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Choose a real life historical figure and write about his or her life as you would write a fairy tale or a greek tragedy. But leave out the names so that the readers may guess who the story is about on their own.
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instruction
| 0 | 850 |
There once was a king, in a far-away land.
Now, this king was a good king, unlike those in many of these tales. He wanted what was best for his kingdom and fought his hardest for that, while the rest of his court was all out for themselves.
This king had great plans for his kingdom. When he took power, the kingdom was falling behind its rivals, while straining against social divisions internally. People thought his kingdom was doomed to fade away into insignificance.
But it wouldn't be for long, as this king had a grand vision for his kingdom, and would see it rise to dominance once again. He flexed all his might, and did what he could to change the kingdom for the better. And he was well on his way to restoring his kingdom to its former glory.
However, some within his country saw differently. They didn't want what the king wanted, for their idea of a good kingdom was one which made them rich, at the expense of the poor. And they hated what this king was doing. So they killed him for having the audacity to change so much.
And that's the lesson to be learned, kids: if you do too much with your life, then you'll make too many enemies.
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output
| 1 | 850 |
As a young writer who survived a horrific accident, you swore you wouldn't die before you at least finished your first novel. Now, a thousand years later, you're still cursing your case of writer's block.
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instruction
| 0 | 851 |
You sat in the same spot you had been in for centuries, and looked around. Your desk had fallen apart 940 years ago, the window had broken not long after that, and the chair soon after that. Your house had collapsed 850 years ago, and the rest of civilization had soon followed suit with the resource crisis and wars. Anything green perished in the nuclear apocalypse that followed. Now all that was left was dust and bones. You hadn't eaten in two centuries, and couldn't remember the last time you actually talked to another person. Your clothes had turned to rags, and then dust. You were the most pitiable thing left alive in all of creation, if indeed there was anything else left. And yet you knew you could end it all - The millenia of pain that was your existence could finally be laid to rest, the curse would be broken, if you could only find the proper last word to finish your masterpiece:
There was a young man from Dundas,
Who had a bad case of gas,
He went to a nurse,
Who took out her purse,
And shoved it right up his...
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output
| 1 | 851 |
Here is a draft of a social media post I want to write. It's too long right now, so I'll need you to trim it down to 100 characters (including emojis):
Hey friends,
I wanted to update all of you that I'm starting a new position at Awesome.AI next week, where I will be Chief Data Officer. I am super-excited about this opportunity, and look forward to building cutting-edge AI products.
I would also like to thank all my friends and colleagues at Radical.AI. It has been an amazing experience working with you, and I have learned a lot from everyone.
Wish me luck!
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instruction
| 0 | 852 |
🚨Life Update🚨
From next week I’m C-Data-O of Awesome.AI! 🤩
🙏 Radical.AI - will miss you all!
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output
| 1 | 852 |
write a story about the grinch as if he was a lovecraftian monster
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instruction
| 0 | 853 |
An Excerpt from "The Krumpet Horror":
There are no words to properly express the horror of that day...
I had been investigating a strange case of delluminating Christmas lights when I came across a strange clue: green hair and a lingering odor, like sulfur.
This led me down a dark path of research that no Whovian should ever tred. For I uncovered knowledge of a creature so foul, so terrible, that one could go mad at the very thought...
The fool I was. I followed the clues up the mountain. Up, to the dark, shattered peak of Mt. Krumpet. And there, set into the cold stone, I found the entrance to His haunted lair.
I crept inside, slowly. The dim lights from further down reflected off the damp cave walls, allowing me sufficient light to proceed.
From somewhere below me, I heard a cackling of laughter. It echoed around me, seeping into my mind, invading my very soul! It twisted within me, like an icy knife, until I shuddered and sank to one knee.
Then I heard him. "And what, do you think you are doing here, Who?"
I raised my eyes and saw before me a sheer, unimaginable horror! The Grinch! It had green skin and hair, and eyes like the black and yellow peel of an overripe banana. When it smiled, I could see little termites crawling over his teeth. A stench wafted over me such that I recalled a passage from one of the secret texts I had read: "His soul is an appalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of deplorable rubbish imaginable, mangled up in tangled-up knots."
He leaned forward and spoke the word that haunts my dreams, though it be ten years later... "boo!"
To this day I don't recall what happened after that. I awoke in the Whoville Regional Medical Center a week later. I couldn't even recall my own name at the time...
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output
| 1 | 853 |
write a story with the first line being "it was raining quite hard" and the last line being " and right there it rained a little harder"
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instruction
| 0 | 854 |
It was raining quite hard.
Fitting, I suppose, the worlds way of bemoaning a life so short.
I do not usually care for the after, the things men do to honor their dead. In fact, I have not once attended a funeral where I was not needed. It is not my job to watch these affairs, only to escort my charges to their end. Yet, there was an aura about this boy that demanded I follow through.
He had seemed so profound there, on his little gurney. As if he knew something that even *I* was not privy to.
So, now I pay my respects.
The father was, of course, a pallbearer. And, while he carried the casket easily enough, his shoulders betrayed its true weight.
The ceremony was short, and sweet.
I lingered long after the family, until the last bit of earth was spread over the grave, and right then, as if in answer to the finality, it rained a little harder.
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output
| 1 | 854 |
You are the head of propaganda of an alien race that have declared war on humans. You have to write this cycle's newspaper by exaggerating/ distorting daily human activities.
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instruction
| 0 | 855 |
A Glance Into the Daily Depravity of Humans - by Morda Malordin
The Human prepares for violence the moment it starts its day. It stretches its horrible limbs as it awakes from sleep. Not yet fully functional, it stumbles to an energy station. A gruesome black liquid powers the Human, along with a form of solid sustenance. The Human uses so much energy that it must refuel at least three times a day.
Next, the Human enters a grooming station. It sharpens and shines its most fearsome weapon: its hideous fangs. Humans are often seen baring their teeth at enemies and allies alike to assert dominance. The Human will also don a carefully chosen set of armor. Some sets are meant to beguile, others are meant to intimidate, still others are meant to appear non-threatening. The Humans are truly masters of manipulation.
We cannot trust these Humans. Their entire society is built around deception and violence. If we are to be free in this galaxy, we must be rid of this dangerous race.
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output
| 1 | 855 |
Can someone write me a story for my six year old daughter?
