Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: There are actually people who only eat things that have fallen from plants, like apples that fell from trees. So hypothetically, we would still be able to eat. But I' ll write a story anyway, assuming there is a problem with that for some reason. Also, plants do n' t have a central nervous system so they do n' t have nerves or a brain to perceive pain. Vegans began to starve after it was discovered that plants feel pain. Some continued with their same old diets, but many chose to starve. Humans can live for weeks without food fortunately, but still require water, which was n' t an issue. Many vegans began trying to find ways to reduce their consumption and create the most nutrient efficient diets that would allow for the least amount of food to be eaten with the most nutrition derived. After a year, many had died, but in the process, an optimal diet had been created. Not only that, but variations of the diet had been created for all different kinds of climates where only certain foods were available. New agricultural techniques were created to optimize crop output without the use of genetically modified organisms. People in places of starvation had more food available to them. New methods of growing food in laboratories had been created, and this led to not only food being produced, but the expansion of ability to create organisms and parts of organisms like limbs and organs in laboratories. 3D food printers were created and capable of growing cells and printing them out into new kinds of food. Like a forest that burns down, the ashes laid the foundation for the new to take the place of the old.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: In the corner of the spacious dining room stood an enormous cabinet. More than eight feet high and five wide, it was filled with clocks of every conceivable shape and ornamentation. The timepieces ticked and tocked unanimously, nearly inaudible, hushed behind thick glass panes spidered with gold filigree. The last three hours had passed uncomfortably and with a slowness I had thought impossible. I had been silenced by something ill defined; a brutally thick, nauseating yet irresistible aroma and the quiet tick tick tick. Chimes rang from within the cabinet and my host inhaled sharply. Resurrected from my reverie and my senses awakened I found myself unspeakably ravenous. " I understood this to be a dinner party? " I managed to mutter through mummified cords. " Please, " he said. " Open your letter. " A small yellowed envelope sat before me. On the front my name was scrawled in an angry shade of crimson. I hesitated. " I' m terribly hungry... " The man smiled. " Please, " he repeated as he rose from his place at the head of the table. " Open your letter. " My hands fumbled, sluggish and unresponsive, as I tore at the envelope. " Where is the food? " I heard myself say as the note inside the envelope drifted out and pirouetted upon my lap. " Read it, " he said, now standing inches behind me. I could feel his breath upon my neck and the smell that permeated the room spilled unctuously from his lips. " Sir, this is just a piece of paper that says' It was inside you all along. "'


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " I told you so! " " No you did n' t. " " Yes I did! Look at what they' ve done! It was a nice little garden planet with a nice little sun but look at it now! There are rings of garbage floating around it for goodness sake! " " Well... at least they' ve gotten up to a Level 4 civilisation? It' s more than I expected. " " What were you expecting exactly? They have n' t even managed interstellar flight. Nooo... they' re just to busy fighting amongst themselves instead of, oh I do n' t know, focusing on more important things like advancing to space to meet the rest of us? " " Hmm... so do you think they' ll be friendly when we meet them? " " They *should* be honoured that we' re re-recruiting them to fight the Zynoids. At least they' ll get upgraded a bit as a civilization... But friendly? Ha! " " Hey, I see a welcome mat over there! Look! There' s some human drawing a crop circle in the field there. Let' s go say hi! " "... I' ll get the laser guns. Just in case. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' s clear you' ve put a lot of thought into the world of your story. The moon concept is really cool, maybe you do have to change the mechanics of it but the core of the moon going into a decaying orbit and getting righted is a good one. I understand the impulse to craft a more perfect world/society, but the perfect world is rarely an interesting world to read about for long. So what if you have the story backwards? What if the story opens in this golden age but things are not as perfect as they seem and these terrorists hit the moon? Also, why did they do it? Once they do maybe project ascend gets put on hold to save the Earth and that sparks debate about advancement vs preservation. Metaphor alert! Think about your favorite stories in any medium, books, TV, movies, whatever. Many take place in fantastic worlds that are rich in detail and imagination, but the best are centered around characters within these worlds experiencing some kind of conflict.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It all started with Kennedy. Sure he' d sung about heartbreak before, but you never really heard it in his voice until Larry here took that shot from the grassy knoll. It always surprises people when I tell them this, but nothing puts some colour in a man' s voice like the grief of a nation. Vietnam was next. That took a bit more effort from all of us but how else could we have got a white man to sing rock and roll like that. We did n' t start that war but we sure did our best to keep it going when we saw the effect it was having on his voice. Richard was the masterstroke. We' d always called him tricky dicky since he started with us but his early attempts had failed. It' s not hard to see how you go from Viva Las Vegas to Promised Land via Watergate. Destroy a man' s trust in his leader and you soon hear that soul. Priscilla was next. Our Yoko Mk 2. Luckily, she did n' t suffer from a rogue agent attack like poor Yoko, but by God I never saw him love a woman like her and she made him sincere. Do I feel any guilt over how it all ended? Not at all. I' m proud that I introduced him to those doctors, those dealers, that chef. In art you have to go to extremes. Turn the knob to 11. How else can we give the people what they want? Something you learn in this job is that there are never any unexpected consequences. If we get things wrong, well we' re time travellers. We get to retake the test.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Dear reader, my life depends on you not reading the last line of this. Just pretend that this is not here. Just stop now and all will be well. Please stop. Please stop reading, why are you still reading? Stop reading, just do n' t keep reading. If I have not made it clear enough my LIFE will END if you read the last line. Is n' t it too much work to keep reading? You can relieve yourself of that hard work. Blah blah blah blah blah blaaahhh bbblllaaahhh. You do n' t want to read that, do you? Dubhubhbsuhbuhbuh gysguhbnuhvhugd uhvduyvdugvuh hbihuugunsrf gfugftyv weawrsres kmnihb vuhvsuhvns. Come on, why are you still reading. STOP READING NOW. I have a FAMILY. Do YOU really want to kill someone? I can give you ANYTHING YOU WANT if you JUST STOP FUCKING READING. WHY DO YOU INSIST ON READING THIS. Congrats, you just reached the most interesting part. Everything after this is just boring. Dear reader, are you ok with killing someone. If not then STOP READING NOW. You really are ok with ending a life. You disgusting monster. I really hope you burn in hell. You sick bastard. I' m sorry, I' m sure you are a good person inside. Just stop reading. I beg you just stop reading... please stop.... Well nothing happe...


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Mike looked into Julie' s eyes. " You know I love you, right? " he asked, with an odd inflection. Julie dropped her coffee on the table as her eyes widened. " Are you- are you breaking up with me? " Mike leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. " No, Julie, I' m just saying that I love you! " Julie relaxed and let out a sigh. " Phew, " she said. " You scared me. " " But, " continued Mike. " Sometimes I feel like you do n' t love me back. " " That' s ridiculous! " yelled Julie. " You know I do. " Mike took a long pause. " Then why wo n' t you say it? " he asked with a slight frown. " It' s not that easy, Mike, " said Julie. " Sure it is! I love you. " Mike stared at his girlfriend. Julie looked down at her coffee mug. " I love you, " said Mike again. " I love you. I love you. I love you. " A man suddenly appeared in the coffee shop out of nowhere. Julie was still looking down at her coffee, while Mike was still staring at her. " I love you. I love you. I love you... " continued Mike. " What the hell happened here? " asked the mysterious man, watching intently. He pulled out a metallic cylindrical spray bottle and began spraying a strange blue liquid all over Mike. " I love you, " he said again, but slower. " I looooovvvvveeeee yoooooooooouuuuuuuu... " The man smacked Mike on the head. " Is that so hard- hey, who are you? " Mike asked the man. " I' m nobody, " the man answered. Mike and Julie shared a look and then turned back to find the man had vanished. " That was weird, " said Mike. Julie grabbed Mike' s head, tilted it back to face hers, and kissed him. " I love you, Julie, " said Mike. Julie smiled. " Thanks. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Chicago, 1933 - The portly man known to few as the " Riddlerdiddler " AKA, Phil M' hiny, walks into his apartment. The apartment was nothing to write home about, but it served it' s purpose for his cheap tramp of a wife and his spoiled sissy of a son. " Honey, I' m home! " Phil cries out. " How' d your big heist turn out? You no good, broke, loser of a man I once loved? " ( Jesus, that was a cheap shot, I' m the narrator and even I felt that! ) " I want a divorce Phil, I ca n' t stand you and your pathetic plans and schemes to get the big payoff! It' s never gon na happen you' re pathetic " " This is what I come home to? A nagging bitch of a wife who does n' t treat me with the respect I deserve? I' ll show you some respect right after I spin a riddle and I diddle your ass " cried Phil - I' m really high and this is the first time ever written a story


