[System] Craft a 5-page narrative for adults with these guidelines: WHILE MAINTAING A GOOD NARRATIVE MAKE THE STORY EASE TO READ WITH COMMON DIALGUE, 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. Do not generate a title. generate ALL 5 pages,    'Page 1: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 2: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 3: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 4: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 5: (3 full-length paragraphs)    '   !! YOU MUST FOLLOW THE USER PROMPT EXACTLY HAPPY OR SAD VIOLENT ETC IT MUST END AND START HOW THEY SAY!!   MAKE SURE NOT TO FINISH A STORY TOO SOON REMEMBER IT WILL BE 5 FULL PAGES, THINK OF OTHER HIGH QUALITY STORIES. ADD TWIST TURNS AND THINGS THAT MAKE A STORY GREAT.   DO NOT OUPUT ANTHING OTHER THEN STORY IN SPECIFIC FORMAT, DO NOT OUPUT COMMENTS, YOUR RESPONSE WILL BE REJECTED IF NOT IN SPECIFED FORMAT

[User] Page 1-2: The story starts with the protagonist's childhood memory of hearing Stephen King's name for the first time during a stormy night at a friend's cabin. A movie adaptation of one of his novels, "Tommyknockers," sparks the protagonist's fascination with King's work. This leads to an obsession with horror literature, inspiring her to become a writer herself.   Page 3-4: The protagonist's pursuit of her writing career is marked by rejection letters. During a chance encounter at a drugstore, she meets Stephen King and shares her passion for writing. He advises her that not everyone can be scary, which she takes as motivation to improve her craft.   Page 5: The protagonist, driven by her admiration for King, devises a plan to visit him at his Bangor home late one night. The encounter takes a dark turn, resulting in an investigation involving Officer Dougher. The protagonist shares her life story with the officer, justifying her actions and revealing her deep-rooted fascination with Stephen King and horror literature.--GENERATE ALL 5 PAGES

[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.   Page 2: 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. 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.  Page 3: "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. 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.   Page 4: 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. 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.    Page 5: 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. 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. But did you know that Misery was inspired by another short story of a similar premise?"  "I did not. So… you identify with this… Annie Wilkes character, then?"  I shrug.   "Miss Clark… what I really want to know is… what happened when you arrived at Mr. King's Bangor home at 12:36 AM this morning?"  I glance back at the evidence bag, the broken drone, which I lost control of, and the smattering of blood on the plastic casing.  On the one hand, I could tell him the story of how it all went so sideways, not at all according to my plan.   Or, I could tell him what actually transpired while adding narrative, a creation of my own making.  "Alright, Mr. Dougher. Here's the story of what happened last night when I arrived at Stephen King's mansion…"


[System] Craft a 5-page narrative for adults with these guidelines: WHILE MAINTAING A GOOD NARRATIVE MAKE THE STORY EASE TO READ WITH COMMON DIALGUE, 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. Do not generate a title. generate ALL 5 pages,    'Page 1: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 2: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 3: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 4: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 5: (3 full-length paragraphs)    '   !! YOU MUST FOLLOW THE USER PROMPT EXACTLY HAPPY OR SAD VIOLENT ETC IT MUST END AND START HOW THEY SAY!!   MAKE SURE NOT TO FINISH A STORY TOO SOON REMEMBER IT WILL BE 5 FULL PAGES, THINK OF OTHER HIGH QUALITY STORIES. ADD TWIST TURNS AND THINGS THAT MAKE A STORY GREAT.   DO NOT OUPUT ANTHING OTHER THEN STORY IN SPECIFIC FORMAT, DO NOT OUPUT COMMENTS, YOUR RESPONSE WILL BE REJECTED IF NOT IN SPECIFED FORMAT