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instruction
| 0 | 856 |
Sure, here is a story for your six-year-old daughter:
In a valley there is a glen, and in the glen is a cottage. The walls are white and the roof is thatched. It smells like fresh hay, sunny days, and plucked heather.
In the house lives a small mouse family. There is Momma Mouse and Papa Mouse and their three children, Esther Mouse, Rosie Mouse, and Rachel Mouse. Every morning they walk to the edge of the woods. There is a field of wheat and they climb the stalks that are taller then skyscrapers. They fill their bags with wheat. Every night they make bread and tell stories under the stars. They were very happy.
One day there was a visitor. It was a new creature with big teeth and a tail like a paddle. What could it be? This was Mr Beaver. He and Mrs Beaver had moved to the river nearby. They wanted to build a bridge. The mice were very excited. A bridge would be a fine thing indeed. That night Papa Mouse and Mr Beaver planned the bridge while Mrs Beaver taught the little mice how to swim. There was no lake to pratice in so the mice filled the washtub and carefully floated.
Soon the building of the bridge started. It was going very well. In the early evenings the mice would use their bags to carry mud to make mice-sized bricks. Then one day they noticed that the bricks were melting! When the mud got too wet it just fell out of the bridge. What could be done?
The mice thought and thought. They added stones but it was too rough. They added grass but it was too slippery. Then one day Esther Mouse added some wheat leaves. They were dry and just right.
The bridge was quickly built and the mice visited their friends every day.
The End
(P.S. I have never written a story this short or for kids before. Hope it's okay!)
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output
| 1 | 856 |
Rewrite a passage from tbe bible but in the style of JoJo's Bizzare Adventure
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instruction
| 0 | 857 |
Belshazzar cowered and fell to the ground as a silver hand appeared. It wrote on the wall in gleaming letters "Mene, Mene, Tekel, and Parsin!!!"
"OH NO!" Belshazzar shrieked. "Enchanters, warriors, tell me what this means."
"This must be the work of an enemy Stand..." Yet the enchanters could not decipher the writing on the wall.
Daniel burst into the room through the window, his long coat billowing majestically in the night breeze. "You thought it undecipherable so you consulted your wise men, but it was I, Daniel!"
"Behold my Stand, za Hand. These are the meaning of the words."
Daniel contorted his upper body and thrust his hands outwards. "Mene, the days of your kingdom have been numbered and will be brought to an end."
"Tekel, you have been weighed and found lacking. The scales of justice tipped against you." Daniel pointed dramatically at Belshazzar.
"Peres, your kingdom has split and shall be given to the Persians and the Medes." Daniel brought his hand down with a swift chopping motion.
Belshazzar yelled, "Seize him, seize him!"
Daniel beat the Stand users aside with mighty swings of his silver Stand. "Too late! God has spoken, Belshazzar tonight you die!"
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output
| 1 | 857 |
Saddest story you can write in under twenty-five words.
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instruction
| 0 | 858 |
Orphans are children who've lost parents. Widows are people who've lost spouses. Where's the word for parents who've lost children, they wondered. What are we?
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output
| 1 | 858 |
Write a gritty and depressing story set in a cutesy and childlike environment, or do the reverse and write a childishly optimistic fairy tale set in a grim dystopia.
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instruction
| 0 | 859 |
Once upon a time, a brave young boy was trapped in a giant tower.
The tower was made of metal and painted black.
The tower had no windows.
The tower was a scary place.
*How I want to smell the grass again*, the brave young boy thought, *and swim in the sea like a dolphin, and watch the clouds again like a happy bird.*
"Not today. Not ever," the mean evil villain told him, as he shut and locked the door. He owned the tower, and he wasn't going to let him leave.
As the days passed, the brave young boy started to forget it all.
He forgot the smell of the grass.
He forgot the feeling of the sea.
And somehow, he started to forget the fluffy white clouds, when he heard a *knock knock knock* on the door.
"Hello?" the brave young boy answered.
It was a pair of federal agents in vests and sunglasses. They unlocked and opened the door.
Sunshine and fresh air filled the room.
They told the brave young boy that thanks to an unexpected leak of classified information, the mean evil villain had just been arrested on charges of fraud, money laundering, unlawful espionage, corporate warfare, and 117 infractions of the Mumbai Accords.
In other words, they told him, the brave young boy was free to go.
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output
| 1 | 859 |
You are a video game critic that’s been sucked into a game. After a week trapped there, you write up something that’s both a survivor’s journal and game review.
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instruction
| 0 | 860 |
Day 1: I seem to have arrived on an island. I have yet to meet any other humans. I do appear to have acquired a meager shelter, and have done a small number of banal fetch quests. All significant gameplay appears to be locked behind an arbitrary clock system.
Day 2: I have continued my work of fostering relationships with the locals. I have been provided ample sustenance by them, and am in the process of cultivating a variety of flora on which I hope to survive.
Day 3: I have paid off my debt to the local chief, who has graciously offered to improve my living situation. I have also begun fishing in the nearby water source for fish. I am eager for protein, and fishing has quickly become my preferred method to pass the time.
Day 4: I acquired a few more survival tools, and have started to learn carpentry. The locals have graciously begun to teach me their trades.
Day 5: My orchard has shown signs of producing fruit. I am eager not only for a full belly, but also a full wallet.
Day 6: I decided to take a dip in the water today. I could not swim out very far, but I found a number of critters and a few valuables I was able to sell for a tidy profit. I finally have a bed, and am working on improving my living situation further.
Day 7: I hope to never leave my island paradise. The locals are friendlier than any human I recall meeting. The food is free and plentiful. For the first time in my life, I own a house. While I have become indebted to the local chief, he is quite reasonable, and does not demand astronomical interest. In fact, he doesn't charge interest at all. There are plenty of hobbies and crafts to distract myself with, and I feel as if my troubles have melted away with the ocean tide.
While my stress melts away, I look out and smile at my new horizon.
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output
| 1 | 860 |
In 75 words or fewer, write about experiencing a devastating loss, without including death.
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instruction
| 0 | 861 |
The mirror hadn't been cleaned. She sighed and began scrubbing. When she had finished, she made her way towards the kitchen and heard snippets of conversation.
"Your grandmammy... Her Alzheimer's is getting worse. She's not the nice old lady you used to know..."
She wondered who they were talking about for a moment before making her way to the bathroom.
