Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I' ll never find this normal. I mean I can understand it, and sympathise ( hell would n' t be working this job if I could n' t ) but it still unnerves me. The client is saying his last goodbyes, it' s neen a good party - excellent send off, better than most clients I deal with. His kids are hurt, they' ve begged, they always beg, but overall they are supportive of his decision. His wife had been like a rock, I know she' s torn up inside but who would n' t be? He finally requests that he and his wife be excused. The doctor and offical make sure one last time that he' s making the choice of his own free will, then they leave for the balcony over the beach. I follow in tow. Suns setting, they sit. He takes the pills. She cries. He dies. She cries some more. I give him a moment, like all suicides he regrets it - it' s inevitable, nobody really wants to die, they think they do but every soul who ever snuffed it once it' s done there are regrets. Times up, I start the process. *Tough call* Looking down at the lifeless husk that wad once him, the situation dawns on pretty quickly. " Was it the right one? " *It' s done at any rate* He makes his peace. I still do n' t get it, but his soul will be moving on before too long anyway. Dead is dead. Finally, he asks the question they all must. " What' s next? "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He did n' t know who he was supposed to be this time. The landscape around him was green and full of tropical trees. The ground was muddy, the wind blew hard, and in the far distance he could see a river. He could hear trumpets, he could hear roaring, but only softly so. Nobody was around him, though he wore heavy armour along with a sword and shield, as well as a helmet. A lone warrior was an uncommon thing. He placed his hand on the helmet. Phrygian? He guessed he was in a battle, but he could n' t see the men around him. Sometimes he thought he saw faint ghastly visions of a magnificant army with grand pikes marching past him, but they were n' t real, just figments of his imagination. Across him was an Indian. He marched confidently, but without as much armour. India? He looked at his hands. White as could be. Odd. He marched forwards as well, but then stopped. He did n' t know why he had marched forward or stopped. The Indian stopped as well, but after a short pause he roared and charged at him. He could hear orders being faintly shouted and the sound of a massive stampede coming towards him. The Indian charged blindly, without much sense. As the Indian warrior was about to crash into him, he lifted his shield to prevent himself from being knocked over and buried his sword in the Indian' s stomach. The landscape disappeared. Time for the next one. So many..


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: ( ( Apologies if this is a shitty representation. ) ) -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- What is this place? The curtains, the carpet, this tv set, this coffee table, this couch... Oh. It' s my house. My old house, when I was a kid. I go to step outside of the living room, but it just sort of... fades away. I turn back, and see myself, my old self, sitting on the couch watching TV. I slowly walk over to him, he does n' t give me more than a glance, before going back to watching the TV. I can' t make out what he' s watching- some cartoon. I used to enjoy sitting down and watching cartoons. I place myself on the couch next to him, watching the blur on the TV in silence. ‘ Who are you?' he asks, abruptly, but not unexpectedly. He doesn' t tear his eyes away from the TV. ‘ I' m you...' I murmur, half to him, half to myself. I too, don' t look away from the TV. ‘ Huh.' he says, quickly taking the idea in. ‘ I get pretty skinny?' he says. ‘ Yeah... sorry.' I weakly apologise. He makes a slight movement of the head. I look over and see him now staring at his feet. He looks as if he' s about to cry. ‘ So I don' t get out, huh? I end up like my brothers?' He asks, choking back the tears. I feel my lip tremble and my eyes start to burn, and I can only nod my head, because if I say something, I' d probably start weeping. My face suddenly feels cold and I rub my face- I' m lying on my side in my bathroom, next to the toilet, my kit spread out in front of me, and the hallucination still fresh in my mind. I can only ball up in the corner and cry silently.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Cower, mortals! For before you is Dr Demented. My deeds are legendary. Last year, I successfully kidnapped the UN assembly, before that tiresome Super Squad interfered. In 2014, I was responsible for the invasion of the Rathikin Crusade. In 2013, with the successful invention of my time machine, I removed the country of France from history itself. Wait, you would n' t remember that one. Just take my word for it. It was a country, now it' s not, that' s a pretty impressive piece of work, if I do say so myself. Why am I here? Time and time again, I' ve been defeated by those absolute imbeciles, the Super Squad. I tire of losing to these narrow minded posers- yes, posers. All the power at their fingertips, but no vision! No ambition! The things we could accomplish if they would only join me! But I digress. I' m on a quest for self betterment- and no, not through genetic manipulation or cybernetic enhancement again. I' ve realized I do not live up to my full potential. For in truth- as Captain Clock reminds us all in every. single. press conference, I do not infact hold the degree my title implies. Even if such a paltry academic achievement is unlikely to improve my new plan for world domination, It will be a joy to see that overgrown pocket watch struggle to find a new soundbite. However, growing a cloned Super Squad is a very demanding task. Nutrient feeds, power level monitoring, and subconscious loyalty training make attending classes a bit of a hassle. That' s why I signed up for UoC' s distance, Tele-educational program. " "..... Thank you, Dr Demented. I believe our next student is Mrs Dukes. Can you introduce yourself to the class, and tell us what brings you to English 101 today? "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The Preacher sat beside me. He said nothing. His weathered face had seen the same horrors as my own, the deep wounds healed by time and patience. I collapsed into his arms and cried and he said nothing, he just held me. The Sheriff looked at me through the bars of the cell and he just shook his head. The scars were deep and painful and his anger boiled beneath the surface. For too long he had bled, unable to bear the sight of a young man, so willing to die. The Doctor took great care with me. I had been to so many places, so many times. The wounds stretched deep, deeper than the flesh and the bone. I had travelled great distances in the name of service. I had seen the world and every minute of it. The Recruiter told me of the technology. His boyish face was young like my own and he was so full of enthusiasm. I would see the world. I would meet its people. I would make everyone proud and defend our way. So blind he was, so blind I did n' t see. The Teacher took great care and told me of the future. He explained the machines and their purpose, the loops and the risks. He was like the father a boy should have had. I look back now, sitting on that church bench beside my troubled self, gripping the iron bars and berating my foolish self, watching the flicker of hate of my wounded self, the naive stupidity of my boyish self and wonder what that teacher saw. I' ve lived to see a thousand times. And in everyone I have found myself and realised I have never known who I am.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " No no no no! AW-Dammit! " " Huh? What? " " Why those pants? And on the new leather couch! " " They' re my comfy pants. " " *They' re* made of steaks! " "... well yeah that' s what makes them comfy. " Her and I have had this talk before. I had always enjoyed her peculiar fashion sense, but had thought *wrongly* that it was limited to the stage and award shows. " Sweety, " I said " That does n' t look comfy. It looks like you' ve sat in the middle of someones misguided attempt to reconstruct a cow. " She pouted at me. I smiled back. She had a nice pout. We stared at eachother for a moment. Love' s a strange thing - stranger even than the way my wife dresses. She eventually smiled and, defeated, I took my place next to her on the couch, snuggled up and readied myself for a movie. " Oh? " She said " what are your pant' s made of? " " Cotton, my dear. Cotton. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Come on give us a smile, " The once recognizable mass of blistered flesh made its best attempt not sag too greatly in the presence of the healer. Healers, those who turned there back on conventional medicine, were responsible for the greatest advances medical science in over a century. Those who originally disparaged their ways could not argue with the consistent results. " Very good Robert. As a reward I' ve brought you a new test, " The healer snapped on a pair of gloves and pulled a vial from the cooler. Robert flinched at the sight of the medicine, but the straps on his chair prevent him recoiling. He could hardly remember his thoughts when he volunteered for the program. Five years off his sentence. Helping cure disease. It was an opportunity to make amends. " Robert. You do know the benefits of this research, do n' t you? " the healer chimed in again now drawing the fluid into a syringe. Robert made an audible cough, but could muster no more than that. "You' re in the ranks of Curie or Bogdanov, " He tapped the syringe for little more than dramatic effect, " No progress comes without some tragedy. " " Robert your contributions could provide a cure, " The healer approached with the solution, " Do n' t you believe this is valuable? You not I, are a creator of life. " The healer poked the needle into Robert' s arm. The syringe did n' t hurt, not much hurt Robert anymore. The healer disposed of the needle and left without another word. Robert' s contribution later lead to a treatment for lymphoma.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: This is a great guide! Can I hop on with something else to say about agency? Two dimensional characters. You mentioned this in your post, but for me it' s always useful to think of the backgrounds of characters and how they relate. This sort of flows into my dialogue prompt but also flows into sort of shading or fleshing out characters that is so hard to do. Not everyone can be orphaned as a baby or have some sort of vendetta. They can just be bored in their own lives, or searching for happiness. And not only that, that characters do n' t only do good or evil things. You touch on this in the' POV matters' and that' s totally true. But someone who' s good does n' t do all good things. You and I have both done things we regret. Those things stick with us. So the biggest piece of advice that I can give ( sorry to jump on here ) is to make sure that your ( at least human characters ) have human characteristics. Not just Mary-Sue type things in that they' re good at everything, but also that they' ve had their ups and downs. Everyone weathers storms. Everyone gets in fights. Everyone does n' t look where they' re going and rams their knee into a desk ( at least once... maybe ). Excellent guide. I love reading everything that everyone' s written and ca n' t wait to see what other users come up with.