Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Everything? " I held the date in my hand, feeling the weight. The sticky surface stuck to my wrinkled fingers, and I held it close to my eye. There must be a trick. This was just a normal date. " Yes " said the man in front of me. " If you take a bite of that, you will become omniscient. You will know everything. " " Then what' s the catch? " I replied. My tongue reached out and gave it a lick. Nothing. " Do you know where you are? " He asked, changing the subject. I did n' t. The woman across from me smiled. I could' ve sworn it was a man a moment before. " Where am I? " I asked her. " And who are you? " " You' re in my garden, " she said with a smile. " You should try the fruit. It' s quite good. " " What' s the catch? " " There' s no catch, " said a slippery voice. In front of me was a lizard, with deep green scales and a smirk on its face. " If I eat this date, I will have complete knowledge? " " Yes, " came an almost instant reply. " Do n' t you want to know everything? " My lips moved towards the fruit, when the voice cut in again. " There is a slight catch, " said the old man, an instant before my teeth bit in. " And what is that? " " I ca n' t tell you. If you want to know, you' ll eat the fruit. " And suddenly I was alone in a room which seemed to be whiter than white. All that existed was my body and the date in my hand. To know everything, all I had to do was take a bite. Then I would know the catch. I would know who the voice had been. I would know everything could possibly dream of knowing. I shook the date out of my hand and it fell to the floor. Or rather, it would if there had been a floor. My eyes followed it as it dropped slowly, as if there was no gravity here at all. Once it passed out of sight, a gate opened in front of me. I stepped through, and suddenly I had all the answers I wanted.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I was twenty-one when I gave my first kiss to the guy who would later take my virginity. We met through a mutual friend and sent each other shy glances out of the corners of our eyes for about a month before he requested to be my friend on Facebook. He and I chatted online for a few days before he invited me over to his place to watch movies. I brought cookies. On our first date, we sat a foot apart for the duration of four films. At one point during the date, he paused the movie and went to the bathroom. A little while later, I smiled when he had to awkwardly fetch the plunger from the laundry room where he kept it. I only teased him a little; it put me at ease to see he was human, too. The night after our first date, we chatted online, and he admitted that he had wanted to put his arm around me the previous night. I told him he should have. On date two, we baked more cookies and watched three new movies. He put his arm around my shoulder, and the following night, through AIM, he told me that he had wanted to kiss me the night before. I told him he should have. On our third date, we knew what was going to happen. The pattern had been established, so in between movies, when he turned to me and searched my face for my answer, I shyly looked away, embarrassed that I was twenty-one and had never been kissed. "Can I kiss you? "he asked, and I covered my blushing face. "Yes. I' m just nervous I won' t do it right. Give me a second. "He smiled, and I gathered my courage. I pulled away from the kiss giggling. We tried it a second time, and I bumped my teeth with his.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I slowly stroll towards each bed that was lined up horizontally and vertically. Each bed was the same size and color, though each monster had a specific name tag imprinted in the blankets. I picked up a name tag. " Brizy? " I called aloud, being careful not to startle the creature. Brizy, a blueish-brown monster crept from underneath the bed, getting annoyed by the light in the room. It was perfectly fine, each new monster has to get used to the light. " Ermgh... I' m hungry. " Brizy growled, as if about to throw a tantrum. I copied notes about Brizy, and fed him for not attacking me. Honestly, I may need to counsel it and its feelings, but it' s up to my boss, I guess. I shut off the lights for Brizy and the other monsters I interviewed, and locked my job down. Tomorrow I have to take notes on another monster and counsel them again, before it' s released to the mundane world.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Karma ca n' t be bought. At least that' s what the government wants you to believe. The truth on the otherhand, is much more interesting. I run the Karma Mafia, a criminal syndicate that sells karma. How we do it is simple; I' m also the Secretary of Karma. I make the transfers and cover it up, and I' ve made millions doing it so far. Knock knock knock. " Come in. " My assistant, Deputy Secretary Allison Smith, entered my office. " Mr. Secretary, here' s your weekly report. " " Thank you Allison; just leave it on my desk. " As she left I picked up the folder and scanned the report. For months now I have had a sneaking suspicion someone else in the department is selling karma. If only I could find evidence. " Here it is! " I thought to myself. " An extra one million karma in the account of one of the biggest drug dealers in the country. Now just to figure out who' s doing it. When I saw who it was I was shocked. They were one of my most trusted confidants and closest friends. Oh well, business was business; they had to die. That night I loaded my gun and left the house. I had plenty of karma, I' d made sure of that. Now to do the most difficult thing I' d ever done. I knocked on the front door of the house and waited. Allison opened the door. " Mr. Secretary, what can I do for you? " I pulled the glock from my jacket pocket and said, " You can go to hell, bitch. " I pulled the trigger and watched her crumple to the floor with a look of shock on her face. As she took her last breaths I looked at her sadly and said, " It was nothing personal, Allison, just business. " Edit: hit send too early


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Rotting away, do you know how it feels? Do you know how it feels to watch helplessly as your body rots in the sewers, you want to scream, but you ca n' t, because you are dead, but yet you still feel the pain, the ever creeping pain of decomposing. How tragic, I would trade anything to get out of this mess. My body had flowed down the river, all the way into the sewers after my death. I did n' t even get a proper burial, guess that' s just how warfare is. D-amn, if my dog did n' t get in the way, the enemies would never have spotted me, I cursed. But now I wait, as my body rots throughout the day and night, weeks and months, just so my soul can be released from this prison that was once my body. Now I wait. & nbsp; I pulled away from my computer, damn this process of death sure is annoying, I mean I appreciate how much effort they put into the death animations and process, but this is a bit of an overkill do n' t you think. I sighed, guess that' s why it' s called MGS' Phantom Pain'.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The nearly comical gasp that came from everyone on the plane was almost like the cheesy soundtrack that accompanies 90s sitcoms. It could have been funny had I not gasped in horror along with everyone else. The familiar notification icon lit up in the lower corner of my vision. ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: The Final Countdown My heart skipped a beat. Suddenly highlights from my life were playing across my vision - my first kiss, my wedding, the birth of my son, that weekend we stayed in bed watching movies and laughing together. Everyone knew what this achievement was. It was one of the only ones that each and every one of us would experience one day. The plane began to shudder as everyone closed their eyes and focused on their favorite moments. At least when this software was invented they made sure that the phrase " life flashing before your eyes " really meant something.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *A man stands behind a podium, in front of a large crowd. Map of US Interstate System hanging on wall behind the speaker. He wears an Italian cut suit, in dark brown. His hair is slicked back. He almost looks like he' s running for President* * Ahem * Today we unveil the future in cross country travel. Sure, vacuum trains and high speed planes have long since made these roads obsolete, but the people responsible for building those fast and efficient transport systems might have forgotten one thing. The thrill of speed. The wind across your face. The fun for exciting travel. See, their little air tight smooth and squeaky clean pods may be the most efficient thing possible, but my god are they dull. This is why, I introduce the most exciting, albeit slightly slower way to travel cross country. Welcome, the worlds largest water-slide, US Route Fun. *Confetti Cannons go off in Background, party music starts playing* *The speaker rips off his business suit, into nothing but a speedo. He runs off to the side of the stage, at which point he belly flops onto a rectangle of latex, and slides off stage. He can be seen sliding off into the sunset*


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: One minute she was there, tumbling around the machine with him, and the next she was gone. Scott frantically made his way across the other wet clothes to the opposite side of The Beast. Sadie was n' t there either. He plunged deep into the lower levels, but all trace of her was gone. Scott knew this happened, knew The Beast needed to be appeased. But not Sadie. Not today. They had been through thick and thin together. They had kept their owner warm. They' d had countless conversations together, in the sock drawer, under tables, and in snippets while passing each other in long walks. They had been together so long, they were fraying at the edges. They even had identical holes in the heel. Being the practical crew sock that he was, Scott had occasionally thought about how they would live out the end of their days. He figured he and Sadie would get repurposed as rags maybe, or if they were really lucky, they' d protect Christmas ornaments in a dusty box. But Scott knew with a foreboding sense of certainty that The Beast had taken her. Not only had he lost his longtime companion, he had lost his own primary purpose. Scott did n' t want to go on without her. There was nothing left for him but the trash pile. Nothing.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I wonder what she was like - high-school senior Lucia Fuente. Lucia Fuente, who were you? with your eloquent round letters and your strangely beautiful windswept women drawn in the margins of your notebooks? The textbooks have all disintegrated. A blight in the clay in the original pulp, the paper too thick. Only Anglosphere-printed novels and notebooks have survived, fiction and fiction, inaccuracies of dreamers and children. Except for Lucia Fuente - behold her, beautiful, bent assiduously in her desk while a teacher in unmatching 21st century clothes goes on and on. On and on. Lucia Fuente, why so determined? why so unflinching when all around you was pleasant adolescent sex-gossip and posturing? The world' s first true Artificial Intelligence has committed suicide. How ironic. We believe it caused the book-blight, too - its digital tentacles were not enough, the internet, the world-wide connections. No, it decided, even the textbooks. It took all fact and knowledge. We are left alone in dark ages. But Lucia Fuente, how appropriately named! Your notebooks are indeed a source of light. Calculus. Modern Physics. History. And your intimate gorgeous journals and sketches. I guard you in the lock-box in my rusting hover-house, and I teach you to the school-children of our last floating city. Alas, that we had the internet in our heads - we were turned off, too. We re-awakened only by the force of biology, only human again, apes. But we pieced our world together, from novels and notebooks, comparison, scholarship. We learned to read from a kindergartner' s drawings. We re-built libraries. And when I found your notebooks, Lucia Fuente, in the lock-box in my rusting hover-house, I took your name. I doodle your doodles, and I think your thoughts. I wonder who you were - high-school senior Lucia Fuente.