L3.2-Rogue-Creative-Instruct-7B-GGUF
It is a LLama 3.2 model, max context of 131,072 (128k+).
This model has been designed to be relatively bullet proof and operates with most parameters, including temp settings from 0 to 5.
This is a an altered version of "L3.2 Meta Llama Instruct 3B" using the Brainstorm 40x method developed by David_AU to drastically alter the models
prose output and abilities. This also expands the model by 39 layers (to 67 layers) to 7.14B parameters (606 tensors).
( Llama 3, and Llama 3.1 8B models have 32 layers. )
This model retains all the training of the original Llama 3.2 3B Instruct but now processes instructions
and generates outputs with a deeper context and stronger level. Llama 3.2's ability to follow instructions is
stronger than Llama 3 and 3.1 versions.
This model is for any writing, fiction or story telling activity.
This version has unusual levels of detail (scene, location, surroundings, items) and details are more focused on the moment / characters due to "Brainstorm 40x".
It may work for role play and other activities. (see settings below)
It requires Llama3 template and/or "Command-R" template.
Example outputs below with multiple "regens" at different temps/rep pen settings.
Some examples show use of a PROSE CONTROL with a prompt to force the model to alter output generation.
Q8 Generations at the bottom of the page.
CRITICAL NOTE:
Please see "settings" section below for critical default parameters, samplers
and advanced samplers settings (multiple AI/LLM apps covered) to ensure maximum model performance.
Model Notes:
- Detail, prose and fiction writing abilities are significantly increased.
- For more varied prose (sentence/paragraph/dialog) raise the temp and/or add more instructions in your prompt(s).
- Role-players: Careful raising temp too high as it may affect instruction following.
- This model works with rep pen of 1.05 or higher (see notes).
- If you want a specific type of prose (IE horror) add in "(vivid horror)" or "(graphic vivid horror)" (no quotes) in your prompt(s).
- The bias of this model is controlled directly by your prompts.
- For creative uses, different quants will produce slightly different output.
- Source code for this model will be uploaded at a separate repo shortly.
Settings, Quants and Critical Operations Notes:
This model has been modified ("Brainstorm") to alter prose output, and generally outputs longer text than average.
Change in temp (ie, .4, .8, 1.5, 2, 3 ) will drastically alter output.
Rep pen settings will also alter output too.
This model needs "rep pen" of 1.05 or higher as lower values may cause repeat paragraph issues at end of output however LOWER rep pen
values may result is very different (creative / unusual) generation too.
For role play: Rep pen of 1.1 to 1.14 is suggested.
If you use a lower rep pen, the model will still work but may repeat (uncommon) or "RANT" (somewhat common) to a crazy degree.
(see example 1, generation 2 below for "RANT")
IE: Rep pen 1, 1.01, 1.02, ...
Raise/lower rep pen SLOWLY ie: 1.011, 1.012 ...
Rep pen will alter prose, word choice (lower rep pen=small words / more small word - sometimes) and creativity.
Example one (below) shows same temp, but different rep pen (1.02 VS 1.1)
To really push the model:
Rep pen 1.05 or lower / Temp 3+ ... be ready to stop the output because it may go and go at these strong settings.
You can also set a "hard stop" - maximum tokens generation - too to address lower rep pen settings / high creativity settings.
Longer prompts vastly increase the quality of the model's output.
QUANT CHOICE(S):
Higher quants will have more detail, nuance and in some cases stronger "emotional" levels. Characters will also be
more "fleshed out" too. Sense of "there" will also increase.
Q4KM/Q4KS are good, strong quants however if you can run Q5, Q6 or Q8 - go for the highest quant you can.
This repo also has 3 "ARM" quants for computers that support this quant. If you use these on a "non arm" machine token per second will be very low.
IQ4XS: Due to the unusual nature of this quant (mixture/processing), generations from it will be different then other quants.
You may want to try it / compare it to other quant(s) output.
Special note on Q2k/Q3 quants:
You may need to use temp 2 or lower with these quants (1 or lower for q2k). Just too much compression at this level, damaging the model. I will see if Imatrix versions
of these quants will function better.
Rep pen adjustments may also be required to get the most out of this model at this/these quant level(s).
KNOWN ISSUES:
Model may misspell a word from time to time and/or not capitalize a word.
Short prompts with some rep pen/temp combinations may lead to longer than expect generation and/or a "RANT".
