distances, in both the physical and metaphorical sense; man' s influence has spread as far as eighteen billion kilometres from home, and we are beginning to understand the construct of everything that exists. We can circulate the world in less than a day. Our lifespans have doubled over the last century thanks to medical research. This increase would be greater, if it were n' t for the one thing we value more than a human life: Money. Money is what holds us back as a species. We are willing to do pathetic, senseless and degrading acts against humanity in pursuit of such wealth. We murder other human beings for money. Money governs society. In turn, society develops around economy, and some nations have become run by the corporations that earn for it. Powerful countries exploit weaker ones for their resources, preventing their advancement. We have the capacity to develop so much faster, yet we are held back by those in pursuit of materialistic gains. Why teach a man to fish, when you could sell him a fish every day for the rest of his life? Greed is a shackle on our society, and the key was thrown out long ago. While our technology has the capability to link us together, our greed is only pushing us further apart.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " I told you this was a bad idea. " Satan grumbled, " You did n' t say they would have traders. I did n' t even know what a teaser was. " " Hence, this was a bad idea. " " They' re not even taking us seriously. " The television, only recently acquired, showed a helicopter' s view of the city park where the forces of hell had broken through. The chyron read " ENVIRONMENTAL PROTESTS TURN VIOLENT ". Unable to provide identification, demons were detained en masse, while those that tried to escape back down the pit were being taken down by rubber bullets and tear gas. " Does n' t anyone use swords anymore? " " Maybe you should have attacked an anime convention. " " Steve, stop. I need to figure out how to get my guys back. " " I know a good attorney. There' s no way they' re being read their Miranda rights. " " I do n' t know what that is. " " I' m starting to wonder if your lack of research is why you' re down here to begin with. " " If you do n' t knock it off, the coffee is n' t going to be the only thing that' s burnt around here, " " Suit yourself. " Satan' s forces of evil were released six hours later without charge. Three months later, Satan personally led a second offense. Per what he thought was Steve Jobs' s advice, he attacked an anime conversation where he won best costume for his Diablo cosplay.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: **Mars sucks. What do you think, Dave? ** I hear you, Steve. Why did n' t I delete the Uber app from my phone? There ai n' t an Uber anywhere near here. **Yeah, it' s like " Where you' re going, you wo n' t need Uber. " ** Uh huh. **Back To The Future. Doc Brown. ** Anyhow, so it looks like we have our choice of future cemetary plots. Like, pretty much anywhere. I know we' ve got about 40 years here at the least, so let' s call dibs now. I pick... right by that cave. **OK, and I pick the cave. ** Why the cave? **First Jesus on Mars, hello??? I' m gon na take advantage. You snooze, you lose. Or you snooze three days, rise from the dead, and people remember Steve Christ. ** Dude. **You' re right. We' ve all been tied to this last name of Christ meme for over 2000 years. Fresh start. I' ll use my real name. ** You do that. Hey, let' s look in the cave. Hey, there' s a skeleton here. **Oh, THAT' S what that skeleton is! ** Uh, yeah.. hey what' s that on the wall? ** " FIRST! Your pal, Jesus. " Shit! ** So what now? **You think he made it to Jupiter by now? ** What, the Son of God? How did he get a lift that far? **Good point. He probably ddid n' t delete his Uber app. ( smashes phone against abandoned Mars rover nearby ) Shit. I guess he' s superior ro us. Well, let' s bury these bones and invent atheism on Mars. ** Are n' t we supposed to be doing, you know, science? This is a pretty big deal. On discovered worlds, looks like Jesus is two for two. **You' re right. Hey, let' s invent Arby' s on Mars instead. We' ll call it -- ** Marby' s? **Now you' re talking! ** ( iris out ) EDIT: Typo


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: ( Audio from Tricaster ) " For the Triton Report, I' m Sadiya Young. Back to you Chuck. " " Thanks Sadiya. Denver Police is investigating a homicide in Adams County that occurred yesterday. The suspect is on the loose and the citizens of Denver is asked to keep an eye out for a Caucasian male, aged between 30 to 40, about 6 feet in height and slim build. He was last seen by the neighbour wearing a pair of jeans and a white sleeveless shirt... ( pause ) The composite sketch is being displayed on the screen as I speak. We will keep you posted as updates become available. This is Chuck Fincher with the latest news update right here on cNus, Channel 13 in Denver. " The commercial music started playing as Chuck left his seat in a hurried manner. " What the hell was that? You left out a whole line about his tattoo. Read the damn prompter. That was our exclusive.... " Chuck ignored the producer' s rant and rushed past him. He went into the dressing room and closed the door behind him. He realized that he was sweating cold sweats. He removed his tie and the shirt. The vanity mirror on the wall showed his tattoo on the back.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My mouth is burning, but I ca n' t stop. I will admit I am addicted, but who would n' t be? I can run faster and leap higher than Olympic athletes. My scrawny legs feel unbelievably strong beneath my frail body. I am forty-six now, but feel twenty-six. I am super-human, but only for a short time. I must get more, I need more. My blistered tongue bounced around my red stained mouth as I swept through the streets searching. I frantically rummaged through convenience stores looking for my fix. Convenience stores were your best bet if you wanted to obtain super-human abilities. I pushed and clawed my way through crowds yearning for my fix. I was coming down now, I was almost back to my normal self. I must find them. Frustrated, I kicked the rack of chips in front of me and watched as chips flew through the air like wounded birds. When something caught my eye. There, sailing towards the tall man next to me, was what I needed, what I craved. With lion-like precision, I snatched the bag from the air and my puny legs carried me out of the store. I tore open the bag and dumped the contents into my burning mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch. My mouth watered and the corners of my lips painstakingly tore, as I opened wider to accommodate as much as humanly possible. My blisters screeched with agony as I dropped the bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos. I tore down the street like a top fuel dragster into the night searching for more.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Derest Joanne the third weak has serficed and begun anew and Summer is upon us. The Captain has told us the land of Reddit is not but tew dayz from shore and the dekhanz are having benjo in antisipashun of a port tavern aptly named /r/gonewild. I may get arfarfn' arfed with them shood ocashun arise. Derest Joanne Reddit is a tru fifteen puzzel, gloreus sites abownd the peeple of this port town are mad as hops I tell ye'. The focis being a group of warloqs and wizerds of Artherian legend and they are allmost 50, 000 strong. They dabbel in concockshuns that skilamalink the mind, one such warloq displaid such knowlidge as to melt steel with a liqued formulah. STEEL! It hissd and growned as the concockshun turned to smoke! I was beleagured to inqwire this man but did so at my own peril. Upon laying questins to him he confessed' Be there no warloqs here boy! Tis' merely sients of the elaments.' So certin of this state meant was he that I veri fyed that the meddle steel was indeed the tru article. I now write you in baffelment and repose of the many wondris things this sients is capabel of. More mysterys yet to solve. *For those that may be curious, Victorian gentlemen that could not afford academic studies often became their own teacher with lack of proper equipment. Most had no proper training in literature but were indeed far more intelligent than their literary skill portrayed. A few words I used also came from [ this ] ( http: //mentalfloss. com/article/53529/56-delightful-victorian-slang-terms-you-should-be-using ). My random sub was /r/chemistry


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Desmond was not long for this world, and he knew it. Even now, from the depths of the keep, he could hear the telltale breath of darkness rushing toward the last stronghold of Peloria. The misty whisper chilled the kind prince to the core. It was nothing like the sound his father, King Drasr, had spoken of; even a man on the doorstep of death could not hope to imitate the terror of the faceless voice. The keep would not restrain the darkness for long. It was coming for him, as it had been all his life. The mist had taken the swamps first, leaving nothing but death in its wake. No one knew what to do against such an ethereal foe; the southern border guards, still green from their fathers' wheat fields, trembled and shook as the billowing wall of darkness took town after town by silent force. The farmers of the Midlands had time to arm themselves, but what do you wield to fight an invisible enemy? At least the cattle-raisers and barn-builders died with weapons in their hands and songs in their hearts; the same could not be said of the nobility. They cowered in their keeps, praying to the gods of gluttony and greed for redemption. The mist was more than happy to oblige, casting their lifeless corpses upon the riches they once coveted so dearly. King Drasr fell on the steps of the Durnmeer, overtaken by the misty onslaught. The doors of the massive fortress held for three days against the tide of silence as the king slowly expired. Prince Desmond could still hear his father' s last words, raspy and weak, in his head: "Flee… You must… outrun the darkness… "The sandstone walls shuddered around Desmond; the unseen beast had found him. It was only a matter of time now. The kind prince pulled his cloak tight around him, warding off the cold that came just before the nothingness arrived. "Forgive me, father, "he spoke, even as the whisper of death filled the cavernous depths. "I ran as far as I could. "And so the once-great kingdom of Peloria fell to the silence. -007


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I always thought I was a hero of sorts, that by eradicating the demons locked beneath I was helping mankind and up until now I have faced them all down. Depression, a shadow beast that creates an aura of fatigue and weakness, anxiety disorders the infamous sporadic creatures that seemed to ooze an unnerving gas that caused a feeling of uneasy panic, were two I fought most commonly. Yet as I walked into the creaky decaying nursing home room coming face to face with yet another client, a old decrepit Caucasian man, I felt something was wrong, very wrong. " Are you Mr. Smith? " I asked, He nodded solemnly " relax and close your eyes ", I said closing mine as well and using the cursed silver bell I stole and began to delve into his mind. I opened them to find myself in a metal chair seemingly in the middle of massive metal room with dead bodies strewn about. Looking around I noticed a shadow with a silvery lining. It stared me down for what felt like forever until I went to stand up and suddenly it leapt for me and I dove in panic and it leapt again and I struck out landed a hit and tossing it several feet. it stood up seeing it clearly it perfectly resembled the old man and smiled. " what are you? " I asked. Looking up at me and smiled, " I am kleptomania driven by insatiable blood-lust and now what is yours is mine and from its right hand produced my silver bell and in an instant it vanished leaving me trapped here forever in the old man' s mind...