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: There was a peaceful day. A quiet day. Everyone abandoned their work, their weapons, their dreams and just rested. It was the calm, neutral. The sense lasted with every person for the rest of their time. Mankind was created as a steward of the world, but the next day they became simple, submissive beholders. They witnessed the deaths of the animals on land. Few humans died but many lived. They were somehow separate from the world, as if their creation had an entirely different story. Once the night fell and the dawn of the next day rose the birds fell from the sky, and vanished. The fish in the sea became water themselves. Only a few plants dared to survive in the oceans. In a flash the seasons reversed. The next day was a backwards year. The start of winter feed into the reattachment of the leaves. The leaves reverted to blossoms and the blossoms turned bare. The air stopped being warm, and it stopped being cold. The ground shook. The trees were pulled back down. The few plants left in the sea dissolved. The ground was gone. The humans all wading in the water were still peaceful. Quiet observers, they endured. Suddenly the heavens seemed to fall. Earth was no longer protected from the cascades of meteorites. The splashed into the human dense waves and sent them typhooning around each other. The sun came up on the last day. In the distance the light slowly faded, a dot getting smaller and smaller until there was no more. The last of humanity sunk to the bottom. Their bodies went back to the mud from which they were created.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was to be to twenty-five. A battle decided by tight controls and ultimate weapons' balance, the game chosen the heighth of both: Halo Reach. A sway of score back and forth, the climax reached with only minutes left -- tied with a single kill remaining. Like a blue light of all hope, Mark came across and acquired the waiting Energy Sword, his heart filling as he realized he currently had Sprint equipped as well -- do not let your head become too big yet, dear Mark, but victory does appear to be ours. Like a true climax, the two crossed paths atop the towering centerpiece, the massive Spire lending itself to be the final battleground. The reticle went red. Mark lunged. Death armor-locked for the briefest of moments, and the follow-up melee attack was unavoidable. " YOU FUCKING WOULD! " " I FUCKING WOULD, " Death agreed, and proceeded to damn Mark' s soul for all eternity, as were the terms.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: They never once saw each others faces. Their medium of communication was a complex amalgam of posts, instant message logs, and to date one brief phone call. One could thread through this history to the beginning. The first words, however, be missing. Those first words were typed in the lobby of League of Legends match. Him: " fagooottttt " Her " Do n' t say that word " Him " fagot faggot fagot faggot " Her " Stop that. It' s really uncool and offensive. " There was for a moment of piling furor in the chatroom at this intrusion of what could be termed sympathy. Her name disappeared from the roster. He was in his room at his parents' house in suburban Appleton, with three weeks of scruff on the scruff of neck. There was guilt residing in his thin neck. Before she had been kicked off, but after the beatdown started happening, he noted down her username. It went on a sticky, in the corner, above one of a mob of Samuel Jackson caricatures. " Pool' s Closed! " the words said. He sighed and took off his ten dollar Fedora. Popeye Doyle stared at him from the wall. That was us, right? Implements of lulz and violence? He leaned in repose, with his face facing to the side, on his desk. What had happened was gnawing. ( to be continued... trying to connect here to there )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He awoke, glancing over at his alarm clock. `T = 2x + 3. If x = the time you went to bed last night solve for T` He sighed and hit the top with the palm of his hand, until the standard number display reappeared. He had no idea why it did that. He looked at the calendar - shopping day. He took his car out of the garage, carefully checking the speed dial noticing the police patrolling the area. `S = y/2 + 2x. x = 2y. if y = T, solve for S` Welp, he had no idea what that meant. Unfortunately, his blind speeding attracted the attention of the aforementioned police officers, and he was awarded a speeding fine. He checked to see the fine - `F = 3S / ST. Solve for F` He decided to give up and drive home; he had enough cup noodles in the pantry to survive a few days. He decided to make his lunch just then, and glanced at the cooking instructions ( he did n' t want to turn the heat too high and burn his precious food ). `H = T/S + 30x. If x = 2F solve for H` A cry of " ffffffFFFFFUCK! " could be heard echoing through the neighborhood that day.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Well guys I have one stipulation please can you not ask me what the purpose of life is. We all know the purpose of life is whatever you make it. As for the other questions I would direct them to people with knowledge in that subject see as in human form my power is limited. I can prove to you I am god but knowledge wise I was born with a clean slate and everything that I have learned I have learned like you. Well god is a spirit anyways, energy, think inception, fighting for good from my experience. I may be a poster boy but I am no different than any other human that has walked the face of planet earth. Religion is not perfect and should not be taken literal as it was written by fallible men with their own interests at heart. I can tell you that you do n' t have to be a perfect person to make it to heaven, just try to be a decent human being. Well life is a journey and if you are going through hell keep walking. Peace


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Anthony returned home exhausted and confused. It was 2am and he smelled of sweat. His House looked much more sinister at night. Maybe it was the cold hard stare of Jesus staring at him as he entered. He asked his mother to remove it or at least put it somewhere else at night so at least it wouldn' t scare or make anyone feel judged entering their home. They rarely have any visitors anyway. Anthony quietly walked up to his room. Hoping not to wake the beasts within the master bedroom from its slumbers. Anthony took off his wet coat and hanged it on his wardrobe. He barely has much space in his room. He had a long hard stare into his mirror. He shed a tear and quickly he felt a friendly presence enter his room and a hand landed on his left shoulder. "Well... It' s you! ""Yeah it' s me.. How have you been? "buddy gave his old friend a hug "The last time we were together you were asking questions about... alcohol and what would happen... that was 4 years ago... Ha... yeah it was before marks 15th birthday "Anthony said sadly "I thought I wouldn' t need you again, I thought if I did some things I would have real friends... ""Wasn' t I ever real? "Buddy asked "You were real to me and you were the best friend I ever had... I turned my back on you imp so sorry "Anthony burst into tears into his old friends arms and finally sensed a sign of relief... "Anthony... I was always there for you. You just didn' t want to see me. ""There were many times when I wanted to see you... fucking hell... "Maybe you should talk to your mother and father about Sophie... about The baby and all those mistakes you are telling me right now... oh Anthony... that poor dog... you have changed so much... in so little time... please don' t continue on this path... ""I' m SO SORRY... "Buddy faded away and Anthony was holding onto his pillow... he cried all night... Edit: Its my first post here, hope you enjoy this short


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Build Me Up ( Buttercup ) " was playing at a low level, Alison and Caroline D' Arcy were cackling by the punch as he shuffed around the dance floor, grunting and gyrating to himself. He attempted to bump with Fiona and grind with Julia - only to be cut off somewhat forcefully by husband Chris. Another conference after-party ruined by Dr Matt Cooke. He' d spent most of the day at " Vitamin D: Moving Toward Evidence-based Decision Making in Primary Care ( CME ) " sidling up to various female doctors, suggesting ways they could " increase their Vitamin D ifyouknowwhati' msaying? " and not very subtly adding scotch to his coffee. Or rather, as the day progressed, adding scotch to his scotch It was n' t half as bad as the year he brought the woman he claimed was his New Girlfriend who was later seen exiting Dr Mitchell' s suite and no-where to be found at breakfast - not that anyone was really looking, Matt at this point had been escorted from the hotel for vomiting in the fountain around 8am. The question was not Why Was He Invited, as a tenured Professor of Dermatologist at Minnesota Univeristy his invitation was guaranteed. No, the question was Why Come?! Matt never seemed to enjoy himself; by the end of the night he was always too drunk, too alone, and too miserable. It' s hardly surprising - there' s a reason dematologsts hate him.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Bernard heaved a sigh of bliss as the young woman screamed. Her body quickly shrank in his view as she tumbled down the side of the cliff. She hit the water and the scream ended. Bernard patted his hands together as if he was wiping the dust off of them. He never thought it would have been possible. He was a psychopath. He enjoyed killing people. He' d started when he was younger. Went to juvie. Had cops on his ass for years after he was released. He' d killed two more times after that before he' d found his way here. Who' d have thought that the identity of a dead man could be so useful... and so fulfilling. A park ranger! What a fabulous job. You get to be alone out in the wilds with only a few campers, hikers and suicidal freaks. He' d thought he' d hit gold with the first two, but when he found his first man by the cliff side, blubbering into some old photograph, well, his world turned to gold that day. Bernard kicked the lady' s purse off the cliff and watched it tumbled on a slightly different route from what she had. It never got old. There was always that perfect moment. When he lifted them up and they realized what he was doing. They always froze, and that moment, that wonderful moment when they froze and he heaved them over the edge. the look in their eyes as they began to scream. Bernard shuddered with pleasure. The salt air caressed his face as he ran his hands down his sides and over his thighs. Oh yes, today was a good day.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: When the day came to tender our surrender, they chose the American president to do it. Equal parts respect and humiliation for the nation with the greatest military might. It also helped that no other world leader was particularly enthusiastic to place themselves in front of the Emperor of the Galaxy ( a somewhat grandiose term, as his realm barely reached past our arm ). At the appointed hour, the rulers of all the worlds under the Galactic Protectorate ( an equally grandiose term, for the same reasons cited above ), and all the rulers of the nations of Earth gathered in the stadium that hand been built for the occasion. In orbit, and beyond, a thousand ships sat watching. Our greatest fear was some lone actor or nation would view this as an opportunity for violence, and doom the planet. Some believed we were doomed anyway, and there was no shortage of talk regarding how we might strike one final blow for humanity on our way out. The President walked forward to stand before the Galactic* Emperor. The Emperor was half his height, and it seemed the president might reach out and throw him off the stage, were he so inclined. Instead, he unzipped his pants. As the entirety of the planet watched, he urinated on the Galactic* Emperor. Then, he reached down, and removed his crown, and placed it upon his own head. You see, we had learned in 100 years since first contact that we had no way to beat the Galactic Protectorate militarily, and set ourselves to learning their laws, customs, history, and traditions. We had very little in common, except that it seems universal amongst all life, that you can pee on someone to establish dominance.