id
stringlengths 10
20
| conversations
listlengths 2
2
| metadata
dict |
|---|---|---|
lit_exc_hem_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write a divorce scene titled 'Division of Property' using Hemingway's Iceberg Theory: exactly 150 words, no interiority, only concrete actions and observable behavior. No words like 'felt,' 'thought,' or 'sad.'"
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "She put the coffee cups in the box marked KITCHEN. He watched her wrap each one in newspaper. The want ads. The obituaries. The Sunday coupons they had never used.\n\nHe took the books from the shelf. He did not take the books she had given him. He left those on the shelf and she did not say anything about it.\n\nThe dog walked between them. He filled the water bowl. She emptied the water bowl into the sink and put the bowl in a box marked DOG.\n\n\"I'll take him Tuesdays,\" he said.\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\nHe carried boxes to the truck. She held the door. The door had a squeak they had never fixed. He had always said he would fix it.\n\nThe last box was the photographs. Neither of them packed it. At five o'clock he drove away. The box stayed on the table."
}
] |
{
"author_style": "Hemingway",
"constraint_type": "Concrete Actions Only",
"part": "Part I: Hemingway — The Iceberg Theory",
"source": "literary_exercises.md",
"tags": [
"minimalism",
"divorce",
"iceberg-theory",
"no-interiority",
"constraint-based"
],
"title": "Division of Property",
"word_count": 150
}
|
lit_exc_hem_002
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write a scene about a man leaving a hospital after a miscarriage. Use only three objects as focal points (parking meter, car door, radio). No emotional exposition, only physical mechanics and sensory detail. Hemingway style."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "The parking meter had forty-seven minutes left on it. He had put in two hours when they arrived. He did not remember how long ago that was. He stood looking at the meter. The red numerals said 47. Then they said 46.\n\nHe opened the car door. The sound was the sound it always made. A click and then a resistance and then a small groan from the hinges. He had heard this sound perhaps four thousand times. He sat in the driver's seat and did not close the door.\n\nThe radio came on with the ignition. He had not meant to turn it on. The weather report was already in progress.\n\n\"—overnight lows in the mid-thirties. Tomorrow, partly cloudy, highs near fifty. A slight chance of precipitation in the evening hours. For the weekend, temperatures will—\"\n\nHe turned it off.\n\nHe closed the door. The click. The seal.\n\nHe did not drive anywhere for some time."
}
] |
{
"author_style": "Hemingway",
"constraint_type": "Three Objects Only",
"part": "Part I: Hemingway — The Iceberg Theory",
"source": "literary_exercises.md",
"tags": [
"minimalism",
"grief",
"objects",
"hospital",
"mechanics"
],
"title": "Discharge",
"word_count": null
}
|
lit_exc_mor_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write about a house that holds generational memory. Use Toni Morrison's style: history held in objects, the body as archive, the unspeakable made present through surroundings. Focus on physical details that imply trauma without stating it directly."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "The house on Lucille Street had a kitchen floor that sloped toward the back door. Three degrees. Barely enough to notice unless you set down a glass of water and watched it tremble, watched the small circle of it migrate south, toward the yard, toward the place where the mimosa tree used to stand before the ice storm of 1947 took it.\n\nThe floor remembered the tree.\n\nThe floor remembered other things too. It remembered the weight of a woman standing at the stove for six hours, her heels printing themselves into the pine, year after year, until the grain rose up around the impressions like water around stones. Her daughter stood in the same place. Her daughter's daughter. The pine knew all their weights. The pine could tell them apart by the pressure: the grandmother heavy and flat-footed, the mother shifting side to side, the granddaughter up on her toes always, ready to run, though she never ran, not once, not even when running would have saved her.\n\nThe walls held the sound of the not-running. They held other sounds too. The plaster was horsehair andite, and horsehair remembers. It remembers the vibration of voices at particular frequencies. The frequency of a man saying *I told you*. The frequency of a door closing at 2 AM with the specific softness of someone trying not to wake children who were already awake, who were always awake, who had never once slept through a night in this house because the house did not allow it. The house kept them listening.\n\nIn the northeast corner of the bedroom there was a crack in the plaster that had been there since 1962. It had been repaired four times. Each time it returned. It returned in the same shape: a vertical line, then a branching, then another branching, until it looked like a river system or a tree or a family, depending on who was looking and what they were trying not to see.