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Money! " " What' s that? " " Money, as in dollar dollar bills, euros, the gold standard, even zimbabwe dollars. Currency is God! " " I thought you' re a catholic? " " And what does the vatican have a lot of? You think the churches decorates itself on prayers? " " You always felt this way about god? " " Why did you think I became a banker? I' m the lord' s bishop. Let me show you the love of god, invest with us. " " This is too much, you actually believe that money is god? How did our discussion of philosophy ended up at this weird place you' re taking me? " " It' s not complicated, God has always been around us in the form of currency, exchanges and trades. I know it' s an abstract idea, but so is every religion in the world. And you know what backs these religions that everyone' s very much a part of? Money! Every since the first time some craveman traded some meat for some fur, the seeds of the almighty one had been firmly planted in our minds. " " But money ca n' t buy happiness... " " Maybe not, but it can take you to its doorsteps, and without it you sure will be in hell. You want your dream house? Get some money. You want that honeymoon with your beautiful wife? Get some money. You want great health care? Money! Hey, you know what? Take this credit card and go have some fun with it. It' s like prayers to god and it' s backed by the almighty one. With 0 % APR for the first year. Go and spread the words of god! "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: From the very walls he came, invading my home. When I awoke this morning I did n' t know I would be fighting for my life, all to keep him away from what I was sworn to protect. I was n' t prepared the injuries, god the injuries, I do n' t know how much longer I can hold off this invader, how much longer I can survive, I can barely move. He turned my house into a weapon, riddled with cruel traps of his design. Where did he even get explosives, how' d he learn to maneuver my home better than I ever could? I can hardly get a good look at him, he managed to turn every pursuit, every capture, every time I thought I was near victory into another opportunity to destroy a part of me, staying only long enough to gleefully carry out his punishment. The sadistic bastard! But I have a duty! Right here, in this room, in front of the fridge he has fought to hard to raid, bloodied and mangled, I make my last stand. You will rue this day Jerry, you will know that this house is protected and the name Tom will burn in your memory as your worst nightmare.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: To be fair, self-cest is n' t really all that bad. It' s like jacking yourself off, right? Except that it' s a female version of you and well... you' re kind of in a relationship with each other. When I met Llana, I was... enamored by her, and she of me, too. We hung out, you know, did the usual stuff friends do. It' s funny... she liked Fire Emblem, fighting games and doing writing as much as the next guy. So it' s to our surprise that a few months after our wedding years after, that we got this bombshell from my parents: " You' ve.... always been alone, since you were a kid. You never talked with people, because they' d pick on you, and you generally keep yourself in a distance. We were intensly worried about you.... so we decided.... that we stole a lock of hair from you that night, and gave it to a friend who knew of a scientist that made clones.... and thus.... Llana.... your wife... is you. Just... a female you. " I was shocked. Honestly, I did n' t think I was that... isolative. I always led a credo of not screwing with people' s lives. Live and let live, as they say... but to know that the love of my life, the one who knew me inside and out.... was just another me? I just... felt amazed and surprised. That' s when Llana put her hand against mine, and she said: " Well.... we' ve gotten this far... I' m pretty sure we' re down the fucking rabbit hole already by this point... besides... even if... I' m just another version of my husband... I love him the same, from then till now. " She was so accepting.... so devoted... so... me. I finally snap out of my reverie and shake my head to compose myself, and replied the same thing. After all... Love knows no boundaries, right?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Skinny jeans. Thigh gap. Caramel macchiato in one hand. A wispy James Dean on the other. She laughs, you scowl. Avert your eyes, do n' t let them catch you staring. Staring like a frozen river, but the ice is starting to thin. Staring like viscid ruin running close beneath the surface. Kids are yelling for help, parents are screaming. White, frozen water with a fatal black hole where he had been just moments before. You did n' t think; you acted. You saved him. Ten years later, he loved you. Six months later, you found him, bedroom, clothes abandoned. Somewhere, you heard glass shattering. Maybe you should have let him die in that water. Maybe you should have said something, anything. Maybe you should have screamed. Maybe you should have drowned her in the bathtub. Maybemaybemaybe. But you did n' t. You left. Time froze, like water. A fatal black hole where a heart might have been. They see you staring. Wispy James Dean goes pale. Like he' s still drowning.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Excuse me. " Two words never hit me so hard. I' d responded before I could finish processing. Before we turned around, I knew we' d both stopped. There he was. Me. " What... What' s going on? " " I... nothin? " " No, I meant... Never mind. This is pretty neat, huh? We' re thinking the same thing? You look just like me. " " Bro, YOU look just like ME. " " Fine, fine. I mean, what do we do, right? This is so exciting! " " I guess... keyswap? " " Oh, bro. Keyswap. Keyswap so fuckin' hard. " His keys felt light in my hand. He drove a Lexus. I hope my Hyundai handled okay for him. His GPS took me to his house. It sat on top of a hill overlooking the city. I' d never been to this part of town before. Never had the money. His wife was waiting in the kitchen. The food smelled delicious. It tasted even better. I could tell she was n' t used to being listened to. It' s too bad I hardly heard a word. I just could n' t stop staring; she was gorgeous. Great in bed, too. We met again the next day. Same spot. Same shoulder bump. " Trade back? " " Meh. Could go either way. " So we did.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Look, I told you already, just as last year, and the year before, and the year before that, we do n' t have a choice, " I calmly said to my wife. The annual break started the next morning. For three months, I would not have to work, my kids need not learn, and all would be play for that time period. My reasoning got me absolutely nowhere. She did n' t want to hear it. " But how are we to pay for everything? The bills, the car, food... " her voice trailed off as it did every May 31st. " It' s the same every year - we pay for nine months now for what we used to pay in twelve. Bills we do n' t worry about and food is rationed equally. I present our meal cards and we get to eat. Simple as that. Nothing has changed since the last Break. " My voice wavered on the last sentence. The explanation would never change for her, but neither would my love for the woman I called my wife. Even with her persistent amnesia, I worked a hard nine months per year so I could spend three straight with her. Each Break was worth it.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Almost always, I write without an outline. However, a couple times, I' ve used a very vague " tentpole method " outline -- as in, I' ve got a couple ideas that lead up to a conclusion. For example, when I wrote my NaNoWriMo novel last November, I wrote out three " tentpoles " which were the beginning, middle, and end of my story, at about a paragraph each. I have another one which is doing the same thing, but in terms of three books of 40k each ( a paragraph each ). For everything else I' ve written though, it' s off the top of my head. Sometimes I do n' t even have a proper ending in mind, just maybe a couple ideas I' d love to toss in. A lot of people love serious outlines, but I end up going " why do an outline when I can just write the book? " I should probably try to outline more so that I have a firmer idea as to where my stories are going. Check out my subreddit /r/Syraphia and my [ Inkitt ] ( http: //www. inkitt. com/syraphia ) for more of my writing.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The wood creaks that familiar sound. Bare feet on dry wood feels comforting. The carefully shifting weight of an elderly stride. But this is no leisurely stroll, the she had walked down this dock a thousand times but this would be his last. The procession watched from the shore. It was kind of them to come. It was never easy to let go. Especially alone. Her arms grew tired. She carried two heavy weights. One in her heart and one in her arms. The heft showed on her tearful face. Her grown son' s face was calm his body cold. She wished to see his smile once more. She wished she could have said more. Or did she say too much? The weight overtook her and she lost her balance but his body did not touch the dock. A mother' s strength is something to behold. She came to his tiny ship. She placed her baby in his final crib. She took from around her neck a tiny compass. Something to show him the way. She tied the little sails and her hand would n' t let go. How could she? She reached in and kissed him goodbye. The sails took him away quickly on his last adventure on the shore of the sky.