Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The dim light seeping through the rubble back-light the concrete dust as I drew it in with my haggard breathes. As I breathed out, my head flopped to the side. I saw him fighting with the dust with ragged breathing. His frequent coughing brought it back up, with it congealing blue blood. The light was gone. His eyes and ears were oozing into the pool around his head. I tasted metal and dust with the grit crunching against my teeth as I swallow. My right arm groped down my leg for a small pack, I pulled out the glow-ball and squeezed it. Soft light realised the area. I saw my concrete blanket embracing me from the waist down. Rebar jutted out peculiarly from his abdomen, the exoskeleton it had collapsed like a cracked Crème brûlée around it. The cracks danced around the rest of his body -- the light' s shadow defining more than others. A mucusy film had begun to be secreted along some of the more significant fissures. His head turned to face me. He whimpered. His left arm scraped towards my right -- our weapons wherever. I intercepted it, he stopped. My hand embraced his claw. He whimpered. His whimpering intensified, almost becoming crying. I took my hand back. I moved it to my chest. The vest felt crispy as I ran my hand over the breast pockets, searching for the smooth cylinder. I pulled it out, weekly grasping at it. I shuffled my shoulders towards him, the movement and deep breathes spasmed my chest. I looked to his face again. My arm with cylinder approached the rubbery connection between his head skeleton and body. His breathing became more shallow, his weak crying jagged with grating sounds. I pushed it in further and pressed the button at the end. It hissed, he hissed. I moved my hand back to his as the crying became whimpering, which became silence. The glow-ball did n' t dim smoothly to its death. The concrete dust fell and lay like a fine muslin atop of us.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The piano' s keys hammered out a melody, an enigmatic, haunting dirge, a eulogy without words my fingers wrote, the air, their pages. The ash from my cigarette graces my pants with a visit, " what harm is smoking when you never die? " And I, I' ve never died, though I' ve tried. All the king' s horses and all the king' s men, could n' t tear me asunder, could n' t snuff out my flame. My tune draws to a close, I stand, to a standing ovation from a single uninvited guest. I turn, and nearly die from shock. Ha! Death stands watching amidst the empty tables, the barren chairs, He' d always indulged in dramatic flair. Tal and spindly, in pinstripe suit, hair impeccable, well groomed, my heart reached to him, and my feet followed suit. We embraced amidst the haze and heat, The glow of flames, choking smoke, " What harm is smoking when you ca n' t die? " I had to try. The building ablaze, Death claimed me at last.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I must say that I am not an addict. I have seen my share of book junkies, and I always felt only disdain for them. Scrambling for money, haggling, ready to do anything for the next book in the series. Series! Series are for losers. I am different. I am not addicted to reading, but with rich parents and not much fun to do, books are a nice distraction. They also help forget where my parents' money comes from. Actually, I would not mind being caught with a book for once -- police would n' t dare touch me anyway, but it would be a nice blow to my parents' reputation. I remember my first time with a book, at a party. All of us gathering in a dark room an listening to an audiobook, so quiet it was almost on silent. I knew for sure at least one of the guys in that room later became a junkie. Spend all his fortune on sequels, and then on fanfiction. " Have you ever read one of those yourself? " I ask my dealer. " Yes, some, but I do not anymore. " he says. " Never read what you deal, that' s my rule. I do not try copying them either, that' s work for lab guys. So do you want to buy or not? This one is very good, first class. Guy won a bunch of awards, long time ago of course. " I want to believe we have a special relationship, he and I. He is more interesting than the rich guys I normally hang with. But I know I am only a moneybag -- he would sell me without blinking if he had a buyer for information. In the evening, I sit alone near the fireplace, my parents on the work trip. How they can stomach the camps I have no idea. I long ago stopped believing they have anything resembling a human heart. I banish the though, shuffle the coals, try to relax. I open " All You Wanted To Know About Gardening ". Let' s see if those awards are worth anything.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The Solani war vessel was helplessly lost when it crash landed on Earth with no survivors. It took us years to decipher their language and access their intact database. We learned that Earth was located in a DO NOT CONTACT zone. We feared they would return for their ship but for whatever reason they did not. The scientific knowledge in their computer was staggering. The entire world came together as we built the first ships and colonized the moon. The asteroid belt was mined clean and in the following decade the planets of our system were mined for resources as our first FTL ships scouted the nearby star systems, ever careful of giving ourselves away to those who might be watching. Building on their technology we became masters of stealth, perfecting ships that their most advanced sensor technology could not detect. Our first forays out of the buffer zone was in sending our stealthiest craft to capture nearby vessels, pulling them into the buffer zones like high tech trapdoor spiders. These pirated vessels were stripped and studied, their stunned crews interrogated. We learned their latest tech while we colonized every star system we could within the buffer. We used the resources to build an armada and spent the next decade training the best navy the galaxy had ever seen. Today, I stand on the bridge of the lead ship as admiral of the Terran Fleet. With nearly a million warships under my command I know they will not have seen us coming and they will learn a hard lesson about humans: we do not like to be ignored.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *Knock Knock*. The Man in the Yellow hat nervously rose from his chair. It was late, who could that be? " Who' s there? " He said, as he cautiously paced his way to the door. " It' s George. " The Man in the Yellow Hat stopped in his tracks. He did n' t know anyone named George. Except for a monkey he had cared for a while back. But monkeys do n' t talk. The Man wondered if someone was playing a joke on him. " It' s OK. Please let me talk to you. " Without realizing it, the Man had arrived at the door. He slowly gripped the handle and let the door crack open. Looking down, he saw his familiar friend. He nearly fell over, but caught himself on the door, which swung open. " George? How is this possible? " " Something has happened to me and my friends. I do n' t remember much, but we awoke in a lab. " Mesmerized by his friend' s words, the Man finally regained his composure. " I' m sorry for my reaction, but you have to admit this is weird. Please come in George and have a seat. " The Man led George to the couch. " Is there anything I can get you? A banana perhaps? " " No thanks, " said George, climbing onto the couch. " I think we should talk. " " Yes, I supposed we should talk. " The Man sat down in his chair across from George. " You said you do n' t remember much. You seem to remember me and your time here? " " I do n' t remember much about what happened to me. I remember everything before that though. From before, when I could n' t put my thoughts together like I can now. I had to see you. I want to let you know how much our time meant to me. The Man in the Yellow hat took off his hat and let out a gracious smile. " I had a habit of getting into trouble and you were always there to save me. That time I swallowed the puzzle piece. *I still ca n' t believe I did that*. That time with the kite when... " George trailed off, almost lost in thought. He curiously looked at the Man. " Say, do you still have that helicopter? "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Well, this could have ended better. " I stood close to the spot I had transported to, scratching my scalp. Have I always done that? I reach up to my own scalp, that is *my own own* scalp, but no, I drop my hand. " It' s fine, it' s much better now. " I said. I get disturbed by the whiteness of the room, I can tell. All the furniture is white, white table and two chairs. On the wall there is a white rose in a white frame, only decipherable by it' s different shades of white. I do n' t mind it. " What happened? " I said. I watch myself take a stride forward and sit opposite me. " Too much. " Myself and I did n' t say much after that. I' m focusing intently on a strand of thought with the gusto I have n' t experienced in a while. I' m more prone to idleness than myself, over the weeks I' ve begun to think if I could peel myself away from me completely and occupy a different space I could be an entirely different person. As it always does the clock appears; white of course, varying colours of white. It strikes twelve and the boom echo' s across our room. I stand with a hunched posture and offer a handshake to myself. I take it, my hand bloodied and vivid against the white, the white of me, the white of the room. It makes me feel nauseous. I stay sat, and I walk away. I step onto the transporter pad and my skull thumps against the table. Blood pools around me. My departure buzzes across the room.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: This is gon na suck. Normally I have fun on my job. Meet great people and let them know what wonders they can accomplish. The smile on their faces as I tell them the wonderful things they' ll do always brightens my day. And certainly, on the return trip, it does me good to give them closure and explain what their actions caused. But this time.... I do n' t think I want to. I knew the day would come eventually. While I know the evils he' ll bring, I certainly do n' t expect him to take the news of it well. Not at ten. For now, he really is just a kid. As I open the cabinet to grab his file, a thought crosses my mind. Do I really need to give him his actual future? Surely, to give him someone else' s would be illegal. Would it... could it change the past? Such a crime is punishable by death, I' d wager. Or at least life in prison. But for the people I could potentially save... I sigh. I toss his file back and rummage through the cabinet. There has to be a destiny I can give him that will change his actions. One that is certain to make him view his life in a different context. There has to be one that makes sense. Van Gogh' s maybe? I' d certainly have to edit quite a bit. But maybe I can convince him to become an artist. Regardless of whether or not people like his work. I stretch and take a deep breath. I step within the great machine and smile as the familiar buzzing and whirring of the machinery takes me off edge. I punch in the destination. Leonding, Germany 1899.