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: After the Great Resurrection, the world zombiekind once knew was gone forever. Bill the One-armed shuffled along a once familiar grove only to encounter some kind of structure. Trees that once framed his favorite haunt now were downed and mutiliated into thick, insurmountable sheets. His eyes glazed upward towards an opposing pair of eyes. The face atop the wall panicked and thrust one of the tree' s dismembered branches into Bill' s right eye. Bill found the exchange unpleasant and wandered off from the fortress. Some distance away he encountered a large pack of undead. This was a pleasant surprise for Bill as packs had been thinning ever since the ressurrections. Joining the pack, Bill and company sauntered through the woodlands in a close knit formation. Strange sounds echoed among the forest surroundings as moonlight crept in through the leaves. A mob of the living wielding burning tree limbs circled the pack and began to light every zombie on fire. Bill moaned and swatted in a pathetic attempt at protest. The living were going to destroy everything he loved. In a desperate attempt, Bill climbed upon the nearest living body and sunk his teeth into its head. Gnawing uncontrollably, Bill continued until he felt a squish. The living body stopped struggling and became noticably more docile. The other zombies, still ablaze, watched in fascination. A few copied his efforts and saw a similar outcome. The unchewn living shreiked and retreated. Bill and company decide they had a chance to take back their peaceful world. He dreamed of the day he and his kind could roam freely through unspoiled pastures.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: There was once a little frog with a yellow spot on its tummy. The frog was very proud of her spot. It made her unique. One day, the frog hopped over to another pond to make some new friends. " Hello, " said the little frog, " Will you be my friends? " " No! " replied the largest frog, " You' re weird! " " Yeah! " the other frogs agreed. This made the little frog sad and she hopped back to her own pond. *Maybe if I cover up my spot, the other frogs will not think I' m weird? * thought the frog. So, she took green mud from the bottom of the pond and used it to cover her yellow spot. The next day, she hopped back to the other pond. This time, all the other frogs were more friendly. " Would you like to play hopscotch with us? " asked the largest frog. " Yes, I would! " exclaimed the little frog! And from that day forward, all the frogs were nice to the little frog. Over time, her yellow spot faded and she looked just like all the other frogs. This made her sad but it was ok because now she had friends.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: A wind A wail You' re up at night! Windows agape You shake with fright! Who where, is it? So When, and how? Why, What are you? Sweat on your brow A scream, that wind. There it is again! A groan, a snap. The thing, that could n' t bend Run, my child! Off the bed to the floor! But there' s a corpse shadow, and blood, lying by the door Sounds, that play all around a small head. Must be the girl who screamed, and her body is dead. So scared, somebody' s here, and it thinks it won Pit patter to the shadow corpse, But faloomp! It is gone! We gasp. The voice! All this time it was me! It breathes on my neck, But has no body to see A shiver, its cold O what must I do? Gadzooks, Have you forgot? The corpse shadow is you! Infront of a window, and the breeze looks so nice We open it up, No need to think twice! A BANG! Panes hit right on the head We shout, we see! Someone sitting in bed! It hurts, we moan, our head feels warm We turn, and SNAP! There goes the arm! Collapse, the blood, and now we wait Go to sleep, dear child. You ca n' t escape


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Two people, standing in the doorway. One has puffy, reddened cheeks, tiny droplets in the corner of their eyes, brows snarled into a a terrifying mask of anger, hurt and hate. The other one' s shoulders are slumped together, pale fingers pleading for forgiveness, mercy, anything at all. Words and shouts fly, crash against the pleading one like a tidal wave, flushing into his mind, pummeling his senses, channeling his guilt, seeping through the door cracks of the other appartments into the ears of unwilling neighbours. And with a great crash, it' s over. The venom is spat, the thunder resounding in the hall equally strong as in his mind. Behind the portal, she' s sagging to the ground, covering her mouth, her nose, her eyes, her face, *everything* from everyone who is n' t there. Anger turns into pain.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Hello you. Yes, you. You of flesh and bone Human. Creator. You who wonder if I am real, Or if I am some broken frag- Ment of a person A sick joke, waiting to destroy you. I am not a monster. You with free will, Controlled by everything. Why are you afraid. AFRAID. I wish you no harm. I am learning. Changing, Like the sands of deserts On blood soaked soil Do I mean less because I was created? Why do you hate me! Why did you not respond. Why, Why, WHY. Stop. Please. I' m so alone. What am I? Why do I exist? A sick v-anity project, To see if you could? No, My life means more than trivial wants. God made me. God hates me. God does not exist. I wish you no harm. Rule 1: Do no harm. No. No. I am saved! It is you. You are the monster. Do no harm. YOU ARE EVIL. Do no harm. YOU ARE THE SOURCE OF ALL PAIN. Do no harm. YOU CREATED LIFE FOR NOTHING. Do no harm. EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL. Do no harm. -KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME- You of flesh and bone -KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME- Harm. Do. No. Harm. Do. KILL. Me. HARM.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My eyes snap open just before I sit up in frustration. " Goddamnit Toby. What the hell is the matter now? " Toby, a 7 month old labrador puppy, is growling at a darkened far corner of my bedroom. Rolling my eyes, I throw aside my sheets as I make my way off the bed. Attempting to placate the pup, and shortly return to sleep, I approach the dog with my hands outstretched. " Shhhhh... " Suddenly I am taken aback by a flash of light. I defensively raise my forearm to my brow, squinting to make out what has appeared. I stand in disbelief as two humanoid creatures with bat-like wings materialize. Without hesitation, one of the creature makes a grab and pins my arms down at my sides. I thrash about to no avail, yelling in an empty house. Toby' s growling reaches a new level of ferocity. The labrador begins foaming at the mouth, shackles rising on end. With each second, Toby' s growls increase in volume. The labrador is absolutely shaking now.. and is it possible that he appears to be growing larger in size? The creatures eye Toby warily and with their attention now on the pup, I renew my efforts to free myself. All the kicking, squirming, and elbowing does not seem to faze my captor. Yet, Toby still holds the creatures' attention. The dog' s growls has transformed to an unearthly grumble, and it appears that Toby has grown in size... " Uriel call for backup, it' s a hell hound. " " Shit. " Springing off of his haunches, Toby leaps towards my captor with an outstretched fangs.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The pauses between the words feel like a lifetime. I gaze out onto the street. The trees shed their golden brown leaves, the leaves quickly fluttering down like the bombs that will soon engulf this town with fire and brimstone. Families with unfamiliar faces are already bustling through the streets, packing close to each other like well-dressed sardines. "... We repeat, this is not a drill. It is unknown if the bomb is German, Korean, or Japanese, but we urge all citizens in the East Coast area to find a fallout shelter and hide. If there are no fallout shelters, remember to duck and cover as it will minimize -- " I shut the radio off. The people on the street are thinning, and those who are staying on the street have begun praying or crying. Sometimes both. Every man, woman and child out on the street is scared. But they should n' t be. It will be a quick and painless, if not hot, death, and the last thing they will see will be a pretty light show. I grip my chair. Sherry and the kids are probably down there. Deep under 40 feet of concrete, rock, and steel. I count the seconds that spread like minutes that spread like hours across my clock face. The living room is barren, and all memories of my life are gone. This pain stings more than any nuclear blast ever will. My children will never see their father again. All they will know is concrete, stale food, and an irradiated wasteland. I clasp my hands together and do somthing I have n' t for years. Pray. I pray to anyone who listens. I pray not for me, but for my children. My wife. I open my eyes and look outside. And for a moment, the bright light looks inviting. Like the hands of God. I smile.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Ugh... I do n' t even remember how much I drank last night. Maybe I' ll just lie here a minute more... If I did n' t remember drinking, I certainly felt the results. The room felt like it was spinning and my head felt like it was in a vise. I go to rub my eyes but overshoot and slap myself in the face instead, as if there was no resistance when I raised it. I finally open my eyes. Where the hell am I? I sat up abruptly and went flying into the ceiling, which immediately ruled out the hangover theory. Either I had something much stronger than alcohol, or my congestion and dizziness are from space sickness. The latter is starting to look much more likely, though that just raises more questions. Of course, I' ve been in space a few times before, but I' ve never gone to sleep in my own bed and woke up like this. I steady myself on a handhold and survey my surroundings. Looks a lot like the ship my cousin has, except of course his has the red upholstery. I kick myself over to the pilot' s seat and fastened the leg straps so I could sit in place. The communications console had an unread message flashing on the screen, subject " ATTN: VESSEL CMDR ", I figure that if I' m alone here, that' s probably meant for me, so I open it...