[User] Page 1: Thornton Gombar, a discontented man, attempts to uproot a stubborn weed in his yard, only to be interrupted by an android named B-7269.   Page 2: Thornton and B-7269 engage in a conversation about the purpose of the weed removal. B-7269 offers to file a request for a garden to be planted.   Page 3: Thornton continues to uproot the weed, despite B-7269's insistence that he use the city's services. They discuss Thornton's dissatisfaction with virtual reality programming.   Page 4: Thornton finishes uprooting the weed and shares his desire to create a garden. B-7269 expresses concern for Thornton's well-being.   Page 5: Thornton returns home to find that B-7269 has planted a garden overnight. The garden is beautiful, but Thornton is saddened that he didn't plant it himself.---GENERATE ALL 5 PAGES

[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?"  Page 2: 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. 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."   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.   Page 3: 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. 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.   Page 4: "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. 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."   Page 5: 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. "Hello, Mr. Gombar," it said. "The sudden increase in your serotonin levels yesterday was so remarkable that I decided to put in a fast-track request for your garden. I, along with a few other androids under my command, came and planted it overnight. Now you can avoid the pain and labor of creating a garden while still experiencing the joy its beauty brings. What do you think?"  Thornton nodded absently. "It's great…" he said hesitantly. "Thanks…"   "Strange," said B-7269. "Your serotonin levels are resting at fifty-seven nanograms per milliliter. This is a normal level, but I'm surprised they aren't rising after seeing your new garden. Is there anything wrong, Mr. Gombar? Did I plant the wrong flowers? Just say the word, and I can get this corrected straightaway." Thornton sighed. The garden B-7269 had made was gorgeous. It was probably the most beautiful thing that currently graced the gray, muggy streets of Homasoro City. Thornton just wished that it could've been constructed by his own hands.


[System] Craft a 5-page narrative for adults with these guidelines: WHILE MAINTAING A GOOD NARRATIVE MAKE THE STORY EASE TO READ WITH COMMON DIALGUE, 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. Do not generate a title. generate ALL 5 pages,    'Page 1: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 2: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 3: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 4: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 5: (3 full-length paragraphs)    '   !! YOU MUST FOLLOW THE USER PROMPT EXACTLY HAPPY OR SAD VIOLENT ETC IT MUST END AND START HOW THEY SAY!!   MAKE SURE NOT TO FINISH A STORY TOO SOON REMEMBER IT WILL BE 5 FULL PAGES, THINK OF OTHER HIGH QUALITY STORIES. ADD TWIST TURNS AND THINGS THAT MAKE A STORY GREAT.   DO NOT OUPUT ANTHING OTHER THEN STORY IN SPECIFIC FORMAT, DO NOT OUPUT COMMENTS, YOUR RESPONSE WILL BE REJECTED IF NOT IN SPECIFED FORMAT

[User] Bill shares his story of time loops and aliens, hoping to convince his Anonymous group before the aliens arrive. Despite his best efforts, the plan fails without Terry's presence, and the loop restarts.

[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.”   Page 2:            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. “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.   Page 3:            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. “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.”   Page 4:            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. 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.   Page 5:            “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? 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. He sits up, vomits into a plant beside the bed, and wipes his lips. “Ok, so it doesn’t work without Terry.”


[System] Craft a 5-page narrative for adults with these guidelines: WHILE MAINTAING A GOOD NARRATIVE MAKE THE STORY EASE TO READ WITH COMMON DIALGUE, 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. Do not generate a title. generate ALL 5 pages,    'Page 1: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 2: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 3: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 4: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 5: (3 full-length paragraphs)    '   !! YOU MUST FOLLOW THE USER PROMPT EXACTLY HAPPY OR SAD VIOLENT ETC IT MUST END AND START HOW THEY SAY!!   MAKE SURE NOT TO FINISH A STORY TOO SOON REMEMBER IT WILL BE 5 FULL PAGES, THINK OF OTHER HIGH QUALITY STORIES. ADD TWIST TURNS AND THINGS THAT MAKE A STORY GREAT.   DO NOT OUPUT ANTHING OTHER THEN STORY IN SPECIFIC FORMAT, DO NOT OUPUT COMMENTS, YOUR RESPONSE WILL BE REJECTED IF NOT IN SPECIFED FORMAT