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I can not believe my luck. I' ve never won a thing in my whole life, and here I hold the lottery ticket to end all lottery tickets. I suspected it may be the case when I found the envelope in the mailbox, but I refused to get my hopes up in case I was mistaken. I was not mistaken. The world is doomed, a giant asteroid set on a collision course with Earth, and yet I hold the key to my own salvation - one of only 1000 tickets for a seat on the only rocket prepared to leave Earth and keep humanities hope alive. What a prize! A seat for me and one for another someone of my choosing. Whom shall I choose? Who cares? I wo n' t worry about that right now. I can decide later. Right now, i have to go. I need to hurry and claim my seat on the rocket before they give it to someone else. I wo n' t let my sloth ruin this opportunity. Not again. I ca n' t let this opportunity pass me by. In my rush to the Humanity Council offices, I forget to lock the front door to the house. I' m such an idiot. Did I leave the oven on? I must be the worst house-sitter ever.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' s funny how something so small and insignificant can trigger change. Two minutes too long in the shower and you may miss meeting that special someone while waiting for your latte, if you believe in that sort of thing. Sneezing when you have cold or virus and transferring your illness to others who immune system is not up to par and could very well take their life. The surfer who doesn' t notice the tide has pulled him too far from the shore and only notices when the grey slick fin of a shark breaks the surface nearby. Or like when you forget to maintenance your brakes on your vehicle ( despite everyone insisting you do to stop that horrid squealing ) and they go out in the wild of rush hour traffic in mid Atlanta and you slam into the back of a black Cadillac. A normal traffic incident, only it' s not. This black Cadillac was carrying a very nasty virus and en route to the CDC. I didn' t know that of course and many religious freaks around the world believe it was destiny ( if you believe in that sort of thing ) that my shitty Honda accord struck the vehicle and released the virus destroying half of the earth' s population. Not sure which country they blamed it on and who dropped bombs on who first. Honestly, not my problem anymore as I lay crumpled over my steering wheel, neck broken thinking "Damn, I should have gotten my brakes fixed "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The president approached me with a congenial smile. " You might not believe this, sonny, but your daddy did me a YUUUUGE favor back in the day. " " What' s that, Mr... Mr. President? " I asked him. I was terrified of saying the wrong thing and getting shot by the Secret Service agents surely lurking behind a corner somewhere. " Well, technically, your *stepdad*... " the president continued. " My stepdad? What do you mean? " " I hate to break it to you this way, but trust me, it' s a good thing. You' re adopted. I' m your real dad. Your stepdad gave me certain... privileges... with your mom. " I was even more incredulous. " You mean I' m *your* son? " Thoughts raced through my head, primarily about how I might inherit a fortune, assuming the president did n' t file for bankruptcy *again*. But I also wondered why my dad never told me about this. To keep me humble? " So how is this' doing you a favor'? " " Well, you see, I wanted a pure-blooded American son to carry down the bloodline. Not some commie European half-breed. As you know, both my wife and my ex-wife are eastern European immigrants. So my children by them are illegitimate. Now, take my hand and I will train you in the ways of ruling a nation! I... did n' t know what to say. So I' m the son of... a latter-day Hitler? I always knew he was evil, but *this* evil? Am I destined to be a dictator? I wanted to scream " NOOOOOOOOOOOO! " at the top of my lungs, but I figured that would be a cliche... But I did n' t have much time to think. Six Secret Service ( or should I call them SS at this point? ) agents jumped out of nowhere and pointed rather large-looking pistols at me. " Do it! Or else! " shouted the one who must have been the captain. I... just could n' t. I' m no Hitler Junior. I did n' t know what else to do, so I charged at the captain, and everything faded to black. I might not die a hero, but at least I wo n' t die a villain...


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " You know the great hero of Vashish, of course you do... they say he killed the mighty dragon Seferth with magic. I was there and it was no magic but dumb luck and a bit of physics, I know, I was there " stirring the glass Olof kept looking at the piece of ice floating in it, dissolving into the water. " So, where was I... yes, magic " *pfft* " he shouted, caused the cliff side to shake and then a rock slide to occur " Olof waves his hand in front of the onlookers **BANG** he slapped his hands together " and the dragon was dead " " You know the slayer of Seferth, defender of Akapolis, of course you do.. says he spoke fire and turned the walls impeachable, magic they whisper " *pfft* " I was there " Olof beat the bar disk in tact to the words that he spat out " I. WAS. **THERE** " He looked down into the mixture of alcohol that danced and floated in his glass. " You know what happens if you in your speech say' Let' s pour one on the wall for our fallen in arms' after having defended the city for seven days and seven nights " Olof waved his arm around the room " an awful amount of alcohol goes to waste " he laughed at this. " Then you just say a few fancy words like " Olof paused for a while while thinking about what had been said. " Let the beating of our shields send fear into the hearts of lesser men " Olof looked around the room... " and we all know what you get when you clash metal with metal "... " No, not dents you dense goat herder " " Yeah, Sparks! and then *woosh* **FIRE** " " You know the slayer of Seferth, defender of Akapolis, hero of Vashish and lord of the serpanth sea... Of course you do, every one do... everyone knows all about him " The man coughed into his tattered robes and stared at the people walking past. " You know all about him from your myths and legends. All except his name... I know because I was him " The man stared at the sun now coloured green trough his wine bottle.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: part 1 DAY 15 OF THE INTERNET OUTAGE I was dealing with it like everybody else; just hoping someone smarter than me was going to fix it. This line of thought completely changed when I read the mysterious letter I found on my bed. it was crudely written in crayon and was disturbingly moist. It took a bit of work, but the letter said this- " CALL THIS NUMBER 2 FIX THE INTERNET - ( the number was written here ), THIS WAS TOTALLY NOT WRITTEN BY AL GORE, JUST CALL THE NUMBER PLS. " I knew right away what this was all about. You see, my grandma had a little thing with Gore back in the day, and ever since he has been relentlessly trying to get in contact with my Grandma. My Grandma was a wild thing, and was looking for more of a hit-it-and-quit-it kinda deal. I dialed the number hesitantly and took a deep breath. the line did n' t even ring twice before I heard someone pick up. " Hello, Cynthia. " he whispered I then realized I could fix this whole thing right then and there if I pretended to be my grandma, but the question was, am I really trying to have weird phone sex with Al Gore while pretending to be my own grandmother? " Hello Al " I said, trying my best to match my Grandma' s voice. There was a pause... " You sound different, who is this? " Shit, he was on to me. " Oh pardon me, I have a bit of a cold, dear " " No problem, my darling. Ill be over in 10 minutes " *CLICK* I was in shock, WHAT DO I DO NOW?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I thought that I had loved you before, that I loved you when I' d see you in the hallways. I' d see you at the football games and I' d wish that I spent every minute of every day with your hand in mind. You were an ideal, a temple on a hill. But not a house in suburbia with a picket fence and a window box planter for the daffodils that you grow and love and smell like they' re the last source of air in the world. You were the holy grail, an icon that I wanted more than anything to posses. You were never pedestrian to me, you were always placed upon a pedestal. Never an expected occurrence, whenever I' d see you I' d take in the sight, just in case. And then I did come to know you in a way that I had n' t before. I summoned up the courage to speak to you and we knew each other. And the love that I had previously had paled in comparison. It was a firecracker in the face of an atom bomb. My ideal and impractical dream of you faded and was replaced with a version more amazing than before. It was exchanged with the real you. A person who finds beauty and joy in everything, a person that I had never even imagined before. You made the idolatry die and the real you take its place. I truly know you. And I truly love you.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Destroy the machine Not exactly like me to destroy my own work, but future me would no doubt find it quite amusing. An obvious paradox: if I destroy it, then the machine can never send the message into it' s past. Unless of course, the message comes from an alternate timeline—in which case, why do I need to take its advice? Fuck it, you only live once. I needed more data. This time, when the whirring of the machine had subsided and the glow of the plasma inside the chamber vanished, I found inside a new message. Disregard previous Well, that settled it. Not really, of course, but it was enough to prod me to try again. I started the chamber conditioning sequence. The roughing pump came on as usual. I watched the emitter temperature ramp up, listened as the turbo began to whine then fade to a nearly inaudible whistle. Half an hour passed, but I just sat and watched the numbers tick towards their set points. My stomach was still doing somersaults and my hands wouldn' t stop trembling. You' d think by the third time I wouldn' t be so nervous. *Click. Click. * The gate valves opened. My console reported the system ready, but I hesitated just a moment before hitting enter. Nothing left to check. I pressed the key. *Bzzt. Bzzt. BANG. * Shit. Emergency power off. The vacuum gauge was now reading 760 Torr. Probably meant I burnt out the filament gauge. And who knows what just happened to the chamber. I touched the steel wall. Warm. Not good. I opened up the control board. The electronics were completely fried. Months of work down the drain. But the system still pumped down, and to be on the safe side I purged it twice before opening it. Surprisingly, something made it through. The edges of the sample were blackened by carbon deposition, but the message was still readable on my microscope, etched into the silicon. Not me. Wrong order Well, fuck. Time to build the transmitter.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It begins with a tremor. Not a large one, not yet, but enough to make a few of us stumble. My crew crouch low to regain their balance. Next comes the hiss of scale on gold. The tension in the air is palpable now. It hangs thick and threatens to suffocate us, but we stave it off with brazen excitement. We know the risks. But we also know the riches. The hiss intensifies before reaching a climax, and all of a sudden, there is a cacophony of sound – a metallic symphony as piles of gold tumble out of the way. It' s music to my ears. Of all Treasure Hunters, we are the best paid because we have the balls to take on the biggest. Shield in one hand and spade in the other, I face down the hulking darkness that rises up slowly before us. They call us the Dragon Raiders. The craziest treasure crew in the world.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I pulled my hand out of the drywall. My hand was bleeding, but I felt a little less frustrated. Once more, I carefully scanned the room; top to bottom, left to right. Nowhere! They' re no-fucking-where! "Fuck! "I scream. I grab a handful of my wife' s hair, and yank her up to eye level. "Where are they? "I spit a little as I scream at her face. "Where the fuck are they? "I shout. No answer. She looks frightened. And old. Frightened and old Claire Moriarty. Then I feel it. A shooting, white-hot energy, that bursts forth from my subconscious, and fills me with… with an ancient feeling. I unclench my fist and my wife flumps to the floor. Is this memory? No. Ego? Neigh. It is Instinct, and I can feel it pulsing in my veins. It says, "look left. "Ah, there they are. On the counter. Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Ahh... Yes, I remember. I remember when that ginormous robot came rampaging through the country. It was the biggest thing I' ve ever seen. There were hookers in it feet, drug addicts on its calves. Hell, it had police stationed in its knees. The only protection it had was a bulletproof west. But that' s not the weird part. The weird part was the fact that there are rumors that a person was driving that thing. I do n' t think so, simply because how big it was and the fact that we never saw any people above the stomach region. It started all the way over in Chicago and started walking towards DC. Every time it walked through a slump, it just got weirder. The police was doing drive-bys on its thighs, there were gang shootouts on its hips. It was a living, breathing ghetto. But then it approached DC, that' s when Congress had enough. That' s when they authorized Regan 3000. That' s when they let authorized turning the White House into a Transformer. That' s a sight I' ll never want to see again. It had nukes. It had flamethrowers. It shot helium bombs as if it were an AK-47. The battle lasted days. And here is the frighting part: The Ghetto *retreated*. The Ghetto is still out there, just biding its time, waiting for a time where Congress wo n' t authorize Regan 3000 and take over the world