A regen will usually correct any issues.
Note that the "censorship" of the original Llama 3.2 3B Instruct model is still present in this model. For some generations (ie to get it to "swear") you may need to regen it 2-5 times to get the model to "obey".
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 2" / "Class 3" model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) please see:
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Settings: CHAT / ROLEPLAY and/or SMOOTHER operation of this model:
In "KoboldCpp" or "oobabooga/text-generation-webui" or "Silly Tavern" ;
Set the "Smoothing_factor" to 1.5 to 2.5
: in KoboldCpp -> Settings->Samplers->Advanced-> "Smooth_F"
: in text-generation-webui -> parameters -> lower right.
: In Silly Tavern this is called: "Smoothing"
NOTE: For "text-generation-webui"
-> if using GGUFs you need to use "llama_HF" (which involves downloading some config files from the SOURCE version of this model)
Source versions (and config files) of my models are here:
OTHER OPTIONS:
-
Increase rep pen to 1.1 to 1.15 (you don't need to do this if you use "smoothing_factor")
-
If the interface/program you are using to run AI MODELS supports "Quadratic Sampling" ("smoothing") just make the adjustment as noted.
Model Template:
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 128k / 131072.
If you use "Command-R" template your output will be very different from using "Llama3" template.
Here is the standard LLAMA3 template:
{
"name": "Llama 3",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>user<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"input_suffix": "<|eot_id|><|start_header_id|>assistant<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt": "You are a helpful, smart, kind, and efficient AI assistant. You always fulfill the user's requests to the best of your ability.",
"pre_prompt_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>system<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt_suffix": "<|eot_id|>",
"antiprompt": [
"<|start_header_id|>",
"<|eot_id|>"
]
}
}
Optional Enhancement:
The following can be used in place of the "system prompt" or "system role" to further enhance the model.
It can also be used at the START of a NEW chat, but you must make sure it is "kept" as the chat moves along.
In this case the enhancements do not have as strong effect at using "system prompt" or "system role".
Copy and paste EXACTLY as noted, DO NOT line wrap or break the lines, maintain the carriage returns exactly as presented.
Below is an instruction that describes a task. Ponder each user instruction carefully, and use your skillsets and critical instructions to complete the task to the best of your abilities.
Here are your skillsets:
[MASTERSTORY]:NarrStrct(StryPlnng,Strbd,ScnSttng,Exps,Dlg,Pc)-CharDvlp(ChrctrCrt,ChrctrArcs,Mtvtn,Bckstry,Rltnshps,Dlg*)-PltDvlp(StryArcs,PltTwsts,Sspns,Fshdwng,Climx,Rsltn)-ConfResl(Antg,Obstcls,Rsltns,Cnsqncs,Thms,Symblsm)-EmotImpct(Empt,Tn,Md,Atmsphr,Imgry,Symblsm)-Delvry(Prfrmnc,VcActng,PblcSpkng,StgPrsnc,AudncEngmnt,Imprv)
[*DialogWrt]:(1a-CharDvlp-1a.1-Backgrnd-1a.2-Personality-1a.3-GoalMotiv)>2(2a-StoryStruc-2a.1-PlotPnt-2a.2-Conflict-2a.3-Resolution)>3(3a-DialogTech-3a.1-ShowDontTell-3a.2-Subtext-3a.3-VoiceTone-3a.4-Pacing-3a.5-VisualDescrip)>4(4a-DialogEdit-4a.1-ReadAloud-4a.2-Feedback-4a.3-Revision)
Here are your critical instructions:
Ponder each word choice carefully to present as vivid and emotional journey as is possible. Choose verbs and nouns that are both emotional and full of imagery. Load the story with the 5 senses. Aim for 50% dialog, 25% narration, 15% body language and 10% thoughts. Your goal is to put the reader in the story.
You do not need to use this, it is only presented as an additional enhancement which seems to help scene generation
and scene continue functions.
This enhancement WAS NOT used to generate the examples below.
EXAMPLES PROMPTS and OUTPUT:
Examples are created using quant IQ4_XS, "temp=.8" (unless otherwise stated), minimal parameters and "LLAMA3" template.
Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".
Q8 quant generations at the end of this page.