\n\nThe crack was not structural. The inspector said so. The crack was not caused by settling or moisture or temperature. The inspector could not say what caused it. The inspector had not asked the right questions. The inspector had not asked the house.\n\nThe house could have told him.\n\nThe house could have told him about the night in 1962 when the crack first appeared. The house could have told him about the sound that preceded it—a sound the walls absorbed, a sound the horsehair took into itself and kept, a sound that was not a scream because screaming requires breath and this sound was the opposite of breath, was the leaving of breath, was the place where breath had been and now was not.\n\nThe house could have told him that the crack was not damage but testimony. That the plaster had opened itself to say: *I was here. I heard. I hold.*\n\nBut the inspector did not ask.\n\nNo one ever asked.\n\nThey just lived in the house, the families that came and went, and they noticed that the kitchen floor sloped and the bedroom corner cracked and the stairs—the stairs—the stairs made sounds at night that were not the sounds of settling wood. The sounds were footsteps. The sounds were always the same footsteps. A child's weight. A child's pace. Going up. Never coming down.\n\nThe families would move away, eventually. They would say the house was too old, too drafty, too far from the good schools. They would not say what they knew.\n\nThe house would wait.\n\nThe house was patient.\n\nThe house had been holding for sixty years. The house would hold for sixty more. The floorboards knew the feet that had walked them. The walls knew the words that had filled them. The crack in the plaster knew the shape of what it had witnessed, and it would keep opening, keep testifying, keep saying in the only language it had:\n\n*Here. This happened here.*\n\nThe mimosa tree was gone. The woman at the stove was gone. The child on the stairs was—\n\nThe house did not finish that sentence.\n\nSome things it held even from itself."
}
] |
{
"author_style": "Toni Morrison",
"constraint_type": "Object as Archive",
"part": "Part II: Morrison — The Embodied",
"source": "literary_exercises.md",
"tags": [
"magical-realism",
"generational-trauma",
"embodied-history",
"domestic"
],
"title": "124 Was Not the Only One",
"word_count": null
}
|
lit_exc_pyn_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write about a mysterious sandwich appearing in three different cities simultaneously using Pynchon's paranoid style: technical arcana, bureaucratic jargon, conspiracy theories, and the sense that meaning is everywhere and nowhere. Include epistolary fragments and footnotes."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "At 12:47 PM Eastern Standard Time on November 8th, 1983, a man named Wendell Pfister walked into Giordano's Delicatessen on Mott Street in New York City and ordered a sandwich that did not appear on the menu.\n\n\"Mortadella,\" he said, \"with fig jam, arugula, and—this is important—exactly three cornichons, sliced lengthwise, fanned across the top. On ciabatta. Toasted.\"\n\nThe counterman, whose name was either Sal or Al depending on who was asking and why, did not blink. He had heard stranger. This was New York.\n\n\"You want the Pfefferkorn,\" he said.\n\nWendell Pfister felt a chill pass through him that had nothing to do with the November air leaking through the door.\n\n\"The what?\"\n\n\"The Pfefferkorn. That's what we call it. You're the third guy today.\"\n\n---\n\nAt 11:47 AM Central Standard Time—which is to say, at the exact same moment, allowing for the curvature of time zones and the silent conspiracy of synchronized clocks—a woman named Delilah Yamamoto-Schwartz stood at the counter of a deli in Chicago called, improbably, \"Herschel's Authentic Italian.\"\n\n\"I'd like,\" she said, consulting a scrap of paper she'd found tucked into a library book about the Treaty of Westphalia, \"mortadella with fig jam, arugula, and three cornichons, sliced lengthwise, fanned. On ciabatta. Toasted.\"\n\nThe counterman, whose name was definitely not Herschel, nodded slowly.\n\n\"Lady, you're the second person today to order a Pfefferkorn.\"\n\n\"A what?\"\n\n\"The Pfefferkorn. It's not on the menu. It's never been on the menu. But people order it. Once, twice a year, someone comes in and orders it. Same sandwich. Same specs. The cornichons, the fanning, all of it.\" He leaned forward. \"Where'd you hear about it?\"\n\nDelilah looked at the scrap of paper. It contained, in addition to the sandwich specifications, a date (today's date), a time (now), and a single sentence in what appeared to be Low German: *Wer den Pfefferkorn ißt, wird sehen.*\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said, which was true in the way that all true things are also, at some level, lies.\n\n---\n\nAt 9:47 AM Pacific Standard Time—completing the trinity, closing the circuit, establishing the pattern that would keep three people awake for the rest of their lives—a man who called himself Roger Oakley but whose birth certificate read something else entirely walked into a deli in San Francisco that had no name, only an address: 1849 Divisadero.\n\nHe did not need to consult a scrap of paper. He had been dreaming of this sandwich for eleven years.\n\n\"Mortadella,\" he said. \"Fig jam. Arugula. Three cornichons, sliced lengthwise, fanned across the top. Ciabatta. Toasted.