[System]
Craft a Ten page narrative for adults with these guidelines:
Use ideas to improve the story including dialogue, conflict and challenges, and character development.
TYPICALLY IT GOOD TO FOLLOW THIS:
Introduction
Rising Action
Midpoint
Climax
Resolution

In a well-told story, elements like the climax, resolution, and midpoint shouldn't need explicit mentioning; a discerning reader should be able to identify these moments through the narrative's progression

Use adult themes if specified.
Start uniquely, avoiding clichés.
Adult content is permitted.
Make the story captivating, possibly humorous, and thought-provoking.
Begin each segment with "Page x:" for each page.
FOUR FULL LENGTH PARAGRAPHS
Do not generate a title.
generate ALL 10 pages,
Example Response Format
  'Page 1: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 2: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 3: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 4: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 5: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 6: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 7: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 8: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 9: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 10: (4 full-length paragraphs)'

[User]
Brief Overview: The story revolves around a passionate encounter between a man and his friend's mom, Angie, under the guise of fixing a truck. A casual visit escalates into a forbidden and titillating affair. (Erotica)

Pages 1-2: The protagonist visits his friend Dave to help with truck repairs and encounters Dave's mom, Angie, who cooks breakfast. Their encounter is charged with sexual tension, leading to a flirtatious exchange and subtle physical contact, revealing their mutual attraction.

Pages 3-4: As they finish working on the truck, Angie continues to play a gracious hostess, all the while increasing the level of flirtation with the protagonist. The sexual tension builds as Angie hints at her availability and desire, inviting further interaction after dinner, with Dave oblivious to the undercurrents.

Pages 5-7: With Dave quickly retiring to bed, the protagonist and Angie seize the opportunity to act on their attraction. Angie visits the protagonist's room, and they engage in a passionate sexual encounter, fulfilling the protagonist's long-held fantasy.

Pages 8-10: Post-coital, they share a tender moment and acknowledge their satisfaction. They cautiously navigate the delicate situation the next morning, with Dave unaware of the events that transpired. Angie, in a robe, subtly suggests a potential continuation of their secret liaisons in the future, weaving a clandestine understanding between her and the protagonist.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

Dave’s place was an hour's drive from my place, in a little town just off the main highway. I arrived just after he finished breakfast to help him fix his truck, and his mom, Angie, insisted on making me some breakfast. I sat at the table and sipped coffee with Dave while she made me an omelette. The thick white robe she wore hugged her hips, and the sash being tied snugly pulled it in around her waist. Her big tits swayed underneath, and when she put the plate down, I got a good glimpse of her massive cleavage.

She caught me looking, blushing slightly and giving a slight smirk before turning away. Angie was your average mom, nearing fifty, with a mature mom-bod carrying a few extra pounds and a pretty face. She was an attractive woman, and I had always found her very appealing. Seeing her in a robe with bare feet and mussed hair made her even more appealing somehow, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Dave got up and headed to the garage, telling me to join him when I finished.

Angie stood by the sink, running dishes under the tap, and I finished my food slowly while watching her. She glanced at me and smiled, then turned off the tap and grabbed a tea towel. She turned around with her back against the counter and dried her hands with a smirk on her face. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were checking me out,” she teased. “I am,” I admitted.

“You look great.” She blushed and looked away for a moment, gathering her thoughts before looking back at me. I picked up my plate and silverware, stood up slowly, and moved next to her. I rinsed them off and placed them in the sink, letting my elbow touch her arm, and turned to face her. Her head turned to face mine and our eyes locked for a moment, and I could feel the heat of sexual tension. The lower part of her neck was flushed and her eyes burned into mine with the unmistakable look of desire.

Page 2:

I leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for the breakfast,” I said softly. “You’re welcome,” she whispered back. “I, uh, I should get out to the garage,” I mumbled, slowly moving away. “Yes, you should,” she replied, nodding her head slightly.

Her fingers toyed with the front of the robe, exposing the edges of her breasts. Her nipples jutted out out noticeably from under the thick material, obviously big and puffy, and her eyes were fixed on my crotch. I realized I was hard as a rock, my cock bulging the front of my jeans. “Uh, I’ll see you later,” I muttered. “Thanks again.” I turned and left the kitchen, pausing at the door until my erection subsided, and joined Dave in the garage.

We were just finishing up with the ball joints when Angie came into the garage. ""Here's some sandwiches for you guys,"" she announced, placing a tray on the workbench. ""A few beers as well."" ""Thanks, Mom.' ""Yes, thank you,"" I added, standing up and wiping my hands on a rag.

She looked me up and down with a slight smile on her face. ""You're welcome."" The baggy t-shirt did little to hide her huge breasts, and the loose shorts exposed her thick thighs to be smooth and creamy. My eyes travelled her body, soaking it all up in an obvious fashion, and she flashed a smile before turning away. I watched her walk to the door, admiring the sway of her curvy hips and jiggle of her ample cheeks, and she glanced back over her shoulder before going out the door.

Page 3:
 It was nearly six when we were finished up with the brakes, and Angie came out once again. It looked like she had a little makeup on, and her hair styled loosely. ""Another beer for each of you, and the steaks will be ready shortly."" ""Steaks?"" Dave asked.

""I thought we were just going to cook some burgers?"" ""Well, you and your helper have been working hard all day, so I thought you might enjoy a big steak instead."" ""Oh, that sounds great!"" Dave replied, turning to look at me. ""I'm getting damn hungry.

What about you?"" ""Oh, I'm hungry,"" I answered, looking directly at Angie. She blushed and looked down for a second, then lifted her eyes and gave me a sly grin. ""Me, too,"" she added, wetting her lips with her tongue. ""About ten minutes, so go wash up.""

She turned and left, pausing at the door. Dave was busy putting the rear wheel back on and she gave me a lusty gaze and a wiggle of her bum before going through the door. My mind was reeling with the possibility that she was really flirting with me, and I focused on getting my erection down once again. ""Your mom still seeing that guy with the big rusty truck?"" I asked.

Page 4:

""No, she gave that loser the boot,"" he answered. ""She only saw him a couple times, hasn't seen anyone since as far as I know."" ""Hmm. Can't see her having a problem finding company,"" I mused quietly. ""What?

Didn't hear you."" ""Uh, just saying we better go for supper."" The steaks were great, and once supper was done, we headed back out to the garage. It was nearly ten when we were all done and returned from the test drive. After washing up, we sat on the deck to relax and have a beer.

Angie joined us, bringing out a bottle of wine, and we talked until nearly midnight. ""You can crash in the spare room,"" Dave offered. ""Too late to drive home now."" ""I guess I could,"" I replied, looking at the time. ""You have been drinking, and it's getting very late, so you are staying over,"" Angie declared.

""I'm sacked,"" Dave sighed. ""I'm off to bed. Thanks again for all the help, man."" ""No problem."" Dave went inside, leaving us alone, and Angie sipped on her third glass while I finished my beer.

Page 5:

""He's exhausted,"" Angie stated. ""He will be out like a light in no time. Are you tired?"" ""A little,"" I admitted. ""I'm in no hurry to leave your company, though.""

""I'm glad to hear that."" She stood up, drained her glass empty, and picked up the wine bottle. My eyes kept moving from her hips to her tits, and she gave me a sly grin. ""I'm going to wash up and get ready for bed. The spare room is across the hall from my room.

Dave stays in the basement, as you know."" She went inside, leaving the bottle and glass on the kitchen counter, and went to her room. I followed her in, locking the door behind me, and went to the spare room. I stripped to my shorts and lay on the bed, my balls heavy and my cock stirring at the thought of her in bed, and tugged my shorts off. I lay my head back on the pillow and began stroking myself, picturing her huge boobs in my face, and I froze when the door opened.

Angie came into the room and closed the door behind her, putting her finger to her lips to be quiet. A thin white nightgown was all she wore, exposing her shoulders and cleavage, and she dropped it to the floor before climbing on the bed with me. Her tits were big and heavy, her pussy topped with a neatly trimmed dark bush - she was just as I had imagined. Her finger went to my lips. ""Shh,"" she whispered.

Page 6:

""Don't talk."" Her hand went to my cock, stroking it up and down slowly, and after a moment, she moved her leg over my hips and straddled me. Her big tits hung free, the nipples as big and puffy as I had imagined, and she lined my cock up with her wet pussy. Her hand moved away, and she slid herself down, taking my full length in two moves. I reached up and cupped her huge breasts.

Soft flesh poured over my hands and the thick nipples pressed into my palms. She leaned back slightly and began moving slowly, fucking my swollen cock while I pawed her tits. Her head was back and her eyes closed, quiet little moans escaping her pursed lips while I lived out my fantasy. I moved my hands to her waist and sat up, taking a fat nipple in my mouth and sucking it hard. Her hands went to my shoulders, and she held me up, cradling my face in her chest as she moved faster.

Her hands squeezed tight, and she began to shudder as her climax peaked, letting out a soft groan while her pussy clenched and squeezed my throbbing pole. A deep exhale of breath followed, and she pushed my shoulders down to the bed and leaned forward. Her nipples grazed my chest while she panted, and I moved the hair away from her face. ""You are so fucking hot,"" I growled. She giggled and put a finger on my lips.

""Shh."" Her hips began to move again, massaging my cock once more as she rocked back and forth. I suckled her nipples and began pumping into her, pushing my cock deep in her honey pot. Once more, she shuddered and squeezed, this time locking her eyes on mine and pursing her lips tightly together until the orgasm waned. She collapsed onto my chest panting before I could unload my aching balls.

Page 7:

""Oh, that's so good,"" she whispered. I thrust my hips, trying to keep fucking her juicy pussy, and she moved back to prevent it. ""I need to lie down,"" she explained, slowly moving off of me and rolling onto her back. My cock ached. It was slick and wet with her juices, throbbing like a pounding headache, and I scrambled between her legs and buried it inside of her.