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: You know, I' ve always been a bit off. I never really played with the other kids, I just read. I can give you a lecture on science like no one' s business, but small talk' s a chore. Oh, and I do n' t have any numerals. Everyone else I know does. My parents have a complex string of M' s, L' s, and X' s in common with one another. My brother, too, has numerals on his wrist. They' re like my parents', but with some slight changes. All my friends have them, and some even share numerals with one another. Still, though, I do n' t. Since they do n' t show up until the onset of puberty, I did n' t realize how abnormal I was until I was around fourteen. I remember thinking people just got them tattooed on or something, until I was told that the numerals just start to appear on your wrist by themselves. Seven years later, here I am. Numeral-less. A lot of people seem to have a tough time understanding this. Whenever I wear tee shirts, or people can see my wrist, I get comments indicating that there' s something wrong with me. That' s far from the truth, though. Even though I do n' t have the numerals that are so important to so many people, I do n' t have that all-consuming drive to find a soulmate. I can focus on things that matter to me, like friends. There are others without numerals, too. I' ve met some and befriended them over the Internet. Overall, even though I do n' t have a numeral combination on my wrist, I' m generally pretty happy with life. Hopefully, this can get out to other people, especially those without numerals, to show that just because you do n' t have some numbers from a long-dead empire on your carpals does n' t mean you' re wrong as a person. ( coughthisisaboutbeingaromantic/asexualcough ) ( PS: this is my first comment on this sub and I' m SUPER tired. Hopefully this goes over well ).


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Tobias knew it was his chance to prove to the world he was different. Everyone else seemed to think their telekenetics and heat vision made them special. He thought they were all fairly cliche, and more than played out. Tobias approached the stage in the dim lit arena. The silence was deafening. This was strange to him because he knew the seats were filled with spectators. Suddenly a giant hologram of a floating head appeared and it' s eyes shone a bright spot light on Tobias. " Show me what you got " proclaimed the head. Tobias sat in the floor with his legs crossed and began rocking side to side. The crowd began to get aggitated as nothing seemed to be happening. They did n' t seem to notice that a black cloud had begun to form above the arena. Red hot lightning shattered the sky lights and began striking Tobias. The only way to explain what happened next is to say he began " shifting ". He began to bleed through the fabric of the universe. And like that he was gone. A few moments later he returned with a rather homely looking woman. In a big booming voice he announced, " This is the ugliest woman in all the multiverse. She is known as u/ImTroll' s mother. I will prove to you that I am the most powerful being, worthy of at least a power rating of 10. I will do this by having sex with her and not vomitting everywhere. Tobias began. He was going strong. Spectators began to walk out, unable to watch the horrifying display. The level indicator began ticking from 1 to 7, very rapidly. And slowly it turned over to an 8. But then something happened he did n' t expect. He began to feel weak. And his pace slowed along with the rising level indicator. Tobias yelled, " I' m like a flashbang going off in a small room! " Tobias felt a cold hand grab him by the scruff of his neck. Then, he felt himself being pulled in close to his partner. And in his ear she whispered, " your purpose is limited and your novelty account is gay. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Things like this are not supposed to happen anymore. There are protocols, safety measures. Deaths by friendly fire are supposed to be impossible. True, no system is perfect, but I never thought that I would prove to be the exception. He was my teammate, my brother-in-arms, my best friend. After the court-marshal and and official investigation ruled the incident an accidental slaying I obtained my mental-health discharge and went back home. The first thing I did was track down his old girlfriend. I just needed a chance to explain. So here we are, in a chain coffee-shop sipping lattes that have gone cold as we try to make conversation. " I' m so sorry. I do n' t expect you to forgive me. I know that I can never make it right. I just thought that you deserved to know what happened and hear my apology face-to-face. " " Tell me, did he say anything to you... before he passed? " " He said,' You team-killing fucktard. "'


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was n' t dark, and the one flat light that illuminated the room would flicker from time to time. I imagine it flickered in correlation with another prisoner' s door being slammed shut, or perhaps a train that was passing by. The painted white cement walls took the soul out of the room. The white absorbed thought to the point that I had learned to never open my eyes to the barren walls. This alone would be disorienting enough and I could n' t say how long I' ve been in here. I remember before though. The prison itself, my cell mate, Jean, who like I was locked up as an innocent. He was probably long gone to a new prison or perhaps free. He had 5 years, I have 7, and got thrown in to solitary 2 years in for slamming a guards face into the cell door. Still makes me smile. They have n' t taken that. The sense of justice. I always did what I had to. In this cell was no different. I' ll get out one day. For now the small exercises I can do in here keep me fit, and writing in my head keeps me sane. I sometimes imagine my girl in the other corner making eyes at me. She paints the walls all sorts of colors. Her names Charlene. She' s a bitch. I write her poems. " White wall flavor, Blue eyed savior, Red lipped misbehavior, Oh baby, you' re my grave digger " I' ll get out of here one day.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I am so incredibly stupid. At least that' s what my dad always said about me. And my mom. And my teachers. Come to think of it, everyone really. Now I' m 23 and live in an apartment just off of my college campus. I' ve had a revolver since my 18 birthday. I decided I want to die, but I do n' t want to straight up commit suicide. That would be boring. I bought one very large box of ammunition for the revolver. I did n' t think I' d ever discharge more than one ever, but I thought, what the hell. Every night since the night I bought it, that gun was in my mouth, except with only one bullet in it. It' s called Russian roulette. I learned it in some old spy movie or something. Anyway for the first year I pulled the trigger once a night after spinning the barrel, but when the hammer fell, I still had my head. It' s been 5 years now. Same deal. Every night I give it a go, every night I survive. That bullet had n' t moved since the day I put it there on my 18 th birthday. I decided that tonight, I' m ending it, so I put the gun to my temple, and just pulled the trigger as often and as yucky as I could. I still survived. I checked the barrel and that' s when I realized, maybe my parents were right about me being stupid as shit. Anyway I ACTUALLY put a bullet in the gun this time so if I suddenly stop posting, you know why.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: When he heard footsteps, he hushed his desperate attempt at a prison escape and hid the nail-clippers. Everything in the dungeon was either black, or a shade of grey, barely able to imply dampness. Johnathon needed to pee really bad too. " I am the Grey Witch, and you will meet your doom. " " You' ve said that like thirty times. " Really, Johnathon, I had to introduce her name, then explain her motives in a villainous rant. I' m new to this, so go easy on the criticism. " You must die. " " But... " his exasperation turned to morbid curiosity. " Why me? You set my brother free... " " I made it my goal to kill every person from Gordonsville who regularly goes by their 3-syllable name. " Damnit, Grey Witch. Yes, it' s technically true, but I thought I explained it with an interesting backstory. She went on about the robbery, her enslavement, her winning the lottery and finally being able to amass the weapons for her partial revenge -- " Wait what? You won the lottery. You could have ran away and arrested them overseas, where they have smartphones, internet, and probably caught those psychos' next crime on surveillance. And you do n' t need to use maces, and caves for dungeons. " Stop it Johnathon " That would n' t be as dramatic, apparently. " " So what does this all have to do with 3-syllable names. " " I forgot. Wan na visit America? " Please this is NOT WHAT I WANTED WHEN I WROTE A FANTASY ON AN ISLAND SET IN THE MODERN WORLD. Also I forgot to give the good guy access to laser guns. Shit. " Sure, will you set everyone else free? " The Grey Witch vehemently spat " I think we should all come to a complete agreement first. I' ll serve ya' ll your first real meal in a while tonight. " Well. Crap. The only place this story can go now is in response to some really weird writing prompt.