\"\n\nThe woman behind the counter—Vietnamese, maybe sixty, with eyes that had seen the Fall of Saigon and possibly several other falls that hadn't made the history books—smiled in a way that was not comforting.\n\n\"You're the first today,\" she said. \"But not the last. There will be two more. There are always three.\"\n\n\"Three what?\"\n\n\"Three who order the Pfefferkorn. Three who see. Three who—\" She stopped. \"You want mustard?\"\n\n\"No. No mustard. Who are the other two?\"\n\n\"How would I know? I just make sandwiches.\" She turned to the meat slicer. \"You want it here or to go?\"\n\nRoger Oakley thought about this longer than the question warranted. Here or to go. Stay or leave. Be present for what comes next or carry it with you, wrapped in wax paper, slowly cooling, the fig jam congealing, the moment passing.\n\n\"To go,\" he said.\n\nThe woman nodded as if this confirmed something.\n\n\"They always say to go,\" she said. \"But they never go far.\""
}
] |
{
"author_style": "Thomas Pynchon",
"constraint_type": "Paranoid Connectivity",
"part": "Part III: Pynchon — The Paranoid",
"source": "literary_exercises.md",
"tags": [
"postmodern",
"conspiracy",
"technical-jargon",
"simultaneity",
"cryptic"
],
"title": "The Sandwich Convergence",
"word_count": null
}
|
lit_exc_woolf_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write a stream-of-consciousness piece in the style of Virginia Woolf (Mrs. Dalloway). Capture twelve different consciousnesses in 200 words, moving between minds via sensory triggers (sound, smell, sight). Use indirect free style."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "She would buy the flowers herself.\n\nFor Lucy had her hands full (poor Lucy, whose sister was ill, who had not slept, who even now was thinking of the evening, the guests, the silver that wanted polishing), and the morning was fine—fresh, like a wave breaking, thought Clarissa, though she had not been to the sea in years, not since Richard's conference in Brighton where she had stood on the pier and felt, for one moment, young.\n\nThe florist's boy (Peter, was it? or Paul?—his mother called him Paolo but he had stopped answering to it, had stopped answering to much since his father left, since the morning he woke and understood that people simply vanish) handed her the roses, and the ribbon caught, and Mrs. Dalloway tugged it free while outside a taxi honked (the driver thinking of lunch, of his wife, of the mole on her shoulder he had kissed that morning without knowing why), and in the street below a child dropped her penny and wept, and her mother yanked her arm (too hard, she knew it was too hard, would remember it years later, would wonder if this was when it started, the distance), and somewhere a clock struck ten."
}
] |
{
"author_style": "Virginia Woolf",
"constraint_type": "Stream of Consciousness",
"part": "Part IV: Woolf — The Stream",
"source": "literary_exercises.md",
"tags": [
"modernism",
"stream-consciousness",
"sensory",
"urban",
"psychological"
],
"title": "Mrs. Dalloway Buys the Flowers",
"word_count": null
}
|
lit_exc_faulkner_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write a burial scene in the style of William Faulkner. Use one sentence of exactly 300 words. Include sediment-like syntax, collapsed time, the weight of blood/history, and the sense of crimes continuing. Gothic Southern atmosphere."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "They buried him in the plot behind the house where his father lay and his father's father and the one before that whose name had been worn off the stone by a century of rain and wind and the slow patient grinding of time itself, the plot where the cedars stood in their black and ragged rows like mourners who had forgotten what they were mourning and simply stayed, rooted and waiting, and the red clay soil which had been turned so many times for so many boxes that it no longer resisted the shovel but yielded almost gratefully as if the earth itself had grown accustomed to receiving what the Compsons gave it, and the six men who bore the coffin (his brother and his three cousins and two Negroes from the place whose names no one present could later recall though they had worked the land for forty years, their fathers before them, their fathers' fathers, back to the time before the time anyone remembered, before the deed, before the name, before the house itself which stood now with its columns peeling and its roof sagging and its windows like the eyes of something that had seen too much and chosen blindness) lowered it into the hole where the water had already begun to seep in from the morning's rain, and the preacher spoke words that no one heard because the wind took them or because the words themselves had worn out from too much use on too many Compsons, and the women stood in their black dresses that smelled of mothballs and cedar and something else, something older, the smell of houses where people have died and kept dying and will keep dying until there is no one left to die, and the dirt fell on the box with a sound like the end of something, or the beginning of nothing, which is the same thing, and they walked back to the house to eat the food the Negro women had prepared, and no one spoke his name again."