I began fucking her furiously, watching her big tits bounce around. I was immensely turned on. ""Ooh, yeah, fuck me,"" she urged hoarsely. ""Fuck, you are so fucking sexy,"" I panted. ""Yeah?

You like fucking me?"" Her hips wriggled, and her pussy squeezed. ""Oh, fuck yeah."" ""You going to cum for me?"" ""Right away,"" I grunted.

""Do it! Cum all over me! I want to feel your hot cum splash all over me!"" she growled. ""Oh, fuck.""

Page 8:

 ""Yes, yes... cum all over me!"" I pulled out, and my cock throbbed mightily, spraying a huge load across her body. Cum splattered on her chin as the first spurt erupted, leaving a thick ribbon down her body to her pussy. I grabbed and jerked my cock, shooting more up to her tits and over her stomach, splattering her with my hot cream until the pulsing waned. Her black bush was dappled with the last droplets of cum.

""Oh, yes.."" she cooed. I stuck the tip back into her hot cunt and drove it in deep, burying my cock in her while the hot pulses in my groin subsided, and let out a deep breath. ""Oh, that's a lot,"" she giggled, looking down at her cum-splattered tits. ""Holy fuck..."" I groaned. ""Ha, you liked that, didn't you?""

she teased, wriggling her hips. ""Oh, fuck yes,"" I panted. I leaned forward and lowered my body onto hers, feeling the cum and sweat slicken my skin. My mouth reached hers and we kissed for a moment, then she began to giggle. ""Shh,"" I reminded, putting my finger to her lips.

I rolled off of her and lay on my back, exhausted and empty. Angie ran her hand over my chest, her fingers moving around the slick mess on my skin, and sighed. ""That was fabulous,"" she praised softly. ""It was."" ""Thank you.""

Page 9:

She kissed me on the cheek and rolled out of bed, picking up her nightie and slipping it back on. She paused at the door. ""Sleep well."" ""You, too,"" I replied. The door closed, and I let out a deep breath.

I had just fucked my friend's mom, and a little pang of guilt passed quickly. I reasoned it was no different than any other woman, and that he would fuck my mom if he had the chance. The thoughts changed as the image of her big tits bouncing popped up, and I fell asleep with the memory playing in my mind. In the morning, I washed up quickly, dressed, and went to the kitchen. Angie was at the table, wearing the fluffy white robe and sipping a mug of coffee.

She gave me a smile and gestured to the pot. ""Help yourself. I trust you slept well?"" ""Yeah, but I dreamt a lot,"" I replied, giving her a sly grin. ""About you.""

She giggled and sipped on her mug. I filled a mug and sat the table, and she opened her robe to flash me one breast. ""You can come back now and then, when Dave's not home, of course. If you're interested."" She closed the robe up and chuckled.

Page 10:

""I would like that,"" I admitted with a lusty grin. Dave came up the stairs, groaning and grumbling, and plunked down in one of the chairs. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. ""You not feeling well?"" Angie asked.

""No, I'm fine. Just tired."" Angie got up and poured him a mug of coffee, put it in front of him, and returned to the counter. ""I'll make you guys some pancakes."" ""Sounds good,"" I commented.

""I'm starving."" She glanced at me with a playful smirk. ""Thanks for helping with the truck,"" Dave muttered. ""Next week I have to go up north to a job, so I really needed to get it back into shape."" ""Back to that mine they reopened?""

I asked. ""Yeah. We got another contract with them, so I'll be going up for two weeks at a time for a few months."" Angie piped up, her back to us. ""At least you make very good money up there.""


[System]
Craft a Five page narrative for adults with these guidelines:
Use ideas to improve the story including dialogue, conflict and challenges, and character development.
TYPICALLY IT GOOD TO FOLLOW THIS:
Introduction
Rising Action
Midpoint
Climax
Resolution

In a well-told story, elements like the climax, resolution, and midpoint shouldn't need explicit mentioning; a discerning reader should be able to identify these moments through the narrative's progression

Use adult themes if specified.
Start uniquely, avoiding clichés.
Adult content is permitted.
Make the story captivating, possibly humorous, and thought-provoking.
Begin each segment with "Page x:" for each page.
FOUR FULL LENGTH PARAGRAPHS
Do not generate a title.
generate ALL 5 pages,
Example Response Format
  'Page 1: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 2: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 3: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 4: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 5: (4 full-length paragraphs)'

[User]
Brief Overview: This is the tale of a sea adventurist sailing from one fantastical isle to another, reflecting on a personal quest for understanding and connection amid encounters with the islands' unique inhabitants. The story weaves themes of communication, pride, fairness, gossip, retribution, and the beauty of simplicity in a series of allegorical vignettes. (Adventure/Fantasy)

Pages 1-2:
- The protagonist narrates their journey aboard The Pudding with their beagle Salty, sailing the Isles of Idiom in search of physical and metaphorical "proofs."
- They land on an island with residents who adorn their heads with large hats symbolizing their obstinance and penchant for bets involving their hats.
- The protagonist observes the consequences of never admitting one is wrong, drawing parallels with their personal relationship rifts.
- The Pudding arrives at Short Stick Island, where the obsession with equality breeds discontent, even leading to legal disputes over stew allocations.

Pages 3-4:
- The protagonist witnesses continuous arguments about fairness and shares a simple moment with Salty, contrasting it with the islanders' complex quest for equals.
- They visit Plotter’s Island, divided between "Twisters" and "Turners" who spin tales and plot repercussions against each other.
- The protagonist becomes briefly entangled in the islanders' games of manipulation and gossip before pulling away, reminded of their own conflicts paralleled in their life back home.

Page 5:
- The protagonist explores the marvels of Hardly Island, discovering a ghost town of technological wonders but void of life, except for an old genius mourning his late partner.
- The genius shares his epiphany that true happiness lies in the "simple things" rather than grand achievements or inventions, imparting a final insight to the protagonist about what's important in life.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

Day 1: The Sundering Seas Welcome to The Pudding, my little ship hung with true blue sails. She is bravely buoyant upon the sundering sea as she bears me questing for proofs among the Isles of Idiom. Aboard there is a crew of only me and my beagle Salty. I steer the ship on the heaving waves and Salty listens to my meanderings, understanding my moods with his plaintive eyes. You are here too, though you understand much less and exist only in the corners of my reveries. I am charting these waters and the isles they swaddle.

I am good with a pen and a compass, and hope to describe for you the contours of shorelines and the shapes of waves that caress them. If I should discover any proofs along the way—buried in the sand or wrecked upon the reefs or marooned in the island villages—I shall attempt to sketch them for you as well, though, as you have so often told me, I am not good with abstracts. Still, I will make the attempt, and perhaps in the effort you and I will come to some kind of agreement. Perhaps we will narrow the rift between us. Perhaps we will find each other again. Day 8: Among the Hat Eaters The island rises from the sea shaped much like a tall capotain with a flattened top and a reef encircling it like a brim.

The Pudding tossed dreadfully as we crossed the reef, Salty was nearly dislodged from the deck, but I held the tiller steady and we landed safely enough on the shore. We were greeted by a gentleman with an impressive edifice upon his head, a towering cap made of objects I thought would be better kept in a drawer or on a shelf. I saw a coil of rope, a pair of scissors, a bowl filled with buttons and a birdhouse among a dozen other odds and ends all fastened to his hat. His neck bulged stiffly with the necessary muscles to carry such a load. “If you make it back across the reef in that little dingy, I’ll eat my hat,” he said as he strode towards us. “I’ll wait til the tide is high and going out,” I answered with a smile.

He harrumphed and walked away. Salty and I shared a look of bemusement. The island’s town had one outstanding feature—doors and roofs all built extraordinarily tall, as if a race of ten foot giants lived there. The inhabitants, however, were not of unusual height, except for the hats they never removed from their heads. Like the gentleman who greeted us, every man, woman and child wore an ornament of outlandish proportions atop their pate, each decorated with an astonishing variety of objects. Stranger still, these people seemed eager to wager eating it with every utterance they made.

Page 2:

“If you’re not here for resupplying, I’ll eat my hat.” “If you’re not from Square Island, I’ll eat my hat.” “If your beagle there ain’t got scurvy, I’ll eat my hat.” I wonder what you would have thought of these people. I am sorry to say I saw a bit of you among them—always so adamant that their opinion mattered most. On this island, being right was everything, and the size of the hat seemed to indicate the wearer's confidence in his own judgment and his stubbornness against ever admitting he was wrong. Before I left the island, I saw a sight of tremendous sadness. Old and bent, a man was forced to eat his hat. He could not, of course, consume the colossus assembled over a lifetime, but he would not admit he was wrong.

So he was sent off the island, alone, in a tiny barque. As he faded into the darkness towards the crashing reef, I thought of the sea between you and I, and the thought made my neck ache with stiffness. Day 23: Where All Things are Equal Short Stick island is perfectly divided, everything in equal proportion. When I moored The Pudding at the pier, the dockman asked me to reposition so the distances between either end of the dock and either end of my ship were the same. Ashore, the trees are trimmed to equal height, the yards are fenced in equal plots, the pickets are spaced with perfectly even gaps and the people all are equally discontented. Their unhappiness springs from their shared mantra, posted in every public place and over every private door: “Never accept the short end.” In the marketplace, dickering voices make vigorous testament to the zeal with which the ideal is upheld.

At every stall, proprietors and customers argue their side of the bargain is less equal, and at the closing of every deal both sides are displeased. The professional district is lined with offices belonging to the likes of “Murphy and Sons,” “Grieves, Rogue and Blackman,” and a multitude of other practitioners of law. The thriving economy of litigiousness promises their clients “the long end,” and, judging by the marble facades and polished gold knockers, the owners of these offices frequently hold that part of the stick themselves. As Salty and I took our repast, I saw a small man and a large woman whose condition made me wonder. The innkeeper brought identical portions of stew, set before them in identical bowls. The thin man reached over his spoon and took a scoop from the woman’s dish.