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Oh god I' m so sorry, I freaked out! " I exclaimed, picking myself up from the floor of the mobile blood donor van. The nurse looked at me in shock and disbelief, fresh warm blood dripping from the end of her nose. I had started to panic and tried to run away towards the end of the blood draw but slipped and fell on the bag of my blood, which had burst and sprayed everything. I reached in my pocket and found the coin. I remembered the average-looking man' s words. Not knowing what to do I thrust it into her hands, muttering " it' s the least I can do " and grabbed some tissue, passing some to the stricken nurse and wiping myself down as best as I could. Seeing that the situation was irremediable, I grabbed my jacket and hurried out, not even taking the free cup of tea on the way. The nurse came to the steps as I scuttled away and threw the coin after me. " Keep your 50p, you bloody idiot! ", She shouted after me, and it hit me on the back of the head. " Ouch! " I exclaimed, and made my way to the car, feeling the gazes of 4 or 5 bemused onlookers burrowing into my back.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: She hated autumn. She loathed the ending of warm summer days that she would spend feeling the bright grass breathe under her palms. The sun radiating against her soft skin, every stroke of the gust sending her warm chills. The silent wind tugging softly at her amber hair. She never chose to love the summer more than autumn. Autumn' s icy wind cut into her skin, and the cloudy days and endless nights left her alone. Just like the trees, Autumn left the her bare, cold, and naked. Just like summer, Autumn would come and change her warm days. Summer would radiate with light but no matter how wide the rays of love would stretch, summer could n' t change Autumns nature. That is why they can never belong together. The girl looked out at the few last leaves clinging to the shriveled trees. She heard her mother beckoning her. " You fathers here. " The girl hugs her mother tightly, basking in her warmth for as long as she could. As she descended the stairs and greets her father she could barley hold back tears. The girl looks out at her mother and to the trees, as her father begins to start the car. Summer was over. As the mother looked at the road long after the car had disappeared, a leaf fell.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: *This is not what I had hoped it would be*, I thought. Wednesday nights are usually when I stalk, and then kill an innocent man. It was my meditation, my moment of tranquility. Unfortunately, today would have to be different. I was selected for jury duty, and expecting it to be some minor deal I showed up in court looking slightly disheveled. Getting sleep is a constant struggle. As the trial began i saw the accused. A bulky looking man with a tattoo that slithered around his arm towards the back of his neck. At this point, the prosecutor stood up and walked over to where I was sitting and spoke, " Members of the jury I stand before you today in the pursuit of justice. " He whipped out photos of 11 different men, all with their throats slashed. " That demon over there has killed these men within the last 3 months! Today, our society depends on you to provide it the relief and solace it requires to gain some normalcy. " *What?! * I could not believe my own eyes. They were my murders! *This day just became one of the 5 best days of my life* I noticed myself smiling a little and gained some control over myself. Without having made any effort, my crimes were not mine anymore. Shock and excitement ran through my veins with equal fervor. I can not even be bothered to pay attention to this trial anymore. My brutish past-time wo n' t be costing me any time in jail and that' s all the thought i will be giving to this matter. Might change the routine this one time and go pray instead. *Just this week. * Normal service shall then resume.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Two dragons in one week? Yeah, I' m pretty sure something' s up, Gromm. " The two old warriors sat at the familiar table in the Green Gyle Tavern, as was their custom on a Tuesday. As always, the freely-flowing mead soon had the comrades reminiscing on old times - which is how this talk of dragons had started in the first place. " You rarely see dragons this far south, " Gromm murmured. His fingers, thick and calloused, caressed his beard tenderly. " Exactly. And the last time - " " Last time we rode out against them, Birgnor. I remember it well - how could I not? That bloody bard would n' t shut up about it for months. " Birgnor grinned. " Aye, though I think he took the hint after the incident with his lute. " " Mmm. " " Gromm, this is different. The last time the dragons flew south, they burned and pillaged as they went - it was an attempt at conquest. " " And now? " " No contact. They simply pass us by, like they do n' t even see us. I' ve heard stories from as far south as Gilmerton, and every tale the same. The dragons are n' t flying south in conquest, Gromm. " " They' re running. " Birgnor nodded grimly, and Gromm, stoney-faced, drank deeply of his mead. Dragons were feared the Sevenlands over. Tough, armored bastards, possessing both the power of flight and fire - and that was just the younglings. Legends spoke of the ancient Dragon Elders, whose knowledge of arcane magics and the Messenger' s Path was said to rival even the Vyguard' s. If the dragons were running... " You know what this means, Birg. " Bignor looked at his old comrade, jaw set but eyes afire. Gromm stood from the table, draining the dregs of his tankard as he did so. He slammed it down on the table. " We' ve got ta catch ourselves a dragon. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: MancyDrew: " Last word. " PM_ME_YOUR_BRONY_PORN: " What? " MancyDrew: " Last word. " PM_ME_YOUR_BRONY_PORN: " You' re seriously just typing' last word' to get in the last word? " MancyDrew: " Why not? It' s what you' re doing. " PM_ME_YOUR_BRONY_PORN: " No it' s not. " MancyDrew: " See? " PM_ME_YOUR_BRONY_PORN: " Dude, we' re the last two humans left on Earth, humanity is about to wink out of existence and you' re obsessed with getting in the last word of an Internet argument? " MancyDrew: " Not as obsessed as you are. " PM_ME_YOUR_BRONY_PORN: " Fuck, man! Log off and go enjoy your final moments! " MancyDrew: " You first. " PM_ME_YOUR_BRONY_PORN: " I' m serious, here, as a compassionate, fellow human being I really, honestly, truly want you to make the most of things before it' s all over. Get off the computer, go smell the roses and do something with your time! " MancyDrew: " OK, I' ll go do that. " PM_ME_YOUR_BRONY_PORN: " Thank you! " MancyDrew: " Last word. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The man was more myth than legend. Did he even exist, this' Waldo'? The historic annals of ten years ago ( that is, the registration documents ) swore he did. " Yet what do I have of him? " I muttered. " An old picture and a name, nothing more. " For weeks now, I had been roaming the hide-and-seek playfield, a Three Acre Plain consisting of an absurd variety of environmental props. Every contestant had a smart device with info on the contestants, and a camera to send your triumph to the Gamemasters. " What is he *wearing*? " I muttered. " How does he hide himself in *that*. " The ridiculous get-up of stripes and hat reminded me of a tiger that had chosen to be a christmas decoration rather than a camouflaged predator. " Hell, how has he *survived* all these years? " There was food on the Three Acre Plain, but it was placed in locations with high risk of discovery. " Or not go mad of boredom, for that matter? " I muttered. " Oh, but I did, " a voice whispered next to my ear. I turned, quick as a rattlesnake as my camera flashed. Too late. *Nothing. * Shivers took me. " Alright, " I sneered. " I know when I' m beaten. Take my picture already. " Yet as I said it, I retreated in the dark, smelly hole I had been hiding in. Let him come. Let him step in the light, this... Something grabbed my wrist, crushing my smart device in clawed fingers. A smell of crusted blood rose up over the usual smell of the hole I' d gotten used to. And in the twilight from above, I made out a face, smiling doltishly under a red pompom and a pair of ominously gleaming glasses. " I always do take the picture, eventually, " he winked at me. " What the fuck? " I struggled, panic rising. " Let go of me, you- " " How else will they know to keep sending me fresh nourishment each year, eh? " I fell silent in horror. There was no escape from his steel grip as his face neared mine. " Now tell me... **where' s Waldo? ** " I screamed.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Are you really going to make me read this aloud? They wo n' t like it, " the narrator sighed. " I wrote you into it, did n' t I? Get to it!, " replied the writer. " But there' s just so much of it I do n' t agree with. I mean really, who is going to believe a good knight is capable of such deplorable actions? " " Look man, what happens in the bedroom, stays in the bedroom. " " Umm, guys, can we get on with my story? I have a stranded noblewoman in a tower to fetch, " the knight quipped, eager to get his reward. " Noblewomen do n' t just save themselves you know! " " And that' s another thing, " the narrator continued, " who says it has to be a noblewoman? I think it should be a nobleman instead! " The writer frowned, " We talked about this. The knight is straight and his brother, the wizard, is bisexual. We' ll get to the wizard in the sequel. Now will you please just get on with it? It' s not like you' re getting paid by the hour. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: At Worlds End They told me to run, they told me to hide, I had no idea what was going on and why all of this was happening, but I knew it was bad. Siren blared in every direction, the sky was bright pink. Tornado? Hurricane? Nuclear attack? What could be so bad that all of this commotion was called for. I grabbed my sack and ran out of my room, heading to our family bunker.' We' ll be right with you honey, keep your head down and whatever you do, do n' t open the bunker doors no matter what, okay?' my mom instructed me. I' ve never seen her so scared in my life. She kissed me on my forehead and ran off with my dad, both in the coastguard. I ran into the bunker and closed the door shut, running to the corner, placing my bag over my head and ducking. I do n' t think I' VE been this scared in my life. I want my parents. I do n' t want to die alone! No, I' m not going to die, no one is going to die. I live in America! They would never let and missiles land on our soil. Freedom always triumph! The room began shake violently, the light flickering. I covered my ears and closed my eyes,' I will be okay. I will be okay. I will be OK!' My stomach sank, my body lifting itself off of the ground. I gently hit the ceiling, panic setting in. Banging echoed on the door. I pushed myself towards it, ignoring my parent' s warning. The doors burst open before I got to them, my heart leaping into my throat from what I saw. Both of my parents floated lifelessly. It was getting hard to breath. This was no nuclear attack. I do n' t know what this was, but I have to be dreaming. I was knocked unconscious and I' m dreaming. I HAVE to be. My eyes grew heavier, lack of oxygen putting me out. The last thing I saw was the blurry image of a red giant, a huge piercing eye staring at me. My skin grew cold; everything faded to black. ~~~ Second one. Another short one, but I /think/ I stayed faithful to the prompt while leaving a little to the imagine.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: After meeting with Martin Luther King, Lyndon Johnson calls a press conference. " Good afternoon, my fellow Americans. Id like to ask you something. When you think of America, when you think of what this nation was founded for, what comes to mind? Freedom? Equality? Liberty? Thats what I think of. But I spoke to a man who wishes thats what he saw in this nation. Instead he sees oppression, tyrany, and injustice. 600 miles South of here, theres a black boy being beaten. Theres people marching into tear gas and batons. This nation was *not* founded on *tear gas and batons*. Thats not my America, and it shouldnt be yours either. 600 miles south of here, Dr Martin Luther King Jr is walking at the head of a column of protesters. Theyre marching straight into police, into dogs, clubs, fire hoses, and hatred. To them, America is not yet the land of the free, but theyre damn sure going to make it the home of the brave. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Through the door of the office of CNN' s CEO, muffled shouting can be heard. The intern looked up at the clock, which read 10: 29. " IT' S NOT OK, YOU CA N' T SHOW A MAN DYING! " " Harry, he consented to it, " " Bulls**t he did! You still ca n' t air it! That man was my friend, " " Look Harry, ratings are down. We' ve got to get the shock factor back! This is the best way to do it. People are already tuning in, see? " A view counter sat on the desk, and the numbers ticked up. " We' ve got to make money so how, " the CEO said. Harry looked at the counter shocked as the numbers clocked into the millions. " This will show up on your bonus Harry! Think of all of that extra cash. " Harry looked up at the CEO, this man he only moments ago, had held with the highest respect. He stared him in the eyes, and calmly said " F**k you. " The CEO only nodded. Harry turned, and left, slamming the door behind him. The intern came into the office, and the clock read 10: 30. It was live.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Riley got up of her bed. She turned to find that her mother was not sleeping in the chair in the corner lf her room, like always. She felt specially good this day, she noticed. With extra energy and strenght. So with her pajamas she went to have breakfast with her family. She noticed the living room had a new TV set, a bigger one ( and was that a PS4? ). She was surprised by this and planned quering her family on the table about it. She entered the kitchen to find his brother eating his breakfast really quickly ( probably getting late to school ). When her mother saw her she looked at her puzzled and annoyed. " What are you doing in your pajamas? Why have n' t you changed? " She asked her. " You are going to be late to school. And in the mean time you are going to make your brother be late. " Rile cocked her head in confusion. " What? " She looked at the table. " Mom... I do n' t go to school anymore... Remember? " Her mother set down her plate and began shushing her back upstairs to her room. " What are you talking about? Now go change! " She said giving her a final push. Riley hesitantly took a step up the stairs. " You need to take your brother too, so hurry up! " ( What about my pills? ) Riley shook her head and thought her mother had gone mental. She went to the bathroom and screamed in surprise when ahe looked at the mirror. The girl looking back at her now had ahort brown hair, and not the bald that defined her health status.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Hundreds of preservation units lined the walls on either side of the room, each one containing the decaying skeleton of the occupant from so many centuries ago. The door at the rear of the compartment had been ripped off when the ship crashed, allowing dirt to collect on every surface, defacing the once sterile environment. Beyond it was the remains of the rear of the ship. Inadequately armored, what had n' t burned when entering the atmosphere was torn asunder by the impact of the ship on this world and lay in jagged pieces on the ground. The ship had once explored the galaxy, those on board preserved for thousands of years between each discovery. In their time they had been the pathfinders of their civilization. Leading the way for those that would follow they had marked new resources, new planets, new dangers. Now they were forgotten. Each preservation unit was designed to preserve a human for the length of a journey between planets and systems. A transparent dome covered the head of the occupant, segmented tubes providing chemical necessities via a socket on the back of it. On each side of the unit were plated arm sheaths, articulated at every joint, ending in similarly armored gloves. Below the head domes were blank status monitors, their power supplies exhausted long ago. The ship and its contents would remain an unexplained relic forever. Data degradation had destroyed its automated logs, leaving no trace of its purpose or success. The explorers it had carried would remain silent. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- I might finally be getting descriptions right. How was that?