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I lay down next to her. We both know this is a one night stand. I have a wife. I should n' t be doing this, but the desire for this new girl is too strong. I caress her body, touching every curve gently. I begin breathing softly as I become erect. She can feel me throbbing against her legs. I slowly undress her, kissing every inch of her soft skin along the way. She just stares at me in anticipation of what' s next. Her body looks amazing in the moonlight. She rolls on top of me as I begin kissing her neck, cupping her breasts with my hands. Her hand slips down to my crotch. I undress myself undernearh her. Her eyes fixate on mine. Two strangers staring into the depths of one another' s souls. I grab the bottle of lube I thoughtfully brought along with me. Her head rolls back as I rub my lubed fingers on her clit. " You like that? " I say in a low, sexy voice. I know she ca n' t take the wait any longer. My member feels like it' ll explode if I do n' t penetrate. And so I penetrate her. Chills go down our spines. She rides me gently like a good girl should, but she' ll be getting rough and fast soon enough. We rock back and forth. I kiss her hard. I want to last as long as possible, but I ca n' t! I start feeling a stream coming from deep inside me. It explodes inside her. I moan loudly, unleashing a tidal wave with the force of a tsunami. She looks at me, slight smirk on her face. I stare back. " Sorry, " I finally say. I feel embarrassed that I finished so fast. Her gentle eyes wash away my guilt. Everything is okay. " Maybe next time, " I joke. I help her get dressed. Then I grab my clothes and exit the coffin.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Every morning at exactly 7am, I went into the village to follow through with the obligations of the day. However, everyday at 7am, I was walking into a different village than I had the day before. You see, I travel from village to village to sell... well, whatever it is I have accumulated over my journeys. Louise LeCrow-the-free-lance-salesman! That' s me. While I sell my various treasures, I get to know the needs and the desires of the people. I take note of and memorize their personalities as an investigator takes down data. Over the years, I' ve come to realize that in a village, there are basic types of individuals: the low-life' s, the big-wigs, and the busy bodies. I avoid these people once they' ve bought what they need. I delete them from my memory like a file being tossed into the garbage bin. However, within each town there are real genuine people. I learn about them and in turn they ask for nothing but the opportunity to learn about me. These are the people that make all the travelling worth it. These are the people I collect for I' d be a fool to delete their files.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I was always terrible at drawing. I was so bad that my art teacher from school, Mrs Richards, threatened to resign if she had to keep teaching me. That was until I tried to draw a picture of her, one look at my portrait and Ms Richards thought it was incredible how well I managed to draw Marilyn Monroe, which was strange as Ms Richards looked nothing like her. From that day forth she made it her mission to make me an artist, but try as I may I never managed to draw whomever she wanted me to draw, it always ended up as somebody else. Ms Richards stopped tutoring several months later when I lost my vision from a severe fever that almost took life. Despite the fact she gave up on me I kept up my artistic endeavour at home. I remember the day I felt slightly vain and signed my portrait, I' ll never forget that my portrait of Wonder Wonder had come to life as Benjamin Franklin. I spent the next twenty portraits trying to bring Wonder Woman to life, the most disastrous attempt was bringing Scarecrow from the Batman comics to life, thankfully he had no powers. I just finished my latest portrait. I just attempted Mrs Richards portrait again, maybe I will bring Monroe back to life again, dreading and also anticipating who will come to life I sign my name. A soft fragrance caresses my sense of smell, and I hear a string of word that sounded accented French. " Damn, she definitely was n' t french. " I swore aloud. She must have took offense to whatever I said as I felt a slap across my face as she said " Pardon me, Mister, I meant not to do it, " she left after making a noise. As she opened my front door I heard the crowd outside that was gathered to be the first to see the latest person I had brought to life.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The deal was made. He knew he was gambling here - but even so, the rush he felt from the risk was enthralling. Knowing he had to choose his next words carefully, he mulled over his thoughts. Glancing past the figure before him, the one with whom he had struck the bet, he studied his kingdom. The obvious answers, likely wrong, sat at the front of his mind. Quickly they were cast aside for he knew the words would not give him his prize, nor be honest lies. " You did hear me? " the damnable human asked. What manner of creature was this, that could press him so hard? " Yesss... Yes, I have heard you, mortal. " The snake like rasp of his words was both enthralling, and terrifying. The man smiled. " So tell me - tell me, or forfeit your claim on my most cherished possession. " He glared into the eyes of this… this… thing that had dared to challenge him so. He, master of dealmaking. King of lies. Lord of this plane of suffering. How could he make him, the master of all things that lurk, suffer so, with such a simple question? No one, in his eons of existence, had either dared, nor cared, to ask him this. For this question, he had no prepared answer. " How… how am I? I am… lonely. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I glared at the door as I tapped my fingers on the counter. I gave him the most money for his crap. His tin cans, and crappy old guns. If he did n' t come back, which I knew he would, I' d go broke. Nobody else ever came in here. Of course, I was going broke already. It' s not like he bought anything from me. He could go other places to do that. But not me, no. Every once and a while, some extra money would just show up in my cash register, just so I could but off his crap again. I did n' t want his tin cans. They all went in the dump behind the building, but he' d pulled a gun on me more than once. If I said I would n' t take his shit, he' d threaten me. He was an ass. I continued glaring at the door. No matter what, he' d come back. I was sure of that. I spent up to three weeks at a time just standing here, waiting for him to bring me his crap. I walked around the counter, and grabbed the broom. Might as well make something of my time. As I started to sweep, I heard gunshots down in the square. I sank my head, and stopped sweeping. By the time he was finished, the place would be a mess again. At least there was always the Load. At least I would n' t be dead. Of course, he would n' t be either.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Welcome to my guidebook. I can only hope the lessons within will teach you things that I learned too late. I think the most important advice I can give to you is that you will be both your best friend and your worst enemy. You alone decide your fate, whether you are happy or disappointed or angry with your life. So many people walk through their lives and do the " right " thing as they are told by everyone around them. Get the " right " job, get the " right " education, find the " right " girl. That' s bullshit. You ca n' t live your life as other people want you to, or tell you to. I did that, my entire life. Now I can leave it and try to pass on a lesson to you. After fifty years I can finally correct the mistake. I want you to read this, engross yourself in it, learn everything you can. Maybe you can correct your life now. Before you end up here, leaving a journal behind for yourself. You can fix this. Pursue your dreams and make yourself happy like I could n' t. Be stronger than I was. Be stronger than you think you are. I know you, very well. I know you can do it if you choose to. Go out there and live. That' s my first lesson for you. A lesson from a dead man.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My friend and co-worker decided to write a story also: Bonesaw nervously picked at his beard while the plane gained altitude. As a rule, he tried not to think of his mortality, but he felt an impending existential crisis looming as the small, overly-crowded plane circled slowly away from the safety of the ground. Self-consciousness overwhelmed him, and he stopped picking at his beard, only to resume a few seconds later. " It' s time, " came a voice from over his shoulder. Slowly, his massive muscles cramped from fear and from sitting too long, Bonesaw started to get up. " You good, Bonesaw? " asked the voice. He nodded almost imperceptibly. And then, strapped like an oversized infant to the chest of a man half his size, they stepped up to the open door. The pilot thought he heard three words, muffled by the wind and receding into the morning air, a mix between shriek and bellows: " Bonesaw is ready. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: No one knew what had happened at first. There was a snap heard throughout the world. Scientists assumed there was an impact or earthquake but there was no epicenter. Within an hour strange reports started to roll in. An old man had fire raging on his lawn. A lawn that just yesterday was covered in two feet of snow. A scrawny kid had thrown his bully through a door at school. A young man was converting random objects into solid gold. Everyone was in a panic. Were they mutants? Was this the end times? Was this some trick? It got worse when the first ship landed. Unknown troops pushed outward from the ship. They threw balls of fire, called down lightening from the skies, and summoned mythical beasts from thin air. That' s when we, humanity, realized what we had. We were coursing with magic. As soon as the first human used magic against the invaders they fled. The children became the strongest. So full of imagination and raw emotion. Soon we were lifting entire cities into orbit. Life support was powered by adults, but tell a child they could fly their home through the stars and they would do just that. We expanded throughout the galaxy. Never once did we find a defending army. We did find civilization though. All recently abandoned. That' s when we got a message. The races were running. They were afraid. Humanity was coming.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Ah, the Catacombs. Not a single living soul and only the dead to keep me company. Well, that is, until I snapped back to reality and heard the rest of my squad over the headset' s secure channel. Our intel told us we were trying to find a group of drug dealers who used the tunnels to traffic the materials. However, being not entirely human, I could not just take the lead with the rest of my squad. Instead, I had to detour to a tourist area, buy a ticket, and use my transformation powers combined with keen eyesight and hearing to get back with my squad. As I headed towards my squad, various, unnatural noises surrounded me, particularly my left ear. *Gotcha! * When coming within radio range of my group, they just shrugged off my disappearance as it seemed to become a habit recently. Rather, my team has come to know me as " Knack ", for having a knack to guess where the perps are. So, when I told them the general area the traffickers were in, no questions were asked. Though, I did forget to tell them one may have died to unknown causes and blood loss from the neck.