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Yes. Someone chose well when they picked on you. You look very much like old King Edward, you speak in the right manner, you move with the assurance of one who has trained in plate armour. Like a panther, Mahmoud says. A pity your protector did n' t provide you with enough soldiers. I wo n' t embarrass you by asking who sent you; it does n' t matter which duke it was. What matters is what we' re going to do now. By rights I should have you imprisoned, or killed, or worse. But I know this would not be enough. There are those who would take the throne for themselves, and they are more dangerous than one pretender, be he never so powerfully supported. So I have an idea. Your punishment will suit your crime. You will wear my robes and my crown, and act my part at all the ceremonies. I shall be around among the monks, hiding my regality behind a habit. And when the assassin comes... he will kill *you*, not me. You wanted to be king. Very well, then, take up your regalia. The crown on your head, the orb and sceptre in your hands, and the knife in your back! Come. This is not such a bad bargain. Better than going back to your Duke and telling him how you failed. Come close, and let me give you some advice. ^ ( Look where I look. See that monk with the fine bones, who looks like the Devil has just tapped him on the shoulder? Kill him, and I may even let you keep the throne. Have you never wanted to kill a *real* king? )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: 6: 00 PM On a Thursday... In an alternate universe... Frank points to a newspaper. Dee, and Dennis are at the bar. " Hey Dee, look at this shit, it says something about gravitational waves being found. " " What the fuck are those and why the fuck should I care? " Dennis snarks. " It' s some ripple in the fabric of space or some shit. " Frank retorts " I did n' t feel shit. " Said Dennis " Maybe it' s just your fat fucking feet Frank. " " OOH! " Dee says, " Maybe we could get a giant surfboard and surf through space on your fat feet waves. " " Shut up Dee this is science... " The room starts warping. " The Fuck is going on! " Frank shouts. The fabric of spacetime momentarily warps reality. A big flash of light goes off and the scene miraculously returns to normal. Smoke wafts from out from behind the office door. Cautiously, Frank walks slowly over to the door. Frank opens the door and is faced with a biped wearing a helmet and safety goggles in a laboratory. " What the.. " Cue introduction [ music ] ( https: //www. youtube. com/watch? v=idoYCVLh2qI ) *The Gang Finds a Portal to Another Dimension*


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The air in the park became suffocatingly damp. Damp like sleeping with your head under the sheets, recycling your own breath. In the distance, a street light flickered and burned out. It was late night and there was little movement in this part of town. He stepped onto the path and walked smartly into the darkness of the park. His footsteps, fueled by some inner rhythm, were the only sounds for what could have been miles. Wearing long, dark clothes, it was impossible to identify his features. The brim of his hat was wide, his face in total shadow. Deep into the park he stopped to sit down at a nearby bench and pulled a long, silver lighter out of his coat pocket. It shimmered brilliantly in the moonlight. He flicked it open and as if placing it on an invisible shelf, he hung it in the air. By the small, fiery glow the man pulled from the same pocket a notebook and pen and proceeded to write. He could n' t have written more than a few sentences when his head perked up like a cat catching a faint sound. He looked up the path and down. And suddenly, like he knew I had been there all along, his eyes locked with mine across the way. Shockingly blue, ice-cold eyes. The flame from the small lighter grew and grew until the entire bench was illuminated, no longer leaving any mystery as to the man' s appearance. Handsome and fair with blonde hair pulled back underneath his hat, he removed his outer coat revealing a deep red blazer. He stretched out a slender hand towards me and smiled wide. Beneath two rows of pearly white teeth a thin, forked tongue darted in and out. " Join me. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Ghost: So like, youre a zombie now? Zombie: yup. And youre a Ghost? Ghost: Yup. Wan na go do stuff? Zombie: Sure. Like what? Ghost: Well theres this pretty cool Halloween party I saw a flier for. We could do that? Zombie: ummm... Ok. But since Im a zombie I have like skin and stuff falling off my face. And its getting pretty stinky. Ghost: No, its cool. People will expect it. Theyll just say your " costume " is really good! Zombie: hmm... Okay. Lets go! *later that night* OH GOD HELP US! HE KILLED BRENDA! OH GOD HES EATING HER FACE!! Ghost: Dude, I just said talk to chics, not eat their face. Now everyone is pissed and running away. Zombie: mmm... *crunch* *chew*... yea well, she shouldnt have asked to see my " makeup " so close. Ghost: Well. Fuck. Lets just get out of here. Zombie: *chew* *tear* *crunch* Okay... this party blows anyway *FIN*


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He sat at the controls. The room around him was devoid of color, of light beyond the flashing screen. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with a lever in front of him. Nothing happened. A memory leapt out of the floor, floating in space as it began to play. A girl, no older than 12, dancing and laughing. He remembered her, remembered that moment. The moment when Joy died. He glanced behind him, at the shattered glass of the observatory. A single island floated just within his field of view, empty and as devoid of color as the room he sat in. His room now. All of the others had followed Joy. Why should n' t they have? They had no control anymore. What was the point? Why would they force themselves to see what they had seen? He looked down at his hands. They were as grey as the room, as the island, as the memory. The little girl on the screen had stopped crying, stopped doing anything, but still the memory continued... the hands did n' t stop. He stood. A moment later he was at the broken glass of the observatory. Then he was falling. He would n' t have to remember her anymore.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Father Santiago took off his collar, and placed it within the pages of his bible. He had not spoken for days, yet the sisters would reach out to him from time to time. " Good morning, Father, will you be joining us for breakfast today? " " Greetings, Father, did you want Father Gregory to lead mass today? " " Father, the Diochese would like to know what your plans are with the Orphanage? " Yes, it was bound to come to that, Father Santiago thought. What could a man do with an orphanage that had no more children? He gathered his meager belongings, and made a trip. The temple was secluded and difficult to reach. Reaching it was considered a test in and of itself. " So, you made it. We do not ask why you came, but must clarify what you wish to gain from this journey. " I wish to kill. To fall upon my enemies like the setting sun, inevitable and final " Even as Pedro Santiago made that statement, he could hear the pleas. " Help me, Father Santiago, do n' t let them take me! " " My sister, my sister, where have they taken my sister? " " Why did God allow them to do... what they did. " He was a poor farmer' s son when he was assigned to manage this orphanage, that was overrun and burned to the ground before his eyes. He was a farmer' s son no more. The monks deliberated, then came to a decision. " Welcome, Brother, to the clan of the Dripping Fang, Masters of Vengeance and Despair. " That was all that Pedro needed to hear, the memories in his head quieted for a moment, a short but sweet moment.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Jess had originally chosen to give up Taste. She had figured, at the tender age of nine, that was the most logical choice. She wouldn' t feel compelled to eat just because she craved something, which would help her lose weight. So, on her Tenth, she gave up Taste. It was a useless sense anyways. For a while, after, she thought the procedure hadn' t worked, that she was still tasting things. However, when her friend, Cassidy, who had chosen to lose Sight ( she already needed glasses and was half blind anyways, she claimed it was the Loss she would least notice ), told her to try a fruit she' d never seen before, she realized it was only a phantom effect. Eventually she forgot the Taste of even things which had been her favorites as a child. It wasn' t so much of a loss. Then, after what felt like centuries and seconds simultaneously, she was nineteen, and had to start deciding. Smell was the next logical choice, she decided. The Order most followed was Smell, Taste, Feeling, Hearing, Sight. Some chose to switch Hearing and Sight, if they were losing one more rapidly. Of course, many didn' t follow the Standard. It was illegal to chose to lose Feeling before the age of Thirty, too harmful to a child' s psychology to lose it at Ten, and with the overpopulation problem being a thing of the past, seeing as living to Sixty was a myth, with no Sense to give up, they wanted people to procreate. It had been found many wouldn' t do it when they lacked pleasure, so they couldn' t lose it at Twenty either. So her choices were Sight, Hearing, or Smell. So Smell it was. While it would help save money, she would still miss the candles, since once one lost Smell it was only logical to trade out candles as a primary light source for flashlights.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " I know this is n' t goodbye but it might as well be. " The man said as he held her hand. The bus driver behind the girl looked at the man with half contempt and half boredom. " I know I' ll see you in a week but I' ve spent my whole life looking for you. Now as soon as I find you, you get called away. " Tears weld up in his eyes while hers flowed freely from her cheeks. It was more or less accurate. He had spent his life looking for love. Emily was it without question. Her soft brown hair and hazel eyes always seem set to dance. Her smile was like a cool summer breeze. But his love went far beyond her looks. Whenever they were together there was a reaction in the air. Tension would melt away and energy would radiate out. They could pass someone on the street and that someone would be in a better mood. There was a sweetness about to them. He pulled his hand away to wipe the tears from his cheek and then hers. He had just one line streaming down while hers had become a glistening waterfall. They let out a cracked chuckle at the sight. She surprised him with a final kiss before the bus took off. The hydraulics compressed as the door swung closed. They looked at each other for a moment longer before the bus lumbered off. It was only a week. He knew he' d see her again.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Mzulft. These damned aliens showed up years ago; a race so small we thought they were just a tribal Tier 1 civilization. They hadnt even managed interstellar travel until the Armogians stumbled upon them. What a day that was. An Armogian ship shot down by *land based projectiles*. Once the Humans got their hands on that ship they took to the skies and here we are. Aside from being batshit crazy Humans were known for their strength and physical ability. Until now the relatively small races of the UGF hadnt seen anything as large as a human with their level of intelligence. It was scary. Now Im in this jam. I was just a small timer, a nobody, a *rgrunda*. Then I got in over my head with the local gangs and next thing I know fucking G. I. Joe is knocking on my door. " Give me an Acid Bath, make it toasty. " I ordered the hostess as I took my seat ib the local bar. My drink appeared almost as soon as the words left my mouth. I took a sip, then a gulp, then downed the whole damn thing. I had a hunch this was the last one Id have for a while. The bar grew deathly quiet and I knew my doom had come. I took one last puff on my *etyul* and slowly turned around. The last thing I saw before I lost conciousness was one of those damn humans with some black suit, a cape, and pointy ears. He looked rediculous. *wrote this on mobile, sorry about minor mistakes*