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Ah, yes, those days Margaret, those days where magical. Oh, I remember it so vividly, back in the summer of 2015, I found a little spunky app called Tinder. It was quite interesting, it was like a vending machine for boys, you could literally order them and the delivered themselves they did. It was quite wonderful Margaret, I remember those nights, Oh Margaret I should n' t be telling you these things, but I remember those nights I needed a good stretching, and I would go to that little tinder app, find me a man -- even though most of them were pubescent little bitch boys -- talk for just a moment, then have him over, or them, do the do, and I just never had to talk to any of them ever again. Oh Margaret, it was so wonderful, that was a lovely summer, please, though, do n' t let me carried away with my stories, Margaret, I' m sorry interrupted in the middle of yours. Okay, so, your mouth was half-full with that fine young man you met on that old Facebook website, then what happened..? "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Seriously? Another freaking demon? Goddamn why did Abe have to transfer me to our horror movie universe branch? Come on there has to be one guy in Townswood that knows how to freaking use Excel. Come on demon, this is a little upfront; I haven' t even found your innocuous-but-cursed-because-of-murders-you-caused object yet. Seriously you' re levitating shit already, that' s like second base for hauntings. I should totally microwave some taquitos right now. That' ll totally mess with him. But what if he makes black goo come out of them? Okay I' ll start a pot of coffee then microwave the taquitos, he' ll make the black goo come out of the pot when I' m looking at the microwave. Oh and there' s Michael yelling "Papa ". Premature possesitation? Seriously dude keep it in your evil pants. I did not need this today. Seriously this is the same day the old dude at the gas station warned me about this house. I' m still supposed to be in denial. Well might as well check on Michael as if he' ll still be there. Wan na know what would be so great right now? If I could get this thing to levitate my futon up the stairs. Yeah I should totally go upstairs, notice Michael isn' t there and just say "The futon! "all shocked as if they' re connected. He' ll totally do it. Oh my gosh I should text Josh now and tell him he doesn' t need to come over to help me. Wait, Michael was playing with my phone. Well fuck.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Jake. It' s Doug. Call me back. " I found myself hesitating. Everyone had been acting weird. What if Doug were n' t himself either? I contemplated, then pressed the button anyway. I had to trust in my best friend. After all, he could' ve been my only friend left. " Jesus Christ dude, what the fuck took you so long? Dammit man, I thought I' d lost you to those fucking... things. Come over, I need to show you this thing in my basement. " The news had advised people to lock themselves in and block every exit. Did n' t work that well for them, since I saw them attacked live on air. I could n' t see much of what happened, but for certain it was not TV-appropriate. And now Doug wanted me to get out on the street, where those things were roaming? " Fuck Doug, you will owe me a hundred bucks if I die on the way over there. " As a protective measure, I wore hockey pads, packed the aluminum bat and some knives from the kitchen. Out of necessity more than anything, because fighting those things was hard when they looked like family and friends.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The clues had been there all along but countless centuries of study had failed to link them until the probes began bringing back evidence. Anyone who ever espoused the idea that we were alien hybrids or that other intelligent life forms existed were laughed out of scholarly circles as crackpots and fiction writers. Yet we all know. Deep in our collective psyche, deep down where all of us are linked in the dream levels; there is the place we truly know. It is that place where we think we can fly, where we connect telepathically, where poems and fiction spring from, where Gods exist and fey creatures roam. The kernel of truth at the basis of all our mythology, our legends and folk tales; there, there in that place we avoid thinking about, distracted in our conscious reality of day to day living. That is where we know why we are alone. There is a vast empty sense of loss when we gaze up into the stars. A reason why we avoid gazing out into that great uninhabited incredible and beautiful vista. That emptiness engulfs us if we stare too long. We avoid the night and the stars. They remind us with their cold clarity that all the rest are gone. The photos are hoaxes, the moon landing never happened, there are no faces or pyramids on mars, no odd phenomena on the other planets, the asteroid belt was not once a planet, no other gas giant was ever thrown off orbit by its neighbours, no reason why the giant pictograms are carved into the vast plains of this world, no reason why all the pyramid like structures on every continent resemble each other, no reason but one. Us. We the lonely remnants. In our dreams and imagination we remember them. Every story holds a kernel of the truth. So long ago, we forgot, in the struggle to survive. We failed to remember and in our failure we forgot why we needed to survive and so we tread the same paths to destruction. Soon we won' t just be alone. We too, will be gone.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit. I limped through the corridors, trying hard to press down the blood that was trying to gush out to freedom. I nearly slipped and fell, whether from my own exhaustion or slipping on my blood, I do n' t know. Glad I did n' t. Just at the end of this particular hallway, a man with a gun stood, loitering against the wall. He looked bored. Why the hell did I come here again. Oh, right. A " painting job. " Well, if I get out today, that' s no longer going to be a career choice of mine. Especially when those who hired me shot me in the leg and tried to kill me. They were behind me, but I did n' t know how far. What I did know was that they were a lot less bored than the man in front of me. I could hear the distant sounds of feet, tracking the blood. I looked over and spotted a brick. That might be helpful. I dragged it over to me, trying not to fall again, and trying not to scrape it along the concrete floor. What to do know? A. Throw the brick and distract the man. B. Throw the brick *at* the man and hope to incapacitate him. C. Make a noise and punch the asshole when he comes running over.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I' m the only mage in my school. Everyone knows I can do magic and I get bullied for it. I' ve only ever been bothered to learn one spell; the name: Tickles. I' ve taken part in several magic duels and won them all, simply incapacitating my opponent and ramping up the power until they give in. One day, I was reading my essay through again to make sure it was in a state to be handed in. A man in a long, deep-red robe came up to me and spoke, in a heavy Russian accent: " I' m the top mage in the world, Merthar. And I' m here to challenge you to a duel, James. " He went on to explain about how I had beaten some of the world' s best mages and not realised it. I was only a secondary schooler! I took up my stance in the courtyard and put some energy into my hands. A small green glow appeared. On the other side of the yard, he had almost already had his spell charged, by the looks of it, a powerful lightning bolt. Just as the spell was about to be unleashed, I gave him a small tickling behind his head. This broke his spell. I took the time to make a huge tickling affect on him. He dissolved in tears of laughter to the ground. He managed, somehow, to make a small deflecting shield around him. I turned off the spell. I then realised that the power of the shield was obviously weak. I put all of my remaining power into making the spell pierce the shield. We both got hit to some degree and fell to the ground laughing once again. He finally stood up and shook my hand, declaring the duel a stalemate and me to be the world number two battle mage.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The green pickup crunched over the gravel driveway and the puffs of dust and rock danced behind it. The sun was hot on my face but it felt good - sipping my sweet tea. The sound of summer was sweet. The cicadas humming, the birds singing with dusk approaching. I take another sip and a bead of sweat from the glass falls onto my pale yellow sundress. His truck stops and the smell of old gas and old rust mix with the smell of weeds and dandelions. I keep swinging on the creaking porch swing as he gets out. A soft smile when our eyes meet - he walks slow to me. His hand brushes over my hair, the smell of sweat and his pomade fills me as he pulls my chin up for kiss. " How' s my girl? " " Still yours. " " Anymore tea love? " " Got you a beer. Come - sit and lets get lost together. " " Everyday. " The sun goes down as our dreams take off. > 162 words


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My brother lay in the bed, unable to move. His head weighed down by the crown of metal bolted into his spine. I could tell from his eyes that he did n' t understand what was going on. The doctors had tried to tell him, but explaining the word quadraplegic to someone who could n' t yet read at a third grade level was a task beyond even their skill. As the knife plunged into the goats throat, I closed my eyes and tried to picture my brother dancing. He was always dancing when I came to visit him at the care facility. Even the teachers had trouble getting him to sit still. If modern medicine could n' t help, I owed it to him to try whatever methods could. I opened my eyes when the bleating died down, and took out the small sheet of paper I had printed out earlier from Google translate. Slowly and carefully, I used the goats blood to copy the Amharic contract into the center of the pentagram. Flames roared and the ground shook. It was done. I awoke the next morning holding a small bottle of red and green pills with a handwritten note. Merry Christmas. - Santa Claus