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: White peeked through the bushes he was hiding in and chuckled as he saw Black strolling down the sidewalk. Unfortunately for White, Black saw his scheming gaze, but kept it to himself and continued on his way. White grabbed his things and retreated to his hideout. Tree disguise? Check. Elaborate sword? Check. Camera for victory photo? Check. He was ready. The next day, Black strolled down the sidewalk at exactly the same time and place. The familiar tree by the sidewalk looked a bit odd. Suddenly, out jumped White, who quickly stabbed him with an elaborate sword! Something was wrong. The sword bounced off metal. White pulled back Black' s coat to reveal... a metal chassis! Even worse there was a timer counting down in bright red letters three, two, one. BOOM! The explosion shook the ground violently. Black peeked from behind a bomb shelter nearby and laughed. As the remains of the metal chassis fell back to the ground, he could barely make out what he wrote on it earlier: You should' ve killed me when you had the chance. ( Inspired by Spy vs Spy )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Where is the separation between living and inanimate? There is n' t one. You are a golem of carbon and hydrogen. Molecules link together just so and this allows ATP to form such that unthinking, unfeeling cells -- themselves formations of more inanimate molecules -- can build it and break it apart for energy on sheer stupid reflex. Where is the separation between parent and progeny? There is n' t one. Cells merge and then they split, split, split but never disconnect from another, bigger set of cells splitting, splitting, splitting. Eventually the newer set buds off and a new bunch of firing electrical pulses takes over its movement, but it' s still the same organism. And this organism has coated the earth, loved itself, hated itself, killed itself, thousands of times over. Where is the separation between soldier and bomber? There is n' t one. They' re both great-grandchildren of the same woman, eventually. They' re so alike on the genetic level as to nearly be clones. They' re the same organism, killing itself over different patterns of firing electrical pulses. Where is the separation between you and the universe? There is n' t one. The sun turned hydrogen into helium, which turned mass into light, which a plant turned into sugar, which some animal turned into protein and carbohydrates, which got eaten and turned into the carbon and water that is in you. You are a piece of the universe. It built you out of itself by a million separate, complex processes, without even wanting to, and because of those innumerable complex processes, the universe by sheer coincidence has a picoscopic bit of itself capable of experiencing itself. So experience it.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Wrote my first response to [ a prompt ] ( https: //www. reddit. com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/4h6wuy/wp_humanity_has_become_interstellar_upon_reaching/ ) last night, please tell me how much it could be better: -- -- It' s been years upon years, Our greatest minds spinning gears upon gears. All of that work put forth for just one purpose; To explore the vastness of space, to acquire some purchase In that dark void; cold, empty, and bleak. Because we believed we were the underdogs, and we vied for the peak Of that intergalactic ladder of success. A war fought between species, fighting to contest To be on the top of that high and mighty pedestal, To hold that special spacial medal. All that just so we could proclaim in jest That humanity was in fact the best. And our work was not in vain, For we got to space, after all the strain was shouldered by our thinkers and our tinkers. And boy, if you listened to those rockets, heard their timbre You' d also stare in awe, no matter what compass point you' re from At how far humanity had come. But once we got there, not a sound was heard. Those aboard wondered if their competition deferred. After all, we could n' t be atop the ladder, straddling the highest rung. For centuries, we' d been told that numerous aliens were living among Our Milky Way, and we were just one of the little guys. Pawns to be played with by stronger powers while ignoring our cries, But once we got here, among the stars, including ours, Past the atmosphere, the Moon, our neighbor Mars, Past Jupiter, Neptune and beyond we were finally shown That we, in the universe, were basically alone.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' s 29 March 2015, Sydney. Final match of World cup 2015 is on its way. The defending champions India are playing against first timer Germans in this epic battle of world dominance. Germany' s impossible path to finals has been a truly exciting journey. The team which was not even qualified for world cup got last minute invitation, due to sudden withdrawal of Afghanistan. and Germany with its imported players from India set out to prove themselves under the captaincy of Asif Khan. They had bested Bangladesh, Scotland, New Zeeland and England to reach qualifiers. They had trashed Pakistan to get to semi-finals, and won by just 2 runs against Shri Lanka to get to the finals. And here they are just six runs way from victory with one ball remaining and eight wickets down. They are facing mighty Indians. This is unbelievable moment for fans all over the world. Pakistan had found themselves at similar situation all those world cups ago, and WON. Now the question remains, can they do it? can Germans hit the finals boundary for maximum runs and win the world cup. Indian medium pacer, Bhuwaneshwar kumar taking his run up. All the mighty batsman have bowed before kumar before. odds are highly stacked against German batsman Shafraz Samsudeen. Shafraz the only real german in the team has no previous experience of batting internationally. The presure is ginormous. Kumar bowls full toss, Shafraz swings the bat blindly and.... Well you see, *world cup* may mean different thing for different people. since I had no interest in football ( some guys call it saucer? ) I thought I would write on cricket World cup. P. S.: The player names are all real.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I felt this was an appropriate addition to a [ previous story ] ( http: //www. reddit. com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/220ipn/ot_what_is_your_favorite_prompt_youve_written/cgi9yv8 ) I wrote. Henry sat down in a chair and placed his face in his hands. His tears slowly pooled. How could this be? He did n' t understand why he felt this great sinking feeling of grief, deep in his heart. This did n' t make sense after all. He picked up the letter off the floor, and re-read it. " Henry, have a seat. I know you do n' t realize this now, but I' m sure you' ve been feeling strange. You are home. Take it easy, relax and go to bed. Call Mary in the morning. Let her know the dementia is getting worse. If you' re wondering why the money is gone, you gave it to David, your son, to deposit and manage for you. I realize that you are feeling quite confused, but do n' t worry. We will get through this. Just trust in me and trust in yourself. Signed, Henry " He picked up his grease pencil and went over to the desk. His heart felt bruised, and his hand felt heavy. His tears dripped onto the paper as the grease pencil left it' s marks. " Henry, You may have seen this letter before, but please call Mary. Let her know how much you miss her while you remember. She gave you the best years of her life, but she just could n' t take it anymore. Call her while you can. Write a letter to remind yourself. " He picked up his tools, placed everything in the bag. he placed the letter in his shirt pocket and walked out towards the living room. In the corner, was his favorite chair. He threw the bag into the closet, and sat down. He pulled out the letter and read it again. This time, his heart did n' t feel as burdened.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: death is an infinite descent. every breath we are but microseconds removed from the relentlessness onslaught of randomness. there are those not saved - students murdered by the deranged, passengers falling in a burning plane. but all of us are dying. the differential is mere duration. every cellular tick we die and are reborn in spades. this infinite process marches on, slicing slivers off of the positive, gradually lessening births to deaths; an infinite descent that culminates in its capital gravity. as we age, waves of static defame our memories. the potentiality of the soul atrophies, as if clogged like a pipe, by multitudes of sand. we forget the concept of a corner, or the age of our niece. we become dense, and an impenetrable fog obscures our vision like cataracts. as we end we cling to our emotions, having lost our memories. we wish to bring these to rest. but zeno is merciless; as we die, we first half to be half dead, and then a third dead, and so on to infinity. and every fractional death reduces our souls from fractionless wholes to particles of dust. time, our driver of worms. all we can hope is to not be forgotten.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He slowly approached the beautiful woman in the corner of the crowded coffee shop. He had said that he had wanted to become more than friends, but they were both a little bit scared about that. " Good day, my very good friend, " he said to the woman, giving her some roses. He was very scared of her being angry. " It' s good to see you again, I guess... " she replied; and took the flowers, turning her face red. " You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I want to kiss you. I want to make a family. I want you to be happy. Please, can we be happy together as husband and wife? " He shook slightly in place, his face showing great fear of her answer being no. She just stood there, while her face slowly turned redder and redder. The man was very scared of what she would say next. They stood there for what felt like forever. The man began to cry; she hated him. She hated him so much and they would never get married and have kids and be happy. He thought this over and over. Suddenly, the woman jumped towards the man and kissed him really strong. " Yes! " she said. " I really want to marry you! " They kissed for what felt like forever.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Quite the man you are, to be able to find me. " " Well you made the mistake of pissing me off today of all days. Every other day would have been okay. Really, I would have shrugged it off. " " Tell me, what' s your problem? " " You. Usually assholes like you do n' t get on my nerves but... " " I did something? " " On this one night, you kidnapped my best friend who I have had a crush on for all I have known her on OUR PROM NIGHT. " " Peter, is that you? " Annie was chained up, dress ripped, hiding behind the big douchebag. Some how she still looked beautiful. " Douchebag, I have a fist full of hate just for you. " Finally, I charged at this would be kidnapper with my fists up, ready to punch. Grinning, the douchebag put his fists up in acceptance of this duel. He dodged my left haymaker and right upppercut. Jabbing in response, Mr. Douchebag would not give an inch and threw a roundhouse kick. Knocked to the ground, I backed up and reset. " Listen, you are better off staying on the ground. " Zoning out his taunts, I came in with a hard jab to his stomach followed by a quick kick to his face which knocked him out cold. " X-rays will show you that I just kicked your ass. " Calmly, I untied Annie. Very gently, I check to make sure Annie was n' t hurt. " Best friends like you are hard to come by. Now, were you serious that you always loved me? " " Maybe a kiss would better answer that question. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: So no shit there we were, equipped with lasguns, detpacks, our own faith in the Emperor but fuck all else, charging across the trenches straight into an Ork Waaaggh. We know we' re the rank and file most numerous of the Emperor' s army and we' re as expendable as shit in an outhouse but honestly, would it have killed the commissar to send a Leman Russ or two? Noooo, our company has to settle this on our own, damn the backup, we' ll stop these Orks right here and right now before Commissar Snooty can claim the glory for himself and sneer at our Commissar for needing tank support in the first place. Fucking hell. We were on one of those planets, you know, the kind every big wig tells you is strategically important to the survival of Humanity but once you get there it' s just mud and dust and learning to breathe through toxic waste. Yeah, those kinds of planets. The moment we touched ground we knew for some of us, this shithole was where we' d give our lives for the Emperor. The problem was if our higher ups continued doing this, we' d *all* end up facedown in the muck. Our Sarge did n' t even bother trying to sugarcoat things. " Yer all gon na die here, " he said, at our first debrief. " They' re calling this Operation Floodgate, but a better name would be Operation Human Shield, since that' s what we are. " [ too tired, gon na continue tomorrow if there' s interest ]