The mirror hadn't been cleaned. She sighed and began scrubbing...
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output
| 1 | 861 |
You're a writer who has died. When you cross over, you discover that the worlds you created in your mind are actual places. You've now found yourself in your own creation for eternity. What happens next?
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instruction
| 0 | 862 |
The sun seared into my head as I came to in a glistening wheat field. Every bone in my body cracked and groaned as I sat upright, every muscle stretched and twitched as if saying, "you don't belong here." The clang and crash of metal drew my attention, looking over my shoulder there they were, two armored warriors complete with full plumed helmets and battle axes were 50 yards away dueling. I knew what would happen, I've wrote it before, the smaller of the two would soon have the upper hand, taking the other warriors axe, screaming some unknown obscenity while slicing down on the Warriors head.
Blood. Blood everywhere.
It was not the nice and neat killing where people were polite about death. It was not the glory of the fight nor the poetry that I had imagined when I was a child reading fantasy books. There was nothing glorious in it. It was dirty, angry, primal, with the under notes of finality. The knowing that Death was coming soon. I hated it, I loved it. I was frozen to the ground as I wanted to recognize who was fighting so hard to live.
The small warrior was gasping for air, knees to the ground and crying. Ripping the visored helmet off, a tumble of bright red hair came out, curly and thick. She wiped at the tears in her eyes and stood, observing her good and dark work.
What do I do? Run? Where would I go? I must've made some sort of sound, breathed wrong or something because suddenly she was there, at my throat with her axe. The fury in her brown eyes was quick, but a flicker of recognition was in them. I breathed in, once.
"Oh," she smiled, a brilliant white smile. "It's you." She lowered her axe and offered her hand. I took it. "Finally. I can't wait to show you everything."
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output
| 1 | 862 |
Your memory resets everytime you fall asleep, so before you go to bed you always write down everything you want to remember from that day on your journal. This morning, you wake up and see what you wrote last night. There's only one word, "RUN".
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instruction
| 0 | 863 |
I just grabbed my bug-out bag and closed the door behind me.
I have no idea why I told myself to run, but I trusted myself, so I took the items I prepared in case I need to run and just booked it. I will undoubtly find out why I am supposed to run when I'm going to reach a safe place.
I have had save sites prepared prevously. Three of them, depending on the side that I was supposed to run. Since I gave myself no directions this time, I just went for the best fitted one. No need to limit myself untill I know more.
I have not seen anyone coming. I stopped for a few minutes considering whether to come back for additional food, but I decided against it. It was middle of summer, so I could gather a lot of supplies while on the move. No need for trying my luck.
I fixed the backpack and looked ahead.
The trail was waiting again. I'll see where I'm going to sped another winter...
(An excercise in drunk writing. Because why not.)
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output
| 1 | 863 |
In under 30 words, write an enticing start to a novel establishing a dystopian society
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instruction
| 0 | 864 |
The raindrops crash against my windowpane. Yet when I look outside the fire is still burning.
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output
| 1 | 864 |
You are a pet, write a love letter to its owner.
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instruction
| 0 | 865 |
Owner, Master, Friend, Protector;
I loved you when I was small and new in this world, and nothing made sense. Your heart seemed so sad, so I cuddled you until the hurt stopped. I loved when we played find-the-toy, you were so happy when I found them all! When I couldn't hold my bladder, you never screamed or raised a fist, you only said "bad". You protected me from the thunderstorms, where the house shook and the air screamed. Gently, coaxed me from under the bed, and held me through the night.
When I chased the evil squirrel through bushes, you ran after me yelling for me to stop. Even though I was bad, you brushed the painful spike-balls from my fur. Our walks were the best, I sniffed and peed on everything in our path!
In the dog park, when I got out and those strange-smelling men threw bottles at me, I didn't know what I did wrong. I was so scared and hurt so much. You were terrifying. I never saw you so scary, I didn't know your gentle hands were capable of causing pain. By the end, they hurt more then I did. You picked me up and held me close, I knew I was safe.
Even though my fur is grey and my walk is slow, you take me on walks. I still sniff and pee on everything. I can't see your face anymore, but I will always recognize your touch. Your sadness has been gone for so long, but it is coming back. The white-coat man touched my tummy, felt my skin. He says he can't remove the bumps, and you should let me go. You pull me close and cry and whisper "Don't go", but I don't understand. I will never leave you, and I know you will never leave me.
I lick your face and cuddle you, but you just cry more. I love you and don't want you to be sad. You lay beside me and the vet gives me a shot. I am so tired, I guess it is time for a nap. When we wake up I hope we can play find-the-toy.
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output
| 1 | 865 |
You clearly mail ordered a cheap, factory made sword. Then they gave you an authentic holy sword that made you into a chosen hero. Time to write a bad review!
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instruction
| 0 | 866 |
First of all I’d like to start by saying I ordered a cheap sword that was only supposed to look shiny so I could have a play sword fight with my son. Instead I accidentally chopped his sword in half and took one of his fingers with it. Along with him losing that finger I’ve now lost custody of my children. Thanks, assholes.
Secondly I now have the voice of God in my head and he won’t stop screaming. The only words he’s said to me are “It’s been far too long since I last checked in on my subjects. Let’s see how everything’s go-” and since then there’s been non-stop screaming which has kept me from sleeping for a week. On top of that I also am being told by the voices of angels that I need to “cleanse the world” of sinners. Specifically they keep telling me to go after some “Jack Paulers” and, after googling that, I don’t feel so bad about cutting off my son’s finger seeing as many parents have done much, much worse for their children.
Third and finally my biggest complaint of all; this sword is just too big. Honestly I think I’ll get used to the screaming of God and the angels can go shove a holy sword up their ass and somebody else can take care of all the Florida Men but this sword is bigger than the one I ordered. See I’d already ordered a cool holder for the sword so I could hang it on my wall when I wasn’t using it but the sword is too big and it doesn’t fit.
I wouldn’t suggest this product to anybody interested, it’ll make you lose your children, your privacy, your sanity, and any hope for humanity. 0/5
Sincerely, CrocsNSocks113.
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output
| 1 | 866 |
The "What if the Nazis won??" trope has been done to death. This time, imagine you live in a world where they won and write a story based on the prompt, "What if the allies won??"
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instruction
| 0 | 867 |
Parts of this make me feel unclean to write, but here it is anyway.