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Diagnostic Summary Attention: * Fails to give close attention to details, careless mistakes * Does not seem to listen when spoken to directly * Difficulty organizing tasks and activities * Forgetful in daily activities Affective Symptoms: * Feelings of restlessness * Rapid mood swings * Feelings of despair * Manic episodes * Difficulty maintaining composure when provoked Conclusion: Based on multiple clinical interactions, the patient has been assigned an AAD score of 197/250, meeting the requirement for intermediate Affective Attention Disorder. 1800 mg/day of Lithium Carbonate has been prescribed, divided into morning and evening doses. Condition will be monitored for a period of 30 days. If mood does not stabilize and condition progresses, may request surgical removal of Affective tissue.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The rage of dying left me empty and alone. Hollow. I remembered being a carpenter. I knew how to build all kinds of things, and so I had tools, materials, dimensions, all of this information sloshing in my head as if clothes in a broken washing machine. It seemed natural that in death, I would continue my work. Even though I was something else, I still had that life in my head — burning in my mind. It took me an eternity to begin my work. I was alone. Wherever this was existed as nothing — a featureless plain of grey mist and dim sourceless light, yet I sculpted the mist to form vast walls and caverns. I carved form into an endless waste, and left meaning in my wake. Others would follow. It was necessary. A door, once opened, can be opened again. They would make their way to this oblivion and see my work, and know me as creator of this new world. Through the mist they would find this damning place, and they would find me, keeper of this dominion of the dead. I kept no laws or rules or strictures; my people were free to do as they pleased. Unrestricted from the demanding necessities of life they had ( potentially ) the rest of time to exist unbound by any code of conduct, absolutely ungoverned. From my pit, I watched them. I had no eyes to see with — they had long since abandoned me — but still I watched them. Some organized themselves into echoes of their living societies. Others revelled in this newfound freedom. Others still went mad with the truth of it all. After death, there is no Heaven nor Hell to let you in. There is only freedom. There is only me.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The rusty brown lounge chair was well worn with tears on the arms, strings hanging from the edge and a peek of stained foam pushing its way through. He sat in this chair every day from the moment he woke at exactly 7: 30 to the time he went to bed at exactly 10: 00pm only rising to eat and relieve himself. The room smelled of stale bread and moldy cheese because of the left remnants of the same sandwich he would make for lunch and dinner every day, American cheese on white bread with mayonnaise. At exactly 10: 30am he would look out the window to see the mailman come and deliver the mail through the front door slot. The pile of mail was now nearly as tall as the slot and pushing against the umbrella stand and the coat rack. He stopped reading the mail, he stopped reading anything. Initially he had traded reading for watching TV but since the cable company shut off his service, he only sits and stares at the static. Every once in a while he sees someone drive or walk down the street, he doesn' t think much about it, no interest in who they might be, where they are going or what they might be doing. He isn' t interested in anything anymore. Lately, he' s even stopped turning on the lights after it gets dark, he' s decided to start practicing moving around in the dark before the electricity gets turned off. He can afford to pay the electricity, he just doesn' t.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: When did I fall in love with her? As we eat our dinner I ca n' t help but gaze into her eyes. She looks back at me with the same loving gaze she always has. I never get tired of looking at her, her skin smooth as plastic. Her eyes reflected the chandelier and gave off a twinkle, this is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. As I dig into the wonderful soup she made for me, I think back onto how we first met. I saw her online and knew immediately, there could not be a life without her. Without a second thought my mouse hit the purchase option and the window flashed, two weeks expected delivery. It had to be the hardest two weeks any man had to endure in their life. When the time came I was watching out my window, like a child waiting on Santa. The UPS truck pulled up and the carrier produced a medium sized box from his truck. I could n' t wait any longer and ran to meet him half way. This was it my queen, my life, my everything. As I ran inside I opened the box and there she was smiling back at me. At that moment I knew everything had changed for the better.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: All my life, I' ve been hearing music randomly. Sounds kind of stupid, but it helps me in situations. For example, I was talking to a girl in school today and the " awkward " music came on. I knew this was my time to just roll out and leave her alone. The music would shut off when I went to sleep. I do n' t know if it actually shut off, or if I was just asleep and did n' t hear it. Either way, I would n' t hear it while I was asleep - or so I thought. I was awoken at 4: 00 AM by the loudest screeching noise that you could think of right now. Imagine your teacher with a chalk in her hand, writing on the chalkboard. Remember the little screeches? Now imagine that, but multiply the noise by almost 100 fold. That' s how I felt right now. I knew something was wrong, but what it could it be? I' ve never heard this music in my life before, and watching scary movies, I knew not to get up. But what did I do? That' s right - the stupidest thing. I got up. I still question to this day why I got up. It was probably the scariest thing I' ve ever seen in my life. As soon as I got up, the screeching sound disappeared. I was relieved, but what if it happens again? Who knew. Anyways, I really needed to use the washroom. I open up the lights, and half asleep I was peeing. It was only until I looked in the mirror I realized something was HORRIBLY wrong. I opened up my eyes a bit more, and there she was. Standing right behind me. Her hair covering her face but her laugh was the worst part of it all. I instantly fainted. I woke up the next morning, remembering the last thing she said to me. " I' ll come back for you. " I have n' t slept since then.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: As I closed my eyes for the last time, the faces of my family looking down with sad sympathy as I passed on. I did n' t feel any different, but I could n' t move my arms anymore. I did n' t feel anything, really. When I opened my eyes again, or at least went through the motion of opening them, it was still pitch black. Then something amazing happened; I sat up. I looked around the room and spotted my alarm clock, though it was n' t mine. It was the alarm clock I' d had over.. say, ten years ago. I blinked and jumped out of bed. It was n' t my bed, though. This was n' t even my room, but.. it was. It certainly was n' t a hospital room. What the fuck was going on? I flicked the light switch and looked around. Next to my bed sat a book of stamps. I smacked my forehead and laid back down, sighing wearily. " That' s the *last* time I do MDMA before going to sleep. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Little Sam woke up in a green field. He had no recollection of how he had gotten there. His head was filled with images of a strange, bearded man in a dark room, coupled with feelings of intense pain that even now made his lip quiver. He walked through the field and saw a human figure in the distance, kneeling down in front of something. Curiosity struck the boy, and he wandered toward the scene. As he grew closer he made out his father' s face, red and stained with tears. In front of him was a stone structure surrounded with beautiful flowers of all colors. The boy was overwhelmed with concern; he had never seen his father in such a state before. He reached out to touch his father, but his hand fazed through the man' s body. It was then that he saw the grave: "Samuel L. Tucker, 2005-2015 "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I was nine years old for my first. Most people have trouble remembering the events of a week ago and yet that day twenty-three years past is still so fresh in my mind. I can picture it, the skin peeled back, the muscles underneath clenching and unclenching. My parents had gotten me a sewing kit for my birthday, perhaps in the hope of focusing me on something productive. The needles I had kept, and the string. The small scissors I used methodically to slice away flesh. Blood pooled, like a stagnant well. But it smelled of power, and it fascinated me. I sat for a while, watching my work. Seeing the muscles move, the lungs filling and collapsing like a crippled bird. The beast' s eyes rolled in its head, endlessly. And I watched. Its death was of no great interest to me. The morbid fascination that I had felt as it shuddered in its death throes left at the same instant that the light in its eyes did. When it was over I cleaned my tools, even then I had been tidy, systematic. The body I hid, deep in the woods. I visited it often, reminiscing, remembering. The surge of power I felt faded each day, and I wanted more. My dog had been my first. And as you know officer, it was not my last.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Thomas " I ca n' t do it anymore " I say to my wife in a sobbing whisper. She does n' t respond, she just sits there, on the edge of the bed... lifeless, like always. It had only been weeks since time had stopped abruptly, leaving me the only man in the world free to move about and continue life, but for what? To mourn for my wife who was n' t dead? To weep over the beds of my children as if they were their graves? What' s the point? I tried everything I could, from simply moving my family myself and placing them in certain areas, to making loud noises to startle them out of their forced pause, to even giving them small shocks from a taser I stole. Nothing worked. So nothing mattered. I could care less for the rest of the world, all I have is my family, or... Had. It' s been taken from me by whatever cruel being decided this should happen. No more will I spend every hour wondering why this happened, no more will I endure waking up after every nap to the solid figure of my wife sitting at the foot of our bed. My sanity has been tested, and it has been broken. I can hear my family in my dreams, its the only reason I still sleep. They call to me and in my dreams they are real, loving and alive. In my dreams time flows smooth like wind through a valley of flowers. It is there that I will stay with them. All I have left is the hope that I' ll be with them forever in a dream, because I can no longer bear the reality. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - Thomas kisses his wife ever so slightly on her cheek, he' s done the same to his children. He sits on the bed next to her, a loaded gun in his hand. As he looks into her frozen, lifeless eyes he says one last " I love you. " He takes a deep breath, raises the barrel of the 44 Magnum to his temple... And pulls the trigger.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The day my life started, I mean actually started was a Tuesday. The bus dropped me off on the corner, I waved by to Stacey and Phillip and made the walk through the alley into the back door of the house. The door was unlocked, which was unusual. Walking into the kitchen for the snacks that always waited and I hear voices, even weird they were my parents voices, and another kid. One of my friends? Enter the kitchen and say " hi, what' s going " My mom replies, but not to me, to the mystery kid. " Is this one of your friends sweety? You did n' t say anyone was coming over today? " " Never seen her. " " Mom, why do you mean, it' s me, Hillary! " The worst part was how she just stared at me. Never taking her eyes off me and trying to keep calm but freaking out underneath that smile like Id see her do with dad' s family all the time. " Hillary, did your mom or dad drop you off or do you live nearby? " " DAD! Tell mom it' s me, my rooms upstairs! " " Darling, just tell us your moms number and will straighten this out. " That ass, I just walked on his back for 20 minutes yesterday trying to get a kink out for him! " Mom, Dad, this is n' t funny! I just got off the bus like I did every day! " I really did n' t like the way the new kid kept looking, not at me. Never at me, at my toes, the ceiling fan, the fridge. But never at me. I' d had enough, I sprinted outside to get some air! Men in suits? Did someone die? " Excuse me miss, can we speak with you a second? " Two of them came towards me, instantly I felt the hairs on my back rise. " Umm.... I have to get home. My parents are expec.... " " Miss, we both know they are n' t expecting you. Now please come with us and we wo n' t need to cause any pain. " " What? Who are you, what' s going on.... " Then total darkness and the smell of brand new fabric, I could almost taste how new it was. And strong hands hoisting me up, into a door. *wham* " OW!! Wha... " *whack*


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Give it back! " he screams as he swipes the small, flat package from the hand of Leo. Leo, being fifteen, was six years older than Sam; his crew of boys occupied themselves by bullying some of the younger kids. In many ways, it made sense, for the confinements of the ship created a summer-camp feel. Moreover, the once vivid purpose was often lost on these boys, Leo included. They cared less about the mission than their parents. We' ll never see our next planet. Why do we care? At their age, it was difficult to express just how important they truly were. Still, a few understood, and Sam wiped his face of his last few tears as he hid the package back in his pocket. " Why do you carry those stupid things around? You' ll never be able to put them to any good use. Let' s go, guys. " Sam sat there for a moment, and now that his assailants left, he mused over the package. *Sure, maybe all the spots on the ship are reserved for necessities* he thought. *And yes, I' ll never use these myself. * But as he got up and walked back to his dorm, he thought of when his grandpa gave him that package. The package that came from earth itself, and it gave him purpose and hope. A simple pack of lilac seeds.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He came to our house today. I know it was him because I' ve seen his pictures everywhere! He' s really important and he wants to meet with MY daddy! Daddy did n' t seem too nervous, but he got dressed up in his fancy long blue coat with all the shiny medals and buttons. I never see Daddy in those clothes. I wonder if Daddy is going away again? Last time he was gone, he left for ten days. He went over to Siam Reap. We live in Phnom Penh, so that is a long way. It is almost eight hours! But when Dad came home, he brought me lots of new clothes. I know my dad is important to the Rouge. My dad is important because we get a lot of food, and my mom is allowed to teach me. My friend' s daddy is important too, because she met Him too. He seems very nice. He brought me sweets, and a doll. My mommy told me before he came that I must be very polite. But I know why. I know the rules: do n' t question, do as you are told, and above all, what Pol Pot says, that is law. He said that I was a nice girl, and that I have a future in his regime! I said, " How silly, because I am only 7! I ca n' t work yet! " And he laughed at me. I think he is a nice man. He gives me sweets, and my daddy a job. I wonder if he knows of SretMeng, my friend. I saw her on my way home yesterday. She was standing very close to a gate. She looked very hungry and we talked. She said she was camping, but does n' t know where her mommy is. SretMeng told me that she lives in Bati. That is very far from here, too. I wonder why she is camping at an old factory in Phnom Penh? I wish I could camp alone. Maybe Pol Pot will go visit her next. I hope he gives her sweets, because she was very nice.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Mom? Dad? " I asked. " Can we talk for a second? " I shivered a little bit. I ca n' t remember the last time I shivered. " What is it, son? " Dad replied. " It' s just... " I started, and then could n' t find the words to finish. Dad noticed the consternation on my face, and said, " It' s OK. Start at the beginning. " " Well, lately, I' ve been feeling... weird. It' s like... well, I go out and work in the fields all day, and I never, ever feel tired. " " Well, that' s what clean country living will get you, " Mom said. " No, I mean, I do n' t even feel the least bit winded. And lately, I' ve been hearing things other people do n' t hear, and seeing things other people do n' t see. " " You what? " Dad raised an eyebrow. " You did n' t hurt your head or anything, did you? " " No, I mean real things. Things too far away for anybody else to notice. And that' s not all either. Weird things keep happening. Things that make me feel like I do n' t belong here. So, I... I... " " C' mon, son. " " I cut off a lock of your hair and Mom' s hair while you were asleep, and I sent it to a lab for testing with some of mine. And they sent me this back. " I gave them the letter. As they read it, I continued, " It says they do n' t test non-human DNA. *Non-human DNA. * **My** DNA is apparently non-human. " I was expecting them to be shocked, or... something. I did n' t expect what I got. Both of them just gave me a thousand yard stare. As if they knew this was coming, but still did n' t know what to say. I pushed them a little further. " Dad... Mom... What am I? " Dad breathed a sigh, and turned to Mom. " Martha, get your coat, " he said. " It' s time we showed Clark the truth. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " We ca n' t give you a new set of lungs. " " Why not? " " Our criteria for a transplant is that you are in bad enough condition after all other methods of medical assistance have failed. You' ve not provided yourself optimal medical care. You still have lines of defense available to you. " " What gave you that idea? " " The nurse coordinator. She says you' ve never taken pancreatic enzymes. " " We said we *stopped* taking them. " " Well, there you go. You made your decision. You' re allowed to make whatever decision you wish. It was the wrong one, but it was yours to make. " " Um, it was n' t a moral decision. We are n' t hippies grinding roots into powders. The FDA recalled the drug I was taking. They forced the company creating it and the makers of half a dozen other similar drugs to reformulate. It was no longer legal for it to be prescribed to me. " "... " "... " And with that, he turned into a werewolf, left the room, found the nurse coordinator, and tore her arms from her body.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I tasted the flesh of man before my first moon. It' s a ritual, part of the blooding ritual a hatchling has to undertake before they can leave the pits. It was seared to hide the branding marks, the skin taken from a captive of the last wars, but I ate it like ambrosia. We all did. It' s a horrible curse, to be free to walk amongst men. Our purpose, the very raison d' être of our existence, is to instil fear within the mortal folk. To take at random and leave the eviscerated remnants. Our form was broken, hideous. But we could pass, invisible to mens eyes as they looked away from the skin. Throughout all history, we have done this. As plagues or crusades or inquisitions, we have tortured mens souls because they torture our very bellies. Until I met you. It was early autumn, in a city where the leaves turned orange but the wind and the rain had yet to come, that I found you sitting on a park bench, listening to the children play in the twilight. I sat beside you and already my mind raced through images of your corpse, splayed out across the playground. Oh I would feast so well. You smiled at me. I showed you my face but you did n' t cry out. Your hand reached for my own, feeling the scars and broken bones from punishments for failing to please our masters. You caressed it. You reached for my face with your blind fingers and I flinched. But you smiled at me. And I let you place your palm against my own skin. I could smell you. So perfect. So delicate. My stomach ached and I wanted to devour you there and then but my mouth could not form the words to speak to you, much less rip into you. I cried, sitting there on the park bench. For you smiled at me. And in that instant I knew I would go hungry for as long as I lived and as long as I lived I would not be able to see a mortal face without seeing your smile.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I looked into Jen' s bloodshot eyes. She was so tired. I could see that she was close to giving up. We had been here for hours. I clung to the outside of the rusted cage, wishing I could fit my arms in to hold her up, just so she could rest for a while. It was a cruel invention, the cage, mostly submerged in the murky water, her arms tied behind her back connected to the bottom with a chain, forcing her to tread water. How much longer could she keep it up? How much longer should I expect her to fight? " I ca n' t, " she whimpered, her face going under briefly before she kicked herself up to the surface again. " Baby, you have to.. I can do it, please.. Just give me one more chance! " I loved her. The thought of her giving up was like a punch to the gut. Leaving here without her was unthinkable. What would I tell her sister? That I could have saved her but I failed? That I tried my hardest, but it just was n' t good enough? I could free her, I could. All I had to do was get the key. The problem was, the key was on the bottom of the deep lake. The thought of swimming down that far into the dark me filled me with so much dread I could barely catch my breath, but what else could I do? Jen let out a sob, bringing my focus back to her. I would set the world on fire to save her. Move mountains. Die. " You can do this, " I pleaded, " Just a little while longer! We can make it through this. Just one more chance... " I pressed my forehead against the cool metal, closing my eyes, steeling myself against the pressing darkness of the water. I counted to ten, taking a deep breath with each number, readying myself to dive. Telling myself that this would be the last time, live or die, save Jen or die trying. " I love you, I' ll be back, " I promised, knowing full well I might not be back, knowing I might die trying to get the key. I looked into her beautiful brown eyes one last time and smiled, hoping she believed me. I wished I could kiss her. With one last deep breath, I dove.