}
] |
{
"author_style": "William Faulkner",
"constraint_type": "One Sentence, 300 Words",
"part": "Part V: Faulkner — The Gothic",
"source": "literary_exercises.md",
"tags": [
"gothic",
"southern",
"syntax",
"death",
"generational-trauma",
"single-sentence"
],
"title": "The Burial",
"word_count": null
}
|
lit_exc_butler_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write a first-contact/xenogenesis scene in the style of Octavia Butler. Explore power dynamics, the body as site of negotiation, and genetic 'trade.' Use speculative elements to examine consent and survival. Unflinching examination of bodily autonomy."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "The Oankali word for what they wanted to do had no human translation. The closest Lilith could come was *genetic negotiation*, but that implied a transaction between equals, and this was not that. This was something else.\n\n\"You are afraid,\" Nikanj said. It did not ask. The ooloi never asked; they read the body's chemistry, the truth of the blood.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"The fear is in your cortisol. In the adrenaline pooling at the base of your spine. I can taste it.\" Its sensory tentacles moved across her arm, not quite touching, reading the air between them. \"I could change it. The fear. I could make it into something else.\"\n\n\"That's what I'm afraid of.\"\n\nNikanj made a sound that might have been laughter, or might have been something Lilith had no word for. \"You are afraid that I will make you want what I want. That I will alter your neurochemistry until your no becomes yes.\"\n\n\"Can you?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\nThe honesty was the worst part. The Oankali could lie—they had the capacity—but they rarely bothered. They told you what they were going to do, and then they did it, and the telling somehow made it worse, because it gave you time to understand, to anticipate, to feel the shape of your own powerlessness.\n\n\"But I won't,\" Nikanj said. \"Not without your consent.\"\n\n\"And if I don't consent?\"\n\n\"Then we wait.\" Its tentacles settled, folding against its body. \"We are patient, Lilith. We have been patient for ten thousand years. We can wait for you.\"\n\nShe understood, then, what they were offering. Not a choice—not really—but the *illusion* of a choice. The Oankali would not force her. They would simply wait, and while they waited, she would remain here, in this place that was not Earth, among beings she could not escape, and slowly—year by year, decade by decade—her resistance would erode, not because they had changed her chemistry but because she had changed it herself, because the body adapts, because isolation is its own kind of coercion, because eventually she would want *something*, and they would be there to provide it.\n\n\"That's not consent,\" she said.\n\n\"No,\" Nikanj agreed. \"It is not. But it is the closest we can come.\" Its sensory tentacles extended again, hovering near her face. \"You have a word, *seduction*. We do not have this word. We have *enticement*, which is chemical. We have *persuasion*, which is genetic. We have *trade*, which is what we do. But *seduction*—the convincing of a body to want what the mind resists—this is something you invented. This is something human.\""
}
] |
{
"author_style": "Octavia Butler",
"constraint_type": "Xenogenesis/First Contact",
"part": "Part VI: Butler — The Speculative",
"source": "literary_exercises.md",
"tags": [
"speculative",
"xenogenesis",
"consent",
"bodily-autonomy",
"power-dynamics",
"sci-fi"
],
"title": "The Trade",
"word_count": null
}
|
crw_col_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write about a marriage ending using ONLY object placement and weather descriptions. Zero emotional adjectives. No 'felt,' 'sad,' 'heartbroken.' Track the division through thermostat settings, toothbrush counts, and precipitation. Six months of dissolution in domestic details."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "### January\n\nThe thermostat reads 68. Two toothbrushes stand in the ceramic holder. His running shoes by the door, laces touching her rain boots. On the kitchen counter: one French press, two mugs with their handles turned the same direction.