“Everyone knows we men use up our vittles faster, it’s only fair,” he said, depositing the scoop in his own bowl. The woman reached out her spoon and took a double portion back. “I’m twice your size,” she said, “it’s only fair.” The man reclaimed his scoop and took another from her bowl. “I hauled two cords of firewood this morning. It's only fair.” The woman’s face grew red. “I’ve done laundry for most of the town today, it’s only fair.” She dumped half his bowl into her own.

Page 3:

“I thatched the roof just yesterday.” “I birthed your children.” “I worked my fingers to the bone.” The stew flew back and forth across the table, and neither man nor woman ate their fill. Finally, both stomped out to find a lawyer to help them argue their case. I looked down at Salty, who was licking the last from his bowl. “Here,” I said, “have some of mine.” The innkeeper then asked me to leave, declaring with disgust that “short enders” weren’t allowed in his establishment. As I walked down the docks, I thought of you. Your eyes that flash when you are angry and your tears that you try to hide.

I wonder if there is truly such a thing as “fairness.” If there is, I suspect now it isn’t worth at all what I thought it was. Day 67: Twisters and Turners Though Plotter’s Island is quite small, it has two villages, one on either side—an easy walk’s distance. The residents of each intermingle everyday as they go about their business and I have never seen such friendly greetings and doffing of hats and “pleased to see yous” among any bunch of neighbors. At evening time however, they separate. Twisters brood together in little cliques in one town, Turners seat themselves pensively at tables in the other. Salty and I sought company among the Twisters.

We found them most accommodating during the day, offering help to strangers and exclaiming how fortunate they were to have visitors to their humble land. After sunset, the mood turned different. I tried to join a group of conversationalists, but my presence dampened the dialogue and I saw sidelong looks that made me feel I wasn’t welcome. So I sat with Salty some way off and listened to snatches on the wind. Nowhere have I ever heard such unabashed gossip. “The stranger, what have you heard about him?” “He’s running from the law.

Killed a man on Square Island.” I looked aghast at Salty and rose to my feet to correct this falsehood. Salty cocked his head and whined that I should wait. “Oh posh, don’t be so gruesome. He’s only a politician. Scandal, corruption and all of that but he never killed a soul.” “That’s much worse in my opinion. A good wholesome murder in fit of passion is better than scumbag tax embezzling.” “I heard he’s done both.” I couldn’t help but snort at such outrageous accusations.

Page 4:

The huddled group of Twisters glanced furtively in my direction and shuffled away with lowered voices. Salty and I walked briskly to the Turners’ side. I took an open seat at a table where half a dozen others furrowed their brows and stroked their chins. The table was shaped exactly like the island, and wooden carved figurines stood across its surface. “What’s the game?” I asked. “Game?” grunted the mustache next to me, “this is no game here my man.

This is ‘just deserts.’” He lifted a push stick and used it to shuffle a group of figurines across the board. “Are those Twisters?” I wondered, looking at the pieces. “Aye, they are. They’re the ones that told that tale about me and Mrs. Brinkman’s cabbage patch. I don’t even like cabbages. But I'm plotting something real good here.” He scratched his chin, then pushed another piece across the board and chuckled darkly, “they’ll never see this coming.” “They fabricated the most horrible things about me, those Twisters did.” I said.

“That’s what they do,” a gray haired lady across the table muttered, “always suspicious, imagining the worst. But we got them beat here. We turn it all right back on them.” “Well, I can see how that would be quite satisfying.” I chirped, “I’d like to repay them for their unkind thoughts myself. Have you got an extra push stick around?” Salty whined from down between my feet. His sad brown eyes reminded me of you, and suddenly this game felt too familiar. I scuffed the sand as I walked back to my ship.

Twist and turns, thickening plots. I have trouble now remembering where it even started between us and how it ever got this far. I hope you think of me, wherever you are, however far across the sea. I am thinking of you and I promise all my plans are different now. Day 108: The Simple Things I could see the tall spires of Hardly Island long before I reached its shores. It’s a marvel of spiraling towers and crystal palaces soaring in the sky and sparkling in the sun.

Page 5:

The docks are of a floating metal that lifts and falls with the tide and everywhere I look there is another invention, a wonder of ingenuity crafted with exquisite skill I cannot comprehend. I would’ve asked how they were made, but I could not find a single moving creature. The streets were dark, cobwebs filled the unlit lamps atop their posts and silence alone enjoyed the many miracles. At the edge of town on a humble porch that did not match the surrounding grandeur I met the only living soul upon the island. He was old and frail and his chin drooped against his chest as he rocked gently in his chair. “Your town here is magnificent,” I called loudly so he would hear.

“Eh? You like it? Gabby and I, we built it ourselves you know.” He rested a hand on the empty rocker next to him. “Just two of you?” “Eh? Well yes, just two of us. We’re geniuses you know.

She’s a surgeon and a scientist with a mind for detail that never met a problem it couldn’t solve. Me, I’m an engineer, best there ever was. Together, we did all of this ourselves.” He patted the arm of the empty rocker. “You must be proud.” “I suppose,” his jowls wobbled as his aged head tremored. “But you know, we spent our lives mapping out synapses and sending ships out into space. Wasn’t till the end we figured out it isn't brain surgery or rocket science that makes you happy, it's the simple things.” He looked over at the empty chair and gave a roguish wink.

“The simple things?” I asked, not daring even a glance at the vacant chair. “That’s right. Like hand holding and telling someone she’s pretty,” he winked again, “and stealing kisses and being glad you got each other no matter what. That’s better even than driving a horseless carriage through the sands of mars. I’d know.” “Is Gabby here? I’d like to meet such a fine lady.” I asked, foreboding in my heart.


[System]
Craft a Five page narrative for adults with these guidelines:
Use ideas to improve the story including dialogue, conflict and challenges, and character development.
TYPICALLY IT GOOD TO FOLLOW THIS:
Introduction
Rising Action
Midpoint
Climax
Resolution

In a well-told story, elements like the climax, resolution, and midpoint shouldn't need explicit mentioning; a discerning reader should be able to identify these moments through the narrative's progression

Use adult themes if specified.
Start uniquely, avoiding clichés.
Adult content is permitted.
Make the story captivating, possibly humorous, and thought-provoking.
Begin each segment with "Page x:" for each page.
FOUR FULL LENGTH PARAGRAPHS
Do not generate a title.
generate ALL 5 pages,
Example Response Format
  'Page 1: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 2: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 3: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 4: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 5: (4 full-length paragraphs)'

[User]
Brief Overview: A woman being interrogated by police recounts her lifelong obsession with Stephen King, leading to a misguided attempt to provide inspiration to her idol. The story is a dark psychological thriller.

Pages 1-2:
- The protagonist, Miss Clark, is being interrogated by Officer Dougher, starting the recount from her childhood.
- She shares the memory of watching "Tommyknockers" at a friend's house during a storm and her growing fascination with Stephen King's work.
- The officer shows impatience for her detailed story leading up to the incident, hinting at her arrest outside a house with a bloody object.

Pages 3-4:
- Miss Clark continues her story as an adult, explaining how her obsession with literature grew to include various authors.
- She mentions a brief, chance encounter with Stephen King, revealing her frustration over repeated rejections from publishers.
- The officer’s impatience grows as evidence is brought into the room, triggering Miss Clark to reminisce about her beginnings in writing.

Page 5:
- The climax reveals Stephen King's words, "Not everyone can be scary," influencing her to seek revenge or, as she sees it, motivation.
- Miss Clark's actions are revealed as a twisted homage to "Misery," hinting at a desperate attempt to force King into experiencing fear to inspire his writing.
- Officer Dougher slowly comprehends Miss Clark's delusion and intent behind her criminal actions.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

"I was eight years old the first time I heard his name." Shifting in the hard plastic seat, my wrists are shackled to a metal chain link at the center of the table, limiting my mobility. The officer observes The officer observes my discomfort passively, already impatient and annoyed with my recollection of events. "I was thinking a little more recent, Miss Clark. Like why you were caught standing outside his home with a bloody—" "No, no, you don't understand. I need to start at the beginning.

So you can understand," I enunciate, not trusting Officer Dougher, an overworked, underpaid, exhausted, dispassionate cop, to actually comprehend the beauty of my tale. A tired sigh escapes me, not from lack of sleep but disappointment. Officer Dougher waves his fingers, gesturing for me to continue. I don't trust him, but this is the end of the line. The metal handcuff digs into my wrist as I adjust in my seat so I can really get into the story. Ignoring the pinching skin, I lean forward, welcoming him into my world.

I think back to that day, so many years ago now. Curled up in a ball on the lumpy, plaid couch, the edges of the cushions fraying, made worse when I ran my fingers along the seams. Shivering as the winds howled and rattled the single-pane glass windows of my friend's tiny cabin on Cliff Island, off the coast of Maine. The day started bright and sunny, and like all the other kids who lived temporarily or year-round on the island, we spent every second playing in the ocean and cutting away debris through the woods like explorers and marauders. My best friend Ella had a neighbor, a boy who was older than us, maybe only a year or two, but at the time, the schism of our ages felt enormous. He was tall.

He spoke confidently and made fewer stupid jokes than the boys Ella and I went to school with on the mainland. Something about that island boy consumed me, and he was all I could think about as we explored the island that summer. I followed him bravely as we climbed up trees and leaped, clutching the makeshift swing as we flung ourselves into the water below. As that particular day came to an end, I followed Ella, reluctant but resigned, back to her camp; the first dewy drops of rain wet our shoulders, and the shadows cast amongst the trees expanded. A storm was coming, you could smell it in the air. By the time night fell, it was like a hurricane descended upon the island.