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: For money, if thine ask it, thou shalt get advice However, for advice, twice shall you gain money I have withdrawn from the filthy But that man is magnificent Thine shall call it but a moment, I shall refer to it as life. During the time of my light I shall dwell within my gilded abode However, the gates have yet to be opened And I would love to simply, feel this moment. EDIT ( second verse ): Sending messages, touching the clouds above Tokyo A far distance from the corridors Filled to the brim with " So " s and " oh, yay " s Forever the Dade county, throughout the day we 305 Now lady we may speak, or m' lady, we may conduct a dance She hath read all the leatherbacks of scarlet rooms and tie-ups. And her interest hath been mine, since her eyes have gazed upon my rouge cloth, tied around my neck. To meet and to greet, it hath been a pleasant encounter with you, however gold settled within the hourglass Yet the gold is in my ownership, let us set the hourglass upon its side and simply, enjoy this moment.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: "Oh my god, you should have seen it. "**The Space Time Hobo was telling another story. ** "Listen, one thing you should never, ever do... is give away power based on a number. That' s what' Karma' is... a number. Is someone with more of it a contributor? Yes. Does it mean he or she is, like, a good person? Hell no! "But here... Well, I was n' t around for the fight, but I met someone who was. Called himself Kaantur-Set... I still do n' t know how to pronounce that. Anyway, weird little guy, but he told me what he saw. "And what he saw... was a shattering of society and morals that would shock you. Once again, do NOT give power away based on a silly internet number. "The big guys with all the karma... they were like superman and stuff, but without any of the morals. There were people who could shoot lasers, people who could vomit copies of themselves, turn other things into explosives... "It made people crazy. They all went crazy, every one of them. They turned on each other, and themselves, because they could n' t deal with the world anymore. "One' Luna', and Kaantur told me this with terror in his eyes, she wrote stories for this... Karma. He remembered walking through a deserted city, and seeing this... shell of a person, writing on the walls with anything she could find. She had run out of paper, and now the city was her story, the never ending tale she could n' t stop writing. When she had no ink, she had to use blood. Her' s or otherwise... "**The Space Time Hobo looked down at the table. ** "Kaantur used' Reddit' too, but his karma was so low he was still sane. But he will go crazy, he said. He' s sure he' ll go nuts. And then, and only then, will he be fine dying, and sharing the afterlife with the abomination that his internet kin have become. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The room was silent except for the occasional fall of incense ash. Its scent filled the room and I inhaled deeply. Then slowly let it out. Inhale deeply then slowly let it out. Man, what was the first thing I was going to do with magic? Flying? I' ve heard flying is quite fun. I did n' t have the money for a jet pack, but with magic I could fly on my own accord. It would be so amazing to touch the clouds and see the city below me. Or perhaps invisibility or clairovoyance? Thoughts of sneaking or seeing into the girls' locker room filled my mind. Visions of tits, pussies of and ass filled my head and my pants became tighter. Especially that one cheerleader. Focus! Meditation takes complete focus. Breathe in and out. In and out. I wonder how I did on my calculus test last week? I feel like I did good. But maybe not. Focus! Magic! Pew pew. Laser beams. I could create my own jet pack or even my own flying car! Ah, fuck it. That' s enough meditation for one day. It would take about five years after I figure out how to meditate for hours. As I checked the clock, I realized it had only been ten minutes. Well, you got ta start somewhere.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I looked across at dad at the breakfast table- he gave one of those manly shrug nods, all rolled into one. He knew, of course he knew, every man had gone through it. It was like a rite of passage. Smirking he said, " it' s just the change son, do n' t let it get to you too much. It frightened your Uncle Allen that he ran into traffic to make his life more exciting... " at that he returned to his paper. " Why do n' t we get taught it at school? " I nervously asked. An ignorant shrug and a russell of paper told him that the conversation was over. This was obviously one of those things that " you do n' t talk about. " I returned to my cereal, clumping in the bowl, " well at least I do n' t have to go through that puberty thing... " I mumbled under my breath. Dad looked over his paper muttering, " you think you hear horror stories of puberty, you' re not out of the woods yet with this change- let hope you get through it in one piece eh? " He crunched down on a butter laden crumpet, shuffling paper again. My face was horrified, and there was n' t anyone else I could ask...


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: /u/Philip671 Prompt: A young man is on holiday when the country erupts into a civil war. Write the story of the boys mother coming to rescue you him. -- -- I' ll be writing this from the perspective of his father. My son went to the country to visit a friend on holiday from school. He was one of the unlucky ones, caught in the epicenter of a huge civil war that started before he could get out... The Agency hired me to go in, and get their VP... By time I got in it was too late for him, but I was going to save the others, so help me, Satan. God did n' t have my back on this one. I hooked up with some rebels and got the blueprints for the enemy hostage warehouse... After studying for several hours, I made my move. I was silent as the night, a shadow in the darkness. They never saw me, or the bullets that pierced their hearts, coming. One after the other they dropped dead, bodies disappearing into dark corners. I grabbed the hostages and made a run for it... About 15 minutes into the break, the sirens started, 5 minutes later they were on our trail. We made a solid sprint to the border, and I was loading the kids onto a truck when I got tagged. Bloody, dying, I got the last person aboard, and uttered my final words... " Fly, you fools. " I pushed the truck away and fell into the mud.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was a small funeral. It was a sunny day. It was wrong. The old woman sat staring at the open grave, wondering how it had all happened. How had everyone else faded away until he was all she had left? She had barely noticed that they had gone, Perry, James, oh God James had been too young. She watched as the casket was lowered and the priest said a few words. On either side was a multitude of trees, some mighty, some frail. Some said that height was bravery, some said height was intelligence, others said it was kindness. Lois had never thought about it until the prognosis had come in. Cancer, they said. Inoperable, they said. She hopes the tree is small, he had always wanted to be forgotten, never to put anyone out or overshadow anyone. She holds her breath as the final piece of dirt is placed. Nothing. She regrets wishing it was small, what does nothing mean, that he was too cowardly, too mild mannered? A rumble, a jolting heave as the ground beneath shudders with the magnitude of the tree that erupts from the grave before her. A great trunk bursts forth, gleaming green, magnificent crystal, branches splinter off as emerald lightning, the priest steps back, as do the grave fillers, only just missing the explosion of colour. The gravestone is flung aside by the great trunk, smashing as it hits the ground leaving only half of the name visible. *Kent*


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was born out of care, they said. Created in response to the worsening behaviour, to the shift in attitudes towards opinions about appearance. Some people hated it. " Political correctness gone mad, " they said. " We' re falling down a slippery slope! " Others... well, some others loved it from the start. But for most people it was just awkward and difficult. People who' ve lived their whole lives choosing how they presented themselves to the world, basing their identities on their image. We even taught fashion here, and these new rules certainly shook up that department. So, at first the adjustment was the hardest part. Eventually, though, people dealt with it. Some of the angry voices went silent, and the worst calmed down to a disgruntled murmur. The repeated explanations from admin - it' s proven to help with self-esteem, it creates a more accepting culture, it gets rid of obvious rich/poor boundaries - started to sink in. The students themselves spread the word to their family and friends, and defending the choices the university made. We were proud of our new image. And the best part? It actually worked! We were all more confident in ourselves, we cared less about appearance and more about what we were as people. Some of the predicted " downsides " did come true, but hey change is a good thing, and downsides turned into upsides. All in all, I really like our university now. The change was hard, but we made it through. The biggest hurdle now is getting the other unis to stop calling us " University of Nude. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: We worshiped them when they came with airships that drifted in the sky like clouds—how could we not? They could only be gods. Their presence was a slow acclimation. First they floated in their airships, then they came to the surface—emissaries of the gods. They were humanoid, very similar to us. They seemed to want nothing, just to be present. Then they were curious. Then they were among us. Then they owned us. We accepted our place as servants of the gods. We brought them offerings of the minerals that abounded under the surface of our planet. We wanted to please them. We told ourselves we wanted to serve our new gods, our benevolent new gods. Even though they demanded it, we believed we wanted it. They kept their miraculous technology to themselves, for the most part. We only saw glimpses and glimmers that kept the mystery alive. A shimmering orb produced from a robe to communicate with those back on the ship, a cruel weapon that produced beams of deadly light when one of us displeased them. And of course, the airships that hung, hung always over our heads. I wish I could say we learned our error, fought back and overthrew our overlords who did nothing but take from us, but we did not. One day, years after the offerings had come in dribbles and the mineral deposits were all but gone, so were they. The ships disappeared without a trace, and we never saw them again. Now our planet is a husk, raped and pillaged and left with nothing. We limp on, us former slaves, and grow our own technology, and work for the day when we will become gods in the sky.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Welcome to Ace Scientific Studies Lab, located at the prestigious 20th Avenue, Silicon Valley! We' re proud to welcome you to our growing family, located in more than eight locations worldwide! Before you start your promising career however, we would like you to spend around five minutes reading through our manual to get yourself familiarized with our working culture: - Please do not be later than 25 minutes to work. Latecomers will only be given ONE warning before disciplinary action is taken. - If you' re taking public transport, Shuttle Bus 18 takes you directly from 5th and 14th Avenue to our office. The shuttle bus interval is at every 15 minutes. - Ace carries out numerous groundbreaking research everyday, so do not be alarmed if you see anything out of the ordinary. - At Ace, efficiency is key. All meetings should not last more than 20 minutes per day. - There are eight cafeterias located across our campus, so be sure to give them all a visit! The fried rice from Stall 21 is out of this world Do n' t let Aunty Kim know that we let you in on this " Secret ". - Lab 13 is off limits to any employee below Class-1 clearance. Any employee caught violating this rule will be subjected to disciplinary procedures. - Please remember that eating any drinking is forbidden in any labs. - Please also ensure that proper clothing is worn at all times during any lab sessions. - Each employee is allocated 14 days of leaves per year. - Respect, Curiousity and Hardwork is the ethos of Ace, so be sure to keep this in mind. We hope that the guide is useful in getting your exciting career started at ASS Lab. Should you have any further queries, do not hesitate to email hr @ asslabs. com or dial extension 19 from your desk phone. Happy Science-ing!