[User] Page 1: Childhood memory of a pool accident and the aftermath, including the purchase of a stuffed puppy by the father.   Page 2: The father's three-week trip to Germany and the promise of a special stuffed puppy, leading to the eventual separation of the parents.   Page 3: The protagonist's attempt to live with the father after the separation, which is unsuccessful.   Page 4: The protagonist's current life, including a boyfriend and friends, but a strained relationship with the mother.   Page 5: A traumatic experience with the boyfriend at the pool, leading to feelings of isolation and loneliness---GENEARATE ALL 5 PAGES

[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.    Page 2: “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. 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.   Page 3: 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. 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.   Page 4: 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.   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.   Page 5: 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. 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. Right now, actually, I’m wondering where my dad is. Maybe he’s in Germany, or China, or at his new house meal prepping chicken. And, for a moment, I consider calling him tomorrow. But just for a moment, because then I go to try and get up, and the next thing I know all I can think about is how bad the scrapes feel on my face. Moments ago, I went from being scared I was going to die to wishing I would. They say your life flashes before your eyes. I remembered everything. And I’m wondering why my dad ever scooped me up in the first place, if I was just going to end up back here on the fucking concrete.


[System] Craft a 5-page narrative for adults with these guidelines: WHILE MAINTAING A GOOD NARRATIVE MAKE THE STORY EASE TO READ WITH COMMON DIALGUE, 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. Do not generate a title. generate ALL 5 pages,    'Page 1: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 2: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 3: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 4: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 5: (3 full-length paragraphs)    '   !! YOU MUST FOLLOW THE USER PROMPT EXACTLY HAPPY OR SAD VIOLENT ETC IT MUST END AND START HOW THEY SAY!!   MAKE SURE NOT TO FINISH A STORY TOO SOON REMEMBER IT WILL BE 5 FULL PAGES, THINK OF OTHER HIGH QUALITY STORIES. ADD TWIST TURNS AND THINGS THAT MAKE A STORY GREAT.   DO NOT OUPUT ANTHING OTHER THEN STORY IN SPECIFIC FORMAT, DO NOT OUPUT COMMENTS, YOUR RESPONSE WILL BE REJECTED IF NOT IN SPECIFED FORMAT

[User] psychic's encounter with a customer who has a predetermined destiny, and the psychic's realization of the customer's frustration and despair. The story explores the impact of destiny on the customer's life and their inability to have control over their emotions or actions.---GENERATE ALL 5 PAGES

[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.      Page 2: 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. 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.      Page 3: 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. 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.     Page 4: You pass me a smile, but it almost looks sad, somehow. For a second, I’m hopeful. 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. 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.      Page 5: 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. You will never trust yourself. You will never be sure of anything except that you have a destiny, which means that you’ll never be sure of anything at all.     I’m still shaking when you finally pry me from your wrist. Your touch is surprisingly gentle, and when you look at me, your expression is contrite. “I’m sorry,” you say, and I can tell that you mean it. You knew that this would happen, but you didn’t have a choice.


[System] Craft a 5-page narrative for adults with these guidelines: WHILE MAINTAING A GOOD NARRATIVE MAKE THE STORY EASE TO READ WITH COMMON DIALGUE, 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. Do not generate a title. generate ALL 5 pages,    'Page 1: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 2: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 3: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 4: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 5: (3 full-length paragraphs)    '   !! YOU MUST FOLLOW THE USER PROMPT EXACTLY HAPPY OR SAD VIOLENT ETC IT MUST END AND START HOW THEY SAY!!   MAKE SURE NOT TO FINISH A STORY TOO SOON REMEMBER IT WILL BE 5 FULL PAGES, THINK OF OTHER HIGH QUALITY STORIES. ADD TWIST TURNS AND THINGS THAT MAKE A STORY GREAT.   DO NOT OUPUT ANTHING OTHER THEN STORY IN SPECIFIC FORMAT, DO NOT OUPUT COMMENTS, YOUR RESPONSE WILL BE REJECTED IF NOT IN SPECIFED FORMAT