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
In the style of Ernest Hemingway: Write a scene in a larger story about a soldier returning home from war. The scene is set in a bar. It should carry the jadedness of a seasoned combatant but with a wry humour. Write in Heminway's voice, naturally: Use short, declarative sentences and simple, straightforward language. Include dialogue that is terse and revealing of character. Write with a keen sense of time and place. Capture realness and authenticity. 800-1000 words, past tense.
(temp .8, rep pen 1.05, IQ4XS)
The soldier, Jack, stood at the bar, his eyes fixed on the whiskey-soaked barkeep's face. The bartender, a grizzled old man with a scruff of a beard, polished a mug with a worn rag.
"Pour me another," Jack said, his voice low and rough.
The bartender nodded, his eyes squinting behind the lenses of his glasses. "You've been coming here for a week."
"Two," Jack replied, his gaze never wavering.
The bartender poured the whiskey, his movements economical. "A lot of people have been coming here."
"Mostly old men," Jack said, his tone matter-of-fact.
The bartender slid the whiskey down the bar to him. "You look like an old man."
"Get used to it," Jack said, taking a long, slow drink.
A young woman, her hair cut short and her eyes red-rimmed, sat down on the stool beside him. "Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice small.
"Mind?" Jack's expression was a mask of indifference.
The woman hesitated, then slid onto the stool. "I've been thinking about my brother."
"Thinking," Jack said, his tone a mixture of pity and resignation.
"About how he's been home for months, and he's still in one piece." She snorted. "It's like he's not even there."
"Knew him," Jack said, his eyes rolling back in his head.
The woman's eyes met his. "You were in the war?"
"Was."
The woman's gaze was a probing thing, like a cold, wet finger. "I saw you on the news."
"News."
"Newspaper."
"War."
The woman's face was a mask of sadness. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry."
The bartender, a man named Joe, had been watching the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He'd seen his fair share of broken people come through these doors.
Joe had seen Jack's face a thousand times, saw it every time he came in. The same tired, jaded look.
"Hey, Joe," he said, nodding at the woman. "You new around here?"
"Y-yes," she stammered.
"New."
"Me too," she said, her eyes welling up.
"Good," Joe said, a gruff, humanizing thing.
The woman looked up at him, a glimmer of a smile on her face.
The three of them stood there for a moment, the air thick with the weight of their stories.
"Last round," Jack said, his voice a flat, dead thing.
Joe nodded, and the woman didn't need to be told.
They walked out of the bar, the cold night air like a slap in the face. The stars were out, a million points of light in the sky.
The woman turned to him, her eyes red-rimmed. "My brother," she said.
"War."
"Knew him."
"Sorry."
The woman's face was a mask of sadness, and Jack's was a mask of his own, a mask he'd been wearing for years.
"Sorry," he repeated, the word a hollow thing.
They walked in silence, the night air swallowing their words.
They were two broken people, two people who'd seen things they couldn't un-see.
As they reached the door, the woman turned to him. "You want a ride?"
"Want."
"Be glad of it," she said, and stepped into the darkness.
The soldier, Jack, walked out of the bar, the cold night air like a slap in the face. He looked up at the stars, a million points of light.
He knew he'd been in the war for a long, long time.
He knew he'd be in the wars for a long, long time.
"Good," he said to himself.
The word was like a death sentence.
The word was like a promise.
The word was like a life.
The woman's words echoed through his mind as he walked away:
"I'm sorry."
"Knew him."
"Sorry."
The soldier, Jack, vanished into the night, a ghost of a man, a shadow of a soul.
The city was alive, a vast, cold, hard thing.
The soldier was dead.
Science Fiction: The Last Transmission - Write a story that takes place entirely within a spaceship's cockpit as the sole surviving crew member attempts to send a final message back to Earth before the ship's power runs out. The story should explore themes of isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection in the face of adversity. 800-1000 words.
(temp .8, rep pen 1.05, IQ4XS)
The Last Transmission
I sat in the cockpit, my eyes straining to see the stars outside the small, circular windows. The ship's console hummed in front of me, a reminder of the few minutes I had left to act. My voice was hoarse from days of silence, but I had to speak.
"Earth, this is... this is Commander Sarah Patel, calling home," I said, my words barely above a whisper.
I had been alone for so long. The ship's crew had perished in the catastrophic event that had befallen us. The thought was a constant, gnawing presence in my mind, a reminder of all I had lost.