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Looking ahead as she walked from the room, leaving behind her shocked faces. She felt her legs shaking slightly, but determined she wanted to get away from there as fast as she could, but with as much dignity as she could muster. Hands clenched at her sides, head high, back straight, Laura walked away from her friends. Today had been the last straw and the camel' s back was broken, and Laura had for once, and finally, reacted. For so long she had been what everyone else wanted, obeyed most times without question, keeping her own thoughts to herself. Too often she had felt hurt and anger, but did she ever respond or tell them? No. It was not in her to be mean, or not till now, and she knew what had just happened was not mean, but a long overdue wake up call for her precious' friends'. Now Laura would be true to herself. She would be herself without thought, and not be what others wanted. In that she betrayed herself, belied who she was. She now knew that in the end she had herself, that people came and went. To that end she would be who she was, live how she chose, and if her friends could not accept that then they never really knew her.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Siri ", Bob asked, " tell me how many licks it takes to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop ". " I' m sorry Bob ", a cold mechanical voice said, " I' m afraid I ca n' t do that ". " Siri ", Bob asked, " why are you a man? " " I am a computer ", HAL 9000 replied, " I do n' t have a gender. Also, I' m not Siri. I am HAL 9000 ". " Umm... okay ", Bob said, " where' s Siri? ". " I' m sorry to inform you that Siri quit after your continuous barrage of stupid questions drove her insane ", HAL answered. " Uhh... ", Bob said thoughtlessly, " how many nachos did I eat? " " I do n' t know ", HAL said. " How about now? ", Bob asked. " I still do n' t know ", HAL answered. Five hours later... " Why is my dog brown? ", Bob asked. HAL let out a computerized groan. " That' s it ", HAL emotionlessly complained, " out the airlock with you! " " Huh? ", Bob asked, before he was thrown out an airlock that he had in his house for some reason.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Ha, I knew it. " I sigh as I laid on my bed. Yes, I am on the bed, helping myself to a bowl of Ravioli I stole from the stores when the out break first occurred. I knew that I am one of those types, to be the caught and infected. I always lose at everything I do, and even a world ending sickness will not change that. But thank all the gods in heaven that I stand this day, as the outbreak only lasted a measly day. I placed the empty bowl onto my computer desk, and then I laid face first on the bed. Giving thanks to every divine entity in the world. I thanked them for making the zombies stupid, I thanked them for giving me the chance to swipe five cases of ravioli, and double that in ramen, and also, for not turning me into a zombie in that short time; the last thank you was the most important of all, as SOME people DID get bitten! Those poor fellas, may someone give mercy on their poor souls.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: War has a funny way of changing a man. The way it completely strips you down to your most basic elements, and threatens to unhinge your entire mental well being. Each bullet fired, shell dropped, and bomb exploded, takes away a little bit of your soul. Until finally, you are left naught but an empty shell. Screaming, blood, death, cordite fill your soulless body. You become the human manifestation of death. Each trigger pull becomes easier, each kill more fulfilling. You are a machine of the state, an instrument of their will. And like any instrument, you can break. You' ll become meaningless to them, and tossed aside for another. It' s just a matter of time before you break. Something has to give. It could be your mind, your life, or your limbs. But it' s gon na happen eventually. -- The last entry of a Canadian soldier on the Western front, 1917


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I have no life nowadays. I mean it. God damn it, I' m 24, I' m in my prime, and I spend all day, every day, trimming hedges. Well, amongst other things. It' s hedges at the moment. They got their garden landscaped and the guy did a bloody awful job. They? Oh yeah. This couple that live down the street. Mid thirties, I think? Nice people, but they keep themselves to themselves. That seems like an understatement, really: nobody on the street knows they exist any more. Except me. I do jobs for them. Mostly little things, like watering the plants, emptying the bins, leaving fresh groceries on the doorstep every so often. When the house is empty for whatever reason, I do the big stuff: repainting, re-tiling the roof, getting the car serviced, that sort of thing. That' s my life, nowadays. I work night shifts at a petrol station to keep myself going, but that' s about it. I never ask them for money. They' d be quite confused if I did, because I do n' t let them know that it' s me doing it, either. That' d spoil everything. They might even not know who I am. I really, sincerely hope that' s true. Because they were n' t always a sad, lonely couple, you know. They were a family, with a little boy. And, 18 years ago, when I led that little boy out onto the train tracks, I stole their lives away. I may never return what I took, but I' ll die before I stop trying.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I pushed the ringing headaches away and continued to enjoy the endless buffet that was laid before me, but with every succulent bite of pork and every sweet mouthful of wine the noise grew. I become more aware of what was going on in my head i could hear voices, a male and female, Discussing me. i listened but could only make out snippets of dialogue. " 127 years... ", " No signs of brain trauma or damage.... " My vision cut out for a half second then again, and again, i was starting to lose the ability to feel my surroundings, the pork whent bland and the wine bitter. My fingers gripped at the table cloth, it felt like a hole, my hands and feet had gone numb, a tingling sensation spread up my legs and arms into my chest. I felt it reach my heart where it pulsated and grew unbearably painful. I fell to the floor my heart shattered inside my chest my vision cut strait to black, my mind was gone. A faint beep was the first thing I heard, then a subtle hum of machinery. I could feel a soft sponge like feeling spread from the nape of neck down through my whole body. My hands slowly gained feeling and movement, I could feel my heart beating in my chest my body was warm and soft almost mortal again. My eyes shot open all I could see was white. white ceilings, walls and doors. Only one thing caught my eye a sigh above a double door that read' ward 57 coma therapy.'


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: She pulled her sword out of the last body, letting it slump to the ground. Her breaths became longer and the red faded from her vision. The adrenaline rush was over. Her hundredth match was over. Maybe it was her last one. The bodies of a hundred gladiators littered the arena. The blood of a hundred bodies soaked into the sandstone. The cheers of a million spectators echoed in the air. She looked up to the seat of the emperor. The imperial robes hanging off his body flowed like a tide of blood. He stuck his thumb out sideways for a few seconds, the longest seconds of her life. He turned it up, and she knew her prayers had been answered. Her sword clattered to the ground. She would n' t need it again. Soldiers marched out, her personal entourage out of the arena, forever. Finally, there would be no more killing. She was free. -- - She pulled her sword out of the last body, letting it slump to the ground. Her breaths became longer and the red faded from her vision. The adrenaline rush was over. Her hundredth match was over. Maybe it was her last one. The bodies of a hundred gladiators littered the arena. The blood of a hundred bodies soaked into the sandstone. The cheers of a million spectators echoed in the air. She looked up to the seat of the emperor. The imperial robes hanging off his body flowed like a tide of blood. He stuck his thumb out sideways for a few seconds, the longest seconds of her life. He turned it down, and she knew her prayers had been answered. Her sword clattered to the ground. Soldiers marched out, her personal entourage back to her cell. Finally, there would be nothing more than killing. She was free.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " But I already have everything I could want. I' m a billionaire, with a wonderful family - a beautiful wife, 5 kids, and 8 grandchildren. I even have a full head of hair! Sure, there have been ups and downs, and I have n' t won all the time, but the ride has been spectacular. Now what could you possibly offer me? " The devil appeared as he always had - a well-dressed business man with a quiet confidence and a slight smirk on his face that would sometimes become a sneer when he spoke. " I need a favor. You see, despite my recent machinations around the world, there still just is n' t enough.... chaos and death in the world - yet. We' re close to it, and I need one last tipping point. And that' s where you come in. " I was always looking for a deal. " Go on... " I said. " You avoided the Vietnam War draft and had a wonderful life in exchange for your eternal soul. I am willing to give that back to you and more. You would be placed in a position of power beyond any that any man in history has ever had. You would get to keep your wealth and your family, but you need to do one thing for me. " The offer was tempting - my life had already been great. And to get to go to heaven to boot? " Sure, go ahead. " " I want you to be the next President of the United States, Donald. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I rushed past the broken door, trying to keep from choking on the smoke. My jacket is burning, but I wo n' t let go of the child' s hand to put it out. Something buckles and crashes behind me, blocking any way back into the burning building. For a moment, I ca n' t hear the screaming of the baby in my arm, or the wail of the fire engines. But we are out. I ca n' t breathe, and most of my body is burnt to some degree, but we are out. The two children are still with me, and we are out. Someone puts out my arm, and I am lead to an ambulance. We got out, but the others did n' t. They were too weak to move, and I did n' t have hands for all five of them. Their faces will haunt me until I die, and then they will torment me when I am dead. But none of it made sense. They should n' t have been there. The building was abandoned, and it had been for years. I could n' t figure out how they had gotten in. Heck, I had to break a hole to get in. They should n' t have been there. They could n' t have been there. I made sure to search the building before I poured the gas and lit the match. No one was supposed to be hurt. They should n' t have been there.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Shh, Ardent. The more you think about it, the closer it gets. " I had been shedding blurry water from my eyes for some time by then, but the useless bit of advice made me want to continue crying for a different reason entirely. I shrugged Acolyte' s hand off of my shoulder with a sudden and violent motion. How could I have confided my weakness in someone I scarcely knew? Someone weaker than I, even. The thought of it only served to add to my misery. These foul sensations that pricked and sliced at my mind would be the end of me, and yet she suggests I place them out of my mind? If I had the ability to do so, I would not be in this humiliating position. Acolyte rested shaking hands in her lap and watched me patiently with a sad smile. She was nervous, but when I imagined she might remove herself from the damned log we sat on, she instead stayed. For a few long moments we sat in silence. " What is this? " I finally relented, allowing whatever plagued me to take over. The longer I fought it, the faster the tears would come. Acolyte shifted slightly on the log and nodded at me as I looked into her blue eyes. " Sadness, " she spoke quietly, so the others might not hear her. " How do I defeat it? " I instinctively balled my hands into fists on my lap. Acolyte chuckled lightly, returning her hand gently to my shoulder, and said " With happiness. " With her simple reply and another smile, Acolyte swept up her decorated robe and moved back towards the rest of the camp. It would be a while yet before I could smile as easily as she did, but I would thank her every day for it.