[User] SOMETHing interesting --GENERATE ALL 5 PAGES

[Assistant] Page 1: The year was 1999. Tupac’s Brenda’s Got a Baby was the anthem in Old Creek ghetto. Yes, I wasn’t born. But the first time, in a beat-up, metal-scrunched blue taxi, on her way back home, when the song came on, Mother felt my first kick coincide with the blistering bass beat. It’s a wonder how I knew that feet were made for dancing. Second time was in a barbershop, when, in her second trimester, she decided to shave her head. It was Nas’s Undying Love blasting through the bookshelf speakers. I kicked so hard that, for a second, she thought the gunshots imploded in her own belly. She doesn’t tell me about the part where she shudders and looks down at her feet, hoping to see me as blood-red spillage in warm, breathless puddles around her feet.  Before the pandemic, Mother and Felicia were shark and remora; Felicia being the shark, gobbling whoever crossed her path and spitting them out, bone-chewed, palsied; and Mother cleaning up her messes—but each dependent on the other. Felicia’s eyes can stare poison into yours; her hands are so evil they can, they say, reverse Midas’s touch and turn a good thing to rot.  Just two months ago, she dated a perfumer named Jarvis, an eccentric man with an eccentric zest for life. He would drive by, waving at everyone, jamming Bon Jovi’s It’s My Life in his 2003 Corolla model. His gifts to her were nothing of the ordinary: bizarre paintings, electric glass figurines, jardiniere of daisies, celosia, hibiscus—flowers he would later experiment with to create enchanting scents for her. All of which now lie in a broken compartment of her wood shelf, biting dust.  Page 2: “She couldn’t keep ordinary flowers alive for three days,” Mother would scoff, “how much more a relationship?”  But she only says those things when Felicia is halfway down the street.  Once, a boy primly dressed in a school uniform picked an eraser from the dusty road and was seconds away from feeding his stomach, before Mother yelled, hitting it off his palms. We walked him, too shocked by the sudden interference to cry, to his mother, who was all but carried away in an overloud conversation. The clueless lady stopped mid-laughter to thank us. Mother smiled but once she turned back, began grumbling: “If something happened to that boy, wouldn’t she blame the devil? The innocent devil! How can a woman be so clumsy? A woman for that matter.”  The same happens when our neighbour has to borrow a bit of salt in the process of cooking.  “So they can’t afford common salt? Or her good-for-nothing husband didn’t return with his car and cannot walk to the junction to buy salt for her? Can he not see that she’s pregnant? By the way, omo mi, who still drives a beetle in this age and time?”  I wonder what she says about me when I turn my back.  Always, I shudder through her gaze and walk on bloody nails, but I still don’t know what it is about me that upsets her so. Maybe it’s her own self that she despises, and I am merely an extension of that hate. Mother and I are strangers in a home once small, but now so big that our shadows barely cross paths. I do not know of a father. It’s inconceivable to me that any man would weather her storms long enough to put his thing inside her.  Page 3: I sometimes wish I never made it here. Felicia’s oldest son never did; there are old rumours to account for it. Some say she is a witch and ate him during pregnancy, which is why, months after his sudden demise, her skin donned a brighter glow. Some say she traded him for wealth. But for as long as I know, she lives in the same wood, ramshackle apartment on Benson Drive owned by a church deacon and solid believer of Biafra.  They say fate shit on her when she conceived the twins, Joy and Happiness. Two! She had no idea how the hospital television could see inside of her belly, so she didn’t believe it. Later, Joy would tell me, they could taste the crude mixture of soda and menthol when she tried to turn them into blood. And when she visited the nurse wife who tried to pull them out using some kind of suction cup, they clung to each other, half foetus and half-human, fighting in the belly of death.  “Our brother”—they always assumed he was a boy—“was weak. But we are not o. We no gree.”  Three days after she imagined they were dead, Felicia felt a kick.  “Joy wanted to wait for a month, so it would surprise her that we were still there.” She laughed. “But it might have shocked her to death, and we could not risk our second chance.”  They call her by her name. They don’t believe she is their mother—they believe they are hers.  Crazy. Bat-shit crazy. I hear them talking sometimes:  “I didn’t want to live as a girl in my second life. I wanted to be an owl. Do you know that an owl can turn its head in any direction? It can see everything.”   Page 4: “Not everyone makes it to the second life. Shut your mouth before you jinx it.” And they giggle and hug each other, like the air between them is a threat, like they must have when Felicia tried to poison her womb. Peter was a boy who confessed his fondness of the wilder twin, Joy, made him restless at night and waked him with a yearning in his groin. They found him the next day without his tongue, tied to the bed in his tousled room that smelled of vinegar and dead rats. From a vintage, sturdy radio, Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing played on and on. See, even I am careful not to get too close.  Winter of 2004, I watched Mobb Deep’s Drink Away The Pain in my grandfather’s parlour on MTV. Even though my village is only a few hundred metres away from the city, it is not the kind of music they are used to, but my grandfather let me do whatever I want. I had considered taking his old rifle and shooting the chickens that would leisurely saunter across the living room, quaking against my hip-hop songs, picking breadcrumbs from the floor. But that particular day, it was my fault for not cleaning up, and grandfather keeps the chickens to feed his gods. And, of course, Christmas.  I’ve always known Mother wanted to escape. Most times, I didn’t know what she needed escaping from, other times, it was to smoke when the women were cooking, so grandfather couldn’t tell that the smoke that followed her wasn’t firewood—but I always could. For years, she’s been smelling like charred wood. Do you know that a fire impulsively yet slowly preys on you before returning your ash to earth? I thank God my addictions don’t have bellies.  Page 5: I don’t know who or what Felicia’s kids are, and so I keep my distance. As for me, I was born alone, washed up from shores of blue loneliness. It’s even right, now that I think of it, to question their actuality. We never see Felicia with any man. We just know she fucks different men—but we’ve never seen with our own eyes. The same is the case with my mother. Two odd peas in a pod.  Grandfather was a native man. If he took his ear close enough to the ground, he could hear the footsteps of the gods. I didn’t believe in gods, or God, until I heard Tupac’s Only God Can Judge Me. This gangsta whose music I bopped to from the womb. Grandfather also said Felicia’s name tasted like unsalted lime on his tongue.  In the village square, they’ve heard her scores, too. Try speak of her and watch the air quarantine you as everyone moves back in disassociation, like you farted through your mouth.  My mother has too many secrets that she is always angry, always nagging—even in silence. So many secrets that when she opens her mouth to speak it is filled with the stench of decayed years. You can’t put out a fire if you’re a part of it, I wanted to tell her the day she accidentally burnt herself with hot coal. But I couldn’t press pause on Lauryn Hill’s Lost Ones long enough to talk to her. You would know if you’ve heard the song. It’s so consuming.  That Christmas Eve, I woke from a nightmare to the sound of grandfather killing the chickens. I closed my eyes and imagined their necks breaking, spluttering blood, their feet scratching air. He wanted to talk to his gods, which meant he had to feed them first. I wonder who feeds them now that he is gone. Before the bonfire, mother talked to her own God, and all she wanted was for him to erase every mistake from her life. Fifteen years later, here I still am, her prayer dwindling in the cloud, unresolved, or perhaps swept out of God’s reach.