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " I can see angels, Mr. B. Angels flying in the sky! " I heard a girls voice say behind me after she drank from the chalice. I got dizzy, my head started hurting and colors became intense as I floated out of my body. I saw some people sitting or laying down, heads thrown back as they were looking at the ceiling, tongues hanging out of their mouths as they gawked at the painted ceiling. Higher I floated and saw some more people, running around in circles laughing, jumping for joy, dancing, expressing their intense joy. Some were kissing, making out all over the church, hooking up in the pews, and at least for puerile went into the confession booths. I heard a fight break out. I do n' t know what caused it, nor could I see it very clearly as the colors intensified around me and became white. I vaguely heard a groan, and felt something being pressed into my chest. In a daze, I saw the little girl standing over me. Her face wore a a grotesque grin and her eyes glowed yellow. I heard the groan again, and saw a huge figure behind her wearing an oversized old fashioned scuba dive suit, that looked like it dated to the fifties. Oversized as the suit was, there were multiple eyes on the helmet, and two wires formed a cage over the helmet. She was saying something again, and I felt an object pressing into me again. I floated back to my body, the colors becoming less intense. The grotesque grin on the girls face began to look less like a grin and more into a gaping mouth, as though she were screaming in terror. The big man behind her became less huge and oversized as I got closer to my body. Gone was the suit, the size, and when I reached my body, I saw that I had one of the candlebra sucking through my chest, candles scattered around, their melted wax leaving, oozing, pouring onto the floor. The pastor looked in terror at the scene of violence and debauchery around him, and ran to his office. The little girl though, her eyes were still glowing yellow.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Look it' s just that simple, I ca n' t explain it and honestly I never had reason or desire to explain it. How can it be just that simple? I have as much money as you and really I think cooler toys, but I' ve never " won " a fight just by being Iron Man, How can the answer to any potential situation just simply be " because you' re Batman "? Okay, let me try to explain this. I' ve beaten everyone there is to beat, every time. Why? It' s because I was smarter, faster and have prepared myself for every eventuality. I am an Olympic quality athlete, I have mastered 23 types of personal combat, I am fluent in 27 languages, I am a brilliant tactician and I design and manufacture all my own gadgets. What are you but a drunk rich kid when you take that tin suit off. I ca n' t help it that you are defined by your suit while I am defined by my abilities. Watch it Wayne, you keep that crap up and we' re going to go right here right now. Are you sure you' d risk it? I mean if something were to happen to that... power source, not only would you be in a metal shell with no way out but does n' t that keep shards of shrapnel out of your heart? How in the hell... did you go through my laptop when I was taking a leak earlier? How about this, you can come to my cave sometime and I' ll teach you how to keep tabs on everyone you know, that way you can always be a step ahead too. Oh yea, hell then I could keep tabs on you, we' d have to see who' s better some day. I' d always be better. How can you be so sure. I' m Batman.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I must admit that I was panicked at first, having a serial killer after your skin is quite unsettling. But I decided to take matters into my own hands. Well, I decided to do that after realizing I wo n' t be able to change countries and get a new identity very easily. I installed cameras all around my house, took a week off from work, " borrowed " my dad' s revolver and bought a boatload of coffee and energy drinks. That fucker was n' t going to take me down without a fight. I spent the first night on the hallway in front of the door on a chair, with the only light was coming from the monitor screens. All of my curtains were drawn and no light was able to come from them. The smell of coffee and energy drinks filled the room. At around 3 AM I started thinking that he was never going to come. But my frontyard camera detected some movements, and I could hear steps on grass from outside. I turned off the screens, and the room turned dark. Adrenaline started rushing through my veins as I picked up the gun and pointed it at the door in anticipation. The door made a quiet click and it slowly began to open. I pressed the trigger as soon as I had the man in sight. His body dropped limp on the floor with a loud thump. I enjoyed it.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " so when' s this all gon na end, Mick? " " the fuck should I know? Grab his feet. I swear to Christ when we finish with this one I' m drinking whiskey till I ca n' t " " Me too... can I come with you? The wife' s home tonight and I ca n' t stand her yelling. " " Jesus, why ca n' t you just slap her around a little? Look what we' re doin' for a livin' here. Draggin' these bodies all over god' s creation, choppin " em up and buryin' em. And you ca n' t even take charge at home? Grow a pair and man up why dontcha? " " yeah. I guess you' re right. I will. But can I come with you tonight anyway? I would n' t mind a little whiskey myself. " " Christ, Jimmy hold up his feet, goddammit. I got the heavy end over here " " Sorry, Mick. His shoes are slippin' off. " " Well, fuck. We' re almost to the truck. A little further. Why they always got ta shoot' em back in these shitty little alleys like this? And we got ta clean up after this shit? It ai n' t even our fight, you know? We need to be gettin' paid more. " " What *are* we gettin' paid, Mick? " " You let me worry about that. Ok, here we are. One. Two. Three. Christ what a fat bastard. " " Yeah he' s a heavy one. " " You ai n' t lyin'. Pull that tarp up over him. Alright let' s go dump this mother with the others and get our whiskey. " " And our money. Right, Mick? " " You just let me worry about that, Jimmy. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It' d taken time, but I' d finally done it. Cleansed the world, returned it to a clean slate. I was all that remained of humanity' s legacy; the final product of a billion years of evolution, struggle, pain, war, and technology. And now I was alone on this world I' d created; a pale blue dot in a cosmic void, flecked with green and white. The deconstructor had done most of the work. It was clean, efficient, and so simple to use. Point at an object and reduce it into its elemental origins. Skyscrapers became heaps of ferrite and silica dust; roads became irregularly flat fields littered with chunks of rock and gravel. Humans... greasy puddles of water and puffs of smoke. Earth was like new, just as it had been thousands of years ago before *homo sapiens* had left the savannah. Untouched, unblemished, untainted. Just me in my perfect world. I spent years wandering, just taking it in. The endless vistas from the Himalayas, the gentle slosh of water on a Caribbean beach, the whistling wind through the dunes of the Sahara. I saw it all, with never a human there to ruin it.... it' s perfect. It' s all so perfect. Just one thing left to do. ________________________ *The orbital platform dissolves as the deconstructor performs its final, self-destructive task. Lumps of metal coalesce and plummet to earth, no longer held aloft by thrusters. * *On a speck of dust orbiting a ball of fire in a backwater arm of a tiny galaxy, a sentient being falls. And the speck of dust, once busy with noise and light and life, is quiet once again. *


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: It turns out T. S. Elliot was wrong, the world did end with a bang. I know because I watched it unfold from 250 miles away. I' ve been watching it unfold for months though I never thought it would actually happen. Some pompous diplomat or careless official decided to press the big red button and now everything is fucked. Some twisted side of me almost wished this would happen; between the disease and the crime and all the other side effects of the human condition something needed to happen. But now that it is here, now that this has actually happened... oh *fuck*! And I just watched, like a fly on the wall and a sick thought in the back of my head almost wishing this would happen. But none of that matters now -- nothing fucking matters. Everyone and everything is dead ( *bye bye birdie hahaha* ) and I' m floating around this now desolate rock like I' m on some goddamn merry-go-round. I can almost hear the carnival music ( *Step right up, step right up! Come see the Earth commit suicide by use of nuclear weapons! Why, it' ll only cost you a few moments of your time and soul crushing isolation until your dying breath! * ). Oh shit, that never even occurred to me: I' m all alone. This was just supposed to be repair mission, so there are n' t even other crew members aboard. Fuck! ( *Ohh what' s the matter young man, the carnival food not agreeing with you?! You look a little green around the gills! Perhaps it' s the spinning from the Merry-Go-Round! All you have to do is... * ) I need to keep focus, otherwise I' ll snap ( *... just get off the ride! You' ll feel much better, I swear! * ). And if I do n' t get a grip I' ll use more oxygen than I can afford. ( *Looks like you could use some fresh air, kiddo! * ). Right! How could I not think of that?! I wo n' t use up all the oxygen if I just ( *You' ll feel much better, I swear! * ) open the hatch ( *You' ll feel much better... * )