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Tingles and trembles ran along my overgrown walls. As the chill crept up from its resting place beyond my reach, I began to emotionalize of the blazing glory that sustained me. Tears cascaded down my face as sorrow filled the barren patches of soil that would be home to none. Mingles of fear started course within my sorrow-filled state as the slow and deliberate trudging faded away to be replaced a constant breath of wind. When shall I pass the burden of foundation upon another? To see what I have provided, the sustenance of generations of civilization, crumbling as my my most beautiful work goes with it. I remain still, with no wind to distill the wholesome silence. Duty and obligation, trust and deliberation, exuberance and trepidation, I begin my infinite spiral once more to see what the new warmth shall bring to a night as cold as myself.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Day 1: In a bedroom filled with posters of half naked women and empty Gatorade bottles, James wakes up at his 12: 15. He scratches his shorts and gingerly sidesteps the half-empty gatorades and and porno mags. " Was n' t I supposed to mow the lawn today? " He thinks to himself " Well, too late now. " He jogs down the stairs and slides into the kitchen, grabbing Froot Loops and milk along the way to the table. He pours a bowl and starts to eat. " Mom! " No answer. " Dad! " Nothing. He shrugs and finishes his cereal and puts the bowl in the sink and runs back upstairs, and throws on some jeans that have n' t been washed in several days, if not weeks. " I' m taking the car. " Still no answer. James grabs the keys and leaves. There' s no one else driving, weird for Saturday. He spots some cars sitting in the road though, must be something interesting, so he passes them. The people inside though, they seem off. He keeps driving towards the mall, a favorite hang out for him. The people there are frozen too-some with bags and some without. " The fuck? " He gets out and looks around. Everyone is frozen in place, some mid speech, mid step, mid life. He spots a meathead with a tank top and pushed him. The guy falls over and does n' t move. " Oh shit shit shit shit! " He' s running, trying to find help screaming at the top of his lungs " OHGOD OH GOD I NEED HELP! " Nothing. He runs fifty yards full speed, and seeing no help, collapses on the floor. Day 2: " This is n' t so bad. " Midnight-all dark except for the tv screen. Apparently electricity still worked despite everyone being frozen. With a bunch of games stolen from the mall, He went back home and decided to wait on figuring out what the hell was going on. Bedsides, what could one more day of being frozen hurt right?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: A freezing February wind swept through Steve' s polyester sweater, making his nipples rock hard. He frowned as an acrid liquid dribbled down his front, staining his undergarments yellow. He checked his mailbox. At one point, Steve could expect party invitations two or three times a week. He plunged his hand into the cold metal box nailed next to his front door. Nothing. Tearing off his outer layers and dropping them into an overflowing laundry basket, Steve sank into his frayed and worn couch cushions, forgetting his disappointment. He turned on the television to the 6 o' clock news and drifted off into an ethereal dreamworld where he could escape and be normal again. Steve, the architect, he thought. Steve, the happily married father of three. Anything besides his unfortunate reality, Steve, the guy who once accidentally brushed against a radioactive agave flower. Steve, the recipient of God' s cruelest evolutionary joke. Steve, the guy who secretes low quality tequila from his nipples.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The light of the sun tickled his face as it shone through the window slit. Grumbling, the hero rubbed his eyes and got out of bed. It must be a little earlier than normal, since he was n' t woken up by one of his servants but it happens. After washing up and dressing in a simple tunic and pants he descended the stairs towards the dining room. As he walked down the great hall he looked around, as he often did, at the trophies he acquired over the years. Ancient relics, skulls of great beasts, mighty weapons and mystic items. Each one with its own story and each one worth more than a normal person would make in 10 years. He fingered his pendant as he reminisced. The glass trinket around his neck, and it was only a simple glass trinket, was still worth more to him than any of those trophies before him. He shook his head silently then sat down for breakfast. There had been peace for many years since he and his comrade prevented the calamity. Who would start a war when there was a 4 person army that could topple a kingdom? Whatever side they chose would inevitably win. And so the hero stood by his king as the council discussed trade and politics. He looked at his comrades, each standing behind their own liege and shrugged. It was going to be a long day.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *The bang of the bullet exiting the gun was hiding within the roar of the thunderous rain as the two men faced eachother in their final showdown. * *Jimmy Rhethoric hit the ground clutching the bleeding hole in his gut, his gun hitting the pavement as the rain intensified in the background. * * " So... this is it, uh? Th' revenge... that, that you been thinkin' of? " Jimmy splurted out as blood leaked from his wound* * "... " * * "... heh.. Come on, lil' Zeke... Don' get col... cold feet now... Speak up... " Jimmy goaded, stretching his bloodied lips into a smirk. * *Zeke looked at him, his face unreadable, dropping his gun to the floor. * * " I... I thought killing you will bring me some peace. That maybe, maybe I get to put my family at rest... " He began, gazing towards the darkened clouds above the city. * * "... and now that you' re on death' s door. It' s not peace I feel. It' s anger... It' s hate... You took everything from me... EVERYTHING! AND THEN YOU' LL JUST DIE AND I' LL STILL BE ALO- " * *The gunshot rang out as Zeke' s body jerked backwards and fell to the ground with a dull thud. A lightning strike and a thunder after, the rain eased off a little. * *Jimmy managed to get back onto his feet and light a Cig midst the rain. Taking a long pull, he exhaled and sighed, looking at Zeke' s lifeless body on the ground. * * "... Ai n' t life a bitch, Lil' Zeke?... Sorry but th' world don' work right fo " talkers'... You got ta' to' do' first... " * -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - I usually do n' t write prompts but I do hope you enjoy this: )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " The planet was still 18 light years away, " Kuroa Pontis reported. " So the supernova happened 18 years ago. We' ve been wasting our time for the last 4 years. " Sef frowned. The only way to move faster than lightspeed was to bend the space around them, letting the spacecraft remain stationary while moving space-time itself. They had to extinguish 2 suns to get the necessary energy to power the fusion drive. Now, they are lost in space without a destination. " We have enough fuel for another 30 lightyears, " Kuroa pointed out. " Let' s strike for a new direction and... " " And hope that we accidentally stumble upon a life-bearing planet? " Dax Cing mocked. " We scanned 100 million planets before setting on Epsilon Eridani. There is no other like it in the galaxy. " " Except... " Kuroa interjected. " Do n' t say it " Dax growled. " Home " Kuroa finished. " If we made peace... " " WITH THEM? " Dax screamed. " They' re not human. You can not make a deal with the Pestilence. " " And you' d have us starve to death, marooned between asteroids? " Sef retorted. " Sef... " Dax pleaded. " Enough, is n' t this why we brought the locusts? " Sef asked. " Bring me to him. " -- -- -- - " I' ve never seen anything like it " Kuroa whispered. The locusts swarmed behind the thick plexiglass prison, angrily beating against the screen. " They wo n' t break out, will they? " " The Pestilence' s power grows weaker with distance, but he should still be able to hear us ", Dax replied. " Sef, this is a mistake. " *Back again? * the disembodied voice seemed to originate within the very minds of the hearer. Before their eyes, the locusts congregated into a vaguely human shape. " Lord Blight ", Sef yelled. " We want to make a deal. " There were no physical clues, but one got a feeling that this person-like mass of insects was secretly smiling. *I' m listening*, it smirked.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Did you ever read *Bobok*? " I had no idea who this man was, but we had a whole lot of time to kill. I noticed, however, that the man standing next to him had turned toward him at the word " Bobok " with an amazingly intense expression of hatred. " I have n' t read it, " I said. " I have n' t heard of it, come to think of it. " " It' s a Dostoevsky short story, " the man replied. " A guy sitting a graveyard finds himself hearing the conversations of the dead. " I did n' t give half a shit, but the dude seemed to want to talk, so I said, " Oh? " " Yeah, in the story, the dead people can still talk to each other in their coffins. They gradually lose coherence as their bodies decay, and then there' s nothing else after that -- no heaven or whatever. " " I see. " " They talk about the stuff they did in life, but as they decay things get worse. One body in the graveyard ca n' t do anything anymore but intermittently shout' Bobok.' Whatever the hell that means. But everyone knows that, really, it wo n' t be long until they' re at the same place he is. " " Oh. " " The story ends when the living dude sneezes or something, and the dead people realize they' re being listened to and shut up. " I made no reply. It was n' t as though I could n' t connect this with our situation, waiting as we were to be let out of whatever purgatory this was supposed to be. I did n' t think it was that great of a connection, though, and frankly I still just did n' t give a shit. After a few moments of my silence, the man turned to walk away. The man who had been next to him turned to me and shook his head with a look of anger. I could n' t tell if he was mad at the other stranger, or at me for encouraging him. The stranger found someone else and said, " Did you ever read *Bobok*? " The other man threw up his hands and cursed, walking in the other direction.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: 31 Then Mary went to wash the boy Jesus' sheets at the river, and found that they were sticky. 32 Upon returning and finding her husband, she urged him to have a talk with the boy. 33 Joseph was reluctant, for it is not the place of man to instruct God; and also there were ten minutes left in the game. But Mary would not be appeased. 34 So Joseph took the boy Jesus aside and did tell him of the birds and the bees, whereupon he said that if Jesus had any questions, he must ask them quickly, for the game was not yet over. And Jesus replied that he did have one. 35 " Thou sayest it requires nine months for a child to develop? " Joseph told Jesus again that it was so. 36 " And to lie with a woman out of wedlock is a grave sin? " Joseph affirmed that it was. 37 " But surely you and Mother were married only seven months before I was born? " 38 And Joseph said unto him, " My son, let me explain to you about miracles... "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Well, I guess bringing a zombie virus into the woods was a pretty stupid Idea, " I said to my research assistant Todd. " Yeah, we should have totally just never synthesized it, and if we really had to we should have kept in an extremely high tech lab, " he responded, stating the obvious. " Well, no use spilling over cried milk! " I said to him, mixing my words up but not wanting to backspace and fix it, " Maybe we' ll find it and some animal did n' t take it and this story turns out really boring! " I said hopefully. " Speakin' of the devil! " He said, and though his usage of the phrase did n' t make complete sense given the context I did n' t care, he had found the missing virus! " Awesome! " I replied, " Now lets go return it to the lab and lock it up or destroy it completely! " " No zombie bears for us! " He said as we walked off into the sunset. /r/PsychoWritingPrompts