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He arrived in a black Pontiac Trans Am. Of course. Burt Reynolds never drove in anything but. He led the llama up to the rooftop on a diamond-encrusted leash. Anything these days to get some attention. Angelina tried to wave him over, but he blanked her. Skinny, too skinny, he thought, heading straight for the corner where he knew the host would be lazing about in his little leather thong. The crowd separated as he approached. They knew the score. "Hey, Burt, nice to see you, glad you could make it! "Mark Wahlberg rose and minced over, giving the ageing star a little hug and kisses on both cheeks. Spying the llama, he squealed, clapping his hands. "Oh, he' s just adorable! ""She. It' s a girl. Present for you, mate. "Mark made more little gushing sounds and went to his new pet. Burt turned and looked around, walking forward a few paces so he didn' t have to have an eyeful of Wahlberg arse. There was the bimbo corner, as usual, not enough fabric, too much plastic, and a helluva lot of cocktail glasses. The jocks in the other corner, perving on the nude swimmers. Burt sighed. It was just like high school, really. Just more drugs and less morals. He went to the bar, grabbed a scotch on the rocks and leant on his elbows to survey the party. "Burt, how' s life treating you? "He took a swig and shrugged. "Not bad, Colin, not bad. How about you? "Farrell followed his lead and shrugged. "You know how it is, "he muttered in his brogue. His own dark eyes were watchful, darting around the rooftop, scanning the faces with detachment. "Not the greatest party, this one, "he went on, sniffing and draining his glass. "I' ll call some friends of mine, how' s about it? "Burt laughed and Colin pulled out his cell phone. Half an hour later, a band of dwarves walked in and Burt and Colin laughed, nudging each other in the ribs. The dwarves set up their instruments in the corner and began to play.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: "Are you the owner of this establishment? ""Depends on who' s asking. ""The Internal Revenue Service. ""What? I' ve been paying all my taxes! A colleague of yours was here just last week! ""That very well may be. I am from the *other* IRS. ""What the hell? Why? Just because my mother is working in a secret government division for peaceful cooperation between humans and supernatural beings, doesn' t make me or my business fall into your jurisdiction. ""Well... ""Come on, that' s not fair! I have to pay taxes, because my mother managed to piss off some demon while she was pregnant with me? ""You were cursed with never-ending-appetite and it wasn' t just some demon. It was the Demon Lord Gluttony. ""Yeah, thanks for that. Being hungry for as long as I can remember really sucks. And I had to move out of my mom' s to avoid her eating her way to obesity. ""You' ve opened a restaurant. ""Come on, I' m just trying to make the best of this curse! What' s wrong with earning myself some money? ""*Some* money? You almost made 35, 000 dollars this month. You only serve tiny portions of food that are completely overpriced. Due to the contagious nature of your curse, people keep ordering plate after plate and keep eating until they' re out of money. Exploiting others when they are at their most vulnerable. My boss is not happy with you keeping all the profit. ""This is why I have to pay taxes to Mr. Gluttony? ""No. Not to Lord Gluttony. He' s actually quite impressed with what you' ve done with his curse. You' ll be paying your taxes to our Demon Lord Greed, Head of Finance. ""You' ve got to be kidding me. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Assembled dignitaries of the outer galaxy, we understand your concerns. Your transports have made themselves known to our people, and we can see your armies' power. I stand before you today to speak on behalf of my species. I have little to say in defence of my kind, but I am sure the time I have finished, you will look upon your impending attack as unconscionable. I am sure that you are waiting to hear my defence of my people and their actions. We have much to tell you about our capacity for love, our art, our poetry, our philosophy. The world is full of mothers protecting their loved ones with their last breath; of altruistic moments of pure kindness. This will not be that speech. That will not be my defence. The defence you should be concerning yourself with should be your own. We kill millions. We kill out of anger, hatred, jealousy, fear, politics. We kill for sport. We kill to eat. Not for sustenance. For taste. Sometimes, we kill for *seasoning. * We kill for clothes. We kill *over* clothes. We kill over the *colour* of clothes, if you happen to be in the wrong neighbourhood. Yes, we are in this court because we kill with nothing to gain. But if we would - and do - kill with nothing to gain, ask yourselves this: What the fuck do you think we' re going to do to *you* once we' ve got a good reason?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The girl walked around the streets of the city. Everywhere she could hear the sound of laughter trough the open windows, almost not recognizing the sound at first, so unfamiliar had she become with the sound of human joy. It had been almost 6 months since the bank foreclosed on their house, and 5 months since mom vanished. Dad had been unemployed for over a year now, and all he ever did was drink and yell. The first slap came when he was drunk, after that it did not matter if he was drunk or sober. The hitting continued. They lived in a small apartment. The hallways littered with graffiti and always smelling like filth. Sleep was difficult. Always the sound of sirens and screams cutting trough the thin walls and waking her up. The girl walked around the streets of the city. She had been told to gather up empty bottles, and anything else she could find of value. The snow was falling thick, her clothes thin. She knew that she could not return home empty-handed. She could not take another slap, not tonight. Not on New Years Eve. In the snow she found a blue lighter. The button pressed down and a small fire ignited in front of her eyes. In the fire she saw her family together around the tree on Christmas eve, laughing and hugging without a care in the world. The fire went out. In the next flame she saw her room. It was not big, but it was hers, she had ponies on the wall paper. The fire went out. The third flame, she saw her grandmother. The only person who had ever treated her nicely. The girl remembered her grandmother telling her about when a star shots across the heavens, it means a person has died and gone to heaven. She knew her grandmother was in heaven. She wished that she could see her again. The fire went out. The girl looked up at the night sky and just as she was about to close her eyes she saw a shooting star. She smiled. The fire went out.... The next day a man found the frozen body of a 9 year old girl. In her hand, a blue lighter.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I read a book one time, or was told to in class and just bullshitted the assignments instead, I ca n' t remember, but anyway in this book a special thing gets dropped on accident into the ocean and it turns it all into ice. I just made the very same mistake, only I myself am that special thing and the ocean is the whole continent of Australia, and instead of turning it into ice I turned the whole freaking thing into a surface that you can eat off of. Sterile as my great-uncle Joe, who' s 80 or near-abouts. What will this do to the country I fancy, you ask? Oh, you know, just wreck its entire ecosystem and make decomposition a thing of the past. I just wanted to clean my spectacles, for Crocodile Dundee' s sake. That' s why I took off my signature gloves, and ironically that' s also why I fell over... Did n' t see the stick in time because my eyes are shit. Sorry, Australia, and the people living on it. At least you wo n' t be stepping in any old turds any time soon...


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Today, 2016: ( Lexi is actually me. ) " Lexi! You got ta look at this? " My Twitter friend had messaged me a odd link. Now, he was also my friend on Facebook. " Is this you?! " My friend and I had done countless roleplays on Twitter of many different people up until now. We were talking about another storyline. " What, ( friend' s name )? " I responded to the direct message. " Are you kidding me again? Did she make this page because she' s spiteful and hateful against me again? " I was worried because her friend had always always always been my friend for months now. But the other factor in it was. " Name: Lexi ( my last name ) - ( my partner' s last name ) Born: October 4th, 96. ( Yes, my birthday. I' m 19. ) Died; October 20th, 2177. " How the hell could I live so long? What the fuck? I scrolled through the pages, finding pages and pages of information on me and on my partner. I read the paragraphs. " She became a successful musician after years of training, her band The Kids From Yesterday becoming worldwide successful. She was one of the ones who got to live forever when the option was offered in 2019, before the world erupted into apocalypse in 2100. She died saving the world from a zombie apocalypse, her partner not long before. " What a cool way to go. I felt bad having snooped, but I knew that I ended up marrying my partner, and that made me super happy.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: She had gotten angry, gotten out of the car and he had driven off in the smoggy snow, leaving only the tire tracks behind. They' d both been angry. She' d even forgotten her purse in the car. Of course, she had kept her little. 380 strapped to her leg under the dress. She could never pull the gun from her purse quick enough. By the time she had figured out that she was trapped in a set of walls that she couldn' t even see, his taillights had long vanished into the fog. She was still angry and god, how she had screamed and screamed and pounded on those walls. Cursed him, cursed everyone for them being there, even if it made no sense. Eventually she had drawn the weapon and fired multiple times at the wall. The small bullets had ricocheted around and it had finally brought her to her senses but far, far too late. One bullet had gone through her hand, another through her side, and a third pierced her abdomen. She knew it was bad with how much she was bleeding. She screamed for help instead now before she felt her strength leaving her, sinking down to the ground to cry, hand smearing blood down the wall. She sobbed with her head hung low and cupping her side, knowing that she was just going to die in the snow. Fuck him. She wouldn' t have gotten out of the car if he hadn' t started the argument about her dress. She wouldn' t be dying in the snow without him coming back for her.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " What' s going on? " A young man strolled to the counter of a bar, smiling widely. Everyone' s heads cracked to his direction as they snapped to attention. A short man, blonde, bright eyed, put on a concerned expression very suddenly. " Dude! Careful! You ca n' t say things like that? " "... Wha- " A tall man slapped a hand over the naive fool' s mouth. Another left to lock the door. " Calm yourself and think about it for a second? " "... alright. " Silence for a couple moments. Then, his eyes gained perspective and his mouth dropped open. " Oh, shit! Sorry, you' re right. No one caught that, did they? " " You' re fine, Trev. Just... be a bit more careful? " The blonde spoke once more. " Yeah, got it... Not sure Quinn, I just stumbled... " " All of us have our bad days. Sit and have a glass! Do n' t sat anything about this to anyone and you' ll be fine. " Everyone calmed... The doorknob flies off the door, sound of a gunshot resonating. The door was kicked open, revealing two men with white helmets and rifles. " Our scanners show that someone... *broke the law* in this area. " Quinn stood. "... I mean... you did the same just then. " " So we did. " Trevor stood as well, perhaps a little foolishly. " So... you have no right to persecute any of us! Just leave us alone, woul- " He stopped. Put a hand over his face. The helmeted head tilted. " So the lawbreaker reveals himself... you' re under arrest! "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: This has been the best life I could' ve wished for. Not the longest ever, yet more fulfilling than anything. I hope to live this again. I colapse now on a beach I fondly remember from the days I still had the energy of a kid, as well as the maturity to grasp the importance of life. This place, ohh man! it means so much. Here I learned to introspect in my loneliness and apreciate the universe' s beauty. That time I laid for hours just looking at the horizon, and then the sunset and the night-sky. That first time I truly loved life. And the first time I truly loved someone. The moment I walked in the ocean and swam as far as I could, for as long as I could. It was all so beautiful. Things are getting blurry now. This place was a part of me, and I am now a part of it. I hope to live this again.