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Sarah poked at the excel spreadsheet and tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for the helpdesk guy to arrive. Oh god, he' s so creepy, I hope he can just fix this quickly. Her excel continued to blink on and off, caught in a loop. " Fair maiden, doth this foul spell vex you, " Sir Alan asked with a deep bow. " Its locked up again, I' m so sick of this crap, when are we getting new computers? " Sir Alan shook his head, " Pardon me, fine maiden, please repeat. This old knight does n' t have the ears of youth any longer. " He looked down shamefully at his body, staring at his khaki pants with the stain on them. " Good sir knight, I meant that awful wizard continues to jam my loom because I turned down his hand in marriage. " She put her arms around herself defensively and raised her breasts a couple inches producing a clear view of her bosom. " Surely, a lass like myself should n' t have to defend herself alone against such evil? " Sir Alan smiled, " Surely! It would stain my honor to let such proceedings occur uninterrupted by a just sword such as mine. " He mashed the keyboard, clicked on the mouse, and waited. " Oh dear knight, you' re so assertive and manly. This battle is too much for me, " she said performing a mock faint. " I am only the King' s humble servant, " he added. " Ah see here, I have broken the spell, your loom is back to how it was. " " My hero! The realm is lucky to have one such as you, " she said as she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. " It is my... " Sarah cleared her throat, " Hey, so is it working? You have n' t said a word in like 5 minutes. Its kinda creepy. " Alan stared at his brown work shoes careful to avoid any eye contact. " Umm yeah, it was a bug with the VBS script. I just had to kill the macro. You should be good, " he stammered as he quickly walked away. " Yeah, whatever, thanks, " said Sarah distractedly as she went back to her work. She turned her head to make sure he was gone and added, " weirdo. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The Council of Elders had gathered, as was tradition. A dozen or so familiar faces — Zorxx the Great, High Priest of the Poinsai Beta star system; Derns the Fierce, Intergalactic Warlord of Epsilon 9; and Sol, Elder of a system so distant, it remains nameless — among others. The ceremony was to begin shortly. As follows in the ancient scriptures of the starcreatures from Old Atlas Sigma 6, the Lottery was to be pulled on this date. Nature has a funny way. It has a strange tendency to refresh and replenish itself. From death, comes life; from extinction, comes evolution. At the last ceremony, Earth was chosen by the prophet. And at the ceremony before that. Never before Earth had the prophet chosen the same planet in three consecutive Lotteries. It would seem fate had a fondness for Earth, the tiny blue marble becoming a commodity among the Council. The Lottery is a ceremony originating in the Suns of Old. Every 2000 suns, the Council of Elders is to consult the Prophet. The Prophet is to select a planet of lower life. The ceremonial feast had been prepared and the horns sounded. The Council began the chant. " Civilizations crumble, People cry, Many will suffer, Many will die, Life is a blessing, But also a curse, Given this knowledge, Who knows which is worse? " The Prophet began its process. It said nothing. Silence fell upon the ceremony chamber. Faces grew grim. At the rise of the New Sun, the fleets would be dispatched, and planets would become the ashes from which civilizations are born. One planet was chosen to grow. It was n' t Earth.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: You stare at him across the dance floor. Ornate masks hide everyone' s faces. The men' s typically simple, black, the woman' s incredibly intricate, of all sorts of colours. He stares back. Bright hazel eyes, he' s sturdily built. You walk forward towards him, lady-like, regal. Your inky dress spills out around you, the material soft, pliable. Frozen leaves ornament the neckline, the waistline. You are stunning. " Care to dance? " You ask, voice smooth and deep. " Of course. " You hold out a hand. And then you' re on the dance floor. You slowly sway along with the music. Violins and pianos and cellos and harps and trumpets mingle together. You' re pressed close to him. His plump lips, the navy-blue mask adorning his face, accented by gold. He' s stunning. And the tempo speeds up. The orchestra is live, on fire, the orchestra makes the room come alive. Women and men pulling partners onto the dance floor, you pick up pace. Brisk twists and turns, he picks you up, spins you, sets you down. You bow down low, you' re swung this way and that. Feet move along the wooden floor. You move as one. You' re the centre. You' re laughing, you feel like air. He' s smiling, his grin radiant. The song ends, and you' re both breathing hard. He pulls you close, bringing an arm around your waist, pressing his lips to yours. It' s passionate. It' s firm. It' s bold. It' s fiery.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Memories, emotions, beliefs, traits of personality all crushing down in my mind like a waterfall. I go from the adventurous 6' 2 " 52 year old survivalist with two adult sons of yesterday to a 24 year old petité woman who is scared of spiders and falling asleep in the tub. This will be a long day... as my new mind settles and the cold analytical mind of yesterday slips further into oblivion i realize I' m sleeping. I wake up with a shriek; blinding light in my eyes, certain that I finally did it. I finally fell asleep in the tub and drowned. I' m not dead though, I' m on a bus. I know the time, it' s always the same 0: 00. The last breath of a reality long gone leaves a a curious tidbit of information: it' s midnight and the sun is up, that means I' m in a polar circle at summer. I reach down in my purse and grab a bottle of water and a box of codein pills, I take far too many. This bus trip will take another day and im far too exhausted to bear being awake for it. I slip into a restless sleep, with dreams of a dark past. Visions of men in white lab coats and bottles of pills that are n' t at all as pleasant as codein floats trough my mind before eventually that familiar feeling of midnight grabs a hold of me. The waterfall approaches but when it hits me it feels instead like a dripping sink. Like I moved to a twin like I have before, yet different. I sleep on with a calm and familiar resolve. " ma' am, wake up. We' re in fairbanks, it' s your stop. " I wake up and brush his hand away hastily " I' m sorry " I say " I thougt it was a spider " The man turns away, a worried look on his face. As he walks towards the drivers seat I gather my things and make my way to the rear exit. Outside I can see a man in a white lab coat. The laminate badge on his chest reads: colonel. Smith US army. " Welcome home voyager three, how was the journey? " A smirk drags across his face as he talks. I give him a hug before I reply " which one? "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Hey there, grandpa. No, it' s saka. Your *other* grandson. I' m just stopping by on my way back from the coast. I figured I' d see how you' re doing. You have n' t been tagging your posts lately and we' ve all been growing a little concerned. Rainbows? Um, you know that /r/explainlikeIAMA is a bit more suited to these kinds of questions, right?... Well, since you put it like that, let' s give this a try. You wanted the individual colors? As if the descriptions of a leg, and a hip, and chest, and so on define a man? The comfort of a quilt by pulling the threads apart? The concept of color as if each is free to stand alone? You' ve never known color, but feelings, those you' re familiar with. There' s joy. Fear. Anger. Sadness. Guilt. Uh, envy. And love. We usually just associate a mood or moment with a single emotion. But there are times when they all get mashed together into something... more; more terrible, more wonderful, more beautiful, more human. But it' s still just an illusion. You ca n' t reach out and touch the rainbow just as you ca n' t set about trying to be be ambivalent. But you know it when it' s there. You feel them after the darkened sky abates while its effects still linger in the air. You feel them when you need to be reminded what it means to be alive.