[System] Craft a 5-page narrative for adults with these guidelines: WHILE MAINTAING A GOOD NARRATIVE MAKE THE STORY EASE TO READ WITH COMMON DIALGUE, 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. Do not generate a title. generate ALL 5 pages,    'Page 1: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 2: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 3: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 4: (3 full-length paragraphs)   Page 5: (3 full-length paragraphs)    '   !! YOU MUST FOLLOW THE USER PROMPT EXACTLY HAPPY OR SAD VIOLENT ETC IT MUST END AND START HOW THEY SAY!!   MAKE SURE NOT TO FINISH A STORY TOO SOON REMEMBER IT WILL BE 5 FULL PAGES, THINK OF OTHER HIGH QUALITY STORIES. ADD TWIST TURNS AND THINGS THAT MAKE A STORY GREAT.   DO NOT OUPUT ANTHING OTHER THEN STORY IN SPECIFIC FORMAT, DO NOT OUPUT COMMENTS, YOUR RESPONSE WILL BE REJECTED IF NOT IN SPECIFED FORMAT

[User] Page 1: The story begins with the Librarian's Assistant, tasked with finding a missing library patron who has ventured beyond the hazard tape. The Assistant gathers necessary supplies and heads into the depths of the library, prepared to face the challenges that lie ahead.   Page 2: The Assistant encounters various obstacles, including creatures lurking in the darkness and the labyrinthine nature of the library beyond the tape. Despite these challenges, they remain focused on their mission, relying on their knowledge and instincts to guide them.   Page 3: After navigating through the library, the Assistant locates the missing patron, who has become trapped within a book. Utilizing their unique skills and tools, the Assistant works to free the patron from the book's grasp and bring them back to reality.   Page 4: The Assistant successfully frees the patron from the book, administering necessary treatments to help them recover from their ordeal. The Assistant offers words of comfort and guidance, reminding the patron of the importance of their own story and the power of imagination.   Page 5: With the patron safely back in the library's main area, the Assistant returns the book to its proper place on the shelf and reflects on the nature of the library and its role in helping those who venture beyond the hazard tape. The story concludes with a sense of resolution and the understanding that the library and its caretakers are always ready to assist those in need.--GENERATE ALL 5 PAGES