\n\nOutside, 19 degrees. Cloud cover at 90 percent. No visible stars.\n\n### February\n\nThe thermostat reads 64. One toothbrush in the holder. The other in a ziplock bag inside a weekender on the bed, zipper open. His running shoes gone. Her rain boots now in the closet.\n\nOn the kitchen counter: the French press pushed against the backsplash. One mug in the dish rack. One mug in the cabinet above the stove, behind the protein powder she never uses.\n\nPrecipitation chance: 35 percent. Accumulation expected: two inches.\n\n### March\n\nThe thermostat reads 70. The weekender is gone. In its place on the bed: three pillows arranged diagonally. A library book on the left nightstand. The right nightstand empty except for a water ring no one has wiped away.\n\nThe bathroom holder holds one toothbrush and a razor that has not moved in six weeks.\n\nTemperature climbing. Snow giving way to rain.\n\n### April\n\nThe French press is in a box by the door, alongside a baseball glove and a phone charger still in its original packaging. The box has been taped, then re-taped. A strip of packing tape hangs off one corner, stuck to itself.\n\nOn the counter where the French press stood: nothing. A rectangle of dust with clean edges.\n\nRain. Rain. Rain.\n\n### May\n\nThe thermostat is off. Windows open for the first time since October. The right nightstand has been moved to the basement. The left nightstand now holds: a library book (different), a candle (new), a phone charger (his, the one from the box, reclaimed).\n\nThe razor is in the trash. The bathroom holder has been replaced. It holds one toothbrush and a tube of prescription cream.\n\nHumidity: 78 percent. Wind from the southwest at 12 miles per hour.\n\n### June\n\nOn the kitchen counter: a pour-over coffee maker. One mug. The handle faces the window.\n\nWhere her rain boots stood by the door: sandals, white, never worn in this apartment before.\n\nTemperature at dawn: 58 degrees.\n\nAt noon: 74.\n\nThe forecast calls for sun."
}
] |
{
"author_style": null,
"constraint_type": "Object & Weather Only",
"part": null,
"source": "creative_writing_collection.md",
"tags": [
"divorce",
"domestic",
"objects",
"weather",
"constraint",
"no-emotion"
],
"title": "Division",
"word_count": null
}
|
crw_col_002
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Describe depression using ONLY kitchen appliances and their sounds. No light/dark metaphors allowed. Anthropomorphize the machines. Use auditory and textural details only. The depression is in the appliances' behavior, not stated."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "### I.\n\nThe KitchenAid Artisan KSM150PS sits on the counter, 26 pounds, 325 watts. Its dough hook has not moved in eleven weeks. The bowl—5-quart, stainless steel, 59 touchpoints around its circumference—holds a film of flour from the last time. Before.\n\nThe refrigerator hums at 38 decibels. A compressor cycles on, pushing refrigerant through copper lines. The hum is the frequency of a library. Of held breath. It runs for twenty minutes, then stops. Then starts again. This is the only conversation in the room.\n\n### II.\n\nThe Cuisinart DCC-1200 makes coffee at 6:47 AM. Water climbs a narrow aluminum tube, passes a heating element, and falls through grounds into a carafe that will not be touched until it turns cold and sour at 2:15 PM.\n\nThe machine gurgles at the end of its cycle—air in the line, boiling water dispensing without a full volume behind it. Spit. Sputter. Silence.\n\nThe carafe holds twelve cups. She pours three, dumps the rest. Pours two. Dumps. Pours one. Today: nothing poured. The machine completes its cycle to an empty kitchen. The hot plate stays on for two hours, keeping liquid warm for no one, then auto-shuts.\n\n### III.\n\nThe Bosch SHPM88Z75N dishwasher operates at 42 decibels—quieter than rainfall, quieter than a whisper in the next room. Its EcoSilence motor engages. Water swishes. A click: the detergent door releases.\n\nInside: one fork. One knife. One plate with a half-circle of dried egg yolk. One mug, white, the glaze cracked along the handle.\n\nThe spray arms rotate through empty racks. The dishwasher runs its full cycle—fill, wash, drain, dry—for these four items. It has been running daily. For weeks. The same load."