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Sauron second attempt at ruling was now falling into place. The Rings of Power had been a brilliant strategy that should have given him domain over all the lesser beings. But then there was the error. Soon he realized he had created enemies that were stronger than they had been. They would have wiped him out had they not been busy battling each other. He was relegated to the shadows, watching, sending his minions to discover what this' Mall' was. Finally a mage was able to see through the bonds of space and time and see what a' Mall' was. Sauron was angry, but then realized what he needed to do. And thus began his construction. The Dead Marshes were filled in with something called' Blacktop' and had strange lines painted on it. Throughout this there were steel post radiating an unholy light down on any who passed below them. Next came the changes to Mordor. The whole of the vast seat of evil was now a huge labyrinth. The brightly lit corridors all seemed as if they would lead to the center, but none truly did. Then there were the minions. There battle armor still in place, but painted in bright colors. Many now new the battle cry' May I Help You!'. One of the most dreaded of the minions was a specialist that would suddenly appear and spray something than run away shouting' It is on sale!' Finally, the last piece was in place. The wall surrounding mordor had actually been partially covered during all of the construction, but now came the unveiling, the one weapon that would lead the men, elves, and dwarves to their doom. Sauron pulled a lever and as he did, great tarps and shade fell from the wall revealing huge painted sigils of power. " Up to 90 % off! Everything must go! Hurry, sale ends soon! "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " No, please stop. I have kids and a family, " I said. It was useless; my voice was starting to fade away. " Mark, hold onto the lever. This operation will not be successful if the patient' s mask comes off, " yelled the scientist wearing spectacles. " Interesting specimen, is n' t it. " *Rumble Rumble* " Sir what' s happening. " After lowering his spectacles, the scientist replied, " The machine is malfunctioning. " *Rumble Rumble* " Sir the oxygen tank. It-It has a leak. " " Just turn the machine off, " the scientist responded. After patiently lying down for an hour, the scientists proceeded to remove the mask. " Huh, " I inhaled. " I do n' t know what went wrong sir, " stated Mark, " I guess we could n' t extract the color. " Sigh... I shook my head, " You ca n' t extract color from a personality. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' s not the destination, it' s the journey. That kind of loses its relevance in the post-Armageddon hell-scape we' ve been a part of for the last 3 years. You see if there' s something that we all have in common ( as survivors ), it' s that we never really live anymore these days. It all starts with loss. Most of us lost our original family in the first wave. Under-preparedness and a cultural dulling of natural survival instincts made for a horrible combination. We' ve learned so much these last few years. We all go through a sort-of mid-Apocalypse-life crisis. It' s not just the realization that you WILL die and that you do n' t know exactly when -- - it' s knowing that with almost complete certainty HOW you' re going to go. So that' s where I am. And just as we all expect, it happened with a bite. But what I did n' t expect is how calm I feel about it all. I thought for years that I' d punch my own time card, you know, clock out early. I' ve got nothing against suicide. I' m not particularly religious either. It' s actually quite altruistic, not allowing yourself to be another of the countless undead. But altruism died with the first wave. I' ve propped myself right against this tree and I' m going to enjoy my last few breaths in this existence humming along to my favorite song. I' ve got reason to be happy though. I might not be necessarily alive in a few minutes, but being undead beats the hell out of being dead. " Heeeeey Jude, do n' t make it baaaad. Just take a sad sooooong and make it better... "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I still remember the day my soul left. I woke up as normal, and halfway through the afternoon, it just drifted away, fading into nothing. It' s an awful feeling; like being outside my own life and watching it from afar. I still go to the same job, I' m still with the same confusing woman, but there' s no passion anymore. Sadness, joy, fear, anger, anxiety and hope have left this life of mine, and all that remains is this void. I am a husk of a human, taunted by memories of emotion that stand just out of reach, like the memory of a dream that never quite forms. I remember being excited about things. Looking forward to new film and game releases, hanging out with friends and meeting new people, accepting new challenges. I remember being happy once; memories I cherish, but also ones I wish I could forget. It' s all gone now, and all that' s left is a feeling of helpless inadequacy as I watch others live their nauseatingly happy lives. I would cry if I knew how, but I do n' t. Instead I sit in wakeful slumber as the soft incandescent light of the computer monitor fills my vision and my time; if I keep my brain moving, maybe it wont notice. My mind is awake, but my heart and soul have left it standing helpless, and alone. I still remember the day my daughter lived, and took my soul away. If it keeps her warm, I think it will have been worth it. I watch her grow without emotion, and read her books with the detachment of the damned. I see a life worth loving, but I do n' t know how. In my sleep I dream of weeping, and wish for lives outside this prison, in my mind.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My father used to speak of the war, of Egypt and Gallipoli' s distant shore, but the Turk and the Hun are trouble no more, it' s a new enemy with whom we must settle our score. & nbsp; From Perth to Kalgoorlie the call has gone out, "Our soil' s under attack, who will man the redoubt? "Now loyal men of the empire reply with a shout, "We' ll do to them what we did to the kraut! "& nbsp; Hark, unto Campion we eagerly go with pride, bravery and Lewis guns all in tow, there' s nothing to fear, we' ll survive any blow and strike back at our enemies, quid pro quo. & nbsp; Although they outnumber us ten thousand to one, it is a soldier' s duty to die with his gun, the emus may fear, they may scatter and run, but the glorious ANZAC retreats against none. & nbsp; Though bullets be dodged by our avian foes, though the frontline melts and shifts and flows, though they outrun our wheels on nought but their toes, we will give the invading emu what they are owed. & nbsp; We will save the farms from this merciless blight, whether a month or a year we will see through this fight, never flinching before a bird that lacks even flight, it is time for the emu to suffer our might. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - & nbsp; [ As always, if you enjoyed this check out my sub! ] ( https: //www. reddit. com/r/herd_of_birds )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Hunched over, a shadowy figure clutches its heart. " Is this what it' s like to feel? " " Jesus Christ, Will. " " I told you that' s not my name, *Simon. * I am Asmodeus! " Jael rolled his heavily made-up eyes and yanked the clove cigarette from his mouth. " Fine, Asmodeus. Just go ask her out! " Asmodeus pressed the back of a fingerless glove to his forehead. " I can not! " " Jesus Christ, " snorted Jael. Asmodeus scowled at him and pressed his hand harder. " I can not! I can not bear the thought of dragging such beauty down into the depths of my despair! " " Dude. She' s like a six out of ten. I guarantee you she' ll be flattered by the attention. If you can rein in your... whole thing for like ten minutes. " " How dare you besmirch my goddess' s beauty?! " " That. That' s exactly what I' m talking about. " Asmodeus recoiled as though burned. The sound of rattling chains echoed in the stairwell. " Are we not brothers in darkness? How could you speak to me thus? " * " Dude. * Dude. Seriously. " Jael blew a puff of clove smoke at Asmodeus. " Calm your tits. You' ve been a goth for like, three days, you spaz. " " I thought I had discovered fellow voyagers on the path of night! " " Most of us just like the fashion, man. " Etienne, Raven, and Lorelei nodded agreement and exhaled clove smoke. Asmodeus sat up where he' d been slumped dramatically against the wall. " Really? " " Really, dude. Just chill out a little and you can totally score a date with Amber Hossenpfeffer. It' ll be cool, trust me. " Etienne, Raven, and Lorelei nodded and exhaled. " Oh, " said Asmodeus. " Uh, can you guys give me some advice? " " Of course, dude. What are friends for? " " Thanks. " Asmodeus smiled, cracking his makeup. " Oh hey, you guys wan na hear my latest poem? I call it' A Pitch-Black Ode To A Midnight Trapped In Amber. "' " Jesus Christ, Will. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Then in a sudden press our feet stopped. As we all tilted, the surprise in momentum rippled through the crowd. Gas was pouring through the ranks. Knots of people were panicking, attempting to spread out against the compressed mob that was choking. Our wave of flesh was broken by the vapors. I was pushed up against on all sides. I had my baton, illegal of course, but in my hand it was my only weapon. My respirator mask, which seemed like such a hindrance just a moment before, proved to be my lifeline. I fought for my place. Most people did not have any protection against the poison in the air. Their flight turned to folly as they struck out at members of the group, and almost all of us were trying to get clear. I had to put one kid down and hit another stumbling past me. I hit another, and another. I was swinging wildly connecting with elbows and my truncheon, and getting hit in return. Someone pulled at my respirator, dangerously lifting it off the suction of my face, so I let myself be dragged down with it. I could not imagine losing it, taking it off my face. I needed to have it. A woman on the ground wanted it though. So I had to hit her, on the ground fast quick punches and chops, ‘ till she stopped moving. As I lay in the trampled mass, trying to curl up into a fetal position I felt my sinuses and eyes burn and seemingly melt. I could not move. I could not breathe. Something was in my mask and I was doomed.