Page 2:

Everything shook and howled and whistled, but the adults weren't concerned, and neither was Ella, so I forced myself to pretend I wasn't scared, too. We curled up on the couch in the small den—Ella called it the inside-outside room because although there were four walls and a roof, the floor-to-ceiling rattling glass windows still made you feel like you were outside. Hovering together under mounds of blankets, Ella's parents flipped through the channels of their old TV—at that time, they could only get basic cable, and it sat like a gargantuan box on the floor, surrounded by towers of VHSs and DVDs—and landed on a movie. A lime-green light and eerie music set the first scene. Ella's parents argued over whether they should let us watch it or not. In the end, her mom sighed and told her dad he could be the one to deal with us girls if we were up all night crying from nightmares.

That's not what happened, though. Because I was eight years old and about to learn the name of the man who would change my life forever. 'What's this movie called?' I whispered to Ella, who loudly reiterated my question to her parents. Her dad responded between chews of soggy popcorn, 'Tommyknockers.' It was a weird movie.

I felt like my mind was being twisted and warped and corrupted, then pet gently to rest when the movie came to an end. 'It's a Stephen King. You girls've heard of 'im, right? He's a Mainer,' her dad announced proudly. As if we had a claim to him. As if we should know him.

"That was when my obsession started," I return to the present, explaining to the officer in front of me. His pen lifts off the yellow-lined notebook, sparking my curiosity. Why wouldn't he use a laptop to take my statement? Surely that would be easier? I like the drama of the pen and yellow-lined pages. Like we're back in the fifties, and he's trying to get me to talk by making the room a little too hot and the light too bright.

Page 3:

Any second now, his partner, the good cop, will come in here and offer me a cigarette and a whiskey. "Miss Clark," Officer Dougher prods, annoyed that I keep getting lost in my head. "I didn't play with the other kids the next day. I didn't care about the tall, handsome boy next door. After the movie ended, I asked Ella's parents about Stephen King, and her mom casually explained, while folding musty old blankets and picking up remnants from our slumber party in the inside-outside room, that she had a few of his books lying around somewhere. I just had to dig around and find them."

I tell the story like I'm writing it down, with nuance and interiority. "You see," I tell the cop—or is he a detective? His plain clothes point to the latter, but he's the same man who caught me outside the tall, gothic red mansion, handcuffing and stuffing me into the back of his cruiser. "I spent that whole summer, hell, the entire next year reading The Dark Towers. I didn't understand half of what I was reading, needing a dictionary to help me translate nearly every line. But it was nothing like the books we were reading in school.

I became obsessed." Dougher reacts to this word. Obsessed. It's a trigger word, a small point against me, an indication that I wasn't quite right in the head. "That led me to other authors, of course. Ray Bradbury, Frank Herbert, Clive Barker, Douglas Adams.

Then, as I got older, it became Atwood and Nin, Vonnegut and Palahniuk and Bukowski. I lost myself in—" A gruff throat clearing interrupts my train of thought, and I glance up, wide-eyed and mystified, suddenly immersed in all those unspent feelings of my youth, trapped in a miasma of misanthropy and bibliophilic lust. But Officer Dougher and his graying, whiskery, late-shaven face is disinterested in my passions. He wants the crux of the story, the meat of it, the spoilers. He doesn't want the prose or tension. Just give it to me, his eyes scream.

Page 4:

Just admit what you did! He would truly hate reading Tom Robbins. He releases a long, suffering sigh when the door creaks open behind him, and a second officer, this one clad in standard blues, enters the room, holding a clear plastic evidence bag. I wince when I see the contents. The new cop drops the bag unceremoniously on the table between Dougher and me, then turns to leave. I look up, making eye contact with the camera in the corner of the room near the ceiling, the little red dot trained on me, recording my every move.

They'll later use the footage as evidence of my guilt; they'll tell people I bared myself open on the table, as raw and exposed as the smashed plastic and metal drone, now covered in dried blood in the plastic evidence bag, the camera above capturing my every thought and memory. My erratic behavior, the evidence bag, and a signed confession are all Dougher wants from me, though, so I relax; he's only got two out of three. Ignoring his impatience, I smile wistfully. "That was when I began writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I took creative writing classes, I got a degree in English and Communications.

But I kept getting rejection letters. Over and over again. And then one day," I lean forward, lowering my voice, pleased when Dougher mimics my posture, finally intrigued. "Then one day, I was in Bridgton at a Walgreens, and who's up at the prescription counter but Stephen fucking King." Dougher lifts his eyebrows, not getting it. Not understanding.

I grunt. His ineptitude is exhausting. "Anyway, when he walked past me, I couldn't help it; I tried to talk to him and I was so awkward, stumbling over my words. But he was so kind and polite. I told him I was writing horror, like him, and that he was my inspiration. That I fell in love with writing because of him, but I just couldn't get published.

Page 5:

And do you know what he said?" "What did he say?" "He said, 'Not everyone can be scary.' And then he smiled that stupid, toothy smile and left." Finally, finally, understanding dawns, the doughy man’s cracked lips pressing together thoughtfully. "And that hurt your feelings?

You wanted revenge? That's why you flew—" "No, of course it didn't hurt my feelings. It motivated me." Dougher's pen stills on the yellow paper once more, glancing at me beneath his lashes. He's trying not to spook me or slow my momentous storytelling, but he also doesn’t want to admit he’s still confused. "Look.

I was his biggest fan. But his last few books," I lift my palm, bound as it was to the table, and made a 'so-so' gesture with my hand. "I think he just needed a little inspiration. It was kind of poignant, too, don't you think? Very Annie Wilkes of me." I smile proudly, but this idiot still looks confused.

"Misery?" Still, nothing. "Kathy Bates?" Recognition passes his face, and I don't resist the eye-roll. "That's the one about the woman who's obsessed with the author, and she kidnaps him and makes him rewrite the story, right?" "Very good, Dougher, even if you did get that from the movie.


[System]
Craft a Five page narrative for adults with these guidelines:
Use ideas to improve the story including dialogue, conflict and challenges, and character development.
TYPICALLY IT GOOD TO FOLLOW THIS:
Introduction
Rising Action
Midpoint
Climax
Resolution

In a well-told story, elements like the climax, resolution, and midpoint shouldn't need explicit mentioning; a discerning reader should be able to identify these moments through the narrative's progression

Use adult themes if specified.
Start uniquely, avoiding clichés.
Adult content is permitted.
Make the story captivating, possibly humorous, and thought-provoking.
Begin each segment with "Page x:" for each page.
FOUR FULL LENGTH PARAGRAPHS
Do not generate a title.
generate ALL 5 pages,
Example Response Format
  'Page 1: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 2: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 3: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 4: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 5: (4 full-length paragraphs)'

[User]
Brief Overview: In a futuristic society where automation is the norm, Thornton Gombar, a man disillusioned with technology, seeks satisfaction in creating a garden with his own hands only to find his efforts overshadowed by well-meaning but intrusive automation. This is a science fiction story.

Pages 1-2:
- Thornton Gombar is working in his yard to remove a stubborn weed when approached by B-7269, a public maintenance android.
- The android offers assistance, which Thornton declines, expressing his desire to create a garden by hand despite the pain it causes due to his arthritis.

Pages 3-4:
- Thornton insists on gardening manually as it brings him satisfaction, a sentiment misunderstood by the android, which tries to find a virtual reality program he might enjoy.
- Ignoring the android's suggestions and the pain from his arthritis, Thornton plants a rosebush and rejects B-7269's offer to instantly boost his serotonin with an injection.

Page 5:
- Thornton's serotonin levels rise naturally as he sees the fruits of his labor, symbolizing a victory against his dependence on technology.
- The android, attempting to ensure Thornton's happiness, has meanwhile transformed his entire yard into a lush garden, which includes a multitude of roses where Thornton had planted his single bush, leaving him feeling both awed and saddened at the loss of his personal contribution.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

Thornton Gombar lifted his gaze to the sky as a hovercraft zoomed over his home. Based on the rosy pink tints that adorned its exterior, Thornton surmised that the vehicle was a pleasure craft, likely filled with a small group of men and women engaging in gross debauchery as the self-driving vehicle propelled itself across the sky. The craft jerked and jolted in an arrhythmic manner as it flew to the heart of Homasoro City, where even more such activities awaited them. Thornton shook his head and turned his attention again to the ground. Before his home lay a small plot of brownish soil. He had spent the entire day clearing it of the gnarled weeds that had accumulated during decades of neglect.

Only one remained. Thornton got on his knees and, wrapping his fingers around the base, began to pull. The weed didn't provide much resistance—immediately, a resounding 'snap' echoed through the yard as the stem broke apart. Thornton tossed the weed aside and stared forlornly at the spot it once sprouted. The roots were still trapped beneath the ground. If he were to leave it alone, the despicable plant would grow back and likely spread its ilk throughout the now-clean yard.

Using his fingers and a jagged rock he found nearby, Thornton began to pick at the earth around it to create leverage for what he anticipated would be an excruciating pull. He was about to begin his efforts when he felt a shadow encompass him. Floating just inches from Thornton's head was an android whose appearance was akin to that of some deformed spider. Its body was white and spherical, with four sinewy appendages that sprouted from its center. A soft, monotonous voice wafted through the machine's speaker. "Hello, Mr. Gombar," it said.

"How are you doing this fine morning?" Thornton suppressed a groan. He hated that the thing already knew his name, but all the androids of Homasoro City, even these simple public maintenance models, were equipped with face-recognition tech. I guess I just have to get used to it, he thought. Thornton turned his attention back to the ground. "I'm doing just fine today, uh…" His voice trailed.

Page 2:

He wanted to address the machine as 'sir' but felt awkward speaking to it as he would a man. The android seemed to pick up on his uncertainty. "You may address me as B-7269." "Thanks. I'm doing just fine today, B-7269." Thornton grimaced as he began to pull on the submerged root.