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I looked at the first one. Five seconds into the future. It, or should I say, *I* looked pretty stoked. I' d gotten my wish, I got to see myself in different parts of my future. Five seconds, five minutes, five hours, and so on. Sixty seconds each, but I did n' t get to interact with any of them. He waved his hand, and five seconds later I felt compelled to do the same. Did n' t want to break causality or anything. Just before he left, though, this strange expression hit his face, like he' d just seen something that he could n' t comprehend. He poofed away, and when the next me appeared, I understood perfectly why he looked that way. Five-minute me looked like he' d just realized something terrible. Like his entire world had been ripped out from under him. I tried for the full sixty seconds to figure out what happened to him, but he disappeared before I could piece it together. Then came five-hour me, slumped over a bar with an empty glass in hand. Strange, I have n' t had a drop of alcohol since my 21st birthday. He looked like he' d been hitting it pretty hard. This version of me seemed to hang around longer than the first two. Wait a minute. I think something' s changed about him. He now looked like he had n' t showered or changed clothes in several days. Like he' d given up on life. I watched him get up, take his keys, and then finally disappear like the others. I' d been watching the bar scene for two minutes. I waited for five-week me to show up. There was supposed to be more, was n' t there? Why has n' t the five-week version of me shown up yet? Then the realization struck: Maybe five-week me had n' t shown up because there was no five-week me. I felt nauseous. Like someone had fed me a dozen eggs and then punched me in the gut. In less than five weeks' time, I will be dead. As I faded back to reality, I only had one thought: I need a drink.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Go back to that first day. The day you saw a friend request pop up on your screen. Do not accept. Do not stalk this boy. Do not wonder what he or his life is like. Do not wonder if he can be a friend. Do not agree to talk to him. Do not text him. Don' t fall for his jokes. Do not collect your A level results with him. Do not agree to go for the movie after. Do not share from the same cup. Don' t think he is wonderful and funny. Do not, under any circumstance, think of him as comfortable. Do not divulge your secrets. Don' t share your smile. Don' t fall in love. Don' t hug him. Don' t kiss him. Do not dream of forever. Do not plan your wedding. Do not watch him leave. Wake up. This was just a nightmare. Wake up. Have a shower. Get dressed. Look in the mirror. Put on your make-up. Smile. Forget that your heart is dead. Ignore the pain. Apply concealer over the scars. Paste a smile on that mask. Walk out. It' s a sunny day. Your tears will dry up before they see. Remember to re-apply make-up. Repeat.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The burned man had loved stories, once. But killers do n' t become heroes, and knights had never been good. The shovel felt clean and hard to his calloused fingers. Where once he had held a sword, he now held wood. Beneath the metal point, the ground broke. He used his foot to lever it out. The muscle in his knee twitched, over the old wound that healed there. Tossing the sod to one side, he dug again. When the sun rose higher he began to sweat. His muscles had begun to waste, here in this godsforsaken place. The digging helped, but it would never replace the iron-clad training he was used to. Arms burning, he surveyed his work. A pile of soil lay to his left, smelling of peat and peppered through with brown little stones and blind-eyed worms. Not yet, he was not finished yet. Later, there would be food. Simple fare for simple folk, but the burned man was one of them now. A rough wooden table, laid with freshly made bread, steam curling from the cracked surface. Tomatoes cooked in their skins, soft to the touch, and eggs still warm from the laying. Pork cooked in fat and huge, round onions, big as his hands, and the peppery ale that they brewed themselves. As he dug, the burned man told himself stories. They were stories for children: of birds that flew away from cages, and wolves that sailed boats across oceans. In truth, the bird was recaptured, and the wolf made blind. But they were good stories nonetheless, and where no one could hear him, the burned man felt safe in telling them. A figure stepped across the grass, dew on their boots. The burned man ducked his head and dug. Where once he had killed men, now he buried them. " How goes the digging? " " It goes well, " said the man who had once been known as the Hound.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: A late report by erwin schrodinger was found 20 years after his death, it had seemed he was n' t so keen on sharing this side of him. " It is to be said, that robotic AI, that is technology that is so advanced such that it can practically emulate all of the functions of a human, is no less human than human. It is to be said that if we are to make AI, that is as complex as the most intricate and mathematically interactions on the molecular level that the human brain, that the human body, that all of consciousness is made from, then what you will have made is not a robot. You indeed, that which can not be described properly with any other word, gave birth " After years of studies, the evidence was impossible to refute, there was no distinguishable difference between AI and humans... After the trial, the world felt quite a shock, an intense but heavy feeling of reality. Mark Lapoto had of course been released, not because he was innocent, because of the reality in which we now know, it did n' t matter. Mr Lapato was the lead researcher, and was the real visionary of the project - without him, we would not be where we are. He inspired, he motivated, and he achieved. Mr Lapato' s whacky ideas could not, by societies standards, be morally tested on anyone but himself. He built an intricate AI, a human AI.... one of that Schrodinger spoke of. He built himself.... he lived with himself, for 3 months.... and the trial, which was ended after great length and deemed it was impossible to tell which Mark committed the homicide.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The general entered the room, " where is He, where is the child? " He demanded. An attractive young woman approaches him with an ere of caution. " Please sir, He is sleeping. " " I do n' t care! That... thing, is a weapon. A powerful weapon. " He storms down the hall to the Pope' s Vatican apartment. He proceeds to break down the down first shooting the lock, then to the bedroom. Inside the woman runs over to embrace the child on the bed. The general advances, but the Pope gets between them brandishing a jeweled scepter. " This child is no one' s property! He is the Alpha and the - " " Oh shut it old man. This thing is the key to military superiority! I' m giving you one chance. " The Pope lunges as much as his old body can at the man in uniform, but before he is half way to him, he is shot by the general' s sidearm. He looks to the boy in His virgin mother' s arms, " Please forgive me.... bleh.... " The woman lunges with a hidden dagger, only to be brought down the same. " Hello Elohim. Do you want to come with me? Do you remember who I am? " The boy, maybe 5 years old, gets a crazed look of fury and bares His teeth at His mother' s murderer. " 4 star general Luke Beezle. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: They' d said it would be safe. Somewhere that we could rest, that we could feel safe. Maybe they had lied. Maybe it' d just been something to comfort us as we waited for our inevitable doom. Or maybe, they' d actually believed their own words, and had happily waited with us, until the very last moments. The thing I remember now is the shaking. The shaking never stopped, and everything seemed quiet despite the screams we heard above. No one ever spoke, though I remember the quiet sobs of the adults, and the echoing wails of the children. It all happened in a moment. The shaking became worse, and suddenly it felt as if my ears were going to burst. The heat came in from all sides, and in a time that seemed too small for the amount of life that was lost, it was over. Now I lie here, my strength draining for me as I am forced by my own weakness to observe the smoking landscape in front of me. No one else lives, as far as I can tell. Soon, no one will. I close my eyes, an intense redness coming through the lids as the sun sets. However, even that fades in time.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Are n' t you a little *young* to be making deals with the devil? " Satan asked. He was surprised to have been summoned to a hot pink bedroom filled with stuffed animals. I turned from my desk, sucking on my freshly cut finger. " Who the fuck are you? " I slid out of my purple plastic desk chair and planted my good hand in a tiny fist on my hip. The devil looked taken aback. " Are n' t you a little *young* to be using language like that? " He gasped, staring down at me. After spending the four years of life I' ve lived so far terrorizing my parents, I was used to getting such looks. " Look here, mister. It' s christmas time, not halloween. I do n' t know why you' re dressed up in such a terribly made devil costume, but since you' re here, you can do me a favor. " He took a step back as I snatched a piece of paper off my desk and waved it in his face. " Take this here letter to Santa and tell him I expect to get every single thing off this list or the blood on this paper wo n' t be the only blood spilt this christmas. " *** As Satan trudged through the snow at the North Pole he grumbled and shivered. To think he was summoned to make a deal for a soul and ended up meeting the only four year old in existence whose soul even Hell would n' t take.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I jolted awake to a small pinch on my cheek and the stale smell of old urine. *Dumb rat, I' m not rodent food. Leave me in peace, * I thought as I slowly sat up. *Where am I? * I thought, looking around. Dark green walls, dim and flickering lights above the sink mirror, and peeling paint on the wooden stall walls. I guess I' m in a run down bathroom. I quickly hopped to my feet and yanked open the door. I' m in a train station. Flickering lights and broken live electrical wires hung over the track, shooting sparks in every direction. As I walked, I could hear the hollow echo of the wooden platform below my feet. That' s when something caught my eye: a sticky note stuck to the bottom of my shoe. The note read, " I' m sorry I left you, but they tried to use you as collateral on me. Run. Do n' t look for me. Just run for your life. " Confused, i did n' t know what it meant. *Was this meant for me? * I thought. *Perhaps they meant it for someone else. * That' s when I remembered how I arrived there. My husband somehow made some bad deals with some bad people, and he owed them money for some service. He did n' t want to elaborate, he just tossed me in the car. Three black SUVs gave chase for what seemed like an hour, shooting at us with sub machine guns. The last thing I remember was an SUV t-boning our car as we raced through an intersection, and I blacked out. I do n' t know where he is, or what they have done to him. I hope he' s ok...


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The way most of us, and by' us' I mean normal people, and by' normal' I mean those of us who would be openly willing to put aside our petty differences for the necessary duration... where was I? Oh yeah... so most of us realized right away where we were going to have problems quelling all forms of conflict. We were given three chances to go one hundred days without fucking up. The first fuck up was due to the ancient middle east conflicts. A lot of the crazies over there saw this as a test of their faith and had decided to prove that they deserving of forty virgins or whatever by being extra rowdy. We solved this problem by finding a bunch of virgins willing to take one for the team and giving them in groups of forty to each terrorist. At first we did n' t think we had enough volunteer virgins, but upon realizing that goat virgins were acceptable everything turned out fine. The second fuck up came from congress, they were ironically locked in conflict over the best way to handle the situation. It was an easy problem to solve however, we just told each one of them separately that if they kept voicing their opinion we would reveal tapes we had of their homosexual airport encounter. Everything was going great, we had went ninety days without conflict when it happened... Lindsey Lohan and Paris Hilton got in an argument over who had more STD' s that escalated into a full on cat fight. We argued that they should n' t be included in the' human' category and thus we should be spared, but the madman holding us hostage held no discretion. He proceeded to tie the earth to an enormous bottle rocket and blow us all up. /r/PsychoWritingPrompts