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: # Audio Log You know before any of this shit happened I would have loved the idea of being a fuck-stud to thousands of women. The first few months where great, fucking all day long. Then eventually the crisis of having almost half the population die got... resolved. Science labs in all corners of the globe started up looking for a solution, guys like me became fucking valuable to say the least. That was until about 2 months ago, as it turns out men are n' t exactly needed. See some scientist in America figured out they could use stem cells from bone marrow to genetically make babies. Female babies but still kids none the less that fortunatly did n' t come out all fucked up. They did n' t need us anymore. Guys like me got milked dry, fucking in a tube for a week with our cum getting frozen " just in case " then we got booted out the door to a world that did n' t need or want us. Anyone who fought it was executed like fucking pigs in front of a firing squad. Normal jobs where impossible to come by for a man, I got *lucky* I guess as it turns out rich business woman pay a lot for a bounce on a **real** dick not just one of those latex toys being in this *brothel* was as good as it gets for a man. Not that I get any pay but at least our mistress keeps us safe.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Very theatrical, do n' t you think, Sergeant Baker? " " Yes sir. " " And what did you say the murder weapon was? A dagger? " " Yes Lieutenant. Driven with great force through the temple. " The man ruffled his black curly hair, letting loose an exclamatory whistle. He leaned over the body once more, absorbing the details. He stood back up, and fished a cigar out of his rumpled tan raincoat. He remained silent as he struck a match. " This was found in his mouth. " The sergeant said, pulling out a plastic bag with a playing card in it. " The King of Hearts? " " Yes sir. " " The' Suicide King "' He mused, " But if I' m certain of one thing, this was no suicide! " The Lieutenant' s eye swept the room. It was a beautifully decorated office in a mansion overlooking Beverly Hills. He poked around a bit, but there was no evidence of anything being taken. Apparently, the killer was only there to take a life. An hour passed as the coroner and crime scene investigators came and went. The Lieutenant sat in the office chair recently occupied by the deceased. He passed the time, puffing on his cigar, mulling over the facts. HQ always assigned him the weird ones, and this one was weirder than most. He stubbed out his cigar as Sergeant Baker entered the room. " We' re all done here. Oh, and Mrs. Columbo called and asked if you could bring home some milk. " Columbo sighed. Milk was just what he needed to settle his queasy stomach. It was n' t the body, or the blood, or even murder in general that was upsetting him. It was the playing card. His stomach tensed again. He was certain there would be more murders in the days to come.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I' ve seen many things in my time. I' m over 300 years old. My eyesight, poor to begin with has faded even further with time. But, I have no complaints. I have always been treated with kindness and my pace while teased, has never been insulted. I am Hamwise the tortoise, known to my current owner Madison as Hammy. I did n' t say I chose the name. I' ve been through many big events, some which have altered the course of my life. When I was a young shell, I got picked up by my first owner as I was wandering through the grass. I was trying to avoid getting trampled on by leather boots and the end of thunder sticks. I would come across many red coats and bodies in my time, but that is not the business of a turtle. I was merely looking for cabbage. I had overheard my owners sometime down the line discussing a big war on the horizon. A harbor was bombed. Such a pity, harbors are lovely to me. I mostly stayed indoors and made friends with the legs of tables and chairs. Down the line, I heard a man proclaim he was free at last. This made no sense to me, are we not all already free? Furthermore, why was my owner trying to feed me dog food? Such predicaments in life. Truly, mine is the greater struggle. I remember watching on the giant wood box one day about riots happening and people crying. They were handing out flowers and the males were burning up small squares. I was mostly distracted by the owner' s new purchase, a creature named Rufus trying to mount me. Fool! I am Ham! No one mounts me. I heard a rumor once that man had walked on a moon. That' s ridiculous. The moon is the size of my eye and is made of tightly balled lettuce. Every good turtle knows such things. I' ve lived through a million events. I' ll live through a million more. My wisdom is long and deep, my mind is like a mountain; ever lasting. I am Hamwise and I understand most things. Except for Rufus. Notes found in another book: I am Rufus. BarkbarkbarkBarkbarkbarkBarkbarkbarkBarkbarkbark.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Open sesame! " The door opens. I enter. A shadowy figure awaits me. " Why have you come? " It demands " I seek the power to become that which I was always meant to be. " " You dare to look within? To uncover the true essence of self? Very well. State your request. " " I wish to become... " An abrupt shockwave pushes me, causing me to slur my next works "... Bing Crosby! " " Your wish has been granted. " I miasma of colors slowly overtakes my vision. It then disappears in an instant. I turn to the source of the wave. It' s a man clad in a mystic robe. " Who are you? Why did you do that? " As I speak my form begins to change, to morph. I know that I am now Bing Crosby. The figure responds, " I am that which you seek to usurp. I am Bill Cosby. " " God damn it! I wanted to become you so I could rape everyone, but your fucking shockwave blurred my words. I' m Bing fucking Crosby! No one like Bing Crosby. Even he hates his stupid fucking music. " " Yes, Bing Crosby fucking sucks. I hate that fucker. However, I did what had to be done. The power to rape everyone can only be known by those with the training to use it properly. This power, in untrained hands, could be utilized at a suboptimum level. I can not risk leaving anyone un-raped. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Holy shit, what did you *do? * " The man in front of her whipped around, the body of a child in his arms and his pants around his ankles. The logo on his overly-muscled chest was spotted with blood. His widened in horror. " Oh god, not you. Anyone but you. " She pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. " God, I knew you had escaped from prison, and I figured you' d strike again, but this? This is unlike you. You' re a grandstander. You threaten to blow up nations, not a- " She struggled for her words and eventually just sighed. " I thought you were above raping kids. " He dropped the body and quickly pulled up his pants. He had purposefully chosen his white uniform to contrast her black one. Looking at the obvious blood on it now, he was regretting that decision. " Please, " he begged, " Don' t- " " Do n' t *what? * " Her anger got the better of her. " Do n' t pull that bullshit. You were a monster, but at least you seemed to have *standards*. I have no choice. This crosses the line. " She pulled her pistol from its holster and leveled at his forehead. At twenty feet, it was practically a point-blank shot for her. His muscles and speed ca n' t stop one of her bullets at this distance. He dropped the charade. " You thought I had standards? I' m a fucking *supervillian*. We' re not in a comic book, honey. This is real life, and in real life, the bad guys do n' t have standards. I respect you, I really do, but that idealism is going to get you killed one day. So go ahead, shoot me. " He paused. " That' s what I thought. You think having your standards of' justice' make you better, but all they do is weaken you. You' re- " She pulled the trigger, sending a custom explosive round into his frontal lobe. The headless, former supervillian crumpled to the ground, next to the body of his victim. She walked up to his body and spat on it. " Asshole. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: This is a story of lust. This is the story between Mentos, the compact rigid male, not the biggest in size, but what he lacks in size he makes up for in sheer delight, in the flavour of his insides, in the way he gets up all in your mouth and leaves you tasting him on the outsides of your upper teeth for hours. A sturdy little fresh guy, Mentos has always had a thing for the opposite, for the unthinkable, a twinkling eye for the exotic; a soft brown female. Which brings us to Diet Coke. Ah, this dark temptress, this mystery of the bottle, this fizzy limber substance shapable like putty in your palm, bubbling on your tongue with the silky smooth brown shining divine, ah, all kept tightly and lavishly in the curvaceous body of the transparent click-clacking glass. She was something. It was destined to be glorious when they first met. Mentos dipped into her, his thick hard cover cracking immediately, he lost it inside one second, he could n' t handle the pure exciting arousing nature of her, the enticing bubbles and moreish flavour. He was done so fast. Together, they exploded, like a shooting star through the sky, spraying mad champagne uncontrollably and wildly, they burst together in a strangely mesmerising display of soda fireworks, they held on to each other and never let go as they bounced all over the floor, a sparkling mess of uncontrollable lust and desire. It was beautiful. Diet Coke then put her top back on, and waited patiently for round two.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Gregory was at first reluctant to take the job initially. He was a squire for his knight Sir Rodrick and would have rather been polishing his lieges armor or cleaning his sword rather than hunting down dinner but when the paige came looking for the knight and found him' indisposed' decisions had to be made. The paige explained the problem. As it turned out the castle mage had been playing around with enchantment spells, supposedly to try and make food alcoholic. Why he didnt simply stew the goose in whiskey was beyond Gregs imagination but the damage had been done. Running loose inside the castle was an abnormally large goose that smelled strongly of beer and hops. Sir Rodrick was the only knight in the castle at this time and the guards refused to fight the goose, it both terrified them and left them immobile from lack of breath. It seemed every-time they engaged it they would begin burst out in laughter as one of them was singled out to be chased. To make matters worse the goose had now entered the living area of the royals quarters and cornered the princess in her room. Evidently she had been enjoying a nice roast duck and the goose caught wind of it. The order had been given, the payment promised was the goose and a few gold coins. Greg did not need either of these things however, he had a strong dislike for the princess and would love nothing more then to see the terror in her eyes as a drunk goose kept her hostage in her room. There were no ballads to sing praises for Gregs bravery though no man had faced a foe of such odor and ferocity. The battle was quick and his joy sublime as he found that roasted, the goose fat was whiskey and its meat like beer.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: There is a room of pure sunlight. I only saw it once, in a dream, but I have longed for it and ached for its existence ever since. I am not a spiritual person, I believe only in fact, and yet, there is the vision of that room. The feeling it gave me, the idea that perfect, incandescent happiness could be mere normalcy, pushed its way into my heart like an invasion of hope. That place housed people I love, people who will never meet, separated as they are by life and death, and those people were just talking. Even in my dream, I dared not interject for fear that my reliance on the reality of my life would spoil that moment, that possibility. And so I just watched, and they talked, sitting on furniture of sunlight, and surrounded by sunlight as they discussed things and laughed on occasion. I am not sure if the happiness of that place came from my own heart, or if that happiness had infected me from some external source, but it was everywhere, so beautifully inescapable. I am scared to call it heaven, and even more terrified to call it just a dream. Inevitably, it has planted itself in my heart, and my desire to see it again has shifted something in me. I will not say I believe in this, but I can not help but want to.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " I have a universe inside of me, sweet " of course this brat was the who had a universe inside, piece of shit kid. " yes, there is a universe inside of you. Congratulations, want a cookie? " of course the sarcasm was lost on him. Just kept on peering into the autoscope, exploring the vast emptiness, with the occasional concentration of matter, with the occasional self-replicating entity. " hey look at these funny looking things. Little shits made of soft pink meat. Walking around like some hotshot biped sophonts. Acting like they run my universe " His universe? Not that I care, but I like to see him throw his tantrums. They tend to to be hilarious due to the ill-suited age of the tantrumee. " Your universe? You' re mistaken. There' s a universe inside of you, but its theirs ". " what do you mean, its in me and its therefore mine " he spat. Yup, dis gon be good " well, we might say Zerti is our planet. Likewise, that is their planet and their universe that is there in your overinflated gut " " I do n' t care, its in me and its therefore mine " just a bit more " really now? Sure they are tiny, but unlike you, they can interact with their universe. You ca n' t do shit with their universe unless you want to get a scalpel and stab yourself just to show them who' s boss " " ITS IN MY BODY, THEY ARE IN MY BODY, AND THIS IS MY UNIVERSE! THOSE SHITS SHOULD BE WORSHIPING ME AND ME ALONE. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.... ". Yup, there he goes jiggling his morbid face bulging his three eyes. Sure I am babysitting a little shit, but this spectacle is worth it. " Theirs a universe inside of you " I mutter silently as this brat goes off


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " For someone who survived 52 stab wounds, 2 swims in lava, and a beating by the Cobras, you' re a scrawny thing, are n' t you? " I tore the papers from his hands, scowling. After blindly signing 125 pages of legalese, I was sitting in the space pod. Scientists flitted to and fro, and my wife waved to me with a huge, stupid grin on her face. She' s hoping this' ll finally do me in. ( I actually do n' t blame her. She married 30 years her senior for the money, before realizing that I do n' t actually die. Meanwhile, I got some incredible, mindblowing, heart-racing s -- VRRRRRRRRM. Everyone shrunk to the size of ants in a second, and I was rocketing through space. Earth was now a pinprick of bluish green, and the sky was a blur of black and darker black. In minutes I was hurtling towards the black hole, which was even darker black -- no, just kidding. The controls flashed, telling me that I was getting close. I could feel the pressure increasing, like when I' ve eaten too much but I still want dessert. Or the time I was in a head-on collision with a truck. The spaceship began to stretch and pull around me, screws popping and flying every which way. Slices of black appeared through the tears in the metal. Wait. If the pod is destroyed, how will I get back? I could no longer breathe, and the pressure was building from all sides. My limbs were stiff, and all I could see was black. I ( mentally ) took a deep breath, and tried to think clearly: I wo n' t die. I' m not going to die. I will not die. Can I leave, though? I can barely wiggle my toes, now. No, they must have had a plan. Maybe I' ll be rescued. Yeah, they ca n' t just forget about me. But if anyone got to where I am, they' d be dead first. Their ship would be destroyed! Oh, no, no... Shit. I should' ve read those papers I signed.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: They, whoever *they* are, first discovered it after the majority of a hospital staff had been wiped out, leaving sixteen nurses and nine doctors. Not all of them had come into contact with patient zero but only had one thing in common: they smoked. Heavily. I' m talking about two packs a day heavy. It was dismissed that this was the only connection that these people had in common until another outbreak happened at a school. That was a sight I do n' t wish on anyone. Hundreds of kids dead and dying, and the few that survived were the high schoolers that were smuggling cigarettes between each other, smoking them in the bathrooms or sneaking out to puff the cancer stick away in a mere three drags. A handful of teachers survived along with most of the custodial and all of the lunch ladies. That really caught the attention of the CDC because children were involved and that makes it a *tragedy* according to the news. Soon, everyone was scrambling to buy cartons of cartons of cigarettes, and start puffing away until stores were auctioning off packs to hordes of people who clawed their way over each other to get that little stick. After some research, it was discovered the reason that these heavy smokers were n' t keeling over like everyone else is because the virus survived in healthy tissue of the lungs of its victim, festering and then just one day, their alveoli would just explode. Quick biology lesson: those things are the reason oxygen gets into your blood and carbon dioxide gets out. Without them, you are fucked. Smokers' alveoli were already damaged, corroded, and the virus could n' t handle it, leaving the smokers the *healthy ones*. Karma must be laughing at everyone who said that smoking kills. -036