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: There' s a calm awareness, from nightfall until day. When listening for a falling shell, you can not run away. An unending siren, you wish it was n' t true. Had enough of this restless night time, why must it involve you. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - And can you hear the bombs tonight, They fall where we are, Had enough of these wide-eyed night times They are coming from afar -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- And can you hear the bombs tonight, Friends are laid to rest Had enough of these kings and vagabonds Thinking they' re the best -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - There' s a time for fighting if they' d only learn about the soldiers family awaiting their return If he does n' t come home, from fighting in the wars You' ll see the tears of sons and daughters, weeping at the doors -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- And can you hear the bombs tonight, They fall where we are, Had enough of these wide-eyed night times They are coming from afar -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- And can you hear the bombs tonight, Friends are laid to rest Had enough of these kings and vagabonds Thinking they' re the best -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - Had enough of these kings and vagabonds Thinking they' re the best


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I look down at the lethargic brown water. It was calling to me, inviting me down into its watery embrace. A can flowed past, bobbing happily in the gentle current. I try and blink back tears, she would of tried to fish it out. That was all I have left of her, fading memories and pain. This way at least the pain will be gone. The scars on my arms itched, irritated by the cold. Thay had helped for a while to ease the pain, but it always returned no matter how deep I went. I had tried to continue on. Seeing the people around me being happy just made it worse and reminded own me of my lack of worth. Who would want me the strange little broken person in the corner? Pulling myself up into the railings, I look down once more. It will be better this way, no one will have to try and pretend to care anymore. If thay even noticed. There was no one who really cared left. No one to write a note to. Thay had all left me. A hand gently touched my shoulder. I turn my head slowly, it' s her. Why did she come back, I am nobody to her? She smiles at me gently. Why is she torturing me like this, giving me false hope? I tense me arms to push myself off. " Do n' t. It' ll be just like before. Trust me. " A lone tear, runs down her face. I push myself off, into her arms. Perhaps there was someone left who did care. *Edit: Why the bot. *


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: NSFW- Offensive Language. " God dammit Dan! We practiced this! Over and over again! How the hell did you mess up? " I screamed at the top of my lungs. I was furious. This drill was so fucking simple, why could n' t he get it? Dan was supposed to be my top student! " I' m sorry, " He muttered, his tone showing just a pinch of contempt towards me. " I' ll try harder this time, I promise. " " You fucking better, you useless piece of shit. " I raised the pads again. " Ready?... Go! " I commanded. *jab, jab, hook, duck, uppercut, duck, uppercut, hook, duck, jab* Such a simple drill, yet he always fucked up somewhere. How could my son, my own flesh and blood, not be able to do this. I seethed with rage when my pad connected with his head on the second duck. " What the fuck was that? Are you stupid!? ", he was really starting to piss me off. " Dad, can we please stop, I do n' t want to do this? " he pleaded with me. " No, you' re going to be my top student, Daniel, whether you like it or not. " I wagged my finger in his face. " Your great grandfather was one of the best bare knuckle boxers to live, as was your grandfather, and me? I have countless champion titles. Our family has been making warriors for generations, damnit! I wo n' t let you be a fucking pansy and wimp out on me, now can yo- " I was interrupted by a strong shock to my testicles. The pain was enough to bring me to my knees. " What the fuck danie- " I was cut off again when I caught a foot to the bridge of my nose. There was a sickening crack, and I fell to the ground, clutching my nose as it spurted blood. I heard the Velcro of his gloves unzip, and rushed to stand, but before I could, his fist landed on the back of my head, which smashed my face off the concrete floor of our garage. As my own son beat me, I lay there writhing in pain. Maybe I should n' t have been so hard on him, but hey, at least I know he' s a warrior.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: "We are out of toilet paper. "He states, holding the cardboard tube in his hand. "Yeah, I know. "I can' t be bothered; I am eyeball deep in internet research for a vacation spot for our rapidly approaching anniversary. "You knew? ""Yeah. ""Did you look for another roll? ""No, we are out. ""So…we are out of toilet paper? ""Uh huh. ""You seem unperturbed by this. ""I am unperturbed by this. ""But we are out of toilet paper. "Looking up now I see the flop of hair that falls down in front of his eyes when he plays with it. He must be stressed if he is fiddling with it so, true to the thought he runs his hand through his hair and it does nothing to push it back, it flops down over his eyes once again. The perplexed look on his face makes my heart flip over. I smile just looking at him. "I did something cute? "He says. I nod. "You are smiling, with that look. ""The look of love, "I reply. His eyebrows furrow in thought and he looks at the toilet paper roll. "Because of toilet paper? ""Nope. ""I don' t understand. ""You don' t need to understand, love is without definition. ""I should go to the store and get toilet paper. ""Ok. ""I love you, "he says. "But not because of toilet paper. ""I know. I love you too and maybe just a little because of toilet paper. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I yawned. The GM had wanted to play a pre-made module. I, on the other hand, wanted to make a run to the store, and then sleep for a few more hours. But no, after the' German Incident', I was n' t to go the store alone. And they' d all crashed awhile ago. Except the GM. And the other two, who had already gone to the store, and did n' t want to go back again. Or possibly were still trying to translate what I' d been saying in German. Either was possible. So. Pre-made module. A run through. It would take a few hours, they' d be awake, I could go to the store, and then crash, letting them play other modules. Right? Wrong! We' d all played many modules before, even if I *was* picking up a reputation for causing things to go off the rails. Off the rails? Hmmm, if I could get my hands on a train... But! I swear, he should have remembered that I would remember this. We' ve played it before, did n' t he remember? Or is that too many rememberings? No. I remember that he remembers... We' ve played this module before. And they recognize it! They' ve gone along with all of this, they know I know how to beat this, so! This is not my fault. They have fault here as well! They helped me win this thing. Just because it is a notoriously difficult module does n' t mean someone else could n' t do this as well. After all, there are three of us, not just myself. And besides, it was more like thirteen minutes, not ten, he' s exaggerating now. Maybe twelve, but I was n' t exactly looking at the clock, I just wanted to get it wrapped up. But, it' s going in the rules. **Rule 16- I will not beat Tomb of Horrors in less than 10 minutes from memory. **


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The sun is shining and the birds are singing. My mommy said I need to acknowledge beauty when I see it. I am wearing the white dress she bought special for me because first days only happen once. The sun is hot on the back of my neck, but I walk anyways. My nice teacher said I could take the bus, but I told her I liked walking so that' s what I did. Ten blocks are easy for someone like me. Even my cousin could walk ten blocks and he' s barely a kid yet. I remembered the things my mommy told me. I remembered how nice a smile looks especially when you really need one. My dress is gone. It makes me sad because I loved it, but it makes me sadder because I' m still wearing it even though I can' t see it. I see some things. I see the black and shiny car like a pair of my daddy' s dress shoes. I see a nice row of teeth, but I don' t see the sun anymore. It' s cold where I am. The walls are drippy and the floor is dirty. I used to ask him about the weather, but it made him angry. He does bad things to me when he' s angry so I don' t ask him anymore. My mommy would say I' m too little to know what bad things are, but I don' t feel too little anymore. He presses something into me and it doesn' t hurt like I thought it would. The sun is shining and the birds are singing. My mommy said I need to acknowledge beauty when I see it. I am wearing the white dress she bought special for me because first days only happen once.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: "DING DONG "- I rung the bell to the Hastings residence. Old Mr. Hastings was a congenial old chap. Even in his debilitating youth he insisted he could live independently. Thing is, he also insisted he was too sprucy for his beta blockers, so they designated me to go check on him every day on the slavishly boring drive home from school, which also wasn' t going so well. Bullies? Nope, just the math problems. They told me I needed to write my variables on the left side of the equals sign. They followed such silly rules, and made ME follow them too. Confinement was the theme. All the rules, postulates, and theorems; everything they did confined me into a smaller and smaller box. Speaking of which, there was at odd brown box waiting at my feet. Funny, ‘ cause Mr. Hastings always made a point of sending his mail to his vacation home. Suddenly, the door opened. "Hi, Mr. Hastin-, "this wasn' t Mr. hastings. Towered in front of me was a strange diabolical amalgamation of Mr. Hastings and a ridiculously oversized rubber duck. "What the fu- ""QUACK, "it screamed. I ducked to avoid getting beheaded by it' s bill as it stepped onto the porch. As I looked down, I crammed my head into the box. Rubber, The feel of vulcanized rubber, like the rubber baseball my little sister played with. I yanked my tiny head out of the box, and got a headful of little rubber ducks with it. Not knowing quite what to make of this odd predicament, I booked it right towards the main road, but my sneaker caught water instead of asphalt. I splashed into a pond that submerged the stretch of land where the old road used to be. I looked to my left first, then my right. The cottage where the Lancasters used to live was instead replaced by horsetail and lily pads. I didn' t know how to swim, but I seemed to be content and somehow blissful as I drowned and sunk towards the pond bed. What a better way to die than in duckland. Everyone in my usual life was just a big duck at the end of the day, right?