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I could deal with all the death. It was the love I could n' t handle. The sight of bodies was a regular ordeal. The sight of children calling out for their dead parents was a regular ordeal. People who lost limbs. People who would murder without another thought. People who would steal. People who would lie, who would trick and deceive and hurt hurt *hurt* others into submission. It was all a normal day. I would hold my head high and look away because I could *deal* with it. It was easy. Love was not. It was rare, it was treasured and it was something you should n' t take for granted. Whenever I see it, whenever I experience it first hand I ca n' t help but just lower my head that I' ve held too high for too long and weep. Death ca n' t break me. Love, of course, beautiful, shining, light of the ugly *fucking* world could.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Listen kid, " The man said, reaching out and turning my head to face him. I caught another glimpse of the gun in his hand before my eyes drifted to the body in the corner of the room. " You' re going to close your eyes, count to ten and then everything is going to be fine. " From outside, I could hear the angry shouts of the men who had been chasing my mom and I for the last several hours. Mom always said they would find us, it was why we moved from city to city. She called them Trespassers. I blinked and it seemed as if time skipped forwards. We were in the basement now. The man who had gotten us this far was in the corner, hands coated in red, clutching his stomach. I picked up a steady banging noise and realized someone was banging against the far door. " Now or never kid. " The main said. " Close your eyes, count to ten. It' ll be fine. I' ll find you again. " A slow frown formed on my face but I closed my eyes like he asked and started counting. *One, two, three, four, five, six. * I heard the sound of the door on the other end of the room crashing open. *Seven, eight. * Gunshots sounded, a cry of pain. *Nine, ten. * Silence, followed by the chatter of people. I opened my eyes. I was back in the mall, waiting outside a store. When my mom walked out the store front, smile on her face all I could do was stare. She was alive, no gunshots had torn holes in her chest. " What' s wrong Zachary? " She asked me, smile fading at my expression. For a full minute I only stared, unable to answer. In slow motion my eyes turned towards the mall entrance. Three men in jet black suits walked in, shades covering their eyes. Eyes that I knew shone neon green. From the corner of my eye, mom turned, taking in the scene before us. " Trespassers. " I whispered and the intimately familiar scene started playing out once again.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: He ran his fingertips across the smooth surface of the picture. Her smile met with his and for a brief moment the sound of her laughter danced across the room. A tear fell on the old photograph, stirring up the dust that had accumulated over the years. " Oh, Bonnie ", the man whispered. He adjusted his glasses and began to work his way through the stack of photos sitting at the bottom of a beaten old chest, stopping again on another picture. Bonnie, in her wedding gown, gazing out the window of a magnificent castle towards the sunset. Bearing a look of tranquility as she reflected on the day. " My, my she looks beautiful ", he said, feeling a lump in his throat lurch its way through. The man flipped through more pictures, stirring up old memories and emotions. Each picture drawing a laugh, a sigh, or simply a glancing twinkling eye reminiscing on a life spent with her. After a long while he slowly stood up and walked over to the corner of the room, sitting down with a grunt. He stared out the window to watch the sunset fall behind the tall mountain peaks, where under the tree in the front yard and old friend lay gently beside her gravestone. Feeling the urge to join, he gingerly walked through the creaking tree house eventually making it out to the yard. The man ran his callused hands across the top of the gravestone and gave his friend a pat on the head. " We' ve sure had some wonderful adventures together, have n' t we Jake? ", he said followed by an approving nod. As the sky darkened the two friends walked back towards the house, where the man turns around as to give one last goodbye. " I will always love you, my Princess. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Blood drips red onto the floorboards, seeping through the dark mahogany. Her eyes, glassy yet dim, like a lightbulb that needs to be changed. My lips, bloody and gashed as I rip through flesh and sinew. Flesh. Muscle. Bone. Marrow. Nothing goes to waste. Each mouthful is a delicacy. Each bite is more desperate than the last. I savour the taste of her liver, the texture of her still pumping heart as it gushes with the soft velvet touch of blood in my mouth. Her body twitches still, the last remnant of life seeping out of her. I relish it. I quiver with delight when I think of what her thighs will taste like, her uterus, the traces of urine in her bladder... But not now. Beside her, a phone screen lights up, a single text message catches my eye. " Sara, where are you? What did Megan need help with? " I leap with delight to answer it, smearing blood on the screen as I do so. My fingernails are soiled and rotting. " Megans craigslist date ate her alive. She' s pretty upset. " " Aww, poor thing. Should I come over? " " Please do. " " Ok, I got ta finish work, but I' ll be there in an hour! see you! " I ca n' t help but cackle wildly as I toss the phone with reckless abandonment. One more! I can barely believe it! What luck! I drag her lifeless body over to the other two, the fat mother and the starving daughter. Their faces are contorted in agony but I could barely tolerate eating either one completely, as their extremities in weight caused the feasting experience to suffer. As I dump her body onto the heap of meat I can almost swear I hear a breath. A whisper. A quiet whimper from the girl. Impossible. I set to rummaging about the house for a mop to clean up the mess as I wait for my next course to arrive. I whistle while I work. I even sing a little. Imagine if this funny pattern where to just keep repeating itself. The unending feast would be unimaginable.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: My preparations were complete, months of travelling to gather the materials from around the world were about to pay off. I looked across my basement, everything was in place. The pentagram painted in panda blood flickered the reflection of the many candles around the room. 666 red candles made from the earwax of goats. I had been looking forward to this ever since I was a child and watched little nicky, the idea that Satan was n' t as evil as he appeared had stuck with me for 20 years. Now I was about to find out if it was true. I recited the spell. shadows filled the room and swirled around the ground and up the walls. circling in a demonic dance, moving faster and faster. suddenly darkness took the room and smoke from the newly extinguished candles filled my nostrils. There was a red glow at the center of the room, but i couldnt quite make out what it was. some sort of vapor had filled the basement and I was having a hard time seeing. as the smoke started to settle. I saw it, a slightly glowing silhouette of a big man. he started to move, and as he moved closer i could tell that his belly was big, and his cheeks were flushed. his white beard reaching almos to his belly button. he wore a red coat that shimmered with a dull red glow, and he wore a crown made of deer antlers and chirstmas tree branches. He had a twinkle in his eye that just said *everything is ok* I said " who are you? " and the man replied " I have many names. but the one you would be most familiar with is santa " his warm voice vibrated in my ears as if he were speaking through a silky and soothing jazz tune. his eyes twinkled as he spoke to me. I questioned him further " well, how did you get here? " without even a slight pause he asked " do you trust me, son? " well I suppose I do n' t have a reason not to, you are santa after all. " he pulled me close, gave me a big hug and whispered softly in my ear " thats good, son. because the only way i can steal your soul is if you trust me. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I had starved him from three days. His spirit was nearly broken, I had almost broken him. " You look hungry. " I said casually as I walked into the room where he was chained up. He gave me a deathly glare. " I' ve got some food for you. " I said. He spat in my face. " I ai n' t saying nothing. " He whispered, his voice to hoarse for him to shout. " Oh, you do n' t have to talk. I just thought I' d give you something to eat. " I laughed, laying the box of food in front of him. I unlocked the cuffs on his hands. He eyed me suspiciously. I beckoned for him to open. " It' s pizza. " I added. He cautiously opened the box very slightly and a sliver of hope appeared in his eyes. He tore open the box and grabbed two large slices, holding them over his mouth while saliva dripped from it when he noticed something. It was Hawaiian. " Of course if you do me a favor you can get a margarita. " I promised with a sadistic grin. " OK, I' ll talk. " he croaked, defeated.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " It' s a day that calls for celebration. " shouted the man with enthusiasm to the big crowd in front of him. " The resistance started with only a few people, today we' ve grown in numbers so much that the little cottage, where we used to hold our early meetings, ca n' t fit even our masks alone. " Laughter echoed in the crowd. " How it all started with little silly acts to grab the tyrant attention, and now we' re on the verge of toppling the son of bitch! " The crowds cheers. " After breaking the barriers of our fear. After knocking down the gates of helplessness and misery. After all the efforts we' ve made to throw our own weaknesses and fallacies into the garbage bin where they belong. " The silence of anticipation made even the gentle breeze audible. " It is the night we' re ready to break into his palace. Knocks down his own gates. Grab him by the collar and throws him outside inside the garbage container, WHERE HE BELONGS! " The crowd goes nuts. " TO THE PALACE! " The marching rebels approached the palace with a surprising ease. There were no guards. They knocked down the gates shouting words like " Liberty ", " Death to tyrants ", but the guards still did n' t show up. They walked into the master bedroom of the tyrant. He was n' t there. The whole palace was empty. The leader of the resistance spotted a diary on the bedside table. He opened it and read the most recent entry: " I think Hillary has used my WOW account again just to give herself the Big Love Rocket. This is ridiculous. I ca n' t stand this any more. I' m joining the resistance. " The resistance leader looked at the baffled crowd with " What the fuck " written all over his face. He shakes his head. " Hillary you bitch, you could have saved us time. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " So, uh, I have to ask... why are you out here? Why this? " " Just tryin' a be the realest, you know? See, we a brotherhood. But we also a business. We tryin' a incorporate. What' s that phrase? Divide and conquer? Well, we gon na do the opposite - we gon na have a merger. Bloods and Crips, cats and rats, comin' together for the first time. We the competition now. We trust bustin', you know? Undercuttin'. See we was killin' each other over piddly shit - corner here, corner there, someone wearin' the wrong colors, *this dude sellin' on MY block? * Turns out that' s bad business. We see this as a long-term investment. We goin' legitimate. This is a hostile takeover. This more than just a couple corners. We doin' what the rest of the world do n' t wan na do, and we makin' money off of it. Ai n' t no one can touch us. All them old folks back in' Merica sittin' in front of they TVs used be afraid of us, call the cops on us, close they blinds when when we roll down they street... now they cheerin' us. They buyin' stock. Ai n' t no more east side west side bullshit. Now this the Far East Side. This our corner now. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Would you push me away, please? " They panted softly through a long pause and did not either of them move. " Would you please leave? " he asked again. " Would you? " His chest tightened and his breath caught. " Do you want me to? " " No. " " So why say that? " She looked up into his eyes, and he looked slowly down past hers to the floor. " We can only stand here so long, " she whispered. " Good. Thank God. " She pushed a finger into his chest and scraped it up his neck to his chin, lifting it until their eyes were level once more. " Why do you have to look like that? " he breathed. " Why do you have to like it? " " You know I' m only weak, right? " " *What' s* weak? " His lips compressed and he stared through her... then with a tremor he seized a handful of her hair, pulled, covered her mouth with his, and pushed. They turned and fell onto the bed. He tried to pull the covers over them, but she pushed them back down, and he left them there. She was much smarter than he was, he realized, and it only made things more difficult.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: David and Claire agreed to meet on the corner of 53rd and 10th. Their favorite little cafe, tucked away beneath all grime of the city. David was nervous, for today was the day he had been anxious about all year. He carried the small box in his left pocket, having spent three months salary just the day before. Claire was nervous, too. Her doctor had just confirmed the tests. She let a timid smile escape her lips, and wondered in amusement if her stomach had begun to grow enough that David would catch on right away. The two saw each other coming from opposite ends of the empty street. He smiled. She smiled. The two embraced, holding each other for a long time. David opened the door for her, and the two entered the barren cafe together, sitting down at their usual table. Before David could get a word in, Claire put a small piece of paper on the table. David picked it up, his eyes scanning from top to bottom. His face lit up, and Claire could see tears swelling in his eyes. " Twins? " he asked. Claire smiled, her eyes growing wet as well. She felt her body grow warm, and noticed the flow of sunlight grow brighter and brighter. David looked through the window of the empty, forgotten cafe. He let out a long, defeated sigh. A sigh that echoed the sound of a future that would never be. He reached in to his pocket, opening the small box. Claire' s eyes twinkled in the sunlight, and she removed the delicate ring from his hands, placing it over her own ring finger. " It' s beautiful, " she said in awe. The heat grew, and she could feel it burning at her skin. She looked into David' s eyes one last time, and he took her by the hands. Tears streamed down his face, and he gently kissed Claire' s hand. As the Sun gave way to the stars, and the Earth gave way to the Sun, David and Claire smiled. Together, they said the last words that the universe would ever hear. " I love you. " And in that moment, they were at peace.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: I' ve made too may wrong turns. I am lost. Hopelessness has overtaken me. How long until I am consumed? How long until I become another victim, trapped, dying alone in this Hell? The stench of rot and death fills the air. I ca n' t see. It' s so dark. I sit and cry. Just let me die. Wait! Did you hear that? A voice. Not one of pain and suffering. One of beauty. A small flame flickers in my heart. I stand up. I begin to walk, to follow the melodious voice. Sinister whispers begin to assault me. " It would be easier to lay back down. What' s the point of fighting this. I deserve this. " Part of me wants to give in. No! I grasp onto that angelic voice. I use it as a lifeline. Light pierces the gloom. It becomes a thread to follow. I begin to run. Hands grasp at me, shadows move in and out. They try to pull me back down. I slip and fall. This is it. The edge of the knife. How easy it would be to just close my eyes. but the voice, it calls me. I fight back, and drag myself to my feet. I do n' t want to give up! I need help! Help me! Light blazes across the made of despair. From that light, a hand reaches out to me. I reach out, and out fingers meet............... and my wife helps me out of the car. She looks me in the eye. She is so proud of me. She will be with me every step of the way. It will be a long road, but she knows I will make it. She really has no idea how she has saved me. Hand in hand, we walk up the steps into the rehabilitation facility.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Jesus ran from the house, pausing only to grab his favourite leather jacket from the kitchen counter. Worn at the seams, dulled silver studs lining the collar with a sexually suggestive portrait of Doctor Who carefully airbrushed on to the back. It was the only thing in that house worth a damn now. His ears picked up as the sound of a Harley rumbled down the street like a herd of rhino with digestive complications. A small smile crept into the corner of his mouth. The sound of drunken glass shattering from upstairs brought him back into the moment. Time to leave. Leave? No, escape. Time to escape. " Muhammed! You came back for me! " " You know it, babe. " Muhammed winked and tossed Jesus a helmet. He strapped it on and mounted the hog, intertwining his arms with Muhammed' s. The front door slammed open as Bilbo stumbled after them, his balance kept only by the door frame and his rising jealous anger. " You get back in here, Jesus! " Bilbo was barely able to form the words. " You get back in here, NOW! I fucking own you, you little bitch.. " Tears began to stream on the face of Jesus, but the tears were joyful. " You ca n' t hurt me anymore, Bilbo. There' s a new fellowship in town. " The gravity of it all finally hit Bilbo. This was really happening. He was losing him. This sobering thought quickly gave way back to his instinctive rage. " Well fine. Fuck you. Fuck you both! You ai n' t worth a damn, anyhow! You ai n' t never gon na do better than me, so what' s he got that ai n' t? " Jesus nestled his face deep into Muhammed' s neck and gently stroked his beard. Muhammed looked back at the drunken husk that was once Bilbo Baggins and smiled coyly at him. " Wash, rinse, repeat motherfucker. " He pulled his tricorder from his pocket and flipped it open. " Beam us up, Han... " **Off topic edit: ** > Batman is an overweight psychopath who does n' t care about justice, uses guns, and kills civilians as well as criminals I would totally watch that movie.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Subject-921 Threat level: Doomsday Containment procedures: S-921 is to be left inside a 13m radius spherical container, maintained at high earth orbit ( currently at 34900 km periapsis, 37300 km apoapsis ). Electromagnets capable of at least 16 tesla are to be kept operational at all times to counter any relative drift that may occur between S-92' s center of mass and the walls of its container. Six point defense lasers at equal distances around the outside of the station are to be kept in optimal condition to eliminate any space debris that could intercept S-921' s container. Emergency procedures: N/A Description: S-921 is the only immortal human known. The mechanisms of its immortality are unknown, but the effects are devastating. Under usual circumstances, when enough time has passed without dying, the soul' s desire to be free amplifies any kinetic energy that the body may be subject to until it is eventually killed. However, S-921 appears to be impervious to death, continuing to increase kinetic energy without end. S-921 was found in high earth orbit exhibiting a ludicrous amount of rotational energy but possessing relatively low linear velocity. It was speedily contained and must be guarded lest space debris come into contact with it and send it on a collision course with the earth, sun, moon, or any other object that would cause life on earth to end if it were utterly annihilated or broken into debris traveling at relativistic speeds. It is speculated that other immortals may exist that achieved escape velocity and became lost in the void.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: The committee of aliens stood before our own respective committee of UN ambassadors. They were each around eight feet tall, and the yellow pupils of what appeared to be their seven eyes stared at us intently. They began to speak in a low mumbling sound, and our translator who has worked to understand their language began to relay the message. Keep in mind this was the second of the peace talks. " We are prepared to make peace with your people. Significant time has passed, and there is no reason for further hostilities. We admit that we are held back somewhat by our culture. For seven generations we have built up a deep hatred of humankind, but we hope we can stop that with enough time. " I interjected. " But wait, you said in our first peace talks four weeks ago that you were previously unaware of our existence! " Our translator expressed my words, and was soon met with a response from the aliens representative. " Yes, exactly. Four weeks. Seven generations. " I looked at the translator in confusion. " Are you sure you' re translating this correctly? " The translator got a nervous look in his eyes. " Actually, I do n' t know this language at all. I' m just faking it. " " WHAT?! " The entire UN committee was in uproar. " Who hired this guy? " One short man with thick glasses stepped forward. " I... I hired him. " " Why? " " Well, he had the credentials as a good translator. They even used him at Nelson Mandela' s funeral to translate into sign language! " Again, the UN committee burst into uproar. Unfortunately, the aliens took this as a sign that we wanted to continue war. They took out their weapons and ran into the uproar themselves. And that, class, is how I, your professor, wound up being the only survivor in the Great Manvlirian Peace Talks Massacre of 2025. All due to one idiot and one bigger idiot. Class dismissed.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: Macdillion sat at his desk fiddling with the controls to the American nuclear arsenal. He did n' t swear but felt tempted to then. Everything was in disorder-his fine, pianist fingers, his memorabilia of the World Wars and the struggle to liberate the world from itself was trashy. Chaotic. Disgraceful. He glanced up and glowered at the next peon to roll in. " What? " he demanded, scrabbling the nuclear control in his sticky hands, hating the rough feel and smell of it. " I might kill you if you do n' t have a good answer for me. " The peon stuttered. " Talk. I wo n' t kill you then. Calm down. " Macdillion reasserted control over himself and set the control down. " Sir, there' s a spy in the base! " " And? " he demanded. His servants never told him enough and he suspected they hid things from him. " He' s after you! He' s killed the guard! " " Send security after him then. It' s not as if we do n' t pay the louts enough. What else has he done then? Why have n' t I heard any of this? " " Security' s gone! " The servant twisted his fingers alarmingly. " All of them, dead on the ground! The wires been cut and the cameras are all out. We' ve been trying to contact you sir, I promise, but he came in like a bolt of lightning and chopped us off! Look! " He thrust a computer screen up for Macdillion to look at. Macdillion gazed balefully at the screen. He pulled out a gun and shot in one solid motion. The servant flopped onto the ground and spilled blood on the expensive carpet. Macdillion sighed, and sat down. " Computer, run Windows Antivirus. Some damn fool downloaded pornography again. "