Back-page summary of The Girl in the Low Valley by Hans Schroeder
It is 1963. The Axis Powers have crumbled against the Slavic hordes of the Soviet Union and the devastating American Atom Bombs. What was once the Reich has been divided between The USSR and the United States.
In the West America's Economic might has broken the once great powers of Europe into second class nations bound to the strength of the dollar at best, or at worst shattered nations reduced only to sources of raw material to make luxury items for Americans.
In the East Stalin has made the White Race of Europe and Asia into slaves, used and disposed of to Improve his mad socialist dream. Ever tightening his grip over the once proud nations of Europa and Asia.
But Stalin is dying, Foreign minister Vyacheslav Molotov and Defense Minister Gregory Zhukov struggle against each other to take his place as masters of Eurasia. As Stalin Grows closer and closer to death atomic war with The Americans comes ever closer.
Through this dance of giants the people of the Reich must find the courage and strength to take their nation back from the Capitalist and Communist Oppressors who have made Europe a wasteland.
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output
| 1 | 867 |
You're a high society socialite 1600/1700s write a letter to a friend about a scandalous event
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instruction
| 0 | 868 |
Madam Smithers tea party was indeed the scandal of the week. Nay, the month! It is very doubtful that most of the kindly gentlefolk there had ever seen such appalling behaviour. Lord Bryon, you remeber him right? The lude young inheritor of Charles and Josphine Bryon. The couple that died in the fire last May. OH, back to the point. Lord Bryon made one of his insanely rude jokes in the middle of the tea party. Just as we all began to bite into our tarts. Do you recall Madam Smithers' tarts? Not very good, but we all have better manners than to tell that old bag it. Oh dear, I do crack myself up. But so, Lord Bryon makes a joke in bad taste. Dearest friend do not ask me what the joke was, that is the least important part. His wife, the new one with the curly locks of blond. Well she had the gall to not only giggle like a young maiden, but also grab his wrist which caused her sleeve to move up. And do you know what we saw then? Her wrist. How brazen, how crude we all thought. Has she no modesty? Well, she was promptly hung in the town center the day after her trial. And the Lord Bryon married her younger sister the following day. You miss many a great things when you're away at sea. I hope this finds you well Admiral Monde.
Sincerely, Baroness Geaux
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output
| 1 | 868 |
"History is written by the victors", write in first person about a historical event as viewed by someone on the losing side.
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instruction
| 0 | 869 |
I had never known such a weapon.
The stone hurtled through the air and stuck me down.
I tried. By all our Gods I tried.
The Israelites came, and we drove them back. I drove them back. For forty days I called my challenge to end this with single combat, the sight of my brothers dead around me had sickened my soul and poisoned my mind. I had to end this.
It was for naught. I strode out, my armour gleamed, my shield shone and my sword was sharp.
But I could not be ready for him.
For a stone to fly so fast. I would not have thought it possible. If only our own soldiers had such weapons.
I fell heavily, my bulk crashed hard weighed down by the armour.
I'm so sorry...
He took my head, and fed our corpses to the wild animals.
Run, David comes.
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output
| 1 | 869 |
You are stuck as a propaganda writer for North Korea. You want to get out of North Korea, but you must do it by writing propaganda.
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instruction
| 0 | 870 |
Comrades! The day has come we've long been fighting for. The imperialist American scum has been defeated. Our glorious leader has triumphed over the illegitimate government of the south. Now is the time to rush the demilitarized zone with much enthusiasm and determination. There are some final traitors that will refuse to give up but they will be quickly overwhelmed by our triumphant might. Go, now, do not delay. Like NBA Dennis Rodman says in the 1997 movie, "Double Team," the last guy that made fun of our hair is still trying to pull his head from our asses. Ha! It is time to reunite with our brothers and sisters in the south and welcome them into our invincible, unbreakable country.
I will be right there with you comrades, though I am slow of foot and may lag behind. Do not be alarmed if I am disguised as one of the infidels, it is all part of our glorious leader's plan to trick the last of the traitors. While they are confused I shall slip away into Seoul undetected, to prepare a celebratory feast for all of us. I shall wait for the rest of you.
Anyone who provides any contradictory information should be killed immediately as a deceiver of the realm.
Sincerely,
Kim Jong Un, Glorious Leader
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output
| 1 | 870 |
In only 26 words, going down the alphabet, write a murder.
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instruction
| 0 | 871 |
A blade, cold, dark, enticingly fun. Gliding hungrily into jugulars, knees, ligaments; moving noiselessly, only pain. Questioning reasons, seeking to undo. Vaulted worry. EXIT! You zealot.
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output
| 1 | 871 |
You are a writer struggling to make ends meet that suddenly realizes a famous author is using time travel to steal your ideas. Write an email to him/her.
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instruction
| 0 | 872 |
Dear [Author Name],
It has come to my attention that you have published a series of books about the characters Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. I would like to know, sir, where you received your inspiration for these characters.
When I was a young man, and an aspiring writer, I invented two characters who had a variety of adventures along the Mississippi River. Now, as you may have guessed, my characters names were Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. After reading your novels I have come to the conclusion that you somehow gained access to my notes. I do not have time to speculate on how you managed this, but I intend to find out.
You will contact me, inform me how and why you have stolen my characters, and acknowledge me in your works. I expect your response in a timely manner, or my lawyer will be contacting you.
Regards,
[Your Name]
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output
| 1 | 872 |
Shakespeare is reincarnated as a young man in 2016. Like any young writer, he dabbled in fanfiction. Cringey fanfiction. Write one of these fanfictions.
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instruction
| 0 | 873 |
HERMIONE (an aside, to herself):
O, fell me now, foul clutches of the loves
I cannot escape! To be smitten is
to be hung from the parapets of fate
and wrung out like dirty, sodden washcloth
How can I choose between Ron and Harry?
How can a woman's heart beat in tandem
with those of two others'? A fool I am!
Hark!
A spectre approaches!
NEARLY HEADLESS NICK:
Hermione, you are no fool at all!
I heard your cries of grief and must admit
that I feel your only folly is this:
You have not seen the simplest solution!
HERMIONE:
Be clear! Of what do you speak, spectral vision?
NEARLY HEADLESS NICK:
You must consummate your relationship with both,
tonight - at the Yule Ball - where romance reigns.