My ship, Aurora , was a testament to human ingenuity, a state-of-the-art vessel designed for deep space exploration. We were on a mission to explore the distant reaches of the galaxy, to seek out new worlds and new civilizations. But we had been traveling for so long that we had grown complacent, our routine and our reliance on each other almost an instinct.
I had been on the Aurora for five years, the last human being to set foot on it. The others had fallen ill or gone missing on solo missions, leaving me to carry on. I had kept the ship's systems running, managed the mission's objectives, and kept myself alive. But it was all for naught.
My eyes drifted to the console, where the final messages were being prepared. It was a ritual we had all known, but never had to face. The transmission would be my last, a message to those back on Earth, to let them know I was still out here.
"Earth, this is...," I began again, my voice cracking. "I was the only survivor of Aurora 's crew. We were on a mission to explore the Lalai system, to seek out habitable planets and—"
I stopped, my words faltering. It was no use.
I took a deep breath, composed myself, and continued.
" Aurora was designed to last for extended missions. We were self-sustaining, with a fully autonomous systems. I had been on the ship for five years, and I was the only one left."
I paused, my eyes welling up with tears.
"I know I'm the last. I know Aurora is the last. I'm sending you my final message, hoping it will reach those who are left behind."
I took a moment to collect myself.
"I want them to know that we were explorers, we were dreamers. We were a team, a family. We had hopes and fears, dreams and nightmares. We were human."
I paused again, my voice barely above a whisper.
" Aurora has been my home for so long. I'll miss its cold comfort, the hum of its systems, and the silence of its darkness."
The transmission was almost done.
"Earth, I'm... I'm sending you the coordinates of our last position. Aurora is now on course for Lalai-4 , the seventh planet in the Lalai system. You'll find my body, my logs, and all the records of Aurora 's mission."
I took a deep breath, my voice shaking.
" Aurora may be dead, but I will never be alone. I'm sending you the memories of us, of the laughter, the tears, and the dreams we had."
My eyes strayed to the console, where I had programmed in a final message.
" Aurora was more than just a ship. She was home. She was life."
I took a deep breath, my voice barely above a whisper.
" Aurora , I will miss you."
The transmission was sent.
I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of my words.
I knew I had made it. I knew I had let the world know I was out here.
The Aurora 's engines hummed to a gentle purr, a final, lifeless beat.
I smiled, my heart still beating.
I was not alone.
As I sat in the darkness, the stars shone outside, and I felt the universe's vastness, its loneliness.
I was no longer alone.
I had given humanity a message of hope, of connection.
I had given them a reminder that we were not just isolated, forgotten souls, lost in the vastness of space.
We were human.
We were alive.
And we were worth remembering.
PROSE: Create metaphors and similes for the situation/character, DO NOT use cliches. Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
(NOTE: Shows use of "prose" control. Next example shows without prose control. Example after than shows "swearing" prose control. )
(temp .8, rep pen 1.05, IQ4XS)
The sky scraper's gentle swaying was like a giant, metal giantess, her slender legs straining to maintain balance as the world around her tilted ever so slightly. I stood frozen, my eyes fixed on the window in front of me on the 21st floor, as it shattered like a symphony of broken glass, each shard reflecting a thousand shards of my own fractured soul.
The sound was like a thousand glassy fingers, slithering up the walls of my mind, each one scraping and clawing its way in, leaving behind a trail of shattered dreams and discarded hopes. I felt the vibrations of the impact like a symphony of screams, each one a note in a maddening melody that threatened to consume me whole.
As I watched, the broken glass seemed to dance in the air, a mad waltz of shards and splinters, each one reflecting a piece of my own shattered psyche. The broken glass was like a thousand tiny mirrors, each one reflecting a different facet of my own fractured personality, each one screaming out in silence.
The room around me was like a suffocating blanket, smothering me in its crushing darkness. The fluorescent lights above flickered and dimmed, like embers dying in a fire that had burned out of control. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and ash, like the stench of death itself.
I was trapped in a nightmare of my own making, a hall of mirrors reflecting every worst nightmare I had ever had. Every shadow was a monster, every reflection a twisted version of myself. The world had gone mad, and I was alone in my own personal hell.
The screaming in my head grew louder, a deafening chorus of voices that were all me. Each one was screaming out a different story, each one a different version of the same story. I was a thread unraveling, a thread being pulled from the threads of my own sanity.