[Assistant] Page 1: We lose people all the time. It’s just the nature of the job. What can you expect from a place full of nooks and crannies people intentionally go to get lost in? I usually don’t worry when I don’t see someone for a while, but when it’s been days since someone’s checked out, it’s usually a sign that I need to step in. I’m not doing this alone, thankfully. No Librarian is ever truly alone, are they? I have help from the Watchers and Listeners of the shelves. Thanks to them, it usually doesn’t take long to get the scent, if you know what I mean. However, today is one of the rare, and unfortunate, exceptions when my search has exceeded more than an hour—and an hour is pushing it. I’ve been searching and asking around for almost six hours, scouring shelves and listening for the telltale breathing. The Watchers have their quadrants, so it’s much like playing hot and cold.  “Bad news.” One says, and my brain shivers in my skull, both from its existence and its statement.   “They crossed the tape.” Says the Watcher, and I groan. “Are you sure?” My stomach still drops at the thought, even though I’ve been doing this a very long time (long enough that I remember every book on every shelf better than my own child’s face), but knowing a poor soul lost themselves beyond the tape… I grieve for them.    The Watcher doesn’t speak, but generates an affirmative sensation. That means I have to backtrack to my desk for supplies. I thank them, asking that they send word ahead of my arrival.  It’s been a while since I’ve had to go past the tape, which means it’s been a while since I entered the broom closet. The helmet is dusty (it looks almost like it’s from one of those old-fashioned scuba diving suits. It’s not nearly so heavy, though.)  There’s a bright  There’s a bright lamp affixed to the front just above the visor, but it’s as much of a hindrance as a help. While, most of the time, those beyond the tape know not to bother me, some still get bored enough to try—and the lamp acts like a beacon. I don’t blame them, it’s what prisoners do. Find the weakest among them and test their mettle. I’ve got a sack full of non-perishables, tinctures, aspirin, and a compass (not like the kind you’re used to, but would take too long to explain—and time is of the essence, so I’ll let your imagination handle it from here.)   Page 2: I sling the sack across my body, and fasten my waist with a utility belt that would make a trust fund bat character with abandonment issues jealous. It’s got floss, lighters, matches, and a few more tools that don’t exist outside of The Library.   The last thing I grab is the flamethrower.  This is where I should be very transparent with you. I’m not actually the Librarian. I’m the Librarian’s Assistant. I know, isn’t that just your luck, right?  Not to worry, I’m very good at using this thing, and it does the job nicely—whatever job I may deem necessary at any particular moment. But the Head Librarian doesn’t really need much of anything to ward off what lingers here.  I don’t know exactly where he is at the moment, nor do I want to know. If this were a real pickle I would summon him, but while a rare occasion, it’s not unusual in the scope of a thousand years. After all, no one comes here without the intention (whether it’s conscious or subconscious) to get lost. It’s the nature of this place.  But you know that, don’t you?   It’s why you’re here, after all.  It doesn’t take me long to find the tape, which is fortuitous. Sometimes it moves around, but the Watchers and Listeners kept a beat on it this time so as to direct me.  Yes, it is really dark.  Yes, it’s literal tape. Hazard tape, but that’s almost like a beacon to the adventurous, isn’t it? I think The Library knows that. It’s greedy, but it’s also quite discerning in taste.  In some circles that means that I should extend congratulations to you… in others, I offer my sincerest sympathy.  I hear my name and ignore it as I crawl through the crisscross of reflective strips.  The tape moves not at random, by the way. It genuinely serves as a warning.  Whether it’s gatekeeping sections currently under construction, in repair, or missing. I try not to, but I think that last one has something to do with where the Head Librarian went.  Don’t worry about it, my name is not important.   So ineffectual that I’ve forgotten.  I hear my name again as I begrudgingly turn on the lamp. Not a lot of help, just enough light to ensure I don’t trip over anything, or disturb the shelves.   Many sleep here.  I send off a warning shot from the flamethrower. Showing I carry more light than just atop my appetizing head. The flash of flames sends things… slithering. But most of those this close to the tape have never been very convicted by nature, so I’m not concerned.   Page 3: There are more Listeners and less Watchers past the tape, for obvious reasons. Thankfully, they say I don’t have to go too far. I look down at the telling clicking sound to see rocks rolling. Some as big as my foot, and some as small as the tip of my thumb. The smaller ones move more easily, but all are rolling as if pulled toward a central point. I don’t even need the compass, but I glance down at it one more time before stuffing it back into the sack.  While I don’t have to go too far, things are… relative here. Ten steps may be ten thousand. And so even after only a few moments of exploring, I feel acute pressure jamming into my temples. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed, and my vision blurs. My fingers tingle by the time I’m able to shake the aspirin into my mouth.  I chew it, ignoring the sound of my name—my true name. The one only I can hear. You’ll hear your own as well, if you stay here long enough.  My vision clears, which just means the dark looks sharper, and I sweep another warning arc from the flame thrower for good measure.   I do this as much because I love the sound as for protection. I also appreciate the warmth. It gets cold here. But in a strange way, which shouldn’t surprise you at this point.   