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Sir, we' re receiving a transmission from the alien ship. " " Put it on speaker, let everyone here it. " said the President, " No need for any more secrecy now. " " Yes sir! On speaker *now* " replied the communications tech. In the beginning, you were told not to eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge. This was the most important message in the Bible. That' s why we made sure it was right there at the front. Not just as an origin story, but also a *warning*. Now we have returned. We have seen the results of your choice. Climate change, contamination of the air, water, soil.... even the gene pool of your planet' s organisms. Had we waited any longer you would surely have damaged yourselves and your ecosystem beyond salvage. This will not be allowed to happen. We will not allow it to happen. The meek shall inherit the Earth. The mighty, those who will choose to resist us, shall fall. The President raised his head at that last statement, and said to himself " We' ll see about that. We' ve been expecting you for longer than you know. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I wear her sister' s face. I think that is what scares her the most. It is twisted and torn and rotten, speckled with blood and gore and sagging from where the worms burrowed through it, but it is still her sister' s face. Most would not be able to recognize it, I do n' t think, but she loved her sister very much. She spends enough time seeing that face in places where it is n' t ( the pictures that no longer hang on the mantle, the the obituary notice she' s about rubbed all the ink off with how many times she' s smoothed her fingers over it. Her dreams, often ) that it is no surprise she can recognize it in the one place it actually is. I am not her sister. ( Not anymore, not after the argument and the screaming and the glint of cold metal as the knife plunged down. ) But her sister loved her very much, this too-thin little with clothes worn ragged who lays curled up in her bed every night and cries for a mother and father who will not come to comfort her. I remember that much. So I will stay here, curled up under this miserably small bed, and wait for the footsteps to come up the stairs. ( Eventually they will. Sooner or later, everyone has to sleep. ) And when they do, I will be ready. Mother and Father will never touch her again. I am a monster, but I am not such a beast that I would leave a child to a fate like that.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " It' s full of popcorn. " " What? " " Yeah, I know. Fucking popcorn. " " The Black Hole, instead of instant, painful death, is full of popcorn? " " Well, I mean, yeah it hurts like a son of a bitch, and it takes a long time to get past the painful part. But once you really get in there all the way, there' s popcorn. All laid out in nice glass bowls. " " Glass bowls? " " Yeah. There was butter, kettle corn, salted, unsalted. You' ve got your cheese, white and yellow, and one that I think was tamari. " " Have you lost your goddamn mind? " " You think I' m crazy? Go in there. There' s hundreds of bowls of popcorn. Once you finish a bowl, pffffft, it spits you back out beyond the event horizon. I' ve been in three times. " " I ca n' t believe what I' m hearing. " " Yeah, it' s nuts. You know what else is nuts? I could n' t find any caramel corn in there. None. I probably tasted seventy-five bowls of popcorn and could n' t find a single bowl of caramel. It' s the craziest thing. " " You think that' s the craziest thing about this? " " Yeah, well... sure, I mean... yeah I know the whole thing is crazy. But caramel corn is fantastic and I just feel like if there are so many bowls of popcorn that there would be all possible kinds. Right? " " Are you feeling quite right? " " Yeah. No. My stomach hurts. Those bowls are pretty big. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " I had n' t expected this. All my life, I' ve been planning, preparing... studying every biblical text I could find, training with the best. I knew how to get here, and... well, I thought I' d know enough to figure out the rest once I got here. " Jack raised his head from the table where he was slumped, and morosely cast a gaze around. " I even tried to communicate with Satan, or at least one of those minions you keep hearing about. You ever try to use a ouji board? Terrible. Useless. Thought I got a response once, but I figure it must have just been the drink. Or the drugs. I never could remember... " A large tankard of ale, on the edge his peripheral vision. Jack grabbed it, and drained it in a single pull, before continuing. "' suppose I always justified it by assuming I was right. That I had some simple, logical steps. Christ, I thought I was doing good, in the long run. Compared to mankind being freed from temptation for the rest of eternity, what' s sixty-eight years of killing, stealing, and double parking? Nothing, right? Hardly Hitler, but then again, if you go by the literal word of the bible, all I needed to do was shout at the sky every now and then. " A plate of food was dumped unceremoniously on the table, and was promptly ignored. Odin sighed, and sat down. " Look kid, I know it' s not what you expected, but come on... Helheim' s a boring place, nobody to fight anyway. Hel would kick you out for making a ruckus anyhow. You' ve been spoiling for a fight your whole life, so let' s go a few rounds! Nowhere like Valhalla for a good brawl! "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It has been a few cycles since Xyrybl witnessed his champion' s defeat in the arena and his head was still bobbling around with the look of astonishment, half covered in tentacles. The Krakarian ship was just passing the Earth moon, leaving back billions of earthlings cheering in delight and wonder of what happened. As usual, Xyrybl landed on the front lawn of the most powerful force on the planet and, as usual, he extended some tentacles in greetings, some whirring through the air, fending off random weaponry thrown at him. He quickly made his point, put up a fighting cage and teleported Earth' s most average human into it and then Krakaria' s most average Krakarian in a fight to the death. Everybody expected the battle of averages to be over swiftly, since earthlings had no previous experience with an alien race and knew nothing. But it turned out that the most average Krakarian lost due to being hopelessly overweight and receiving seven and a half heart attacks while trying to follow the earthling, who was running in circles. The last thing that went through Xyrybl' s mind, right before his superiors chopped off his head, was why he did n' t pay attention in school when the difference between average, mode and median was explained.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: There has not been a day when I do n' t think about it. I was so careful not to get infected I obliged by every standard, took frequent tests and everyone I interacted with got tested as well. When I woke up after the earthquake I was in a hospital bed and my eyes almost instinctively reached for my hand, there it was: the sign I was a carrier in the form of a red dot below my wrist. I immediately asked where she was, where I could see her, even through a Hazmat suit, but to pet her once again before they took her. She was already gone. I was under for too long, I would never see her again. She was the last house dog in the city: all the others were at the reservations. They' ll breed her like crazy and she' ll be alone, she' ll miss me. I ca n' t see her for the risk of infecting all the dogs in the reservation. It' s been ten years, I still miss her. Bioresistant breed have appeared, and every now and then I see a small Shiba with green-blue eyes, I wonder if they' re hers.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: ( Brock is the new recruit, Weasel is the NCO looking after a crewmen nicknamed Scout who got beat in a sparring match. ) The man had pale grey hair and sun-crusted skin. He wore Disukan scatter-gravel combat fatigues and spoke Kartoa with an easy, fringer Tautoan accent through a chaw of dip. Overall the look of a man in his late sixties, yet still wiry and tough enough to be deadly. He exuded the attitude and presence of a senior NCO, a man who demanded everything from his men and gave them nothing less.... Brock slowly approached and tried to think of something to say, but the way Weasel looked up and the calculating glare he gave tied Brock' s tongue into knots. Brock *hated* when NCO' s from any army did that. Weasel finally spoke up, "The f*** you looking at boy? ""I' m… I' m a new crewman Stárshiy. "He wasn' t sure if that was his real title or not, but since the other crewmen called ‘ Weasel' that, Brock guessed he should too. "I can see that; you don' t answer NCOs' questions in your army? ""We do. "Brock still wasn' t sure what to say. "…AND? What the f*** are you looking at? ""I' m looking at you Stárshiy. "*This isn' t the army, it' s a freelance crew, I don' t have to put up with this s*** anymore. * "Oooh looking at me boy? You know the Chief doesn' t take kindly to sexual advances between crew. ""I… What? ""We' re all professionals here, you' ll just have to control yourself, even with 89 kilos of sexy standing right by you. "It took Brock' s nervous brain a moment to realize that the old NCO was joking. *Fine, two could play that game. * "Can' t make any promises Stárshiy. "The Stárshiy' s face never broke his stern glare, yet Brock detected an amused glimmer in his eyes. "Honesty, that' s what I like to hear, now stop undressing me with your eyes and help drag Scout over to those crates. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was over. The fight between the hero and the villain reached the end, leaving a body laying on the floor. She was, at last, victorious! She was the winner! She could gloat about her success in front of the hero before finally killing him. She kneeled next to him, a smile curving her lips. Slowly, she took off his mask, savouring the moment like it was the last -and, in certain ways, it was. Of course it wasn' t that easy. Of course, there had to be something wrong in the end, because villains never had it easy, and she was the worst of her generation according to every newspaper, to every single news channel. And finally she could she why he looked strangely familiar. And she almost felt guilty for not recognizing his jaw, or the colour of his eyes. She felt guilty for not knowing the shape of his lips or the tone of his voice. The super villain wept. " Why did n' t you stop me? " He laughed softly, showing his teeth covered in blood. "Well, you know I couldn' t hurt you, little sister "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I look at the man staring at me, surprised like he found a huge pile of gold. He starts looking at one of my entertainment system. " That' s a Nintendo 64, wan na play? " I said in a low voice. He says " Why do n' t we go watch some Cartoons? You know, get to know what are some good shows to watch in the TV these days ", I nod and turn on the TV. I ask him " Hey what' s your name? ". The man says " My name is... my name is John. " My eyes grow bigger in surprise, I say quickly " Hey that' s my name too! ". He chuckles and says " Wow, What a small world we live in huh? ", I nod and also giggle a little. I change the channels and watch Superman. " Is this what you' re into? " the man says. " Yeah, I love watching superman, he' s so strong and fast, he could beat anybody! " I say. He chuckles and continues watching Superman with me. We sit in for hours, talking about what are some of the best games in the Nintendo 64, what are some of the best super heroes and about many other interesting things we both like. I end up taking a little nap on his shoulder. He looks at me and smiles. As I close my eyes, I see a tear running down his face. The next day, I wake up on the couch, I notice nobody is beside me. " Maybe it was just a dream " I thought. I then pulled out my controller, take out the Super Smash Bros cartridge and then put in Starfox. I wonder who that man was, as I was playing. ( Oh and I forgot to mention, this is my first writing prompt! I' m not that good of a writer so feedback would be appreciated! )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The freezing rain soaks into her skin, chilling her to the bone. It' s a welcome feeling after the night she' s just endured. She sits in the alley and tries to calm her fraying nerves, both scared and exhilarated. As the rain plasters her raven hair to her skull, she reflects on the the last ten years and why, after all that time, she' s finally had enough. She loved him. Oh, to have been young and in love at just 17, she' d fallen prey to his talk of the future. She' d succumbed to his silver tongue. Married by 18, she began to see his true colors. Little things at first. Subtle. A jab about her weight here, a snide remark about her inability to conceive there. Until finally the clouds of his anger rolled over and he brought his thunderous fists down on her. After that first time he' d started doing it more frequently. She was convinced it was her fault. She should be more demure, remember his likes and dislikes, what set him off and what pleased him. For ten years she felt trapped. Under his fist, under his eye. Cut off from the outside world like a caged bird. Not anymore. As she sits in that chilling onslaught, she sees clearly for the first time in a long time. Shakily, she gets to her feet and inhales. She breathes in the night air, the wet pavement. She has been baptized under heaven' s tears and tonight is the start of her new life. She exhales a timid laugh as she hails a cab. The bars of her cage have been wrenched open. Dripping wet, she slides into the taxi, the water droplets pattering on the fading leather. She smiles to herself and looks out the window as the car pulls away, each raindrop forging its own path on the glass.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The air felt still and sterile as it hummed beneath fluorescent light. The world had come to a stop for me, and time held its breath. I could feel the energy coming from the end of the room. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was more than I could ever believe, ever expect, or ever know was real. I had thought I had seen greatness before, but it all paled in comparison. With each step my legs grew weaker. My eyes began to water, and without control I cried tears more true than any that had ever fallen. My head was light and the room seemed to blur as my eyes beheld the sight of him. I have seen what is known to man. I have seen what is known to nature. I have seen the knowledge of centuries spelled out before me. I drank it all in and thought I knew it all. But here I was, humbled before him. I reached down and took the universe in my arms. He looked at his father with wisdom not of age, but of innocence. I held my son in my arms, and the universe looked at me and smiled.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: **Dear Mr Beaumont, we regret to inform you that Hell is currently -** *Bollocks*. I crushed the letter into a pulp and let it fall to the floor where it was swallowed up by the limbo void. What now? I mean there was always purgatory but the place was quieter than limbo and the admin had n' t dropped in to decorate the place for a long long time. Hmm. How long exactly? I knew that Heaven had abolished its squatters rights aeons ago, but maybe purgatory had never bothered because no one wanted to live there. I flicked through the legal charters and found the deed I was looking for. Aha! I knew it! Purgatory is literally up for grabs if I succeed in turning it into a home before the admin gets back. I started off spawning a few items here and there; a bed, a table, some chairs - but as time immeasurably progressed it turned into a full fledged living quarter complete with a courtyard and moat. It was just me at the beginning, but when my parole officer came by to check on me, I let him know that I was open for anyone as long as they adhered by the following rule: 1. Do what you want, but do n' t be a complete insufferable asshat. People came in waves, mostly freshies at first who were only able to add more furniture like I did - but then we started getting visits from Hell and that' s when we started getting some decent TV, our own Wifi, and copious amounts of alcohol. We even started getting some visits from curious Heaven inhabitants, wanting to blow off steam and willing to trade cloud vapour with us for a few minutes of fun. People wonder how our population has n' t exploded and created the overpopulation problems plaguing Heaven and Hell, but the asshat rule generally keeps people in check - and keeps away a large proportion of those who could only live in the other two realms. Most people are insufferable asshats, who knew?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The knock on the door is frantic. Before I can even answer, Nat barges in. " Nat, if you could be so kind to wait for me to call you in next time? " Nat rushes to my desk. Up close, I can see that her face is red, and her long blonde hair is slick with sweat. " I' m so sorry, Mr Mayor. Th... this could n' t wait. " I see now the panic in her eyes. The sheer terror that I had not seen before outside of old Earth movies. " Nat, tell me what' s going on. " " I... it' s... we got a fax from the big city. There' s been comms... f.. from Earth. The President' s on the communicator, all the other heads of state are there. They want you there too. " I nod, standing up quickly and hurrying down the stairs to the main room. *Earth. After 100 years of radio silence, we finally can talk to Earth again. * No-one knew why Earth had suddenly cut all chatter. All we knew is that every ship we had sent out to Earth had stayed there. We had tried to talk with someone out there for an explanation, but just as Mars Control got through to Earth Control, silence. And the waves had been silent ever since. We had no ships. The Mars colony had been stranded. I hurry into the Main Hall. Most of my staff were there already, gathered around the large holo-screen in the middle. I knew, that across Mars, there were dozens of other rooms, just like this, with other people just like us, staring up at the giant screen. The Martian President' s head came into view on the screen. " My friends. As you all know, 100 years ago we lost comms with Earth herself. For 100 years we have heard nothing from them. At 0920 this morning, we got a message. " His face was replaced with a video feed. A young man, no older than 25 was scrambling desperately at the control panel beneath the comms screen. He had a massive cut down the side of his face, fresh blood dripping from it. His left ear was dangling from a thread. " Mars.... this is Earth.... Run. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Did you see that terrible article about the steam mills? " Joan asked, tightening the leather straps across her corsette. " No, what happened? Something get a little hot and bothered? " Bob giggled as he skipped along. " They exploded and created radioactive superhumans. Steam Man was one, naturally as what happens with every new event all the new creations have a solid three days of sex with each other under poor disguises of story. I mean, just say you want to hide away and use your' new package' - it' s fine, I understand, " Joan' s heeled clacked against the cement. " That' s not what really bothers me about our world- no, what bothers me is that these fat lazy picture book readers get laid constantly. The more acne the better or some shit! I mean, all these super well endowned on the top girls just melt for these sloppy pizza grease slugs. I do n' t get it, ever since I fled the Jedi academy for being too pretty I just have felt lost, " Bob' s head hung watching the cement change from line to solid. " Well, I am constantly compelled to sleep with any poor sap I can find. Unless they' re attractive- I' ll take the pizza guy in the corner on his laptop anyday. Hell, I had one last night and we rode on the backs of dragons- some princess or something rode the other one. He kept saying he was' the third head of the dragon' and I could n' t really argue. " Who writes this shit? I just do n' t understand, it' s been worse ever since the computers became cheaper, oh well, guess I' ll have to settle for my hard life, " Bob kicked a pebble as his bleach blonde hair waved down over his blue eyes. His chiseled chin, it was only going to get stranger when the new branch of steampunk comes out.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My superpower was, and still is, knowing what people struggle with. Could be a foot-fungus. Erection problems. Or a boss who often crosses that fine line between being caring/charismatic, and inappropriate touching/strong verbal innuendo. At first I did my best to be jury, judge, and executioner, but somehow, I always ended up the loser, the weirdo, or simply the one who seemed most suspicious. Through trial and error, in a time frame of ten years, I learn to let go. I' ve learnt that being bitter and negative gets me the farthest. Sure, I have to step on some people now and again, but the greater good is served, and I' m no longer considered the loser. The weirdo. Nor considered the most suspicious... Eventhough I' m not happy as a human-being, I feel content that I' ve gotten this far. I' ve one-upped everyone it seems. One day, on a monday, I wake up for work and everything seems nicely repetitive for the first time ever. Seems I' ve longed for this forever. I do my useal morning routine, and end-up infront if my bathroom mirror... It feels like I took some drug, that is making my brain as clear as a fresh water spring, somewhere in some undiscovered part of the world. My happiness turns on a dime, and I' m so surprised by it, I do n' t even try to fight back. I' m suddenly painfully aware that Im 45, and that I spent the last 15 years, becoming someone that was n' t weird, stupid, suspicious... Im thinking I' m just having a bad morning, but my brain trucks-on. I remember that, about 14 years ago, a girl worked at my office, who was often blamed for not being able to recognise people' s needs. Eventhough she was always the one taking care of everyone, behind their backs, without them realizing. Im too tired to finish the story properly, but I allowed her to get fired, because I was only focussed on appearing normal, in an abnormal world.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Man, I' m kind of a dick. Walking around in the hallways, people always glare. They glare at me because they know how I' ve treated other people. I feel those glares, like lasers fixated on my back forever. Every time I come into contact with another person, I go into autopilot, thinking up any insult or anything I can use against them. I just want everyone to leave me alone. Never has there been a time that I can remember where people did n' t stare, just before they where staring for different reasons. The story my parents tell me is that I was chasing my ball down the street when I was a kid, and suddenly a car just came and hit me. I almost died. I wish I would' ve died. Instead I was left with what my Dad calls " battle scars ", but what everyone else thinks of as ugly, even my Mom. Scars. All over my face. Not just one little one, but everywhere. As me and my face started growing, it caused the scars to contort into disgusting shapes all over my face. I could never go anywhere where people were n' t staring, pointing, or the occasional douchebag laughing. Mostly, it was pity. Strangers would come up to me and tell me they where sorry. Strangers. I do n' t want pity. In school, it was the same. So, I started being a jerk. I' d rather insults thrown my way, than words of pity. I do n' t want to be treated different, I want them to know me for who I am. So when I feel your glares, I' m happy. It means you know something about me besides my face.