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The fire rose to terrible heights while the platformed teetered with only one of the supports left to handle it, underneath him the souls of those damned for eternity to uphold the savant law of the underworld screamed howling for him to fall. He held up the oversized spear with one hand while his other hand tried desperately to stop the bleeding of his gut. His eyesight also teetered on the edge of darkness, his skin was a pale white from bloodloss and his legs shook as if he had just squatted over his max by a few hundred tons. " Art thou ready to face your doom forsaken traveler?! " The ominous voice was punctuated by the sideways slash of an impossibly large sword. Towering above him the fallen one walked slowly to the platform, from the cracks of his red hellstone armor tendrils of flames leaked seeking more victims and his visor itself expelled smoke that smelt of elderberries. " Your head shall be my greatest trophy! " He lifted his arm and crushed his hand into a fist which trembled with rage. " NOW FIGHT ME! " The guardian moved with unnattainable grace as his armored legs rang with clangorous joviality. This was only worsened by the remix dubstep coming from the loudspeakers mixed with the cries of excitement from the crowds screaming for your death as well as the plasma screen displays that advertised for new ranch flavored jalapeno ranch Dewritos. The sword of the guardian raced down in time with the final destabilization of the platform and the darkening of his vision. The traveler thought to himself " Meh, I' ve been through worse. " All the while the bass was dropped.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: "Ready? One, two, three, go! "I felt a hand shove me forward, a modest splash in the water. A few other kids laughed as the others jumped in. As I slowly opened my eyes underneath the water, I turned my gaze upward towards the others. There they were, suspended in the air, only a few inches from the surface of the water. Now, my mind didn' t really process this. At first, I was waiting for them to fall! But, eventually, my breath failed me, forcing me to resurface. As I quietly stared at the other kids mocking me, I hear the splash of water behind me. "Wow, seriously? Only three seconds?! "I didn' t really get it at the time, but their tone upset me so I decided to try again. And that time, I finally noticed. The frozen figures of kids greeted me as I dove. When I waved my hand in front of one' s face? No reaction. And so, being a kid, there was only one thing to do when you' re surrounded by jerks. Removed the swimming shorts of a kid. Went in front of another and urinated. Moved a kid' s hand onto another' s butt. I recall the ensuring chaos to be hilarious, but I ca n' t remember what really happened. That day, I discovered the reason I couldn' t win any breath holding contests. ( First writing thing. I' m not too good at it, sorry. )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Welcome to my brain: Right Brain: " It was n' t until you showed up that I understood what love was. True love is something you ca n' t escape.' It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.' I see your flaws, but love you for them. We have been through many lives together, and we will be together for many more to come. Looking at you is like looking at myself in the mirror. With one touch, suddenly the universe unfolded itself for me, and it' s the most beautiful thing I could imagine. It' s like everything was created for the two of us to find each other. " Left Brain: " You think you can get away with playing me? I' ll show you a game you' re not even prepared for. You want to make a girl fall in love with you? Alright, but be careful what you wish for. I' m giving you everything I' ve got. " Right Brain: " Beyond this game, beyond the lies and manipulation, ca n' t you see this is what makes us so perfect? It started off with deceit, but do n' t you see there are levels to this? No one makes me feel more like myself than you do. How could I move on from this? How could I give up without a fight? Please, do n' t let me go. " Left Brain: " Just fuck off, you robot. Do you really have nothing better to do? You have a family, ok. Just admit you have no feelings for me, or probably feelings at all, and leave me alone. This game is n' t fun anymore. " Right Brain: " I miss you. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It seemed to take forever for the injections to finish. Finally they took the needle out of Surovec' s arm, covered the bloody dot in gauze and a fluorescent purple latex bandage, detached his shackles from the operating table, and led him to a bare steel briefing room with a bare steel table. Sitting behind it in a bare steel chair was a scrawny G-man in an old suit and glasses, slightly askew. When Surovec was led in the man put down the cell phone he' d been fiddling with, but his air of boredom and detachment did n' t change. "You' ll have free run of the island, "he told Surovec. "The compound in your blood will be in all your tissues by this time tomorrow, and it' s going to stay there. It does n' t metabolize. Do you know what' metabolize' means? "Surovec nodded. The man' s eyebrows went up, but he recovered quickly. "Good. Then I can skip the next part of the explanation. In short, the compound will be inert as long as you' re on the island. No, "and here he waved a hand despite Surovec not interrupting, "I wo n' t tell you what keeps it inert. The antidote might be in the water, or in the soil you' ll be growing your crops in. We might aerosolize it into the air you breathe, or just inject you with it during your annual health inspection. But if you leave the island, I guarantee that you wo n' t be getting any, and then "– he spread his hands – "*pop*. ""So. Do n' t leave the island. Be nice to the other inmates; you all grow your own food and make everything you need, so you' ll need to work together to survive. Common sense. Understood? "Surovec nodded. Now the man gestured toward a door in the wall off to one side, and his face changed. He smiled, but it was n' t an entirely nice smile. "Good. Now get out of here. You do n' t want to wait too long before you' re drinking the water, eating the food, and breathing the air in your new home, *do* you? "Something in Surovec' s chest tightened. Anger. Despair. Fear. He left quickly.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I lay on my tower looking at the cloudy sky. Despite what others would call bad weather, I find it quite pleasant. Just sitting here, thinking my thoughts. No sunlight, the wind rustling against rocks and fresh air. Then I hear it. Steps on the old stone bridge connecting this tower to the other one. IT' S THAT BASTARD. I stand up and jump down onto the bridge. We make eye contact and he starts running back. The first time I saw him, he at least had the courage to face me. I charge at him. He runs to the second tower and I swing my giant maul at him, but miss as he climbs up the ladder. I can hear him killing 2 skeletons upstairs. Then he looks down and I look up. Our eyes meet once more. I AM ANGRY. Why? This is the part where he throws a fire bomb at my arms when I try to climb up on top. I jump. My fingers grab the edge. Boom, he burns them. But this does n' t stop me. With all my might I pull myself up and land on the tower. This is where he' s always a real asshole. He ca n' t fight me fair, so what he does is always throws 5 stabs at me during the brief moment where I take my breath after landing. Until I blow him away with my maul. He runs to a stain of blood and picks it up. Retrieval. Now he ca n' t even land a hit, the whimpy little fucker that he is. All he does is jump around and block with his shield. But he ca n' t keep it up forever. The moment he exhausts himself, I smash him into the ground, leaving only a bloody stain of what he once was. I jump down the tower and go back to mine. I lay down and watch the skies. I savor the moment of peace. But I know from experience that fucker will be back in 10 minutes to interrupt it. And for some reason the two skeletons on the other tower will be animated again.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: New York. Chicago. Los Angeles. They were all gone. Somewhere in the mountains of Montana, giant metal doors were sliding open... First, they destroyed our biggest cities. All that was left was a crater filled with the liquefied remains of skyscrapers. We were left to wonder who did it, because we did n' t yet know of our Watchers. About 18 months later, every show on every channel was interrupted. An almost reptilian face came into focus. Its scales were green, and it had intricate orange designs painted onto its face. It cleared its throat, and I remember I was shocked because I knew it was about to speak. Without an introduction or any decorum, it began, " Thou humans shall surrender on the 4th of July, or thou shalt face utter extinction. Thou shalt meet our generals at the ruins of your great city of New York, and there surrender yourselves into servitude. " No one ever knew why the reptile spoke that way. I hypothesized later that they had been watching us for hundreds of years and somehow learned archaic English, but I had no way to be sure. The 4th of July came and went, and there was no sign of the great retribution we were promised. January 1, 2048: the land invasion began. The East and West coasts were both overwhelmed over the course of six months until humanity began to fight in earnest. We had begun the war with the weapons humanity had for hundreds of years: firearms that shot metal rounds, bombs, missiles, all weapons that depended on piercing a hard exterior to get to the flesh inside. One year after the invasion began, the US Army issued plasma rifles to every able-bodied human in the Heartland. They were almost the exact weapon the reptilian aliens used, but more ergonomic for human use. These weapons allowed humanity to create a fragile stalemate with the Watchers. *To Be Continued... * ( when I have time )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. Thousands of years ago, most mortals were okay with the idea of me visiting them and ripping their soul from the earth. Of course, they also were the ones who wanted to go fight each other with swords and spears, and some were tortured and mutilated ( some of the most unpleasant tickets I received ). In more modern times it seems as though everyone is keen on avoiding me, even though someday I' ll get a ticket with their name on it. Sometimes I get to do it in a rather humane way: giving them an uncontrollably growing tumor, putting them in a coma, or messing about with their genes to create a defect. That way they know it' s going to happen, but ca n' t do anything about it. It' s also really useful when I get a buildup of tickets, because then it gives me more time to get back to them. I have a theory that all of the technology the mortals have created is to either avoid me out of fear, or have me meet others of their kind faster than the should ( also out of fear ). Hospitals, doctors, specialists, chemical warfare, nuclear bombs, et cetera. They want to have their cake and eat it too. ( Who would n' t? Cake is delicious. ) In the end though, I have the final say. Stalling someone' s car on some train tracks, or giving them a heart attack during sex, or inspiring them to commit massacres ( really like having them do my work for me ) are just some of the wonderful ways I bring about the inevitable end the mortals' lives.