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The brain considered the liver for a few moments longer. " You are utterly replaceable. " Said the brain with conviction. Everyone else let out a collective gasp. " This will be the fourth time, this month, that the liver has let us all down. Just look at stomach right now! " Stomach was black and blue from a night of heaving and contracting. Liver had sat idly by and watched as Stomach suffered. " N-now you l-listen here Brain, there' s only s-soooo much I can d-do! " faltered Liver stupidly. A moment of silence passed before stomach rumbled violently. " That does it, I' m done with you Liver. " Decreed the brain. " You might enjoy it, but the rest of us suffer too! " " Brain, a private word? " Asked Heart calmly. " Very well. " Heart watched Brain for a few beats before speaking. " I' ve always been your closest friend and trusted advisor, right Brain? " " That you have, Heart, that you have. " Brain beamed proudly at Heart. " Then let me say, we ca n' t just throw out one of our own. We are him and him, us. " " Might I remind you of Appendix?! " Brain exclaimed wildly. " A different matter entirely, we as a council decided Appendix must leave for the safety of us all. " Heart reasoned wisely. Brain groaned and ached. " All of this is making me tired. " " Let us rest on it for today and- Brain? " Heart stopped suddenly. " GOOD GOD! OH GOD YES! " brain shouted inexplicably. " DO YOU FEEL THAT HEART? DO YOU?! " " Why yes, I do believe I do. " Heart purred quietly. " Ah the purest ecstasy from my one tr- " " QUIETEN DOWN! OH THIS IS FANTASTIC! GOOD FUCKING JOB PENIS! " Further down, everyone celebrated in unison as Penis ( the first of the sentient organs ) trumpeted his awakening and release into a foreign existence, spreading his undying knowledge far and wide. For a few short minutes perhaps, everyone was united.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: 19XX Edward Richtofen' s Journal This blasted war has taken too much from me, I ca n' t handle life anymore. After I lost my family in one bombing run from the allies I have been trying to run away from the pain in the form of studying science. I have quite the fascination with the man Nikola Tesla, he was a genius who believed that by creating the ultimate weapons, we can end all war as we know it. Today I am transferred to a new facility with a new partner, some person, something Maxis. 19XX Edward Richtofen' s Journal I have been sent to study a new material found in a meteor that we had found. It seems to give off a large amount of energy in a seemingly endless stream. This may be the cleanest renewable energy source known to mankind. Further tests must be done to understand its limits. 19XX Edward Richtofen' s Journal Today, I was ordered to create new weapons with this new element. In respect to the late great Nikola Tesla, I created an electricity based weapon far more capable than any other weapon. If all goes well, I could stop any wars from happening ever again with these weapons. I also have been hearing of certain effects this new element has on dead bodies. 19XX Edward Richtofen' s Journal I have the answer to end all wars today. These new creatures, the undead, can be controlled by one person. In order to unite mankind, they must have a common enemy to overcome. I have fulfill my plans, I ca n' t let the people I have manipulated, the ones I have killed, be in vain. I must save mankind from itself.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: A small-ish team of scientists go out into the snow, while I stay back to number crunch with naught a place to go. Some static on the radio, the bleep-bloop of our tools, fill the air around my chair as I begin to drool. A burst of static and a voice awake me from my slumber. " Hey, J-Jake, we found something... " And to the gear I lumber. By now I know the protocol when something does transpire. I' m off into this icy plane to see what this hell sired. When I arrive my teammates are all brooding with excitement, but fear is in their eyes as well as I see what the call meant. A block of ice not clear as glass but clear enough to see the brown and husky figure there as frozen as can be. We haul the block back, ice and all, to find what is inside. To find a creature old and lost would boost all of our pride! So as we start to melt the block, the ice drips and decays, and soon an arm burst through the side to all of our dismay. A striking ape is perched upon the mound of ice and dirt. A tag marked by the government told us what had occurred. Conspiracy unraveled here as this ape stands today. And so we all know what to do. # DicksOutForHarambe


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Papa, look! " The mime' s nose dripped blood over his powder white chin. " Stand back, Pierre. " The little boy struggled to comprehend the scene before him. Slowly the walls of an invisible box began to force the mime into an awkward pose, arms outstretched, face contorted. Pierre' s father felt around his coat pockets. He had forgotten his mobile at home. " Somebody call the Ministry of Invisible Boxes! " Pierre' s father yelled at the crowd that had gathered around the troubled mime. Minutes later, Constable Bergeaux descended from the sky on his helicopter bicycle. " What seems to be the trouble, Monsieur? " Constable Bergeaux removed one thin cigarette from a silver case. " I' m afraid it' s too late. " Pierre' s father pointed to the gory cube of blood and flesh that used to be a living breathing mime. Constable Bergeaux lit a cigarette and sharply inhaled. " Sweet child of mime. " Constable Bergeaux whispered as he released smoke. Constable Bergeaux then proceeded to hop on his helicopter bicycle and was about to leave until the little boy, Pierre, stopped him to ask a question. " What does it all mean, Constable Bergeaux? " " The life we live is ours until the moment an invisible box converges on our dreams. " Constable Bergeaux flicked his cigarette to the ground. The helicopter bicycle ascended, disappearing into the clouds above. Pierre stared into the sky wondering how to interpret the words just spoken to him and how they may or may not affect his decisions that day forward.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: We stand at the brink of complete and total annihilation. In mere hours, we will see ICBMs cascade from the sky like fallen angels cast from Heaven; once our silent protectors in the form of mutually assured destruction, now our doomsday much like the betrayal of the rebel angel Lucifer. Tonight, we will see explosions glimmer through the land like shooting stars. Tonight, we will see our families evaporate into smoke before our very eyes. Tonight, we will see the end of a nation, an ideal, and a way of life. Still, we stand strong in the face of complete and assured death, not because we are too weak to retaliate, but because we' re strong enough not to. Our chapter is at its end. The great experiment reached its conclusion, not with a fizzle, but with a bang. However, that does not mean the story of mankind need to end. Are we really so vain to believe that just because a nation dies, all of mankind must perish? Are we really so arrogant to trust in our ideal of equality that the whole world must die? We' ve made our answers clear to the world. We hope it resonates and echoes in a new era so that mankind may truly understand what the end of the world mean and consequences it carries, so that some day in the future, despots and maniacs may not threaten nuclear war with a mad grin, but with a solemn attitude of remembrance. Perhaps one day, we can see how childish we really were. Thank you and goodnight.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: **Day??? | Jaime Fincher | Age: 26** I ca n' t believe I' ve lost count. How does one lose count of the days? It' s not like I have a million different things to distract me from what day it is!!!! I just try to keep moving, following the flicker, but I left the rest of my notes wherever I just came from. I do n' t know how long it' s been or where I am. I' m starting to even forget who I am. It' s so funny how quickly you lose your identity when there' s no one around to remind you. Every day, I change my name and my past. I think this is healthy, it keeps my mind fresh. Just in case I find someone else. **Day??? | Kelly Mumsphord | Age: 53** I had a dream about the Flickerer. How I will introduce myself when we meet. How we will both cry at the sight of each other. Running to each other like in those movies. Which name will I pick? Who will I be? I wonder if they do the same. What is their name? I bet it' s Sam. Sam sounds like a fitting name. Just do n' t stop flickering. Please do n' t let that light die out. I better get moving. Less writing, more walking. Ya know? **Day??? | Alex Waterson | Age: 16** I' m so close I can almost taste it. I wish I had something let them know I' m coming. They do n' t seem to be responding to my shouts. Maybe I scared them. They are alive because the flicker seems to be moving. I try not to stare at the rhythmic pattern of flashes. It puts me in a trance. **Day??? | Sam Chater | Age: 35** I think I have one more day. Just one more. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day we meet. Got ta keep moving. **Day 0 |** I can barely see the page through my tears. Finally the pain from all the walking I' ve done has finally reached my brain. It still pales in comparison to the pain I feel in my soul. A fucking lightning bug. A bug. A bug? I do n' t think I' ve ever cried so hard. All this time. Maybe this is all a dream. Yea. That' s what it has to be!!! All this time. All this hope. Maybe I really am alone.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Human diversity so so huge, nothing can really encompass it, not religion or science or magic. There are always exceptions, always things you have not considered, things that just do n' t fit. A masochist probably should not do onto others as he would like others to do unto him, and neither should a judge. Killing is n' t always immoral, and saving a life is not always moral, especially in the case of a certain failed German painter. Electrons do n' t *really* orbit the center of an atom. Light is n' t *really* a wave, except when it is. Similarly the English language has its own limitations. Some figures of speech just ca n' t describe certain realities. When I was dying was n' t when I was " scared to death ". In fact I had never felt so alive. It was only when the blade just would n' t cut deep enough, when the blood started slowly oozing out of my wrists instead of in the generous flow I had imagined. It was when I realized that I would live that I was really scared to death.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I was getting ready for mining duty after the grueling hours of toilet duty. Usually we would have coal power a drill and mine it but coal ran out years ago, and the Aliens did n' t help. As I sat there pondering over what else would be gone in the next year like helium, granite and other things, I overheard something. The Aliens. They disgust me. I decided to easdrop as they were talking. " We' ve been defending Earth for 157 years now sir. Do you think it' s time to leave them alone? " " No, the Alien force is too great. If we stop defending them now, they will be wiped out of existence forever ". " Alright sir, I will be leaving immediately. One of the Aliens started walking outside when he caught me listening in. I was taken to Holding Cell # 5698479 Section LUI. There they asked me on what I' ve heard and if I do not tell them they will terminate me. I told them what they asked me too and he told me something I dont think I' ll forget. " If we tell the humans we' r defending them then they will want to join the battle, but with your technology, we can not allow it as you will all be killed. " " Why dont you give us your technology? " I asked " Because if we give you our technology then there will certainly be a mutiny and we will all be annihilated ".