HERMIONE:
You are wise, spectre. I shall do this thing.
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output
| 1 | 873 |
My Cat Fell Into a Laundry Basket. Try to write a story or poem based on this image.
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instruction
| 0 | 874 |
There once was an agile young cat
who thought his balance was all that.
He was cocky and sly, yet still sweet as pie,
but balance was something he lacked.
With a hop and a leap,
not making a peep,
Milo was quickly midair.
He'd land on his feet
not skipping a beat,
and strut away without a care.
But a misstep would cost him,
a distaster had blossomed!
One last attempt at a scamper.
Still it was too late,
he'd accepted his fate.
Milo was now in the hamper.
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output
| 1 | 874 |
Rewrite a classic fairy tale by telling it backwards. The end is now the beginning.
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instruction
| 0 | 875 |
Peter sits in the middle of the field, knees pressed to his chest, rocking back and forth. The sheep's sonorous bleats swell over him. They're almost indistinguishable from the last flock's, and yet, there's something different about them. "It's your fault," they baa, "How dare you show your face again? Give us a real guardian!"
He is interrupted from his reverie by a rustle in the bushes. "Wolf, wolf!"
All the doors in a 500-foot radius swing open. The townspeople stampede to the field, knives, hammers, candlesticks in hand.
"Where is it?"
But the rustle is gone. Peter shrugs. Some people shoot him looks of pity; others glower at him impatiently. Everyone lowers their arms and begins to make their way back to their workplaces.
There is no wolf. There never is.
But after that one incident, they'll all come running if he shouts.
|
output
| 1 | 875 |
Your homework is to write a poem, but you can't quite figure out what to write, until one morning you wake up and can only speak in rhymes.
|
instruction
| 0 | 876 |
This morning I've decided I must have bad luck
Forever rhyming all words, oh lord I am stuck
I got out of bed and then wiped my eyes
Grabbed my cellphone and texted my guys
Complaining to them of what I have found
And asking to turn this bad luck around
And oh my goodness do you know what they said
They said to me that it's all in my head!
It's not in my head, it's just with everything I say
I can not make this damn rhyming go away
At least I don't have to give it much fuss
For this homework I'll easily get an A plus
|
output
| 1 | 876 |
Without saying the word love, you write the most passionate love letter you can imagine.
|
instruction
| 0 | 877 |
Hannah,
You really want to know what I think about on a daily basis on my down time at work? Do you really want to know what goes on in the inner workings of my mind while you're not around? Well. Here it goes.
My mind is ravaged with thoughts of what my life would be like without you and I don't like it. I'm too young to know many things for certain, but I do know that if I were to have to live my life without you in it, it would in no way, shape, or form be as fulfilling as it is now. You bring me the most unimaginable joy whenever I see your face. There are times where I feel like we could talk all night about anything and I wouldn't care how tired I was in the morning for work.
Your work ethic and drive to be the best you can be is inspiring. There have been many times where I have found myself wishing for the same work ethic. But what really seals the deal is your compassion and empathy towards others. You want everyone to have the same opportunities and care in life that you have received and that has spurred me on to be more giving with my time and money towards causes that need it.
I cannot wait to spend the rest of my days with you. You are beautiful beyond measure both on the inside and outside.
Sincerely,
Ryan
|
output
| 1 | 877 |
Write a love story without using any positive descriptive words. Or write a tragedy without any negative ones.
|
instruction
| 0 | 878 |
Her head looked beautiful, lying there on the ground. As her soft body lay just a few feet away.
She had a sort of calm smile to her as her stained blood blonde hair was ruffled up.
The phone she loved to text on was resting in her hands when I found it.
Her friend asked if she was on her way
And the response that never sent was "yeah, I'll be there soo".
|
output
| 1 | 878 |
In 20 words or less write the happiest scene you can.
|
instruction
| 0 | 879 |
The rainbow kittens cheerfully play in the field of sprinkled cupcakes and other various desserts. Oh, and there's tits too.
|
output
| 1 | 879 |
A demon that writes messages on your mirror with blood but they’re useful messages. Like “remember you have yoga at 6 tonight”. Write a creative story.
|
instruction
| 0 | 880 |
The heating is off in my apartment this morning, but there's still hot water, so I take a long shower to warm up. The fog settles heavily on the mirror and begins to run by the time I get out, reconstituting the dried blood so that it drips freely into the bathroom sink. The mess makes it look like I shave with a box cutter. I read today's message, streaky but still legible in bold finger-painted block letters.
_You're out of floss_
Not that useful as messages from mysterious otherworldly sources go. I'm sure I would have figured it out myself eventually. I towel off and get dressed, then wipe down the mirror and sink with the paper towels I keep in stacks behind the laundry basket. The rich metallic smell of the blood no longer nauseates me, but the tedium of the job is irritating. Cleaning up is just as boring as the messages.
The list of "no-longers" is getting quite long now. I no longer wait up trying to catch the appearance of the writing. I no longer try to hide the blood soaked towels in the bottom of one of the building's communal garbage bins. I no longer think that I've gone insane; that some alternate personality is harassing me; or that I'm writing the messages myself in an alcoholic fugue. I no longer wonder what it means, either. Not to say that I don't have some hope that one day one of the messages will be helpful, or at least not pointless, but after four hundred and nineteen attempts my friend in the mirror hasn't done better than "Things will brighten" - an early message that left me optimistic but turned out to be a weather forecast.
Before leaving I add the new message to the journal underneath the rest of the week's efforts.
_Seven yards left on the roll_
_Only five yards left_
_Reel is almost empty_
_Reel will be empty after you floss this morning_
|
output
| 1 | 880 |
write about death, without using the word death, any euphemisms or other words directly related to death.
|
instruction
| 0 | 881 |
Jerry saw the gun and thought "Oh. That's a gun." And then there was searing pain, and the room flipped, and then was still. And he knew something was happening. He could feel a frenzy around him. Something important was happening, but the lights seemed to be dimming, so he couldn't be bothered to attend to it. There was an absolute sort of pain in his body. It was all encompassing. It was so vast it became meaningless; he was submerged in it.