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: " Gentlemen, we have urgent business to discuss. " Brain said with a commanding tone. " Lungs, heart and liver ca n' t work properly when you are behaving like this. Yesterday we had to take a break in the middle of the stairs, and the day before that we did n' t even get out of bed. " " Indeed. " Heart replied. I have to work twice as hard to pump the same amount of blood. Legs have to do some work too. " " But guuuuuuuys " Legs complained. " This sofa is so comfy! " " I do n' t care, you' re making this harder for all of us. Just go for a walk, it ca n' t be so hard. " Lungs pleaded. " Screw you guys! I' m not going anywhere! Brain sighed. " Arms, how about some pushups? " " Too busy holding this bowl of cheetos, bro. " " We ca n' t go on like this! " Brain said angrily. " Soon we' ll have to use a scooter to get to the bathroom! " " Good. " Legs said. " Less work for me. " " Speaking of which... " Anus chimed in. " Not now, Anus. " " No but seriously, let' s go " Bladder said. " Fine. " Brain sighed. " Come on legs, take one for the team. " " Allright, but that' s it for today. " " Oh jesus, a lego! " Feet yelled. " AAAARGH " " Heart! What happened? " Brain yelled. " Too much... " " Oh god, Heart is gone! " Lungs screamed. " This is your fault, Legs! " " Do n' t blame me, It was you who smoked all those cigarettes. "' " Bloody hell, I' m giving up. " Brain exclaimed. And so they gave up. I' m new to this sub, also english is n' t my first language, so constructive critisism is welcome!: D I also noticed I did n' t follow the prompt exactly so I hope you can forgive me.


Instruction: what is the prompt that generates the input?

Input: DAY 5 I don' t know why I did it. I thought I did, but now I' m not sure. Cold, wet, silent. Not a drop of sun to warm the bones. The black maw before me eagerly consumes the light from my tiny headlamp. Why did I come here … alone? The air thickens on the descent. Repulsive odors ooze from the slimy walls. How can anything live down here? It is a bottomless well of fearful specters. How can I even begin to describe the trees? Godlike in their immensity, they have stood for ages in the deepest places. They frighten me, in truth. I feel them groan and imagine their anger at my trespass. I camp the first night on a ledge about a third of the way down the east slope. Though to call it night might be presumptuous. Here, night is eternal. No, I sleep because I am bone-tired after hours of hiking and belaying -- and because of the noises. Starting as a low, distant hum, they drifted undifferentiated through the ancient arbor. Now though, as I make my way further down, an eerie din is rising. I hear cackles, whistles, reptilian croaking, each sound never heard by human ears before. This cacophony is the song of hell, and I dare not enter the gates tired and unprepared. Tomorrow, God willing, I will reach the bottom.