}
] |
{
"author_style": null,
"constraint_type": "Appliances & Sound Only",
"part": null,
"source": "creative_writing_collection.md",
"tags": [
"depression",
"domestic",
"appliances",
"sensory",
"sound",
"constraint"
],
"title": "Inventory",
"word_count": null
}
|
crw_conv_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write a divorce scene using only concrete actions (no 'felt,' 'thought,' 'sad'). 150 words maximum. Show the end of a marriage through physical behaviors only."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "She pulled his shirts from the closet and folded them into a box. He unscrewed the bookshelf from the wall, leaving four holes in the plaster. The dog followed him to the door, then walked back to her, then to him again.\n\nThey divided the kitchen in an afternoon. She kept the cast iron pan. He took the coffee grinder. Neither wanted the plates from his mother.\n\nHe signed on the line above his printed name. She signed below. The notary stamped the page and turned to her next appointment.\n\nShe changed the sheets that night and slept diagonal across the mattress. He ate cereal standing over the sink in his new apartment, watching a pigeon on the fire escape.\n\nTheir daughter set two separate reminder alerts in her phone: *Dad's birthday. Mom's birthday.* She used to need only one."
}
] |
{
"author_style": null,
"constraint_type": "Concrete Actions Only",
"part": null,
"source": "creative_writing_conversation.md",
"tags": [
"divorce",
"minimalism",
"actions",
"domestic",
"constraint"
],
"title": "Divorce (Concrete Actions Only)",
"word_count": 149
}
|
crw_v2_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Describe a grocery store as if it's a Cold War espionage dead drop. Use technical jargon mixed with domestic mundane. Create absurdist tension between spy-speak and grocery mundanity."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "**OPERATIONAL BRIEFING: TARGET ZONE \"DAIRY SECTION\"**\n\nAgent assumes cover identity: suburban father, list in hand, wedding ring visible (props requisitioned from domestic assets division). Entry vector: automatic doors, west side. Acquisition of shopping basket—not cart—signals readiness to receive.\n\nPrimary contact will be positioned near the yogurt, affecting deliberation between Greek and Icelandic varieties. Recognition protocol: contact will return the Icelandic to the shelf. Twice.\n\nThe package is concealed inside a hollowed butter box, Land O'Lakes, salted, positioned behind the unsalted. Retrieval must appear as indecisive browsing. Recommended duration: forty-five seconds of apparent sodium deliberation.\n\nCounter-surveillance note: The woman in Aisle 3 with the coupons has been present during three previous operations. Status unclear. Assume compromised. Avoid eye contact near the frozen pizzas.\n\nEmergency extraction: Proceed to pharmacy counter. Request consultation on antihistamines. Handler will appear within four minutes wearing CVS lanyard (counterfeit).\n\nIf package is missing, purchase milk and eggs. Return vehicle to parking lot. Flash headlights twice.\n\nDo not, under any circumstances, use the rewards card. They are tracking the rewards cards."