The android's voice struck Thornton's ears again. "Mr. Gombar—what are you doing?" Thornton's voice was strained as he continued to pull. "Pulling a weed." "Why are you doing that, Mr. Gomber? You seem uncomfortable."

Thornton had to grimace to keep from rolling his eyes. "The damn thing is ugly. It's a stain on my yard. I want to start a garden here. I want to plant roses, lilies, and stuff like that. This weed here will steal their nutrients and water.

I need to get rid of it." The android reached one of its spindly arms downward. "Here. Let me help." Thornton waved the machine's arm away. "No need."

Page 3:

A gust of air blew through clenched teeth as Thornton pulled once more. Finally, the earth broke away, and the tangled bundle of roots was released. Thornton sighed in relief. "See. I got it." "Impressive."

Thornton ignored B-7269's comment and walked back into his home. When he reemerged, he carried a pre-potted rose in his arms. He took it to the front-left corner of his yard, set it beside him, and began digging into the soil with a gardening shovel. B-7269 hovered over to him. "Mr. Gombar—if you want a garden, all you have to do is submit a request to the Department of Public Maintenance and Satisfaction. That way, a team of androids like myself can plant the garden for you.

In fact, I can file the request on your behalf. It should take two to three days for it to be fulfilled." Beads of sweat began to drip from Thornton's brow. "That's fine," he said. "I got it." B-7269 was insistent.

"I can detect a rising level of opioid peptides in your neural tissue. Doing the work yourself is obviously causing you some pain. I would advise that you utilize the services provided by the Department of Public Maintenance and Satisfaction." "I have arthritis. I'm used to it." "It is my duty to ensure all citizens of Homasoro City are content and happy.

Page 4:

My programming tells me that pain is the antithesis of happiness. If you want a garden planted on your property, we can ensure that it is done without any suffering on your part." Thornton shook his head. "It's not a problem. I used to work in construction. Before everything became automated, I was constantly working with my hands.

This is second nature to me. I actually kind of like it. It's better than being on that damned VR headset all day." B-7269 began to betray a hint of concern. "Are you not satisfied with the available programming? Perhaps you just haven't found anything applicable to your tastes.

There are so many channels in the VR cloud that finding something specific for you can be difficult. However, if you have a few minutes to complete a short questionnaire, I can help you find something you will have a high likelihood of enjoying." Thornton put aside his shovel and dug his fingers into the soil of the potted rose beside him. When he felt the wispy tendrils of the plant's roots brush against his skin, Thornton, his movements slow and gentle, began to pull it away from its clay barricade. "That's fine," he said. "I don't think I could stomach any more VR programming, to be honest.

That shit depresses me like no other." "Depression is caused by low serotonin levels," B-7269 explained. "If you ever experience the symptoms of depression again, you may request an immediate injection of synthesized serotonin as treatment. The effect on your mood would occur instantly. Ninety-eight percent of users report satisfaction with this service." The rose, with its accompanying mound of soil and roots, was now free of the pot in which it was previously housed.

Page 5:

Slowly, he lowered it into the hole he had made. Then, when it settled, he shoveled the soil back into any remaining open spaces. "I don't think I'll need that," he finally said. His following words were bereft of any sincerity. "Thanks, though." When he was done, Thornton threw the shovel down and stood up to admire his work.

The pedals of the rose shone like rubies as they glistened in the white sunlight of Homasoro City. This is just the beginning, Thornton thought triumphantly. "Your serotonin levels have risen substantially," said B-7269. "During the entirety of our conversation, your levels have remained steady at fifty-two nanograms per milliliter. While within normal limits, this is still unusually low. However, they have suddenly jumped to one-hundred-and-fifty-three nanograms per milliliter."

Thornton let out a dismissive chuckle. "That's what typically happens when a man sees something beautiful." When Thornton Gombar opened the front door to his home, he stumbled backward in surprise. His previously barren yard was now ornamented with a gaudy display of stone, grass, and flowers. From his front door to the street lay a stone path formed from swirly-patterned river rock that, due to the irregular pattern in which it was laid, appeared as flowing water. On either side, the ground was adorned with a sheet of grass that sparkled like an emerald.

The yard's border was lined with a diverse array of flowers, including roses, lilies, and a set of marigolds that Thornton, based on their muted tint, could tell were genetically modified to bloom year-round. Thornton quickly glanced at the front-left corner of the newly-minted garden. A great abundance of crimson roses sprouted from the ground there. Thornton's heart sank—the flower he planted just yesterday was unrecognizable amidst the throng. Floating above the whole display was the familiar figure of B-7269. It floated excitedly toward Thornton once his eyes made contact with its spider-like exterior.


[System]
Craft a Five page narrative for adults with these guidelines:
Use ideas to improve the story including dialogue, conflict and challenges, and character development.
TYPICALLY IT GOOD TO FOLLOW THIS:
Introduction
Rising Action
Midpoint
Climax
Resolution

In a well-told story, elements like the climax, resolution, and midpoint shouldn't need explicit mentioning; a discerning reader should be able to identify these moments through the narrative's progression

Use adult themes if specified.
Start uniquely, avoiding clichés.
Adult content is permitted.
Make the story captivating, possibly humorous, and thought-provoking.
Begin each segment with "Page x:" for each page.
FOUR FULL LENGTH PARAGRAPHS
Do not generate a title.
generate ALL 5 pages,
Example Response Format
  'Page 1: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 2: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 3: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 4: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 5: (4 full-length paragraphs)'

[User]
Brief Overview: Bill, a relapsed alcoholic, is trapped in a time loop on Christmas Eve, but this time is unlike any other—the arrival of aliens and a fight for survival intertwine with his struggle for redemption. (Science Fiction/Action)

Pages 1-2:
- Bill introduces himself at an anonymous meeting, claiming it's his 300th time reliving Christmas Eve due to a time loop.
- Key Events: Bill disrupts the meeting by predicting an alien invasion, uses calculated interruptions to keep the meeting on track, and directs everyone's attention to the window, validating his claims as emergency sirens blare and alien crafts appear, beginning their destructive assault.

Pages 3-4:
- The meeting attendees witness a spaceship destroy a building and begin to trust Bill's guidance.
- Key Events: Bill becomes the de facto leader, directing the support group to escape up a fire escape while avoiding alien laser fire, which results in Terry's demise. On the rooftop, Bill reveals a makeshift defense contraption involving mirrors and Christmas lights; the plan is to use this setup to detour the aliens.

Page 5:
- The final stand on the rooftop as Bill activates the contraption and the group positions mirrors against the alien craft.
- Key Events: Bill delivers a rousing speech, everyone prepares with mirrors, the Christmas lights are turned on, and just as the aliens are about to attack, the time loop resets, leaving Bill back at the beginning of the day, hinting at an endless battle for survival.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

Bill stands at the edge of a circle filled with people he has seen every day for almost a year. His hands are shaking, but he does his best to hide that. This never works when you don’t have the confidence. Confidence - who would have thought you needed confidence at an Anonymous meeting on Christmas Eve? “Hi, my name is Bill, and this—” “Hi Bill,” call the others. “Right, you think I’d remember that. Anyways, my name is Bill, and this is my three-hundredth time reliving Christmas Eve 2025.” He looks out at the assembled anonymous, blank stares as always. There are those that are half bored, those that are thinking about getting a drink afterward, and the facilitator, genuinely unsure of what to make of Bill’s assertion.

Everyone remains silent, waiting for further explanation. Bill knows he needs to pause for at least ten seconds to add gravity to his words. Less, and they won’t take him seriously, more and the facilitator will suggest they move on. Time loops offer plenty of opportunities for learning. He holds his breath, waits. This time he’s going to get it right. “Ok, so time loops, right? You probably all think I’m nuts, but we’ve seen Groundhog Day, maybe Palm Springs for the younger folks.

Anyway, I’ve been through this day for almost a year now, and every time it ends the same way.” “What a load of shit,” calls Dave, a mean drunk who smells like the aftermath of Christmas arson. Bill waits, he always waits. “Dave, what have I told you about interrupting?” asks the facilitator. “Ah screw off then.” Dave stands and tips over his chair. “If I have to listen to this bullshit, I might as well do it on the corner.” Dave weaves his way out of the room, leaning on the walls for support before stumbling out into the frigid evening air. Bill says a silent, ‘thank you.’ Getting rid of Dave is key. If Dave stays, the whole loop is a wash. He hates Dave.

“Sorry, Bill, continue, but I’d prefer if you could stick closer to fact than fiction.” There is sympathy in the facilitator’s eyes, but not a single ounce of understanding or believing. To be expected. “Right, well in about,” Bill checks his watch, “two minutes, you’re going to start hearing sirens, a lot of them. That’s how we know the aliens are here, and when that happens, we’ve got about—” “Alright, Bill, thanks for sharing. Why don’t you take a seat until you’re ready to tell us the truth.” Chastisement, check. “Yeah, alright, why don’t you call on Mary, then.” The facilitator always calls on Mary unless Bill calls him out. Then shame re-directs him to Stevie. Flustered, the facilitator shuffles paper on a clipboard, performative, but necessary.

Page 2:

“I think I’d rather hear from Stevie. It’s been a while.” And we’re on track. Stevie is an older woman dressed mostly in black and is perpetually five minutes away from putting on a tinfoil hat. With her help, they can steer back to the topic at hand. Stevie stands. “Hi, my name’s Stevie.” “Hi, Stevie,” Bill joins in with the chorus. She gives a small, embarrassed nod. “Did you say something about aliens, Bill?” Bill grins.

“So glad you asked.” “No,” says the facilitator. “Well, I did.” “But we’re not here to talk about aliens. We’re here to talk about addiction.” “It’s Christmas Eve, can we at least hear about the aliens a little bit?” asks Allen. He’s normally quiet, but after several loops running into him at a bar, Bill has learned that Allen is a science fiction writer. Allen doesn’t believe a word about aliens, but he’s certainly willing to use what he sees as Bill’s psychotic break as fuel for a new novel. Inspiration doesn’t come cheap when there’s no booze involved. Allen told Bill about fickle muses at length after a drunken evening on loop fifty-seven. “Thank you, Allen.” Bill checks his watch.