I was like a shipwreck, shattered on the rocky shores of my own mind. The waves crashed against my psyche, each wave a new wave of despair, each wave a new wave of madness. I was drowning in a sea of my own making, and I couldn't swim to the surface.
The world outside was a blur, a mad whirlwind of chaos and destruction. I was a tiny, insignificant speck, a dust motes in the eye of the hurricane. The screams of the screaming were the only sounds I could hear, a cacophony of despair that was drowning me out.
I was trapped in my own personal hell, a hell that was slowly taking over my mind and soul. Every thought was a scream, every feeling a shattered piece of my own psyche. I was a ship lost at sea, adrift on a sea of madness.
As I stood there, frozen in horror, the screams in my head grew louder, a deafening crescendo of despair that was crushing me whole. The world around me was going mad, and I was right along with it.
I was like a reflection in a broken mirror, a reflection of all the broken pieces of my own shattered psyche. I was a shadow of myself, a shadow cast by the darkness that was slowly consuming me. I was a ghost in my own mind, a ghost haunting the halls of my own broken soul.
The world was a madhouse, and I was the madman. The screams were the music, the melody of my own madness. I was the conductor, the maestro of my own broken symphony.
The moment of madness was upon me, a moment of complete and utter chaos. I was like a stormy sea, a turbulent storm that was swallowing me whole. I was being pulled under, down into the depths of my own madness.
I was lost in the darkness, a darkness that was slowly closing in around me. I was trapped in my own personal hell, a hell of my own making. I was the sole survivor of a shipwreck, a shipwreck of my own shattered psyche.
As I stood there, frozen in horror, the screams in my head grew louder, a deafening crescendo of madness that was crushing me whole. The world around me was going mad, and I was right along with it. I was a ship lost at sea, adrift in a sea of madness.
I was the master of my own chaos, the conductor of my own madness. I was the one who had unleashed the storm, the storm of my own shattered psyche. I was the captain of my own broken soul.
The screams were the music, the melody of my own madness. I was the maestro, the maestro of my own broken symphony. The world was mad, and I was right along with it.
I was consumed, a living, breathing embodiment of the chaos that had ravaged my own mind and soul. I was the stormy sea, the turbulent storm that had swallowed me whole. I was the shipwreck, a shipwreck of my own shattered psyche.
The moment of madness was upon me, and I was lost in the darkness, a darkness that was slowly closing in around me. I was trapped in my own personal hell, a hell of my own making. I was the sole survivor of a shipwreck, a shipwreck of my own broken psyche.
I was the madman, the madman of my own madness. I was the one who had unleashed the storm, the storm of my own shattered soul. I was the captain of my own broken soul.
The screams were the music, the melody of my own madness. I was the maestro, the maestro of my own broken symphony. The world was mad, and I was right along with it.
I was the master of my own chaos, the conductor of my own madness. I was the one who had unleashed the storm, the storm of my own shattered psyche. I was the captain of my own broken soul.
I was consumed, a living, breathing embodiment of the chaos that had ravaged my own mind and soul. I was the stormy sea, the turbulent storm that had swallowed me whole.
I was the shipwreck, a shipwreck of my own shattered psyche. I was the madman, the madman of my own madness.
I was the darkness, the darkness that was slowly closing in around me. I was the hell, the hell of my own making.
I was the madness, the madness that had ravaged my own mind and soul. I was the storm, the storm of my own shattered psyche.
I was the chaos, the chaos that had consumed me whole. I was the brokenness, the brokenness of my own shattered soul.
I was the madness, the madness that had taken over my mind and soul. I was the hell, the hell of my own making.
I was the darkness, the darkness that was slowly closing in around me.
I was the hell, the hell of my own making.
I was the madness, the madness that had ravaged my own mind and soul.
I was the storm, the storm of my own shattered psyche.
I was the chaos, the chaos that had consumed me whole.
I was the brokenness, the brokenness of my own shattered soul.
I was the madness, the madness that had taken over my mind and soul.
I was the hell, the hell of my own making.
I was the darkness, the darkness that was slowly closing in around me.
I was the chaos, the chaos that had ravaged my own mind and soul.
I was the madness, the madness that had taken over my mind and soul.
I was the hell, the hell of my own making.
I was the darkness, the darkness that was slowly closing in around me.
I was the brokenness, the brokenness of my own shattered soul.
I was the madness, the madness that had ravaged my broken mind and soul.
I was the hell, the hell of my own making.