}
] |
{
"author_style": null,
"constraint_type": "Genre Collision (Spy/Mundane)",
"part": null,
"source": "creative_writing_collection_v2.md",
"tags": [
"absurdist",
"spy",
"jargon",
"domestic",
"genre-mix"
],
"title": "Grocery Store as Cold War Dead Drop",
"word_count": null
}
|
crw_col_003
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Write a confession of a crime where the narrator lies exactly 3 times (subtle contradictions only). The reader should detect the lies through inconsistencies in object locations, timelines, or details. Noir unreliable narrator style."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "**Case No. 2024-7834**\n\nLook, I'll tell you everything. I've got nothing to hide. That's why I'm here, right? That's why I came in voluntary. You can check your logs—I walked in the front door at 11:15 tonight and asked for Detective Moreau by name.\n\nI met Danny Ashford in September of last year. We were introduced at my cousin's wedding—he was there with some girl, I forget her name, and we got to talking at the bar about the Packers game. He was a Bears fan, if you can believe it.\n\nOver the next few months, we'd meet up maybe once a week, twice a week, grab beers, watch the games. I'd been let go from the warehouse in August—you can verify that with my former employer, Stedman Logistics—and I was doing odd work, handyman stuff, barely scraping by.\n\nThe night of February 22nd—that's the night you're asking about—I got there around 9 PM. It was cold—I remember because my car's heater had been broken for weeks, and I was wearing that green jacket, the one you guys have in evidence now.\n\nI stepped inside. The unit was mostly empty—just some boxes in the corner and a tarp on the ground. Danny closed the door behind us, and that's when he pulled the gun.\n\nI reacted on instinct. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find—a tire iron, sitting on one of the boxes—and I swung.\n\nI panicked. I'm not proud of what I did next, but I'm telling you anyway because I said I'd tell you the truth.\n\nI wrapped him in the tarp that was already on the ground. I put him in the trunk of the car. I walked three miles home that night. I threw the green jacket in a dumpster behind the Wendy's on Archer Street—I couldn't stand looking at it anymore.\n\nI'll sign whatever you need me to sign. I'll take a polygraph if you want. I've got nothing left to hide.\n\nJust please—when you write this up, make sure you include that he pulled the gun first. That's my statement. That's the truth.\n\nI swear it on my life.\n\n---\n\n**[Detective's Notes - Contradictions Detected]:**\n1. **The jacket**: Claims threw it in Wendy's dumpster, yet \"you guys have in evidence now\" - impossible if disposed of\n2. **The timeline**: Met Danny in September, fired in August, yet claims he was \"between jobs\" when they met (overlap impossible)\n3. **Ricky**: Claims Danny usually had \"Ricky\" with him (\"I think his name was\") - feigned uncertainty after 5 months of criminal association"
}
] |
{
"author_style": null,
"constraint_type": "Unreliable Narrator (3 Lies)",
"part": null,
"source": "creative_writing_collection.md",
"tags": [
"noir",
"unreliable-narrator",
"contradiction",
"crime",
"detective"
],
"title": "Statement of ████████ ████████",
"word_count": null
}
|
lit_appx_001
|
[
{
"from": "human",
"value": "Reconstruct the 1927 Mississippi Flood using only meteorological station reports, inventory records, and documentary fragments. No emotional narration. Let the data tell the story through tables, logs, and bureaucratic records."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "### WEATHER BUREAU STATION 47, GREENVILLE, MS\n**Precipitation Log — April 1927**\n\n| Date | Rainfall (in.) | River Stage (ft.) | Levee Status |\n|------|----------------|-------------------|--------------|\n| Apr 15 | 2.3 | 56.4 | Intact |\n| Apr 16 | 4.1 | 57.2 | Seepage noted |\n| Apr 21 | 1.8 | 58.9 | Breach imminent |\n\nCumulative rainfall, Jan–Apr: 24.09 inches. Mean annual: 11.2 inches.\n\n---\n\n### INVENTORY — PERCY FARM, WASHINGTON COUNTY\n**Filed: April 14, 1927**\n\n- 47 head cattle (Holstein, dairy)\n- 12 mules\n- 340 acres cotton, planted\n- 2 grain silos (capacity: 8,000 bu. each)\n- 1 Ford Model T truck\n- 1 farmhouse, wood frame, 2-story\n\n---\n\n### INVENTORY — PERCY FARM, WASHINGTON COUNTY\n**Filed: May 3, 1927**\n\n- 6 head cattle (recovered, 2 mi. east)\n- 0 mules\n- 0 acres cotton (submerged, 18 ft. standing water)\n- 2 grain silos (collapsed)\n- 1 Ford Model T truck (located in tree, non-functional)\n- 1 farmhouse (foundation visible)\n\n---\n\n### WEATHER BUREAU SUPPLEMENTAL NOTE\n**Station 47 — April 21, 1927, 07:42 CST**\n\nBarometric pressure: 29.71 in. Hg. Wind SSW at 12 mph. Visibility reduced to 0.25 mi. due to rain. Mound Landing levee failure reported at 07:30. Water volume through breach estimated at 468,000 cubic feet per second. Station evacuating to second floor."
}
] |
{
"author_style": null,
"constraint_type": "Documentary/Found Text",
"part": "Appendix: Documentary Fiction",
"source": "literary_exercises.md",
"tags": [
"documentary",
"epistolary",
"historical",
"data",
"constraint",
"found-poetry"
],
"title": "The 1927 Mississippi Flood",
"word_count": null
}
|
README.md exists but content is empty.
- Downloads last month
- 38