It’s cold like how the first signs of spring show in the early morning dew that’s only just melted. I can smell and taste the sweat on my upper lip. And it’s cold.  And then I hear it.   A few or a thousand steps later.   The breathing sound I’ve been listening for.  The pace of the rocks quickens, and my head is turned down so the helmet light prevents me from tripping over—or impeding—their journey.  A famous author once said “All things serve the beam”, and that’s as true in this world as it is in the others. Except this beam—this beacon—is attached to our lost visitor.  I can only hear the rocks, mumblings, and the breathing sound now. The smell is so musty and thick. Like the air is full of sweat and dust. Like I’ve stuck my head out the window during a heavily falling rain. If I think hard enough about it, soon I’ll be drenched.   So, I don’t.  While the rocks are almost the perfect tell, and the Listeners’ too corroborates the evidence, you can never be too sure. Only light can be sure.  I take a match from the tiny box, snap it to life, and then blow it out. Tiny smoke tendrils curl and waft until they also follow the same flow as the rocks. Excellent, we’ve not been led astray.   Page 4: A few or a thousand more steps, and the rocks are gathering down an aisle where the breathing is more like wheezing—like the desperate struggle to take in.  Lo and behold, we found them!  Poor thing, judging by the state of her, she got lost early. She’s likely been here for most of the day. The book covers her face—consuming her head like a kid on a particularly large popsicle. The pages flutter gently against her too-white jaw.   The papery quality of her skin, and the wanting muscle mass, show how little time was on our side—not a moment to waste.  I grab the book by the edges of both back and front covers, it’s got most of her head inside at this point, just her earlobes, hair, and edge of her jaw peak out from beneath the pages I now grip firmly. The wheezing turns into a moan that turns into a sob.  “Now, now.” I say, and test the hold the book has on its victim. It’s snug, too snug to yank like a leech. I need to treat it like a tick, making sure to get the head out.  None of these are intended as puns, but it just happens after being surrounded by books and pros for so long.  I draw one of the tiny viles strapped in my utility belt and pull the cork out. It smells like nothing to me, but I see the reaction immediately. Our half-consumed explorer moves a bit, her fingers mostly, and I hear a second, tinier moan beneath that of the book’s. I pour a small amount of the substance into the palm of my hand, and I smooth it gently down the spine of the book. It wails again, and so does the girl, both full of sorrow and reluctance.   I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, so I turn at the hip, cock the flamethrower, and send off a very intentionally long tail of flames. When the feeling subsides, I shrug the weapon back over my shoulder.  I use the backs of two knuckles to knock gently on the book cover, “It’s time to come back now. My apologies.” I say, and I mean it. The book and the girl moan again, more hollowly, and I can feel the seal—the bond—splitting like a seam. I grip the book again, because these two are stubborn, and have to pry them apart. The color and mass return beneath her skin, and though her eyes are open, they can’t see anything. She’ll be like that for a while, it’s normal. She’ll recover. I pour the remaining contents of the bottle down the part of her frazzled blond hair. Tears fill the empty eyes and drip down her face. Her mouth presses into a thin white line and grimaces so intensely that the flesh folds in multiple layers at the corners of her mouth. Great pain.  Page 5: Even after a thousand years I still can’t help but feel sorry, so I pull her burning head under my chin, and rub circles into her back.   “I’m sorry, dear. I know you’ve been told otherwise, but this place is a prison, and that isn’t your story. Yours is still being written, and the one which made you pretty promises is lying and jealous.   “One day you, if the world is cruel, may yet have a place here. But it’s not today. So let’s go have a cup of tea.” I tell her, as I’ve told many like her. I’ve gotten better at it over the years. I used to have to fight with them. Often I’d give up and just keep them safe until the Head Librarian got back to talk them down.   She finally lets out a weak, wheezing breath. I take advantage of the broken seam of her lips and pour a tincture down her throat. I don’t even have to look anymore, I can just feel the specific melodies that make each tincture different. It helps that the one I need usually sings a bit louder as a courtesy, and it’ll purr like a cat when I’ve touched my fingers to it.  She chokes a bit, but her eyes start to clear.  Good enough for now.   The back of my neck has another sudden influx of goosebumps. We’ve overstayed our welcome. It’s time to go.   I put the book back on the shelf. I don’t scold it, just allow its ache and frustration flow through me. I apologize, but there’s no comfort I can give. My words and compassion are meaningless. I’ve noted the volume and will tell the Head Librarian, they might be able to soothe it back to sleep.  I tap the metal bauble around my neck, and we’re back at my desk.  I drape the girl onto a nearby loveseat that’s seen better days, starting the kettle before heading to the broom closet to stash the emergency kit.  She’ll be fine. People like her (and you) always are.  This place was made to help the wanderers and recklessly imaginative. Those who can’t wrap their heads around the world the way it is, and can see the truth of magic between heartbeats and heartbreaks.   And people like me, and the Head Librarian (when they so choose to grace us with their presence), keep the place orderly and open for you… and we’re here to help guide you back on track if you lose inspiration for your own story. It’s the nature of the job—The Library itself.   What else can you expect from a place full of nooks and crannies that people choose to get lost in?