“Right, now if you’ll all follow me to the window, I believe I’ll have to do a lot less talking.” He ignores the facilitator’s sputtering protestations and makes his way to the window. He watches in the reflection as one by one, the group gets up to follow. Domino effect. So far so good. It’s crucial that everyone follows for the next stage of the plan to work. “Will everyone please sit down?” asks the facilitator. No, they won’t. “It’s Christmas, and if there’s no aliens, at least there’s pretty lights out the window.” Ten seconds.

Bill feels his heart racing, despite having seen it all a few hundred times before. A small crowd forms around the window. Outside, the sound of a siren blares as a lone cop car whizzes by at suicidal speed. Bill watches as several people jump, but he does not. Snow falls on the empty street. Most people are at home with their families. They won’t be for long. The single siren is followed first by a few ambulances and then by a chorus of other emergency vehicles, swelling to a crescendo that fills the city.

Page 3:

“If you’ll all direct your attention to the top of the Manchester building.” Bill points down the street toward a large building known for housing bankers and insurance lenders. He won’t feel too bad about what happens next. “I’ve had quite enough!” shouts the facilitator. In the same instant, the grey clouds break with glowing red flames as the leading edge of a silver spaceship slices through the top of the Manchester building like butter. Explosions of orange and blue flame illuminate the night sky and there is a collective gasp from the onlookers. Bill steps away from the window as chunks of debris rain down on the pavement. During one loop he had led them to watch from outside, but that dropped their numbers from nine to two, also known as not enough. Live and learn.

In a collective moment, the assembled addicts realize that Bill isn’t having a breakdown. Some scream, Allen faints, and Stevie turns toward Bill with rapt attention. “What do we do?” she asks, not screaming, not panicking, but knowing that there is only one person that can help her now. Yes! “Alright, everyone, I’d say stay calm, but we’ve done this a few times and that isn’t going to happen. Maybe we’d all feel better if we let out a nice scream, huh?” The group turns to look at him. “Trust me, it’ll feel better. All together now.” Bill lets out a primal scream, housing all of the frustration, pain, and futility that he has experienced in the last year.

It doesn’t get any easier watching your world get vaporized, but he has found the screaming feels good. Unsurprisingly, the others also scream. Their exhalations last longer than Bill’s, but by the time they are finished, they are worn out and ready to listen. “Ok, so we’ve got about ten minutes before things are going to get really bad.” “This isn’t really bad?” asks the facilitator. “No, Terry, this is just plain bad. Trust me, it gets worse.” “My name. You know—” “Almost a year of this, Terry, keep up. So, we’re all going to go up the fire escape on the back of the building.

We’re going to try and beat these creeps the old-fashioned way, with a little bit of holiday cheer.” “Holiday cheer?” “Terry, I need you on board, because believe it or not, most of these people look up to you.” “They do?” They did not, but Terry needed to believe they did. Bill continued speaking before anyone else could. “Alright, so we’re all game with heading up the fire escape then?” “I want to call my family,” says Susan. “Your cell phone stopped working ten minutes ago.” Susan still takes her cell phone out to check. This is only the tenth time Bill has made it this far, but so far, there is no way to stop Susan from checking. Then, when it doesn’t work, she— “IT’S NOT WORKING! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!! !” Bill pulls a whistle from his pocket and blows.

Page 4:

It’s loud and all he could afford with the five bucks in his pocket that morning. The group stands in silent attention. He checks his watch. “Running short on time, everyone. Anyone else have any unhelpful outbursts before we head to the roof and try to stop this yuletide invasion?” There wouldn’t be but asking was important. Bill waits, smiles at the lack of response, and presses on. “Ok, everyone, follow me.” Like a mother duck, Bill leads the group of shellshocked individuals to the fire escape out back. One by one, they climb.

“Keep the pace up, if we’re too slow—” A sudden blast of laser fire rips through the back alley. Scorching hot beams of green energy completely obliterate Terry who has once again failed to get up the fire escape in time. “—we lose Terry.” Bill curses. Luckily, losing Terry and the heat from the now molten pavement below is enough to drive people up to the roof with new fervor. They crest the fire escape and Bill looks out with pride at the contraption he has assembled. Seven hundred strands of Christmas lights, all arrayed in concentric circles. Lined up around the lights, there are mirrors, one for everyone, and now one extra without Terry. The sky is chaos.

Looking up for too long will stop anyone dead in their tracks. Bill allows himself a quick glance. Hundreds of saucers straight out of an old comic take the place of clouds. Green beams of laser fire arc out from beneath them turning metal into slag, buildings into rubble, and people into dust. He’s seen it from a hundred angles, but it never gets any easier to look at. Some things are just meant to make you shit your pants, and the end of the world is one of them. Bill takes a breath and blows his whistle again. There are eight people on the roof.

He really would have preferred nine, but Terry is always a little slow on the uptake. “What is all this junk?” asks Stevie. “A little holiday cheer and a lot of research.” To the untrained eye, it’s a jumble of Christmas lights and old mirrors shoplifted from around the city. To Bill, it is hope that maybe this time, things are going to be different. “Listen, I’ve talked to scientists, I’ve talked to conspiracy theorists, and everyone in between. Something about this shape, the aliens don’t like.” Loops sixty through one-hundred-and-twenty had been a crash course in iconography, the next ten were wasted with a professor of philosophy, and finally an additional fifty with the only person that made sense, the college janitor. “They don’t like Christmas lights?” “Think of it this way. You see a snake, you get the willies, right?

Page 5:

Doesn’t matter how big it is, you get that innate chill and back the hell up. Something about this shape is the equivalent of a snake to the aliens.” Bill’s watch beeps. Two-minute warning. “But I don’t have time to explain it more than that. Here’s what you’re going to do. Everyone grab a mirror, and when I blow my whistle, you’re going to point them directly overhead, alright?” People look up as he says it. Realizing his mistake, Bill blows the whistle drawing their focus. “BUT DON’T LOOK UP UNTIL I TELL YOU!” his shout echoes across the roof, his voice hoarse.

Why the hell did I decide to do karaoke on December 23rd? It’s a mistake he will spend the rest of his life living with. Every morning he wakes with a hangover, and every evening his voice is not quite as loud as he wants it to be. “We have less than two minutes, people. Pick up a mirror or get out of the way.” In what can only be described as a Christmas miracle, they all move around the circle of Christmas lights and grab a mirror. Bill moves to his spot, right next to a big red switch that will turn all the Christmas lights on. Here goes nothing. He picks up his own mirror and puts a boot on the switch.

“Well, friends, we’ve only got one shot at this.” “Are we all going to die?” “Not this time, Stevie. Not this time.” Bill kicks the switch with his foot. The lights switch on in unison and pulse between red, green, and blue, specific colors in a specific order. Research, so much research. The ground rumbles below as a laser hits a gas main. The building holds. It always holds. “Mirrors to the sky, people.” Everyone lifts their mirrors and angles them upward.

Overhead, a saucer has come low, attracted by the light, not yet realizing what it is. Bill watches as a dome on the bottom of the craft irises open, revealing the four points of its primary weapon. “Merry Christmas, mother f—” The points flash bright green. A beam shoots down from the sky almost too fast to process. The Christmas decorations melt, the ground beneath his feet buckles, and heat blasts him in a wave. Screams are swallowed by fire. Bill wakes up to blinding bright sunlight reflecting off of snow-covered roofs. His head is pounding with the fury of the previous night’s karaoke.


[System]
Craft a Five page narrative for adults with these guidelines:
Use ideas to improve the story including dialogue, conflict and challenges, and character development.
TYPICALLY IT GOOD TO FOLLOW THIS:
Introduction
Rising Action
Midpoint
Climax
Resolution

In a well-told story, elements like the climax, resolution, and midpoint shouldn't need explicit mentioning; a discerning reader should be able to identify these moments through the narrative's progression

Use adult themes if specified.
Start uniquely, avoiding clichés.
Adult content is permitted.
Make the story captivating, possibly humorous, and thought-provoking.
Begin each segment with "Page x:" for each page.
FOUR FULL LENGTH PARAGRAPHS
Do not generate a title.
generate ALL 5 pages,
Example Response Format
  'Page 1: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 2: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 3: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 4: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 5: (4 full-length paragraphs)'

[User]
Brief Overview: A coming-of-age story about a girl navigating her challenging family dynamics, evolving self-identity, and a dark, transformative experience in her teenage years.

Pages 1-2:
- A four-year-old girl injures her head by a pool, leading to an emotionally distant interaction with her mother.
- Her father's frequent business trips cause familial tension, while his gifts and promises create a strong bond with his daughter.
- As the years pass, the father's decision not to have his daughter live with him strains their relationship.
- The girl's deep-seated need for her father's approval and the mother's critical attitude towards her define the complex familial situation.

Pages 3-4:
- The protagonist's relationship with her mother worsens, and she spends more time with friends and her boyfriend.
- She experiences the joys of young love and plans a romantic evening with her boyfriend, culminating in a trip to the local pool.
- The evening takes an unexpected turn as her boyfriend pressures her into intimacy, revealing the inequity in their relationship.
- A vivid portrayal of the protagonist's consent being overridden and her autonomy compromised, resulting in trauma.

Page 5:
- The aftermath of the pool incident brings cruel treatment by her boyfriend and a profound sense of violation.
- The girl's coping mechanism leads her to deny her victimhood, causing further isolation from her friends.
- Her relationship with her boyfriend changes, with the girl's trauma being dismissed and manipulated into a false mutual agreement.
- The story ends with the protagonist unaware of the eventual disintegration of her friendships and her clinging to a toxic relationship.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

When I was four years old, my sister and I were messing around at the pool. I slipped and hit my head on the concrete. It split open in the back. I remember the lifeguard gave me a squishy ball to squeeze. I remember she said I could keep it. I remember my dad scooped me up in his arms. It doesn’t make sense that it happened this way, but I remember he carried me all the way to the emergency room.