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It was a fine Spring day when I first met her. We crossed paths on a busy street, before a florist. She smiled at my smile; I was caught off guard when it lit up her face. My thoughts were unreadable to even me, until one thought rose over the static. *All she needs is a flower for her hair* Without really knowing what I did, my hand moved on its own, to pluck a single lilium head from the florist and place it in her hair. She touched her hair where it was, and smiled ever wider as she looked back to me. One fleeting instant, and before I knew it she was gone in the crowd and so was I. - The days passed, and I could not forget her. I thought of her black hair adorned with a flower, and her deep brown eyes that lit up when she smiled. - I met her the next week once again, in the same time, at the same place. We shared smiles, and I plucked a rose. She turned her head for me to place it, and as I did she leant into my touch. I hummed a happy tune all day long, and smiled to myself. This was going to be the start of something beautiful.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I stole that kiss on the night of September 1st. She did not take too kindly to my theivery and chased me on through the rooftops. When she did caught me, she stole my touch as punishment. Said it was only fair. There are those that have it all. All senses, all feelings, the joys, the tears, the full experience as they say. I was one of those. I could see with clarity, I laughed every day, I felt the sun.... I was wealthy beyond measure. I saw her on the corner of Bishop and Lincoln. Blind. That was uncommon really. Those that were blind tend not to last long, not here. Yet there she was with pretty brown hair. Her face was blank like paper. A canvas. I begun to paint. I first gave her my sense of touch. Only a bit so she could enjoy the sunlight. Then a smile, so she could express joy. I began to shape her senses and it took me by suprise. Though mine were fading, I was sharing. Her touch mingled with mine. My half a smile was completed by hers. I do n' t know if this had been done before. You do not give away these gifts. You horde them - or so I thought. But we shared. Tonight she stole my sense to touch, fully. Tomorrow she will steal back her kiss. And I will take her smell.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' s getting nearer. We can feel it now. At first it was a surprise, the sudden change foreign to our senses. Such a thing has never been experienced by other humans as far as we can tell. To attack our senses so rapidly and so harshly... It' s getting nearer. There' s no way to prepare. The only thing we can do is sit and wait and hope that this time it wo n' t be as bad as the last, knowing it will. We can see the final arc of the sun on the horizon, it' s reflection on the water. And it begins. The first thing to change is the scent. Smooth aromas from the natural green palms gradually turn sour. It starts to get so pungent that we can start to taste it. To inhale is to suffer, but inhale we must. Then all the colors slowly fade. The dark blue of the ocean slowly turns to gray, then black. The green on the palms follow as does the brownish sand. Soon all we' ll be able to see is dark outlines and shapes in this strange hell. The soft sand we sit on is suddenly hard and prickly. It digs into our feet through our clothing. The soft breeze is a hot breath, felt everywhere. It hurts to have hair, hurts to be bald. We sit. We wait. By sunrise our paradise will return.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: As the months crawl by, I can measure my legacy by my dream visitors. At first, every night my dearest friends would visit, and we would talk about our best times, our worst, and how the Cards were going to do this year. Those nights, lost in conversation and good company, kept me sane. I needed the buffer. Friendly faces at night provided a break from the horrors of daytime, where I spent hours wandering a wasteland of nothing, plagued by whatever roaming nightmare was strong enough to project into my plane. The subconscious is a powerful, unreal beast. When family visits and talks over my emaciated, plugged in body, I hear them. They pull me from the void, from the all encompassing visions of the long lost, insane souls of the others in the ward. The ones that are too far gone. The ones that have n' t felt the touch of a loved one, or the visiting dream of a friend in a long time. The forgotten. Those souls claw at me during the day, scraping and scratching and demanding that I share. They want company. Or release. *Get them to pull my plug. Or talk to me, please. Please. * Running is my only response. I hop from dreamscape to dreamscape, but the only ones available are those who have called me or other nearby patients. So I run. I run, I wait, and I pray. Some nights I am never called. Today, when my best friend asks me to pinch him, I cry.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Being a fan of folklores and fairy tales Ive always found ways to incorporate them into my crimes. Half bitten apple next to the dead Women in Avondale, a bag of beans next to the man with bamboo half grown into his pulpy body, and my personal favorite stuffing that old nagging women into the stomach of a Gray wolf. It was easier to chop the women up into middling pieces, gut a decent sized wolf, and stuff all I could in that hallow area leaving the head for last so that; s the first thing they see. Quite messy, but I had an artist satisfaction after that one. With all my magnificent feats, I am still just a man and have slowly let myself go soft and dumb. I write this now as I' m locked away in this three star resort they call jail. They always tell you how bad the food is and how hard the beds are like this news will keep you out, but nothing is worse than eating five day old meat and concrete beds under the over pass. As much as I love this place and will cherish all of the wonderful days on the courtyard with bloody hands, and the visits to the bathroom with even bloodier heads! I must spread my talents again to some place new and if its true love I will be back my love, my love I will be back. Farewell to those who get into heaven and farewell to those who find my present first in the cafeteria. You ca n' t catch me, I' m the Gingerbread Man.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Your worthless " mom said It did n' t affect me because I knew what she was trying to do. I refused to give in to them. A lot of my school classmates had killed themselves, but I refused to give into this backwards world. My mom and dad would emotionally and physically abuse me, and they still expected me to give the remainder of my years to them. No way. I had decided that I would put up with their shit until I was 18 and then move. Most parents would n' t go about it in the sly way other parents would, my dad left his gun out in the open hoping that one day I would pick it up, put it to my head, and blow my brains out. I would n' t. My dad came in the door. " Hi son " he said " Hi dad " I said " How was school? " He asked " Fine " I said. I know he wanted me to talk about all the bad things that happend. He would nit pick everything just to make me feel bad, so I would n' t give him any ammo. " How did you do on the math test? " He asked " I failed, because you wo n' t help me study " You' ll never become something in life if you keep getting grades like that " he said in a mocking tone. " Okay " I said. And thats when the anger consumed me. I picked up my fathers glock off the table, but instead of pointing it at myself I pointed it right at my fathers head and pulled the trigger. BANG! His body hit the floor. My mom screamed. I then turned the gun to her. I pulled the tigger. BANG!. I had murderd my parents. I had zero remorse. They had turned me into a cold blooded killer.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " So why are you here Petey?, Murdered a person? Bombed the national LGBT association? " Peter gulped as Beelzebub questioned him, " Well I decided to Steal from the elderly.. " " hu- " " Beelzebub " " Call me bub! Anyways I read through your criminal record and i think youll be here for a long time.. " Peter sighed and rested his head on the Red desk as he dreaded what would happen to his soul, Maybe he might get tourtured? Maybe he might have to stick in a empty room? Peter just wanted the interview to be done " Petey? There isnt any reason to be distressed here " " YES THERE IS! " Beezlebub sighed again and repeated " Petey, There is n' t any reason to be distressed, Im not like the person that you would think, Why would I cast all of these poor people, Who were merely misunderstood into hell?, You know what? I changed my act, and now instead of tormenting people I decided to set up a rehab to Change people and reincarnate people! You know everyone needs a second chance, Any questions? " Peter lifted his finger " what if you lose your second chance? " " Succubuses.. That is all " " Ok im sold! " Peter stood up as Beezlebub pointed his finger to the exit of his office " Follow the signs petey! And i hope you have a good time! " Peter opened the door as he noticed the large rehab building as he sighed, Not from dread, But for his new beginning...


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I was drumming my fingers until I remembered that she hated that. The noise. It spooked her and she never got to sleep at a proper time once she heard it. I could hear her heavy breathing, so I stopped and sighed and stood watch. Laid watch. The bend of the dimension under ones bed is big enough to fit my ten foot frame, if I' m laying down. But I ca n' t stand. I can hardly sit up, truth be told. So I lay there, waiting. It was about three in the morning and I knew that the father was going to be by. Knowing something is going to happen and being able to stop it are two different things. It was pretty clear why I got this assignment. The father was a nightmare. The mother was, too, but for different reasons. She encouraged his behavior. Normally he stayed away, particularly after the last time. I hit him so hard... well, her bedroom door was new. But tonight he' d been drinking, and that gives all kinds of creatures all kinds of courage, which was fine. The knuckles in my right hand popped hard and loud as I flexed it. I' d been given new orders. The girl was to move in with her grandparents, who were nice, according to their file. I would have taken care of this hours ago, but I ca n' t leave the bedroom. All I had to do was wait for the father to open the door.