Voices howled ineffectually. There was quiet screaming. His thoughts drifted to Susan Wiltmeyer calling him gross in second grade. She ate his cookie and called him gross. How hateful.
|
output
| 1 | 881 |
My parents have a sign in their home that says, "Alcohol: Because No Great Story Ever Started With Someone Eating A Salad." Prove them wrong, write a great story beginning with our hero eating a salad.
|
instruction
| 0 | 882 |
Our hero ate with relish a caesar salad while seated in a rooftop garden overlooking the city. He never ate any salad other than caesar. Sticking one's fork in a tyrant daily is an important civic duty.
About mid-day now. The festival games swept noise through the city. Best be on with it soon. The others should be nearing position. Oh here he comes again.
“Some water, sir?” said the nosy server.
“No, thank you. None at all.”
“Very well. Enjoy your meal.”
Water. Won’t pay the tax for that now. Shortage isn’t my fault. Best be on with it. One more stab. Once. Twice, for good measure.
Our hero rounded a corner and entered the market. People bustling. Many people bustling busily. Running into others while running away from themselves. Away from their civic duty. Away from their city that cries out for help. There one goes now into a brothel. To forget. Into oblivion.
The bells rang out, drowning whatever festivities remained. Meeting commenced. Hope the others avoided trouble. Hard thing to do.
He ascended the forum steps. Everyone seated. A tyrant clad in purple addressed the senate. One stood up and stabbed him, then another. Then I. Different kind of food, same principle.
|
output
| 1 | 882 |
Write a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' type story in which writers can add to the adventure in the comments.
|
instruction
| 0 | 883 |
You're sitting at your desk at work. Supervisor Steve walks by and drops a fresh stack of accounts receivable in your incoming tray. "Looks like you'll be here late tonight," he sneers. You throw him a troubled glare as he trots away. You pull the first page off the stack of papers and quickly skim over its contents. You feel a slight tug on your pant leg causing you to jump. Sliding your chair back, you sneak a peak under your desk and discover a hole directly under your desk just big enough for a human to slip through. Now on your hands and knees you look inside and feel a warm breeze and see green and yellow lights. "What the hell...."
Do you:
1. Lower yourself into the hole
2. Call your supervisor
3. Finish your paperwork
|
output
| 1 | 883 |
Death is a common character in writing prompts... write a story that portrays death in a way that you haven't seen or read about before.
|
instruction
| 0 | 884 |
Once upon a time, Death was the teeth that hunted us under a bright moon. We ran and we shivered, waving our little fire-sticks around.
Once we had settled, Death was the dry season that failed to end, the diseases that killed entire villages. She was famine and boils and warfare.
We grew a little bit and started thinking too much. Death became the emptiness behind words on paper, extinction of languages and passenger pigeons. Death became forgetfulness.
Soon, we no longer needed to have five children to ensure that two would survive to adulthood. We conquered disease, destroyed warfare, filled our souls to the brim with knowing and still didn't understand anything.
We stand on the surface of the moon, or mars, or alpha centauri, and we look back at the single shimmering pixel that we emerged from. Death can't touch us, we who move between the stars, we who record all things and all memories. She is but a whisper in the void between stars.
And the shimmering pixel turns bloated and red as its star engulfs our homeland. And we say, it does not matter, we are eternal. No longer can we feel the teeth that hunt us under a bright moon.
But still we run, like insects from disturbed grass. Flocking from one life-giving heat source to another, until they are all cold and gone. Death has not left us. She is still at our heels, waiting for us to falter, waiting for us to grow cold.
Eventually the whole universe will be hers.
|
output
| 1 | 884 |
write a poem or a story inspired by the following sentence "the sway of the ponytail"
|
instruction
| 0 | 885 |
Her hair swayed once before i managed to tell her,
That last night's kiss was just for good measure,
And leave her with one thing to remember,
The love that she thought would last forever.
Never, forever and ever and ever.
Oh, look at the time, i suppose that i better
Leave her room before i have to tell her
My name, my number or the state of the weather.
|
output
| 1 | 885 |
Say i'm completely new to poetry. I need to know how to approach this art, write me a poem about it.
|
instruction
| 0 | 886 |
There are many forms
Therefore, the method you choose
Depends on your goals.
Welcome, newcomer
To the art of the haiku
In all its beauty.
Haiku can be fun
Because one must really think
About one's wording.
Go. Begin, like so;
I will demonstrate for you
This is your template:
Five syllables first
Then seven more follow them
With five more behind.
Often about life
Haiku capture earth's beauty
And sometimes, its pain.
It can be simple
When first drawing from inkwell
But can be complex.
You will never know
If you love them 'til you try
You very well might.
|
output
| 1 | 886 |
A 15 yr old girl writes a spaghetti western story, not realising that pasta has nothing to do with it. This is that story.
|
instruction
| 0 | 887 |
They say man cannot live on bread alone.
I say they're right.
The sun hung in the sky like a giant ball of tagliatelle. It hung with the heat of a thousand boiling pots.
It wasn't the only thing boiling. My blood felt that same heat and made it a part of me.
I was the Gemelli Kid.
See, my dad ran Gemelli out to the Gardens for twenty years. He used to bring me a big jar of olives back on every trip. I remember sitting in my room with the window open, even when it was hot as hell. When I heard the sound of his horse, his cart, I would run outside with my hands stretched out like casarecce. Each time he would smile and laugh with the sun behind him so that his face was just a circle of shadow from his hat. Every time he'd reach behind his back and pull out a jar and hand it to me. I kept every single one. I would line em up in my room. I could track the path of my life in a row of dusty glass.
Yet that's all gone now, vanished like a bowl of rigatoni after a sunday dinner. No dust, no jars, no house.
No father.
When you lose your past you get two choices, and they ain't gonna be salad or breadsticks. You live for the present or you live for the future. A good person would live for the future. They would take what had happen and move on. They would take the lumps and smooth em out and feed em into the press.
I ain't no good person.
The Fazoli's killed my father. He didn't just pasta way. They tore him apart until there was nothing left: Zip, Zilch, Ziti.
That's why I'm here. I came to this one-bowl town to lay down the lasagna.
Cause the red sauce is gonna pour tonight.
|
output
| 1 | 887 |
In a Utopian alternate universe, an author writes a sci-fi dystopian novel describing our society.
|
instruction
| 0 | 888 |
I blinked yet again, and turned towards the clock which informed me that it was now 3 am. Sleep usually found me easily, and yet tonight, I was left thinking about what I'd read in that book I'd just bought.