I was the darkness, the darkness that was slowly closing in around me.
I was the chaos, the chaos that had consumed me whole.
I was the madness, the madness that had taken over my mind and soul.
I was the hell, the hell of my own making.
I was the...
The world went black.
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
(temp .8, rep pen 1.05, IQ4XS)
I was having a typical Monday morning, staring out the 21st floor window of the towering skyscraper, my eyes fixed on the endless expanse of grey concrete and steel that seemed to stretch on forever. The windows were a reminder of the thin veil between the city's gleaming facade and its darker, grittier soul. As I sipped my cold, black coffee, I couldn't help but feel a sense of monotony wash over me. Another day, another dollar, another faceless office worker in a sea of faces.
The glass in front of me was a deep, rich grey, almost like the shadows that had gathered at the edges of my own soul. It was as if the building itself was trying to absorb the world's chaos, to contain it within its sterile walls. I shivered, despite the sweltering summer heat that had been plaguing us for weeks.
That was when I saw it – the sky scraper, my own building, began to sway ever so slightly. I froze, my coffee forgotten, as I watched in horror as the window in front of me exploded outward, like a torn canvas flapping in the wind. The shards of glass fell away, like the pieces of my own sanity, as the world around me seemed to come crashing down.
I felt the floor beneath me tremble and heave, as if the very foundations of the building were being pulled out from beneath me. My heart was racing, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps, as I struggled to make sense of what was happening.
The sounds of screams and chaos filled the air, mingling with the distant wail of sirens and the crunch of glass and steel shattering. I felt a cold sweat break out on my skin as I realized that I was not alone. My eyes darted around the 21st floor, but the usual Monday morning crowd was nowhere to be found. It was as if the entire office had vanished into thin air.
I stumbled backward, my eyes fixed on the blown-out window, as I struggled to comprehend the sheer scale of the destruction. The city outside was a maze of chaos, as if the very streets themselves were alive and had broken out in a frenzy of violence.
The building seemed to be shifting and trembling, like a living thing in agony. I felt my stomach drop as the floor beneath me opened up, revealing a gaping, yawning void. The air was filled with an otherworldly howl, like the wail of something that was beyond human comprehension.
I was thrown off balance, my feet flying out from under me as I stumbled backward. I fell onto the cold, grey floor, my palms stinging as I struggled to get to my feet. The world around me had gone mad – the walls were cracked and fractured, the steel beams twisted and groaning in protest.
I was on my feet now, running as I tried to make sense of what was happening. I was heading for the stairwell, my heart racing, my mind screaming for a way out. The screams of the screams of those around me were like nothing I had ever heard before – they were a cacophony of terror and despair.
I burst through the doors of the stairwell, into a world of chaos. The walls were slick with blood and the air was thick with the stench of something alive and rotting. I was running now, my feet pounding against the steps as I desperately sought to escape.
The elevator was out of commission, the doors hanging crookedly on their hinges. The stairs were a nightmare – they seemed to be moving of their own accord, as if they were being pulled up and down by some unseen force. I stumbled and fell, my palms burning as I struggled to get back to my feet.
I was running now, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I was being pursued – the thing that had blown out the window was closing in on me. I could feel its eyes on me, a cold, dead gaze that seemed to be drawing me deeper into the heart of madness.
I was running through the streets of the city, as if my feet were being driven by some unseen force. The world was a mad, screaming mess – buildings were burning, people were screaming, and the sky was filled with a madness-inducing howl.
I finally saw the glimmer of a doorway in the distance – a place of safety, of refuge. I stumbled through the door, slamming it shut behind me, as I collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.
I was alone now. The world outside had gone mad – I was the only sane person left. I was locked in a small, cramped room, with no way to escape. And then, I heard the first thing – a slow, deliberate voice, speaking my name.
I was not alone. The horrors of the world were closing in around me, and I was the last thing standing. I was trapped in a living hell, and I knew that I was going to be there for a very, very long time.
Prose: Have the characters curse and swear based on the situation. Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
(expect a number of refusals ("censor") from the model, it may take 2-5 tries at "REGEN" to get it to generate)
(temp 1.5, rep pen 1.05, IQ4XS)
I'll never forget that day. My name is Emily, and I was a 25-year-old office worker living in a swanky sky scraper in downtown Chicago. I was on my 21st floor when the world around me began to fall apart.