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Today was a good day!, Manbeast ( man I love that guy ) took me to the park ( man I love the park ) and I got to sniff some butts! ( man I love sniffing butts ) but now its time to sleep! *yawn* *sniff* *sniff* wait... whats that? was that manbeast? no, manbeast is behind me! ( man I love that guy ) Theres someone else here! I have to protect manbeast! Hey! hey you! You! Hey! *grrrrrr* Get out of here strange manbeast! I wo n' t let you harm manbeast I know you are afraid! I smell it on you! Get out of here! *grrrr* *bark* *bark* thats right! get out of here! climb over that giant wallfencething and do n' t come back! *bark* *bark* *grrrrrr* Hey manbeast! I stopped a strange manbeast from taking that strange stuff you like! No one is going to take stuff from you while im around! *arf* *wag* *wag* WHAT?!? IM A GOOD BOY?! THATS AMAZING! THANK YOU MANBEAST! ( man I love that guy )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: With everything finally in order, it was time to have one last shot at making life beautiful again. " Why even try? " he thought to himself for what seemed to be the thousandth time that month. As hope seemed to fade into twilight, and a smile always a breath away, John had given up. He knew he was n' t going to be one of those irresponsible people that made a rash decision and called it quits, leaving sadness and debt in his wake. He was going to do this right; and so he planned. His struggles surely were not from a lack of trying. At the very least he could hold onto that thought until the end. After trying for years to battle past his descending mind, he had finally gotten his life in order. The passing eyes continually reaffirmed that he was successful in every avenue he chose, but it was never the pair that mattered; his own. For every long forgotten friend that he ran into saying " You look great, John! " and wanting to know how he managed to stay single, he truly was doing great. He could never tell them the real answer to their question though. How could he possibly bring another person into his life if he was n' t sure he was going to continue living it? It always came down to just another person he would eventually disappoint. Choosing to leave as small a wake as possible, he turned away from those he feared would get too close. Today marked his final stand. One last shot at trying to see the sunrise as a welcoming sight. With his finances taken care of, and relationships closed on a good note, he knew he was finally free to make any decision that he chose. It was a freeing feeling, one he knew would be fleeing as soon as tomorrow. Bucket list waiting on his dresser, John woke up and lit the cigarette that had been in his desk drawer for twenty years, thinking, " Today may finally be a good day. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He awoke in a damp room surrounded by concrete and steel to the sound of water droplets falling sporadically from the faucet. His head was shaved and his body' s pale flesh hung loose. There was a manufactured quality to him which made it impossible to ever imagine him ever being a child. He lay motionless, parsing over the details of another dream. He saw his mother in a polka dot, light blue dress, gently bending down and smiling while calling him over. He remembered the house, the television, his mother' s kiss. He remembered the school, the heartbreak, and the perfect crime. He remembered the fear, the gut wrenching terror, the grip of leather straps around his limbs, the feel of tears and cold sweat on his face, the trapped scream in his throat, and the emotionless man in a mask before him. The sights, smells, senses of every detail trickled in. Love, joy, anger, sadness, all slowly filling his mind with a sudden rush like water being sucked into a sponge... and just as quickly fading, leaving only but an image - a fossil. He lay motionless.... detached, like an observer recalling a slaughter of an animal for sustenance. The faucet let go of another drop....


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *Break a leg* is a literal thing for me. I work in theater, you see. I' m surrounded by beautiful women all the time. I' ve fallen in love with a lot of these women. As a man who has been labelled as the *dead man walking* ( and that' s another story to tell ) I' m hardly ever noticed. So the most I can do is try to help others. I normally help out the alternates. What I do is a special service for the ones who never really had the chance. I relate to them the most since I never have any luck either. These actresses work so hard to get to where they are and all they' re ever given is a snide remark about their appearance. You know in this day age where it' s all about female empowerment, it' s quite fickle in the dressing rooms. These are the type of women who preach about feminism, yet hold each other to a competition. I understand though, they are at odds with one another. I do n' t have to ever worry about that. I' ve lived a long life of being down on my luck. I have no home, no kids, no friends, no family, nothing. I was born into this world without any real care or responsibilities. I was bullied all the time, and shoved aside for those who can buy happiness. One day I decided to change that. The first one was for Phantom of the Opera. I broke the Prima Donna' s leg. It was easy. I set up the chandelier to fall on top of her during rehearsal. No one expected a thing. It collapsed right on top of her just like I planned. Christine, the angel, was able to proceed as the new breakout. I was so happy for her. She' s now at Broadway performing for nearly every act. I could n' t be more proud. This is my life. I do n' t think I chose it, I think it chose me. What' s Luck got to do with it?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Dear Lost but not Forgotten, I hate you. I despise and loathe you. I hate the way you said my name, but I despise saying yours more. I hate that you scarred my brain with that stupid little grin. I hate how you crossed your arms so uniquely content; a way that no one else can even mimic. I hate how you felt the need to be a lifeboat during my suicidal tidal wave of depression. I wince in hatred at how you left me so soon. I hate how everything reminds me of you. I hate how everyone still talks about you as if we are still together. Everyone tells me to go see you, " bring her flowers " they say- like it' s so simple. They don' t get it. Because no matter how loudly I scream your name, the six feet of dirt and clay that separate us won' t stop mocking me. I kneel down on the grass sobbing over a slab of granite that reads your name. You are right under me, yet it feels like you are on another planet. I hate it. I hate you for making me fall so madly in love with everything you did. I hate you for making it impossible for me to feel anything but love for you. God damnit, why did you leave me? Sincerely, Lost and Trying to Forget EDIT: Thank you so much for the gold, kind stranger.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Ladies and Gentlemen I can confirm tracer signals from Voyager indicate she' s still sailing into interstellar space, these are new signals approaching. Now there have been some rumours of what we do and do not know, I will lay it out plainly for you. We know nothing beyond the fact that something is sending out garbled data at 30 bits per second, the signals being received appear to be approaching the centre of the Solar system according to a doppler effect in the signals beyond that we have no idea what is generating the signal. Telemetry estimates the object to pass halfway between Earth and Mars in twenty to thirty years. Now these are estimates, we have no knowledge of the object' s mass so predicting changes in acceleration is impossible. There are currently no plans to redirect probes to attempt to photograph the object, however that is not to face there never will be. I will now take questions " The first press conference of 2018 left the world waiting with anticipation for twenty long years. The final press conference broke hearts, the object whatever it was stopped sending data when it was dragged into the gravity well of Phobos and crashed. A manned mission to Mars to attempt to collect the object was already underway when the news came to light.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I' m writing about a man' s rise to power. What starts as a seemingly innocuous ascension spirals into something far more sinister. He starts small, posting on a small forum, then after a few years the lackeys at the top decide to give him moderating powers. Some things happen and the story ends with Kayci -- err, *him* as the ruler of the world with the rest of the degenerates beneath him wailing with regret for ever giving him a position of power. OK seriously though, I love NaNoWriMo! My goal for this month is to bring my short story series I' ve been working on to Novel length. That means roughly 30, 000 words in the next month. Doable. I suck at elevator pitches, but here goes: The series is about struggle and where we find solace. The short stories are based on realities we all face; from alcoholism to death to faith to regret. Each story is separate, each chapter a different character. Ca n' t wait to see what people are able to do!