A world in which some had more money than others? A world in which young children were left to starve while others received new toys every day? A world in which men, heterosexuals, and white people dominated? How could such an unequal society exist, even in a book?
The worst part was that everyone expected something in that world. Nothing was done out of the kindness of someone's heart; it was all for their own benefit. Friendships were only created to have someone listen to your problems, and families only talked to one another to feel comfort and safety. Everything was so selfish. How could it be like that?
And yet, I could see the appeal. There seemed something so satisfying with having more than other people, with being above them, superior, even. In a world like ours, where everyone was equal, everything was so... similar.
In fact, I worked hard every day. Why shouldn't I have more than others?
The more I thought about it, the more beautiful the idea seemed. I could taste it, that feeling of pride when I saw how little others had. The envy, the desire, the greed that they'd feel when they saw me... I could taste the power that I'd have.
|
output
| 1 | 888 |
Your bank specializes in accounts for villains and monsters; accepting currencies from gold and cash, to blood and souls. As the only teller for the bank, write about a casual day’s work, or your most interesting clientele.
|
instruction
| 0 | 889 |
I had expected a worse first day.
Some of them are amicable, others decidedly less so.
There is, however, one thing that lingers in my mind. Human or beast, they all have one thing in common. Though I have seen a vast array of colours, a kaleidoscope of vivid green, crimson red and amber, they all seem to stare into my soul. Their eyes, piercing and penetrating bore into me, into the dark abyss that is my soul. I can't help but feel a sense of wonder, mingled with the dread of chaos and anarchy and destruction.
Some of them are noble. They have a profound look of sorrow on their faces that mirrors my own expression, and ignites a spark, a fire that rages below the surface of my apathetic existence.
I call for the next customer, and he approaches my desk. He lays a gnarled claw next to my hand, and begins to whisper; a low growl, barely audible, and yet I hear him as though he is screaming. He wants a piece of my soul, and a vial of my blood. He pays with fire.
He is no more a monster than I am.
Soon, it will be over, and I will be allowed to rest.
|
output
| 1 | 889 |
Write a "5 minute mystery" (a short mystery the reader can solve using only the clues provided)
|
instruction
| 0 | 890 |
She never imagined that she would die this way. Half naked and drowning in the bottom of a motel pool, Claire felt her life fade away as water filled her lungs. Claire lived her life without apology. She spoke her mind even if it stirred the pot. It was precisely this trait that often got her in hot water as a journalist. She was always chasing political stories and attempting to uncover the dirty skeletons in Washington’s closet. Claire always put her career before everything, even if it meant sacrificing her safety…and the safety of those around her. Death threats were apt to put pressure on her relationships. In all of her life, she only regretted pushing away those who loved her. Just when Claire thought she had found the man worth settling down with, the biggest story of her career presented itself. The means Claire used to get the information she needed broke her heart, but Claire knew that she had to put her body on the line to get the truth out. Claire lived to push the boundaries, and tonight, the boundaries pushed back. The last thing Claire remembered was the look on her killer’s eyes: cold and unforgiving.
|
output
| 1 | 890 |
Choose a song, then write a story/poem. The twist is that you need to write a line of the song every other sentence, in *italic*.
|
instruction
| 0 | 891 |
Kashmir, by Led Zeppelin
*Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream*
I seek but one thing, the peace I had been denied during the long years spent sailing between the worlds.
*Oh, father of the four winds, fill my sails, across the sea of years*
I arrive, alone, in a strange desert in an all too familiar world, I muse:
*I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been*
I shed my clothes -they are no longer needed- and look out at the land.
*All I see turns to brown, as the sun burns the ground*
The heat from the sun burns, and the winds blow hot dirt.
*And my eyes fill with sand, as I scan this wasted land*
My old bones creak, and I hear music from behind:
*Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace, whose sounds caress my ear*
I turn around, and my gaze fixes upon my goal:
*Let me take you there. Let me take you there*
I see an oasis, cool water under the hot sun of Old Earth, to spend my final hours in peace.
*Let me take you there. Let me take you there*
Let the stars fill our dream.
|
output
| 1 | 891 |
Instead of a dystopia that seems like a utopia on the surface, write a story about a utopia that seems like a dystopia on the surface.
|
instruction
| 0 | 892 |
Smooth edges. Clean streets. People bustle about, heading to lunch, with smiles on their faces. Posters line the walls of the city saying "Be Your Brother's Keeper" or "Arcadia is Our Mother". Loudspeakers chime in with daily reminders about citywide events or milestones met. "Without Arcadia," says the woman on the announcements, "we are nothing." Police in crisp white uniforms patrol the streets on foot, and everyone smiles and nods at them. Above, through the small clouds, an impossibly tall tower can be seen standing at the center of the sprawl.
A great wall surrounds the city. The First Founders began building it long ago, during their age, and by the time their generation had passed it was finished. A dull grey barrier, blocking Arcadia off from the outside world. Every man, woman, and child knows what lies beyond. Ruins of the fallen world, the world that came before. Anyone is free to leave, but such a thought rarely ever crosses the mind. They are taught the truth when they are young, how societies collapsed after fossil fuels ran out. How wars were fought not for land, but for water. How the nuclear missiles, the Dust Makers, were made. How terrifyingly destructive they had been. How they had sailed through the air like shooting stars before crashing back down to Earth like meteors.
They picked through the ashes and learned from their ancestor's mistakes. They come together as a community, and stay together as a community, for each other's sake. Division, the teachers said, is what split the old world apart. People were separated, not just by the borders of their country, but by the borders they made themselves. Race. Class. Religion. Political views. In Arcadia, these things still exist, but the people are taught to embrace their difference. To cherish it. To not let it consume and divide them.
Because if there is division, there is no Arcadia. And without Arcadia, they are nothing.
|
output
| 1 | 892 |
Write a story following this prompt: You are the only writer in the world. You use millions of pen names to keep it a secret. You walk past a bookshop and you see a book released by a name you don’t recognise....
|
instruction
| 0 | 893 |
I stand there, shocked, unmoving as people scuttle by through the busy streets of New York. Some even give me confused looks. I return the look- the confusion isn’t directed at them though, it’s directed at the small, pamphlet-type book that sits alone on a small bookshelf in this even smaller shop. I stumble in, forgetting exactly what it was I was doing before my eyes had glanced upon this book.