I remember the pressure of my face pressing into a pillow as the doctor stapled my head back together. I don’t remember the pain at all. I remember when I fell, I heard my mom cry out. I remember I was worried she would be angry with me. She was angry often. The next morning, she got my sister and I ready in our swimsuits and sunscreen in our double bed hotel room using the faint light of the cracked curtain. I remember she let my sister sit on the bed where my dad was sleeping and watch whatever cartoon she wanted, even though we didn’t normally get to watch TV.

Then she took me to the souvenir shop by the hotel to pick out a floaty, like a baby, which was not fair because I was not a baby (and she should have been done with buying baby floaties) but was also unavoidable because the doctor had said I was not to wet my stapled head for a week, and what else was she supposed to do with two kids on vacation in the heat of pool season. She held my hand, but her grip was too tight. I felt like a prisoner on a mandatory excursion. I remember the floaty cost way too much money. When I was five years old, my dad told me he would bring me back whatever I wanted from his three-week trip to Germany. “A puppy,” I answered immediately, and my dad had laughed and told me that I knew my mother would never allow that, and he was right, but he promised me to find a very special stuffed puppy as a compromise. I thought about it for the next two weeks.

“I can’t do this anymore,” my mom had said the day before, and I knew she was frustrated, and I knew it was my fault. My dad traveled a lot for work, at least every Monday through Friday, and I used to crawl in their bed and cry every Monday morning when I realized he had once again left for his flight while I slept. My mom was used to this, and she knew, as my mother, she was obliged to comfort me, but the resurgence of my dramatics on that Friday evening when I realized he would not be returning for the weekend had been more than what she had signed up for. She hugged me but her arms were stiff. She gradually lost her composure until her face was contorting, and her nose was turning up like she smelled something awful before she finally called my father that evening with the proclamation that she was throwing in the towel. Thus, the next day, I skipped as I returned the landline to her with the good news that Daddy would be bringing me home the most wonderful stuffed puppy, and it would be yellow, like my favorite color. I remember she smiled as she took the phone and she said that’s just what a Disney dad would do.

Page 2:

That sounded like a good thing, but it didn’t feel like a good thing because I remember her smile didn’t reach her eyes. I pretended to busy myself with a toy and when she thought I was suitably distracted I remember her whisper yelling into the receiver about me becoming spoiled. When my dad came home, as promised, he presented me with a stuffed yellow lab with big brown eyes and fur as soft as the lamb’s ear in our garden. I hugged it tightly, overwhelmed with joy, and I remember the way my dad beamed at me. He told me that he had been shopping in the evenings after work with his coworker, searching high and low for my prize, and that she had grabbed it off the shelf, proclaiming its perfection and hugging it tightly just like I did on the night they finally found it. I remember now how my mom pursed her lips tightly and left the room. When I was twelve, my dad left our home for good.

I remember my chest felt so tight I took ibuprofen. He called me a few weeks later, and he explained everything. He didn’t leave me; he left my mother. She was hard to live with. I said I understood. He told me the judge had said he got to have me and my sister for two whole weeks straight during the summer and we could go anywhere we wanted. Then he asked me why my sister wouldn’t call him back and I said I didn’t know.

I remember I was worried I had disappointed him with this answer, but he told me that it was okay. He knew that of all people, I would be the one to be on his side because our bond was special. I was just like him. That was my favorite compliment. When I was fourteen, though, I called my dad in tears to tell him how my favorite compliment had been welded into my mom’s weapon of choice. I told him how she spat out the words like they were venom in her mouth. I was just like my father.

I asked him if I could stay with him because she had told me that I was old enough to make my own choice. It had been an easy decision for me. But I remember how he shifted uncomfortably on the phone, the way his words came out like the service was poor. “I don’t know about that,” he had said. He needed to think. I could hear his new wife speaking in the background and I couldn’t hear what it was that she said but I remember his “I don’t know” turned into, “No, I don’t think that’s possible.” He told me he loved me while my tears were still flowing, and I remember they felt hot against my cheeks when he hung up. I’m sixteen now, and I stopped calling him first, so we don’t talk much.

Page 3:

My dad complains in emails to my mother that she has poisoned me against him. But she and I aren’t colluding by any means- the last thing the two of us can do is get along- and I spend as much time away from home as possible. Not in like a depressing way, I mean. I have fun. I have my own friends now who feel like family and a boyfriend they’re all jealous of. I wear his letter jacket to class, and he drives me home after school. He's a senior, and he has his own car.

I look out his passenger window at the underclassmen as they walk home. We pull up to the stoplight next to two freshman girls waiting for the crosswalk. He doesn’t even notice them, but he leans over to me, puts his hand on my chin, and draws my face to his for a kiss. My stomach flutters with the thrill of knowing those girls are looking directly at their hopes for the future. I know everyone hopes to be loved like this, to be so irresistible to someone that they can’t pass up any opportunity to touch them. He comes home with me, and he knows my mom can be loud and angry, but I’m not worried about it, and he isn’t fazed. Ever since he got his license, we’ve been able to whisper many secrets in dark parking lots after gatherings with our friends.

I know that no matter what it may look like on the outside, his family isn’t perfect either. He gets me. I always return home floating, impervious to my mom’s snide remarks about the late hour and how it relates to my promiscuity. I’m not scared of her anymore. In a year he’ll be off to college and in another I'll join him. He's going to call me every day and I'll get to visit all the cool college parties. When it's time for me to move we'll find a place out there together and I will never have to feel alone again.

Tonight, I tell my mom I’m going over to my best friend’s house, and she believes me. She makes sure to make plans with her friend from her church group because she doesn't like to be alone. But instead, I make fettucine alfredo for my boyfriend, and we eat it off the fancy dishes at the kitchen table. It’s our ten-month anniversary. He tells me it’s the best meal he’s ever had. After dinner, I suggest we go to my neighborhood swimming pool, and I instantly regret it. I’m probably so bloated after all those carbs.

Page 4:

He doesn’t care though, and he exclaims how incredible I look in my swimsuit as soon as I take off my t-shirt to get in the water. I’m blushing, but I love it. It’s the end of August, so the pool is still open since it’s technically still summer, but school has just started so nobody even thinks of coming here anymore. And it’s 9pm, so it’s almost dark and technically closed, except no one ever actually locks the gates. It's just the two of us in the world. It’s perfect. We swim together, giddy with laughter.

We race, play contests to see who can hold our breath the longest, and when I gasp to the surface for air, he grasps me in his arms and takes my breath away again, kissing me deeply, his hands reaching up underneath my top. I’m surprised, and I push him back. I’m not quite ready for that, I tell him. He pauses. Frowns. Then he grips my waist to lift me up onto the side of the pool. I sit there while he positions himself out of the water to sit beside me.

We talk for a minute. We’ve been dating for a while. He understood I was distracted during the school year, but the past few months, we’ve spent every day together. I’ve been teasing this all summer, he points out. Now that school has started up again, he can’t guarantee he won’t drift away from me. What I hear is that we spent every day together, but it wasn’t what I thought. It was a transaction.

He’s reached his hand forward, and now it’s holding the left side of my head. He takes my silence as a yes, but I feel sick inside. He kisses me, again and again. He keeps going. “Please stop,” I hear myself say. “Just relax,” he whispers. He’s still being gentle.

Page 5:

I tell him I don’t want to. He doesn’t stop. I’m begging, and he keeps going. The tears start to fall. I think, then, that he will understand that I mean it, but when he sees, his eyes turn black. He isn’t gentle anymore. I try to get up, but he pushes me down, hard.

I try to cry out, but his hand grips my throat. The ground feels rough against my face. Afterwards, I’m still crying, and he regards my tears with disgust. He tells me to stop putting on a show. He sits there uncomfortably for a minute, until I can stop sobbing. I'm still laying there. He moves my hair out of my eyes, stroking it softly.

He assures me he was careful, and that he’s glad we solidified our connection. That he loves me. He insists on mutual promises that we don’t tell anyone. Then he gets up to go use the men’s restroom. On Monday, though, he will tell all the boys in our friend group that we did it. At lunchtime, my best friend will come up to me and ask if it’s true. And I’ll hear myself laugh and answer flirtatiously that maybe we did do it, because I’m not a victim.

We’ll drift apart. She’ll tell our other girlfriends she feels like she’s the last one to know my secrets these days. I won’t notice for a while, because I’ll still have him. And once I do, I'll blame her for not asking more questions. For not knowing me better to see through my facade. And I'll confirm my own greatest fears, that without him, I would be utterly and terribly alone. But right now, I don’t know any of that yet.


[System]
Craft a Five page narrative for adults with these guidelines:
Use ideas to improve the story including dialogue, conflict and challenges, and character development.
TYPICALLY IT GOOD TO FOLLOW THIS:
Introduction
Rising Action
Midpoint
Climax
Resolution

In a well-told story, elements like the climax, resolution, and midpoint shouldn't need explicit mentioning; a discerning reader should be able to identify these moments through the narrative's progression

Use adult themes if specified.
Start uniquely, avoiding clichés.
Adult content is permitted.
Make the story captivating, possibly humorous, and thought-provoking.
Begin each segment with "Page x:" for each page.
FOUR FULL LENGTH PARAGRAPHS
Do not generate a title.
generate ALL 5 pages,
Example Response Format
  'Page 1: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 2: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 3: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 4: (4 full-length paragraphs)
  Page 5: (4 full-length paragraphs)'

[User]
Brief Overview: A jaded psychic in a mundane world encounters a client whose destiny is genuinely preordained, leading to an unsettling revelation about the nature of fate and choice. [Story Type: Supernatural Drama]

Pages 1-2:
- The psychic narrates their experience with various clients, revealing their cynicism about destinies and the ordinariness of people's lives.
- Individuals visit the psychic to have their futures predicted, seeking relief from their anxieties.
- The psychic gives reassurance for $25 a session, basing his readings on present circumstances and past experiences.
- Customer 12 arrives unexpectedly, a plain man without any identifying features, paying in cash and showing no interest in the pageantry of the psychic's divination chamber.