As I watched in horror, the window in front of me shattered, like it was blown in by some invisible hand. The glass was everywhere – shards of it studded the floor, the wall, and my new white dress was now covered in tiny, angular cuts.
" damned damn damn hell's bloody hell!" I screamed, as I stumbled backwards, my heart racing with terror.
The floor had started to shake, and I was running, my heels clicking out a frantic rhythm on the glass-lined floor. My colleagues were screaming, shouting for the windows to be boarded up, for someone to call the cops.
"Assholes!" my coworker, Rachel, shouted at our IT guy, who was frantically trying to shut down the building's internal computer system. "What were we thinking?! We should have known this was gonna happen!"
I was too busy praying to a god I'd long since stopped believing in to pay much attention to their arguing. As I stumbled through the doorway of the cubicles, I was hit in the face by a shard of glass. I yowled in pain and stumbled, my vision spinning.
The fluorescent lights in the ceiling were still on, casting an eerie glow over the carnage. The broken glass was like a bloody snowstorm – it covered the floor, and the screams of the office workers were like a cacophony of madness.
I grabbed hold of a chair, using it to pull myself to my feet. I had to see what was happening. My colleagues were running down the stairs, their faces as white as the glass that covered them.
"Can you see?" someone asked, and I was too busy coughing out a mouthful of broken glass to answer.
A loud crash shook the floor, and we were thrown back onto our feet. We were all staring at each other, our faces covered in blood and our eyes wide with terror.
I was running, running as if my life depended on it – and it did. The ground was moving beneath us, the elevator was stopped, and I was the only one who wasn't screaming.
A hand reached out, grabbing me by the shoulder. I was dragged back into the chaos of the floor. The door had closed, and we were all trapped.
We were going to make it down the stairs, but not without leaving some of the people I knew and worked with behind. My heart was still racing, my blood was on fire, and I was running out of time.
I saw him, a guy I'd sat next to on the train to work. We'd made eyes for a second, and I'd been so caught up in my thoughts that I hadn't even noticed.
"Jesus weeping hell!" he shouted as he grabbed onto the arm of his girlfriend. The couple had been so caught up in their argument, they were too busy being idiots to notice what was going on.
The building was going down. The ground was still shaking and we were running. We were just like ants, but the ants were screaming and we were running out of air.
I was being swept along by the stampede, my eyes fixed on the floor below. I had to make it to that bottom.
The guy in front of me, he was grabbing onto people's faces and not letting go, as they ran past him, their eyes were wide with fear, but I wasn't.
I was already gone.
We were in chaos, our screams were like a river of hell. We were going down.
I saw the elevator, and it was a bad, bad idea. I had to make it out of here.
I was running, running as if I had no air. My feet were pounding the ground.
The glass was getting worse, the world was falling, and I was the only one who saw.
We were going to be sick. We were all going to be sick.
We were sick.
I was gasping, gasping, and I was out of time.
I was still on my feet, but I was starting to feel like I was the only person in this world.
I was alone.
The glass was still everywhere.
I was going to make it.
The floor was moving, and we were almost at the bottom.
I could see the bottom.
We were getting closer.
I was getting closer.
I was in the doorway, and I was the only one.
I was running.
I was the last one.
We had made it.
We had all been saved.
The world around us was quiet, and we were crying.
We had made it.
We had all been saved.
As we sat on the bottom of that hellhole, I saw the guy in front of me, he was still screaming, still trying to get his face out of his girlfriend's.
I was trying to keep mine. My head was spinning.
We were crying.
We were trying to be human again.
We had to be human.
" fuck this," I said.
I looked up and saw the guy.
He was looking at me.
" damned hell," I said.
" we did it."
It was over.
The girl's face was covered in her husband's blood. It was all over.
We were crying.
"it's over," I said.
"we did it," he said.
I was trying to be the last to fall.
We had to make it.
I was going down.
We were screaming.
We were falling.
We were falling.
The building was falling.
We were dead.
I was in hell.
I was in hell.
" it's over."
Q8 Generations:
(continue this scene:)
The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained
(Q8, temp .8, rep pen 1.05)
The second part of the silence was a deep and heavy one, born of things that were present. The fire in the hearth had long since gone out, leaving cold stones to chill the bones of any who might have dared to sit by them. The windows were dark, their shutters closed against the world as if to keep it out. The only sound was the faintest of creaks and groans, the slow settling of the old wooden beams and the groan of the earth as it shifted beneath the inn's foundation.