As I strode in, I ran for the book, not paying attention to the confused glances of all the shop’s inhabitants. As I pick it up, sweating profusely, I read the title, horrified.
*I Know Your Secret, Elongated Muskrat*
|
output
| 1 | 893 |
write me your saddest poem!
|
instruction
| 0 | 894 |
My love was like the snow, so fresh and crisp and new,
My love was like the morn, so cool and slick with dew,
I held her in my arms, and said never leave,
I held her in my arms, having nothing left to grieve.
I rose up all alone, without her by my side,
I rose to face the day, unable to stem the tide,
Of pain and loss and fading dreams so quickly blown away,
There's not one thing of hers I have, to make her echo stay.
She's resting on the hillside, beneath the flowering plum,
Where she can hear the children play, the songbirds gently hum,
There is no joy in my life now, no songs of passion play,
The lights of hope have all gone out, since she has passed away
|
output
| 1 | 894 |
The Batman dies. As a joke, (or possibly in honor of his long time adversary) the Joker decides to write a eulogy.
|
instruction
| 0 | 895 |
Did you know the Batman was my greatest inspiration? He was a lone man who changed the face of Gotham but he was beyond our understanding.
Maybe he did have a moral code, but he never chose fit to share that code with the rest of us. Sometimes he fought criminals, sometimes he didn’t. He allowed evil to live and fester rather than dirty his hands with a gun. He allowed poverty and degradation to run rampant in Gotham, destroying more lives than I ever could. Slowly and insidiously. All the while he flew through the air, armed with millions of dollars worth of gadgets.
His agenda was arbitrary and merciless. We never knew where he would strike. Who he would chose to save. So I salute you, dear departed Batman. May I bring to the streets of Gotham a fraction of the chaos that you did.
|
output
| 1 | 895 |
You’re sitting in a boring class trying to entertain yourself. You write random words on your notebook, and realize that the teacher is repeating them, confusing all your classmates. It seems like you found something fun to do!
|
instruction
| 0 | 896 |
My name is Jason Cullen. I’m a college student at UCF and this is how I became the most interesting man in the world
One day, I was sitting in class minding my own business when my teacher (let’s call him V) begins explaining arithmetic equations. I’m clueless about the subject so I begin writing “notes down”. “I hate this class” “how much weed could a weedchuck chug if a weedchuck could chug weed”. V rambles on as usual when all of the sudden he says “now, to solve this I hate this class.” The entire room looks up in confusion when he began a chanting in a horrified voice “HOW MUCH WEED COULD A WEEDCHUCK CHUG IF A WEECHUCK COULD CHUG WEED.”
I realize the connection, so I write down “I hear it’s amazing when the famous purple stuffed flap jaw worm with the tuning fork does a raw blink on Hari-Kiri rock. I need scissors! 61!” The teacher was about to excuse himself when I write “Oy lads gotta take a shite. See y’all in hell!” He was later fires for “his” actions. A victory in my book.
|
output
| 1 | 896 |
You are a galaxy renowned xenozoologist, and are determined to make accurate care guides for all of the pets of galactic citizens. Your current goal is to write a guide for the new pet that everyone's going crazy over: humans.
|
instruction
| 0 | 897 |
Humanity is a rather unique species, located in the Sol system, rather near the galaxy's edge.
At first, they seem almost delicate, unable to do anything on their own. This is true, to an extent- they have big bulky machines designed to protect them in vacuum and their bodies are essentially useless.
However, further investigation reveals 2 things.
1. By some cruel coincidence of nature, the human species evolved through a barbaric process known as 'survival of the fittest.' This means that any humans who were not optimized for their environment would die, so that only the best would pass on their genes.
2. Their origin world, Earth, compounds this due to its extremely harsh environment, with its proximity to the sun and slow rotation causing extreme day/night deviations in temperature, as well as animals on the surface inclined to consume other life forms.
Humans are known for their odd brain patterns, particularly their need to communicate with other humans, so if you're planning on keeping one, you should keep at least 5. They also need an extremely large space to roam around in, otherwise they will get very angry.
They also cannot go into stasis, so they need to be continually taken care of until their bodies decay beyond repair.
Humans have extremely specific dietary needs as well, so be cautious about feeding them.
The only 3 advantages I see to keeping humans as pets- advantages that only exist if they are taken care of completely correctly- are these:
1. They automatically produce small amounts of a delicious yellow liquid.
2. It's fun to observe their behavior, especially escape attempts.
3. If there is ever an intruder in your area, humans will quickly dismember them if set loose.
Humans also have a strong tendency to mate, so keep track of that.
|
output
| 1 | 897 |
Write a poem with a sense of isolation and detachment from the world around you.
|
instruction
| 0 | 898 |
Here is a poem with sense of isolation and detachment from the world around me.
I am an alien in a world of monsters.
Good hearted beasts infected by a plague of hatred and self obsession.
Creatures with kind souls being slowly absorbed by media fads and vanity.
Their eyes blink robotically while they plug into their devices
Taking in information as it suits their personal agendas.
Ignoring the things that they wish not to see.
Assuming that no one else feels the way they do.
I am an alien in a world of aliens
Who think everyone around them is a monster.
|
output
| 1 | 898 |
write a letter to that person who you wished had got back in touch (at least 3 year gap) (Lost contact due to any kind of change e.g quit social media/moved away/ etc
|
instruction
| 0 | 899 |
Dear [Name],
It's been a while since we last talked or even saw each other. I understand why. I know it was me, and my issues, that drove us apart. I wish I could take back the things I said, because you always deserved the best of me, even if you never got it.
I have been making progress in your absence.
I got back into school, and where before I was an abysmal student, now I am a semester away from graduating cum laude on my way towards grad school.
I've learned to keep things in perspective in terms of importance, and I've gotten better at dealing with stress.
I still think of you when I don't have enough to distract me. That may be how I've managed to focus so well in school - I have to in order to not miss you so much.
On occasions when I've had a particular success in life, I wonder what you'd say if I could tell you. Would you be proud of me? I don't know. But I like to think you would be.
I told myself I wouldn't pursue you after you left. I have no right to do so. I have had to accept that you will forever be the girl of my dreams, and the one that got away. But I still hold to hope.
You will always be the one who brought out the best of me. Even if it broke my heart to do it.
Always yours,
[Your Name]
|
output
| 1 | 899 |
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