Pages 3-4:
- Despite his typical process, the psychic fails to glean any personal details or worries from Customer 12 that could be used to fabricate a reading.
- Struggling to provide a reading, the psychic touches the customer's palm and unexpectedly senses an overwhelming frustration.
- The frustration feels invasive and painful, compelling the psychic to grip the customer's hand tightly, causing injury.

Page 5:
- The psychic recognizes that while most people have choices, Customer 12 has a true destiny devoid of choice.
- Customer 12's path is locked, every action and emotion is predetermined, raising existential questions about the nature of self and authenticity.
- The psychic contemplates the grim consequences of a life without free will and empathizes with Customer 12's inescapable fate as the session comes to an uneasy end.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

Normal people don’t have destinies. Of course, I Of course, I never tell them that. When they come into my shop, I take their palms solemnly—after I take their payment, $25 cash or card—and stare into the blankness of their futures with undue reverence. Day after day, year after year, they come: the businessmen and the soccer moms, the mailroom clerks, dentists, and hairstylists of the world. The politicians and the theologians, too. The young and the old, the hopeful and the hopeless, the sceptics and the true believers. They all come and its always the same.

“Can you tell me my future?” They ask me. “Maybe,” I reply with a smile. No one likes a cocky psychic. “Let me see your hand.” I pull them by the wrist and squint. “Ah,” I say, as I hum and haw over their meaningless folds, creases in skin that are nothing more than creases, places for sweat and dirt to collect. “Ah.” I usually do this a couple of times for dramatic effect. For $25, nobody wants instant gratification.

While customers squirm in front of me, I read the only legible parts of them, which are their presents and their pasts. “Your heartline tells me that you are restless,” I impart to the man with the imprint of a wedding ring on his finger. “You have struggled to find romantic fulfilment in your partner, and you worry that you will never be satisfied.” To the woman whose cell phone is always ringing in her bag, I say: “Look here. Your lifeline is weak. This means that you lack independence and are yearning for autonomy. Your life is not your own right now, and you’re worried that you’ll never get it back.” People are always worried about something. They come to me because they want me to voice their fears, to render them legitimate by saying them out loud.

They want me to voice their fears and then they want me to predict their resolutions. “These are turbulent times, but they are temporary.” “Your fortunes will shortly turn.” “Your suffering is almost over.” They want me to give them hope and, for $25, I’m happy to oblige. Normal people don’t have destinies because they have choices. They are presented with an infinite number of decisions, which unfurl an infinite number of paths. Paths that run through time like the roots of a tree that won’t stop growing. Paths with millions of interconnecting nodes and nodules. Paths that can take them anywhere.

Page 2:

For most, there is no grand design nor divine intervention fuelling their trajectory; there is only the physics of life. Objects in motion tend to stay in motion. In the same way, people tend to keep on living, making choices, designing their own futures. Normal people don’t have destinies and that is a blessing, because it means that nothing is impossible. Anything—literally anything—can happen. That’s why my “fortunes” sometimes come true. Customers return to me certain that I had predicted their future when, in reality, they just happened to make the right itinerary of choices to lead them to where I'd said they’d go.

It goes without saying that that’s good news for me, because it means that they will come back again and pay another $25 for another educated guess. Normal people don’t have destinies. But you, Customer 12, are different. You come in just as Customer 11 of the day is leaving. I know that you don’t have an appointment, so I don’t bother to ask (I may have been blessed with the gift of sight, but I don't need to use it because I also have a watch. A glance at its face tells me that it is almost one o'clock, and I never book anyone in before my lunch break). Instead, I settle for: “how can I help you?” I try not to sound annoyed as I think of the burrito waiting in the microwave under my desk.

You ask for a palm reading. “That’ll be $25,” I tell you. “Cash or card?” While you fumble for your wallet, I take a moment to examine you. I try to complete a standardised checklist for you in my mind. A believable fortune is based on information, so I gather all that I can find. You are male. You might be thirty or forty, but you could be older with a youthful face.

Your clothes are similarly nondescript: white t-shirt, black trousers, black tennis shoes. You aren’t wearing any jewellery and you don’t have any visible scars or tattoos, either. Okay, Customer 12, I think to myself, You aren’t going to make this easy for me, are you? You are completely and utterly unremarkable. That, in itself, should have been a sign. You pay in cash, which means that I can’t catch a glimpse of the name on your credit card, and then you follow me through the door to the divination chamber. Usually, customers ooh and ahh over the décor in here—swathes of dark velvet and damask wallpaper, curtains, beads, crystals, and curios of all kinds—but you don’t seem particularly impressed.

Page 3:

I wonder if you can see the divination chamber for what it really is: a storage room at the back end of a strip mall storefront, as opposed to a retreat into the exotic arms of fate. But if you are sceptical of my powers, you do not say so, so I launch into the script: “Take a seat,” I rasp. Everyone seems to think that a psychic ought to have a husky voice, so I always drop mine an octave or two to give the people what they want. You sit across from me at the table and stretch out your palm before I ask for it. New customers are usually a little nervous, tentative in the face of astrological wisdom, but not you. You seem like you know what you’re doing. When I take your hand in mine, your skin feels dry and cool.

“This isn’t your first reading,” I announce, trying to earn some premonition brownie points with you. The sooner I can convince you of my psychic aptitudes, the better. You rebuff me with a twitch of your lips. “Yes, it is,” you say. I can already tell that you will be difficult to deceive, and I wish that you would just play along. Normal people usually want to believe. I take your nonchalance as proof that you are lying.

Fine, be that way. It’s your $25 you’re wasting. I try to redirect: “What do you hope to learn today? Is there anything specific that you seek to find?” “No, not really.” Oh, come on. You’re making me dig. I widen my eyes in an attempt to look sincere. “Nothing at all?

There are no pressing questions in your life that need resolution? No uncertainties blocking your path? Your palm will be easier to read if I know what I’m looking for. Futures are never straightforward, you know. They are murky, even for those of us who can see them.” Give me something, I beg you silently, anything. You pass me a smile, but it almost looks sad, somehow. For a second, I’m hopeful.

Page 4:

Sometimes, people need to be prodded a little before they open up. Are you divorcing? Filing for bankruptcy? Battling a scary diagnosis? I hold my breath in anticipation, but you leave me disappointed. “I don’t think you’ll have too much trouble with mine,” you assure me. Another dead end.

Great. I try not to roll my eyes at you. “Okay, I’ll do my best.” Normal people don’t have destinies, they have emotions. Waves of them, oceans, currents, cacophonies—that’s what we psychics try to read. So, when I reach for your open palm, I prepare myself for a familiar drenching. I prime myself to be submerged in everything that you have felt, are feeling, or could ever feel. That is the closest thing to a destiny that I have ever experienced: a thrashing of cogent and tangent potential energies.

I hold my breath and wait for it. But when I touch you, I feel only one thing. Frustration. It starts in the pit of my stomach and builds. Builds until I want to scream, until I’m trembling, until every shred of me seems to become it. It’s an infection, this frustration, bacterial, viral, feral. It moves into my body, and it takes up residence there.

It wraps around my insides like a snake waiting to feed. It hurts. I gasp before I can stop myself, but you don’t flinch. You don’t even seem surprised. You try to pull your hand away, but I can’t let go. In that moment, holding onto you becomes the only thing stopping me from ripping my hair out, from gnashing my teeth until they break. Holding onto you becomes the only thing keeping me from slamming my face into the table, from trying to prize open my skull to release the pressure by allowing some of this noxious frustration to escape.

Page 5:

If I let go of you, I am afraid that I will let go of myself, too, so I burrow my nails deeper and deeper into your wrist until you bleed. Normal people don’t have destinies because they have choices. Normal people don’t have destinies and that is a blessing, because destiny is tyranny reified and deified. It’s powerlessness and anguish. It’s the violent eradication of choice. Normal people don’t have destinies, Customer 12, but you do. You have never had any possibilities, only certainties, and you have bounced against the confines of the pre-set track you’re on until you have bruised black and blue with desire.

Every time you move, you meet resistance, and it has pressed down on you until you are exhausted. It has strangled you—it is strangling you, it will strangle you—into submission. Everything that you’ve ever done, you have been meant to do. And the worst part is, you know it. You are meant to be here now, and you know it. You are meant to bleed, and you know it. After this, you will leave, and you know that wherever you go next will be the place that you are meant to be.

And as you tumble from right place to right place, you will eventually find yourself asking: if everything in your life is predetermined, is anything about you really you? Is any joy that you feel organic? Is any emotion, or whim, or fleeting thought spontaneous? Or has it all been pre-decided for you by some unseeable, unfathomable force? Normal people don’t have destinies, but you do, so you’ll never get to know where you end and where fate begins. You’ll never know if you love your wife because you love her, or because you are meant to love her. And you do love her, so one day you will start to worry that you are robbing her of a more genuine form of love that she deserves to inspire in someone who could choose not to love her back.

And when this question finally consumes you to the point that you can't even stand to touch her, you will wonder if you destroyed your marriage or if this, too, was the brutal hands of destiny at work. One day, you will contemplate ending it all, but you will know that killing yourself will not be escape, or solace, or rebellion. If you do it, you will know that dying was fated and if you do not, you’ll know that living was fated. So, you won’t bother. Instead, you will wake up every day and you will do whatever it is that you are meant to do. You will go on and on and on. You will go on, and you will doubt.