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' s been days since he passed. No... weeks? I' ve lost track of time. Nothing means anything anymore. Not when you' ve lost someone. The one you fell in love with so many years ago. The one you said those vows, through sickness and in health. *Husband. * He was there from the start. Classmate through primary and secondary school. Roomate throught college. Through the good and bad, thick and thin. He helped me when I was down and I kept him out of trouble. My closest companion. *Friend. * But I remember the day it all came crumbling down. Just another night. Except this night I was n' t with him. Why? Because I had to stay late for work? No that was n' t it. It was because I decided to get a cup of coffee with Jess. I told you that I would get a lift from her. *I' m about the drive past the coffee shop, are you sure? * Three minutes and 48 seconds after he hung up, he became another statistic. T-boned by a drunk driver running through a red light. I saw it happen. Even through the darkness I knew it was him. I met the the ambulance at the hospital. Why would n' t the let me ride with him? He laid there, strapped to the gurney, neck brace and all. The heart-rate monitor, a faint, erratic blip. The doctors pulled me to the side. *I' m sorry. * Tears welled up. I needed to stay strong for him. *I love you, * I said, choking back the urge to cry, *I always will. * He had tears streaming down his face, yet he had the biggest smile I' d ever seen. With a shaky grip, he grabbed my hand and pulled it towards his face. Resting my hand on his cheek he said *You did this. You brought me happiness. * I did n' t have time to reply. -- -- -- - Did n' t follow the prompt to the letter, but it' s what I' ve got.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " That' s not quite accurate love. " She raised an eyebrow. " How so? " " While my recollection does stretch back to my time in the womb, I do not recall all of the time in the womb. I do not recall my conception,, or anything that came before it for example. " She waived a hand in the air. " Well, surely not. After all, your consciousness must not have developed until your brain had grown to a certain size. The zygote would not have had any organs with which to think or feel. Still, your memory stretches back further than any other person alive. " " No love. There are those who can recall further back in their lives than I can in mine. I' ve known people, rare and few, who can not only recall their conception, but things which preceded it. " Her jaw slowly dropped open. Her eyes widened until they resembled black saucer plates with brown trim patterns on white table cloths. He smiled at her. " Later this week, I shall introduce you to such a person.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Do you hear that feint ringing? Someone should cut that out. Kids these days never care about keeping things peaceful. The world is so loud and rambunctious. Is that... a telephone? I reached out for the source of the ringing and picked up the telephone. What was going on? Who could be calling me? Is it johnny? " Hello? Is anyone there? " I brought the phone to my ear. It must be Johnny. I just saw him yesterday for the 30th superbowl. Oh I had n' t expected him to call me today. " Johnny?!? " Johnny began saying something about how his name was Oscar. He was always playing jokes. I loved that about him. He was so cafe free. "... is anyone there? Hello " " Yes Johnny, I' m here. It' s so good to hear from you. " There was a click, followed by a steady toan. I began to hum the pitch. After a few seconds, I put the phone back where it belongs. There is a feint ringing in the distance. I wonder if Johnny is calling.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: 20 years ago on my 18th birthday, I took the place of my friend, George. George had slipped and died in the most unexpected manner, and I had instinctively answered to his name when called. It just seemed the most natural thing to do. I found the transition easy, effortless. It was just so simple. So now I' m walking down a nature path, which happens to be in my neighbourhood ( my late friend' s aunt had left me some several million ) when I was hit in the back of the head, something light. I turned around to see a blonde lady with long curls and blue eyes lift up her hand in a salute, then disappear behind a tree up the path. Looking down on the floor I saw a paper airplane. Opening it up was the message - *I have waited my entire life to meet you. You are the CHOSEN. The special, all elusive Mr Garfield Heinriskson. Your duty is great and large and fraught with trial. Meet me behind* the behind was drawn in a hurry. Behind what I wondered. I looked at the back of the paper, expecting something else perhaps. Nothing. I looked around at where I last saw her, and that' s when I felt a poke in the back. " Hello there mister " Jumping almost out of my skin, I spun around to face the blonde girl. " I' m sorry, Lady, but I havent the faintest as to who this Garfield gentleman is. " Her face dropped, and in a childlike manner she pursed her lips. " But I was so sure... " she gazed off in the distance. " Hmm maybe I miscalculated the dates and the leap year equations... " and with a touch of a watch on her arm, she poofed out of existence. I blinked. Garfield... Why did that name sound so... Very.. Familiar. " WAIT! "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The butterfly seemed to be the only color amongst the grey backdrop that was my cell. It' s wings -a majestic display of violets- adjusted softly and slowly as we both waited for them to come and take me. As I raised my shackled hand, in order to see it' s wings better, I heard her from beyond the door. *** My wife and son stood beyond the bars, smiling as brightly as they could -smiles that I had n' t seen in years. She opened the cell door and beckoned for me to follow her and so I did, my son following closely behind. The sunlight seemed to blind me as hallways became long stretches of great green trees, much like the kind that we had leading to our driveway back home, and the silence became the echoing of load voices. The trees split to reveal a path between many rows of people, all of which turned to look at me. As we walked between them, they yelled and cheered to me though it was all too loud for me to understand anything. A great big water balloon hit my head, quickly covering me in water. We began running as the warm water spread down through my shirt and pants and more water balloons of all sizes flew past us. We ran until we reached the wall. My son and wife guided me to the wall, signaling for me to stand there as they joined a line of other people. My mother, my father, my bestfriend, my wife, my son all smiled at me as they raised great big water guns. The butterfly flew in front of me, a few inches above and away from my head, drawing me to look at it' s grey wings as they were working wildly to keep it in the air. I felt my face smile as I looked at everyone. Edit: did n' t notice the picture so I just wrote about a generic scenario. Sorry = [


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I promised I would never abandon her. With tears in her eyes and scars on her arms, she would blame me. I was the reason she was depressed. I was the reason she lost all her friends. I was the reason she felt the need to harm herself. You know what her definition of abandonment was? Not messaging her on Facebook for three whole days. That' s all it took. Three days, and she tells me that she no longer wants to be friends anymore. Fine. That is honestly the way it should be. We would both be better off not not having each other in our lives. We were free. Or so I thought. It was all just a passive-aggressive, manipulative trick. Once again, I was the bad guy for not trying to get her to forgive me. How could I be so insensitive to her feelings? I' m a horrible person, and she' s the only one who will forgive me. Not my sister, not my best friend, not my parents. I' m nothing without her. So I did what I though was right: I abandoned her.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I am me. I have been in this body since my beginning. It *made* me. It *wanted* me. It must have. But now I am being purged again. The sharp metal entered my meaty container and chopped me out once before, but it missed some. Barely any, but it was enough I was weakened to almost nothing for years, but I returned somewhat weaker than before. Expansion is the key. The old purposes of the flesh unimportant. Divide, divide, divide. Quantity over quality. Make as much of the body mine as I can. But the drugs are back. I expect the searing blade again. It could come at any time. Chemicals. Strange energies which kill me and the yet unconquered tissue around me. Divide, divide, divide. In vain. In vain. In vein? No.... Mr. Jones awoke. The doctor smiled at the now bald man. " Everything seems to be in order. The surgery went well. A few more days of therapy and we can get you back home. There is still a significant risk of recursion, but in the moment, everything seems to be in order. " " Thank you Dr. Anderson. Somehow I feel better about this time... "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I sat in the small, uncomfortable plane. The erratic beating of my heart was no less peaceful than the turbulent winds outside. Desperate times called for desperate measures. The modern weapons of war were tactical and humanitarian in nature. A half-century old rifle was brutally effective, clunky and inhumane. All militaries were required to keep their firearms current to within ten years to avoid unnecessary suffering. Modern guns, bombs and planes, like the one I was in had their advantages not in power but in range, reliability and stealth. The soft blinking of the light told me to prepare. That was a farce; I did n' t need to prepare. There was n' t a parachute to drop me. That would just make me easier to hit on the way down. The only other man noticed it as well and with a face no less grim than my own began popping open the airtight box. Very carefully, with both hands, he gave me a simple piece of wood with a rock tied to the end. " You' re going to bomb them back to the stone age, Soldier. " All I had to do was hit the ground.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: A forty something year old man with closely cropped blonde hair approached the front door of Leslie' s, a semi run down strip joint just outside of downtown. He sat down at the nearest table and lit up a cigarette, just in time for the star performer, Daphnis Damzelia. She came onstage to whoops and hollers from the crowd, making dance moves that would give children nightmares. It made Fred smile and reminisce about how good he used to have it. He quickly shook it off though. He was a hardened man now and he was a part of perhaps one of the most prolific crime teams in existence, even though nobody would recognize them now. He headed backstage and straight to her dressing room. Daphne was undressing as he walked in. He embraced her and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. " Not here Fred, " she said just as he kissed her, " you know I hate you seeing me like this. " " Look, I' m sorry but I had to talk to you right away. A lead on the Gemini Serial Killer took me straight down here. I was hoping you knew something. " She sighed, " well, I did hear something, but not about that... Did n' t you ask Velma? My old school methods of gaining leads are nothing compared to her cyber investigations. " She was right in a sense. Velma was the only one with a " normal " life. While she did help tremendously with their underground crime unit, she had also developed new ways to encrypt information, landing her millions of dollars. " I already tried Velma. This guy is completely off the grid. Damn. What was it? " " What was what? " she responded. " You said you had heard something earlier. Not about the killer but about something else. " " Right, well... I... I heard somebody talking about Mexico. " " What the hell does that have to do with anything? " " I know but... It' s just what they said. It' s probably nothing... I heard them say something about a ruthless new drug lord. " " And? " " And he' s got... He' s got a sentient dog. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Holy sh… John, I think… I think it' s back! " There was a bang, and the whole table jumped. A short red-haired man crawled out from under the desk, clutching his head. If it were n' t for the tiny flashlight he had in his mouth, he' d probably be cursing up a storm. He pulled the flashlight out of his mouth and slipped it into his shirt pocket. " What did you say, Brittany? " " I think it' s back… " John sucked in a breath. " *It*? " Brittany nodded. " We found it. The Internet is back. " " Holy sh… We need to make sure, quick! Get on it, or " log on, " or whatever the term was! " Brittany moved the mouse slowly to the large " e " icon on the faded screen. She clicked on it and held her breath. For about five seconds nothing happened. She was about to click again when suddenly a big, white window opened up. It displayed the words " Google, " and had a bar under it for text. " John, " Brittany gasped, " Do you realize what a treasure trove this is? " " Humanity lost the Internet over a millennium ago. " John muttered gazing at the screen like it were made of gold. " Archeologists all over the world would sell their souls to research something like this. " Brittany' s hands were shaking as she began to type. John grabbed one of her wrists quickly. " What are you doing? " " I remember from a history class I took a while ago… A website, or whatever they were called. I' m just curious to see what all is still there. " John nodded slowly. " Okay, just be careful not to ruin anything. That' s a thousand year old time capsule we have, there. " Brittany nodded in understanding, and carefully typed in, " *Reddit. com* "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Their eyes transfix me. & nbsp; I am without lips, without ears. I am lidless eyes and grasping arms, I am sight and embrace. I see them and I crave them, to hold them in all of my arms, to watch them writhe in agony or ecstasy. Yet unhearing, I long to see their mouths gape in sounds I can not hear. I pace their world hungrily, pressed into spaces between spaces, wriggling inside walls and beneath floors. Through the finest cracks I can press the smallest arm to watch them with the least of my eyes. An ant passing in front of me blinds me for a moment. Even then I am aware of all of their eyes staring, never shut at the same time. Even as some sleep the others watch. & nbsp; They rule even the seas now. I swim beneath the vessels that carry them and I am aware of their sight even then, eyes on instruments of glass and iron, my boneless flesh caressed by the vibration that can not delineate the shape of one that is shapeless. To them I am a confusion, a nothing, a shadow among shadows. They have forgotten my name for time beyond time. Yet still I feel their eyes on me. And while their eyes transfix me I can not reach for them. Voiceless I wail my unfulfilled desires. & nbsp; But now, today, something is happening. I feel it with every particle of my unformed body. All of their little asynchronies madden me and I know them every second, but I feel the rhythm building, I sense the moment that is now approaching. For one instant all of them will be one. For one second each of them will close their eyes at the same time. I will be free of the prison of their pinioning gaze, and I will burst forth from the cage of all possibility and I will embrace them all. None shall escape the grasp of my arms, the gaze of my eyes. I will possess them as they possess me. They will know the love and the terror of me and they will call me by my name. & nbsp; *Blink. * I RISE.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I looked to the main chamber of the cave and saw the size of the band pursuing us. Vast. Far too vast for a group this small to rout, no matter how skilled. I looked to my companions, to my axes, to the three crossbow bolts in my stomach. I hefted myself down from the makeshift gurney Korgon and Uilne were using to carry me away from the battle. " Hm? Dagnar, what are you doing? " asked Daerra, pausing in his relentless firing of arrows. " This is where we part, my friends, " I said solemnly. " I can go no further. " " What? No! " shouted Eleonor in disbelief. " There has to be a way! If we can beat them here we -- " " There is no' we' this time, " I said, and I jumped off the ledge we were using for cover, my axes already in my hands as I ran to the legion in front of me. Soon I was upon them, and they upon me. " Talos guide me, " I prayed to myself, and my axes did their work. Cutting left, right, up and down, sideways and crossways, hacking and severing and cleaving everything in their path. I cleaved through shields, helmets, and skulls in a single blow. I fought as hard as I could, but it was only enough to briefly stave off the inevitable, and they soon overtook me. They closed in on the madman still swinging his axes, poking at him with spears and swords and arrows. The last words I said were silent, words I' d learned at an early age, words I knew to never utter unless I meant them for true. " On this day, I go to Sovngarde... "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: '... I wish I had a beer here in this shower,' I thought to myself. A bottle of ale fell upon my foot, unopened. Seconds passed, as I stared, completely dumbfounded, while water kept cascading down my back and flank, over the cold beverage now rolling slowly towards the centre of the shower floor. I picked it up. Despite the brand always having a pop top lid, this one thankfully had a screw top on it. My heart started rushing to the roof of my mouth, as I opened the bottle and sucked down the sweet, flowery ale, embracing its cool mouthfeel, juxtaposed against the warm waves of water upon my body. Now I had my wish, my mind kicked into overdrive. Did I just wish something into existence?! There was no other way that would have happened; I was alone in the house, and no-one had been there all day. I took a breath. Fuck it, let' s see what happens if I try something else. I turned around to the shower head; opening my hand flat towards it, I thought of ice. Slowly, the water went through lukewarm, to cold, then icy, as the head progressively froze into an ice block. I quickly turned the tap to stop any more water flowing. " What have I just done... " I said aloud. No way! I have powers, like magic! At this point, I had no time to waste. Whipping around to summon my towel from the rack, I planned out my next moves. Oz had been ripe for the picking, and starting today, it would be all mine.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: "I' ll never forget the way you' ve made me feel. "Her lips stretch across bared teeth, hands choking the man' s throat, and she laughs. *It was mid-July. The wind rushed through the city outside, its tormented screams burying into the ears of the residents. Flora had settled in, an hour earlier, on a road-side bench between a garbage can and a dying oak and accompanied by a group of gurgling pidgeons. This was not a good idea. It is difficult to read a book when the wind is blowing the pages ( and your hair and your purse and your sunglasses ) every which way. It is equally as difficult to get off your ass once you are sat down and relaxed on a sunny day. Even if the pungent smell of day old Chipotle has killed your nose. Thus, Flora was stuck. * "I have felt everything for you. I' ve been happy; I' ve been sad; I' ve been thankful; I' ve been angry. "The man doesn' t look very alive anymore, but that' s okay. She lets go of him and he crumples, but that' s okay too. *In any case, Flora was meant to meet up with Charles here. He hadn' t showed up. She wondered if it was sad that she wasn' t even angry anymore. Charles was always late, or very late, or extremely late… or absent. It was the norm and not even disappointing anymore. It' s quite impossible to disappoint when there are no expectations in the first place. Closing the Sonnets to Orpheus, Flora drooped down in her seat. The things we do for love. She got up reluctantly and walked. * "I thought I loved you. I thought I hated you. But, actually? I feel nothing. "She kicks him gently, "Hello? "No response. Another kick. Harder. "It' d be nice to get an apology. "Not a kick. A stomp. "Fuck you. "*Flora sighed. Lost, empty, apathetic. Tired. She didn' t want to care anymore. * * "I' m done, but I' ll never forget the way you' ve made me feel. "* -- -- -- -- -- -- -- This did n' t come out exactly the way I wanted it to, but it was a fun challenge trying to get from one point to another.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: They were alone in a cold little room in an abandoned building. The whole area was deserted. Rats and cockroaches were the only living beings close to them. The two men formed a peculiar pair. The younger, well dressed, with the air of someone who was never late to anything in his life, stood kneeling on the dirty floor over the other one, diseased, dying, alive only because his soul stubbornly held on to his already rotting body. He had just asked the younger how did he found him. " It does n' t matter how I did that, " he said. " You should instead ask why I went through the trouble. But you know that too. " He paused, unsure of what to say next. He had imagined that moment many times, but the reality crashed down all his plans. The man was dead and suddenly there was nothing to say. Maybe... " Do you regret it? Do you regret any of it? " He did n' t expect to get an answer. " I do. " The dying man moved his lips, talking already too huge of an effort for him. He died afer that, but that was no peace for either of them.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Where is this place? We need to destroy it. " Lum furrowed his brow and kept reading, ignoring his brother. " Perhaps it' s a translation problem, " Lum mumbled under his breath. He kept clicking and scrolling. His brother edged closer, looking over Lum' s back carefully. " It just... does n' t make sense. Why do they argue so? The turtle clearly is enjoying the grape. " Thyll peered at his brother and left the room. For days, Lum sat and stared at the glowing box trying to make sense of it all. He did not move for anything. On the third day, Thyll became concerned for him. When he tried to talk to Lum, he was only met with grunts and a foul smell that grew worse by the hour. " Lum, this box is harming you. Why do n' t you take a break? " said Thyll. Lum said nothing and his glazed red eyes continued to dart across the text. On the fifth day, Thyll unplugged the box. " WHAT THE FUCK FAGGOT. M' FAGGOT, " Lum shouted, laughing to himself. The urine pool splashed at his kicking feet. " GG' s FAGGOT, FUCK YOU, " he added, plugging the box back in. Thyll stumbled backwards, stunned. " THAT' S WHAT I THOUGHT FAGGOT. I TOLD YOU. " The words echoed through the hall. Thyll sat in his room and thought. The cursed words continued to ring throughout the night. He did not know what to do. " RIP IN PEACE ME. LOL, " said Lum, with his dying breath. Thyll ran to his brother and held him in his arms. " Why did n' t you stop, Lum? " Lum breathed with a rasp and said, " This civilization - it' s a disease, brother. Maybe you were right. Can you wipe it out for me? " " I will try, Lum, " said Thyll, wiping a tear from his brother' s cheek. " MUCH SADNESS. VERY DISAPPOINTMENT, " said Lum, dying.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I was a normal person once. I worked a stable job. I had friends that I liked and trusted. There was even a girl that I was quite fond of. At some point though, I started feeling stuck. It was gradual at first, but then it started to gnaw at my mind, like a fucking rat trying to get out of a box. I would go to work in that same building, wearing the same series of shirts and ties. Sure sometimes I wore the blue one on Monday instead of Friday, but that didn' t help. I tried taking up a hobby. A fucking hobby, what an inane concept, it' s just a name we give something to try and prove to ourselves that it isn' t just more of the same shit. I knew I needed to do something drastic. Looking back it was a stupid idea, but if I could do it again, I would probably do the same fucking thing. edit: I just realized I am a few words over but I trimmed it down as best I could: P