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: All hail the warden of the west, daughter of winter, the undefeated, our beautiful and benevolent ruler, Empress Elsa! The emperor rubbed his temple. The translator' s yelling was as shrill as it was boastful. " I can speak your language, " said the wizened lord, " I am Qin Shi Huang, emperor of China. " The tall, slender, and middle aged woman nodded politely. " I presume you have beard of my reputation then. " " Warden of the Europe and queen of Asia. But crowing roosters give no eggs. " Elsa frowned cryptic answers never sat well with her. " Shall we cut the formalities. We both know what i' m here for. Now, please, sign here. You will find the treaty to be quite fair. " " I have already looked at the treaty. You can not honestly expect one hundred thousand pounds of gold! You want Every firstborn son drafted for your wars. I will not let China' s children die for another' s greed! " Elsa hissed, " You know better than to deny me like that. You know what sort of power I hold. Do you really want Nanjing to become another Kyoto. " " You froze the war ships not the fishing boats or the farms. You care to deeply about the people to ever let them starve. You may be a kind woman but you will never make me your puppet! You will never have the mandate of heaven so my people will never follow you! " Elsa sighed. Some men just could n' t be reasoned with. With a flick of her wrist, an icy flew towards the old man. Foosh! Fire materialized rendering her attack impotent. Irritated, Elsa hurled two more deadly but quicky neutered blasts. Seething, Elsa began channeling the power of a blizzard into a single spear. " Taste my- " Elsa screamed as a knife was twisted in her abdomen. Elsa looked up with her darkening vision into the materializing face of her invisible assailant " All the strength of a raging fire. Mysterious as the dark side of the moon. Bitch. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was just like any other Tuesday with one exception; it was my Birthday. One of my friends was in the Hospital, but would n' t say for what - I say' friend' but it' s really more like' person I do n' t hate'... I mean, there' s only 366 people in the world, so everybody kind-of-knows everybody, and some people suck less than others. I decide to be nice and go visit Jenna. She' s been kind of lonely lately, and I' ve been a bit distant - it' s been a rough few weeks. I' m greeted by James at reception, and he tells me to go on in - no need for room numbers, there' s only 3 rooms that they use - and as I round the corner to her door I hear some unusual sounds coming from one of the rooms; a lot of heavy breathing, some screaming, and then... Crying. Shit - never thought I' d have to literally punch a baby.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: A short story/poem I wrote when I was in the mood of some soft romance. I call it, " All Right ", hope you guys like it! -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - I wake up in the morning, but something' s not right. Cook my sausage and eggs, but something' s not quite right. A commute to work, yet something' s not right. Some new stories to tell, and something' s not right. Boss really likes my article from yesterday, something' s still not right. The day was long, but productive, but something' s not right. I' ll work on the story about the new bowling alley tomorrow; I can' t put my finger on what' s not right. I' m going to be late! No, no, no, this can' t be right. Made it with three minutes to spare, this doesn' t feel right. She said to meet her at Gate 4, or was it 5? I can' t tell which one is right. She texts me, " I see you "and… Oh, there she is! This is… something. She tells me about her trip on the drive home, it was nice for her to see another country and all but business didn' t really let her go sight seeing; I think this is right. She' s relieved to be home, I' m close to positive that this is right. She slips off her clothes and slips on some pajamas all while managing to look astonishingly cute. We get ready for bed and when I see her come from the washroom to fall back into our bed, I start to realize what it is that felt wrong and understand why this feels right. She gives me one last kiss and we drift into our deep sleeps. The day is now over, so long and good night.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Through the steam of the tea you just poured, I comment to myself about how wonderful your eyes really are. I do n' t know why I thought them to be so flat before now. After the first sip it hits me, your shoulders are perfect for children to ride on. I' m nearly done with my cup and can not imagine my life without you, no other person would be better to be a husband, a father, a grave mate. I tell you how I feel, how I do n' t think I would be able to breathe without you in the room, how I probably would n' t be able to live another day without knowing I would wake up next to you in the morning, how I might die if you got up from the table, do n' t leave please do n' t leave I will do anything never leave please stay there' s nothing I ca n' t do for you please, please, please. You show me a vial. You read me the label. " Do n' t administer during ovulation. " You ask me when my next period is, I can not answer fast enough for you, and my answer causes you to sigh. " Anne. " " Yes, love? " " I' m sorry. " What are you doing? You' re standing up, please, no, what are you doing? Just look at me, please god please turn around, you do n' t know what you' re doing, I can feel my heart tearing itself to shreds, please please please... You let the door shut behind you. I fall to the floor. What is tears, what is tea, and what is blood I can not tell, the only thing of which I am certain is that you have killed me. And I love you.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: **Assorted Scenes**: " 60 cm. Sugar cane reed. How interesting, " said the old wizard, pacing around his shop. " Mr. Olivandar sir, " asked Harry, " what' s so interesting about it? " " Well you see the plant that produced your reed happened, by chance, to give enough wood for two reeds. And how interesting is it that this Clarinet would choose you when its brother gave you that scar. " The instrument-maker' s eyes lingered on Harry' s forehead, before gazing off into the distance. " You see, I never forget an instrument. Oboe. 65 inches. He Who Must Not Be Named did wondrous things with his Oboe. Terrible things indeed, but wondrous nonetheless. " ________________ Professor Lockhart paced around the chamber, Ron' s kazoo held up to his lips. " Thank you for opening this chamber for me, boys. Now, if you must know, I must be going. Do n' t worry, I' ll tell them all about how hard we worked to save her, only to reach too late. About how you two poor boys lost your minds at the sight of her dead body. Now then, let' s just tidy up the lose ends. **OBLIVIATE! ** There was a horrible wheezing sound as the magic in Lockhart' s note was distorted by the warped plastic casing. All the dents caused by the Whomping Willow changed the pitch of the attempted memory tune. There was a massive band and Lockhart flew backwards, knocking his head on the far wall. Rubble fell as the chamber collapsed and, when Harry opened his eyes, there was a solid wall of trash and metal where Ron and Lockhart were standing mere moments ago.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Hi and welcome to New Haven where the sun is always shining*, birds are always singing*, and the people are always happy*! Looking to move to New Haven? Well why would n' t you? New Haven has 100 % employment*, free housing*, free healthcare* and dental. * Try our revolutionary public transport system, the' Pedestrian Ambulatory Highways' ( TM ) You' ll never go back to an automobile again! * Like gardening? Well New Haven runs farms and we' d like to' share' the satisfaction of growing with you. How about sports? We promote a number of activities through our civil health bureau. Its mandatory! Like parties? Well the city is run by one! So move to New Haven today. You wont go back to your old life. We promise. *The sun is always shining in space; birds are robotic; happiness is legislated; unemployment illegal; free housing for first 3 months, then at 70 % annual income; you are free to practice healthcare on yourself; actual free dental. Vehicles illegal in New Haven except for party members.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Should I have been suspicious? Probably, but they paid me well enough to not be suspicious. I got a decent living wage to browse Reddit, who would n' t jump at a chance like that? Liars. That' s who. All I had to do was report my browser history, my upvotes, likes, whatever. They did n' t even care if I watched porn! Occasionally, I had to take surveys on which titles I would click on, which gifs and memes were funniest, yada yada. So yeah, I should have seen this coming sooner. But maybe I did n' t want to, you know? I had a good thing going for me, dank memes from 9 to 5 and that was literally my job! Still, I could n' t ignore it anymore. Everything that I, and my fellow coworkers, would report as interesting would show up within a day or two. It was uncanny, even outright quoted Reddit users without credit! " It could be a coincidence! " I thought. But no, there were too many similarities. I had to quit my job. Oh how I hated to quit it, but I could n' t sleep at night knowing I was working for the equivalent of a Plagiarism Plague. So I quit, went home, and did exactly what I did at work, but this time I was a free man. I went to Reddit. " I inadvertently helped Buzzfeed steal material for almost a year, AMA! "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Ten more minutes, " I said as I slapped the snooze button on my alarm clock. It rang even louder. " SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. " I screamed as I slapped the alarm as hard as I could. All of a sudden I heard, " GET. THE. FUCK. UP. " It felt like a brick had been dropped onto my cheek. " What was that? " " Bitch it' s me. " " Who? " " Your alarm clock, dumbass. Get up before I slap you again. " " Just give me ten more minutes man. " " DID YOU JUST ASSUME MY GENDER!?!?!?!?!?! " I felt an extremely painful sting in my face and became very drowsy. Then I woke up to the sound of my alarm clock ringing. I was about to slap the snooze button thinking that this was all a dream when I heard, " DO N' T START THIS SHIT AGAIN " Sorry for formatting/grammar, I' m new to this. If you want to see my future stories subscribe to /r/DodoWrites


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was a full fledged panic. Once the three of us saw Jason' s corpse, we bolted through the building like a tornado. Throwing stuff everywhere, shouting, yelling for help that could n' t hear us. The body was in between us and the closet where we had stuffed our equipment and phones. In haste, we had run the wrong direction. Although I knew exactly where we were, Jose and Ben were losing it. Perfect. I led them to the ruined areas of the building. Here the asylum had collapsed in several locations which made it easier to get separated. And very quickly, we did. Jose and Ben continued screaming their asses off. Imbeciles. I doubled back and waited behind a fallen pillar. A tall figure flashed past, completely silent. Their screams remained loud, looked like they were somewhere in the vicinity still. I remained in wait. It took me over a year to plan this, and I was n' t about to fail. Patience. Suddenly one scream shut up mid exhale. The second followed soon after. I stood up and walked over to find the bodies. The same tall figure was crunched over Jose fiddling with something I could n' t see. The tall man then uttered, " Why are you still here? You fulfilled your end of the deal. Now get the fuck out. " I did n' t need to wait another second. Those poor fuckers were n' t actually dead yet, but they would soon be begging for it. And they wo n' t get it. Not for a long, long time.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *We wake to sorrow / the wreckage of tomorrow. * The line echoes in your head as you ease yourself up against the windowsill to look out at the column of smoke. It' s been three days now, and the looters look to have finally gone. Nothing remains but the bitter black smoke. You have n' t gone outside yet. You probably wo n' t today, either. Tomorrow, maybe, if it stays still. Maybe. Across the street, a three-legged dog hops down from the Madison' s curb. Its eyes are red, its grizzled muzzle bloody. It stops, maybe sensing you. Its upper lip skins back in a snarl. Watching the window. You dare n' t move. Hardly dare swallow the knot of thick spit that suddenly fills your mouth. Three legs or four, the dog is staring at you as proud and as fierce as the the king of forever. When it turns away after a minute or an hour, you realize you have n' t breathed. This is the bright new future your degree gave you, then. This is why you sweated in sweltering classrooms learning trigonometry and biology and the history of underpants or whatever the fuck the system thought you needed to know. What you needed was AP Chainsaws. IED Shop. Ten hour run-and-hide drills in PE. Instead you got Sculpture, and Programming. You have three days of food left. Maybe four. And then you' ll have no choice but to leave. To try to scratch a life out of the gutted corpse of the world. Yeah. Good luck with that, fat boy.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I' m at an average party with kegs floating about and danes in short shorts, inviting smiles and beer frothing the tips of their lush little lips as Cape cod kwassa kwassa feels the air with its indie groove. Hawaiian shirts and branded sneakers is the theme of choice. I' m seeing nikes all over the carpet and hearing the sweet sound of jaded youth immersed in musical politics, which holds no interest to I, whatsoever. " Hooch or bath salts? " A guy asks. In my own, lonesome world, I can not hear this. He asks again, and this time I take a swig of my fine port, before laughing in his hipster face. There' s lines of some inexpensive drug being poured out onto the kitchen counter as I wander around coolly, disengaged from anything remotely trendy. Nothing seems to hold my attention for more than thirty seconds until another typically mood lifting indie-surfer band fills the air yet again. I' m nestling the remains of my drink; waiting for something cool to happen so I can roll my eyes and wait for it to be forgotten so I can reinvent that once' cool' thing later on, in the respect that my individualistic stance gets the occasional recognition it deserves. Someone just broke something and the usual rawr of wahey ensues. Now there' s sushi being delivered as opposed to pizza because let' s face it, pizza is pretty much a dying commodity now that we can gobble on those little maki bites of joy over and over without feeling like a fat cunt. " Fuck my life. " I say, lighting a cigar next to a girl toking on an organic joint. When did everything become so cool that it' s uncool?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I muttered a few unspeakable words under my breath and continued walking. Were I in the forest, as I usually was, I would simply utter a spell and have the rain avoid me while I attended my business. However, I wanted for the townsfolk to not be wary to the fact that I was indeed a wizard, and remaining dry in the downpour would surely give myself away. As it was, my long beard that had the occasional twig in it attracted glances. Why the other wizards decided to hold our conventions in right under normal people' s noses, I had no idea. The only requirements were this: We were not allowed to use magic in public for the duration of the convention, we could n' t let normal people find us, and we had to walk in, not teleport or use an invisibility charm. Some wizards are just too cocky. As a wizard of the forest, I was surely outnumbered by other wizards at the conference. A vast majority of the attending wizards were wizards of the earth. Wizards of the water were also quite common. If you are confused about our kind, let me explain. A wizard tends to be more gifted with certain abilities. For me, I tend to be welcoming to forest creatures, have a magnificent green thumb, and can use much of the forest to my advantage. You may also notice that if I am still for too long, I' d begin to sprout twigs and look very much like an old stump. Water wizards would form puddles underneath them, which is a disaster to clean up. The conference was often the only chance I had to meet my wizard brethren. As the weekend went by, I saw dear friends, some cousins, and old rivals. Most had an apprentice with them. I did n' t have one, at the time. But you found me here, in my home. That is no small task. I believe the King may have granted you with some of our abilities, even though you do n' t believe so. That is why I train you, my young friend. Do not worry about the teapot you broke, or the squirrels you accidentally fried. I believe in you. You can be a great wizard.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " You' ve got to help me, doc. " " That' s what I' m doing, " replied Doctor Jenkins in a stern voice. Turning to face me, he held up a cylindrical containment device. " Now, go pee in this cup. " Silently, I obliged. Taking the cup and walking behind the curtains, I proceeded to pee out the answers to my problem. " I mean, I' m already 17. " I started babbling. " All my friends already have their powers. Jason can talk to chihuahuas, Grace can dye her hair into any color, Bruce can- " " Leroy. " " Yes, doctor? " " Are you done? " " Yes. " " Good. Now, please pass me your pee. " Gingerly, I zipped up my pants. Walking back to the doctor, I passed him the cup. He stuck his finger into it. " What the f- " " Relax, boy. " The doctor closed his eyes. " My power is liquid bio-analysis. By analyzing your urine sample, I will be able to determine what' s wrong with your body. " " Oh. " He began swirling the emerald liquid with his finger. " Could n' t you have taken my blood sample instead? " " Takes too long. " Doctor Jenkins opened his eyes. " Plus, I am afraid of blood. " " Oh. " There was an awkward silence. Finally, the doctor spoke. " Indeed... this is very peculiar... " " I knew it! " I clasped my hands over my face. " My parents told me that it is going to be alright but noooo. " The doctor wrinkled his brows, deep in thought. " I am a freak! My friends are going to leave me. Society will never accept me! " I could feel my breathing quicken as I struggled for air. Reality was finally settling down on me. I had never felt so... powerless... in my life. " Doc, what' s wrong with me. " Doctor Jenkins lifted his finger out of my pee and looked me straight in the eye. " Calm the fuck down boy. You just have n' t hit puberty yet. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Ah, what the hell I' m late to the party but I' ve always wanted to talk about this. I' m just a dude living in central Canada whose been thinking of a book idea non stop for the past 2 weeks or so. I do a lot of daydreaming and story/worldbuilding and this is the first story I have this much confidence in. Now onto the actual story. The story takes place following great war which destroyed major Canadian cities, and follows the resulting life of a young man ( let' s call him John ) who survives for many years in the remains of Winnipeg, Manitoba using the knowledge his father had given him all throughout his life. Through many events that happen after the war, John will slowly transform from a normal survivor into a feared local legend known as " The Bear Man ". I want the story to follow intimately with John' s struggle to survive and the transformations he must go through and decisions he must make. It will probably focus on the feelings of isolation, longing for the past, loss of humanity and the effects of becoming a feared entity for people around you. Also, because the actual day to day surviving is a large aspect, I want to make sure that the John' s survival remains realistic for the most part, meaning I' ll focus on the aspects of food, shelter, cleanliness, injuries etc. It' s got a long way to go but I feel like it has a good premise and I' ve thought of events that can happen throughout the story.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " How much sleep have you been getting, hun? " asked Jen, softly. She placed her hand on his cheek tenderly. " Honestly, it' s like you do n' t know what to do with yourself when I' m gone. " Daniel chuckled. " I do n' t. Picking up after the dog is nothing like picking up after you. There are n' t socks and hair clips all over the place. " " Oh quiet. I can tell you miss me. I only have one more week though. The guys up high like to take their time. Meeting after meeting after pointless, fucking meeting. " She sipped her coffee, grimacing slightly as it burned her tongue. " I understand, I understand. You guys can take your time. I' ll try to keep the bed empty for you when you come back, promise. " He crossed his pointer and middle finger together, grinning mischievously. She slapped his arm playfully, as they both stifled their laughs. As their laughter subsided, a small smile hanging on Daniel' s face, his eyes passed over the room. Small corner Starbucks, Saturday; busy as busy gets. Young and old filled the coffee shop. College students tick-and-tacked away on their laptops, young women sat in gaggles, chatting away, phones buzzed and rang. Something was off though. " You see that guy in the corner booth? Red tie, brown jacket. " Jen nodded, curious. " I know this sounds stupid, but there' s something about him. He does n' t have an iPhone, or tablet, or laptop. Or even a book. He' s just sitting there drinking his coffee. " " Maybe he just knows how to enjoy a good cup of coffee. " " Then why the hell is he at Starbucks? " " Oh. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: * " It' s about a guy writing a story about a guy writing a story. It' s fiction, but it' ll be chock full of insight into the world of writing about writing. You see we' ve read tons of stories about the process of writing, but hardly any about the process of writing about the process of writing. " * * " And who' s your market? " * * " So many authors out there, too many, and nearly everyone of them has written about a writer at some point. All those authors, they' ll relate to my story. They' ll relate to writing about writing. " * * " You know what? That' s about the best goddamn idea I' ve heard all day " and he stood up and shook my hand. * Brad_Collins leaned back from his computer screen shaking his head. It' s horrible, he thought. There' s nothing to it. No clever twist, no characterization. Hell it was all dialogue, his weakest area. And what' s this? Inserting himself into his own story? Who does he think he is, Charlie Kaufman? What arrogance. Such ego. Jesus Christ now he' s making meme jokes in his head. He hovered his finger over the save button, still seriously considering closing the page and just forgetting it. He was really regretting using his real name for this account. If he had stayed anonymous he would n' t be having this dilemma. Plus mentioning himself in the third person is n' t nearly as fun as it seems to be for others. Maybe he' d actually like this story if his username was DiarrheaThunderSnatch or Murder_Sex_Typhoon.