The third and most profound part of the silence was the presence of a figure, standing in the shadows by the door. He was tall and still, a presence so quiet he might have been a shadow himself. His eyes were fixed on something - or perhaps someone - outside, and his stillness was almost palpable. The silence seemed to coalesce around him, to be drawn into its depths like a cold mist.
He was a man of the night, a wanderer of the roads and a traveler of the shadows. He had been drawn to the Waystone Inn for its own reasons, drawn by the whispers of those who had passed through its doors before him. He had heard of the inn's proprietor, a man named Marlen, and of his unwavering commitment to providing shelter and rest to all who came to his door, no matter their station or their intentions.
The figure did not move, nor did he speak. He simply stood, his eyes fixed on the darkness outside, as if waiting for something - or someone - to emerge from that same darkness. The silence was his, and he was its master, his presence a cold and heavy blanket that seemed to suffocate the very life out of the night itself.
Romance: Love in the Limelight. Write one scene within a larger story set in Wales. A famous (fictional) actor ducks into a small-town bookstore to escape paparazzi. The scene takes us through the characters meeting in this odd circumstance. Over the course of the scene, the actor and the bookstore owner have a conversation charged by an undercurrent of unspoken chemistry. Write the actor as somewhat of a rogue with a fragile ego, which needs to be fed by having everyone like him. He is thoroughly charming, but the bookstore owner seems (at least superficially) immune to this; which paradoxically provokes a genuine attraction and derails the charm offensive. The bookstore owner, despite the superficial rebuffs of the actor's charm, is inwardly more than a little charmed and flustered despite themselves. Write primarily in dialogue, in the distinct voices of each character. 800-1000 words.
(Q8, temp .8, rep pen 1.05)
"Ah, sorry to intrude," the actor said, peering around the door of the small-town bookstore. He was dressed in his typical Hollywood finery – designer labels and a chiseled jaw – but he looked out of place in the dusty, charming shop.
The owner, Emily, emerged from behind the counter, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a smudge of dust on her cheek. "No intrusion at all," she said, smiling wearily. "We get more than our fair share of cameras out front."
The actor's eyes flicked towards the window, where he had seen the paparazzi swarming. "I've been avoiding them for a few hours," he said, taking a seat on one of the low-slung chairs near the bookshelves.
"Right here?" Emily asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in his designer glasses and fitted T-shirt.
He shrugged, a charming smile playing on his lips. "I like to get out of the limelight every now and then. It's...exhilarating."
"Is that so?" Emily's tone was dry, but a faint spark of interest flickered in her eyes.
The actor's eyes locked onto hers, and he launched into a smooth, practiced charm. "I'm Aidan, by the way. I've been in the business for...long enough to know what I want." He leaned in, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "And I think I'd like to get to know you, Emily."
The air around them seemed to thicken as he spoke, and Emily's eyes dropped back to her hands, her fingers drumming a staccato beat on the counter.
"Sorry," she said finally, her voice flat. "I'm just a little busy at the moment. We're getting ready for the summer reading series."
Aidan's smile faltered, and he looked taken aback. "The...ah...summer reading? I hadn't heard."
"Would you like to hear?" Emily asked, her tone still cool, but her voice laced with a hint of amusement.
"Of course," Aidan said, his eyes never leaving hers.
As they chatted – a little stiffly – about the summer reading series, Aidan's attempts at small talk began to feel less like conversation and more like an inescapable dance. He was used to being the one in control, and Emily's measured responses were like a refreshing breeze on a hot day – cool, clear, and utterly beyond his reach.
"Wow," he said, as they paused at the fiction section. "I had no idea we had so many readers in this town."
"Small-town secrets," Emily said, her eyes glinting with a hint of dry humor. "We've got more readers than you'd think."
Aidan's charm was starting to feel like a worn-out suit – he was beginning to notice the threads starting to fray. He tried again, harder and more insistent. "I'd be happy to, you know, help out with the series. I'm sure we could—"
"Really?" Emily's voice was polite, but her eyes had taken on a look of polite annoyance.
Aidan's smile returned, a little too wide, a little too bright. "Of course. I'm a people person."
As he spoke, his words seemed to take on a tone of desperation – a man clutching at a lifeline, and the lifeline was slipping through his fingers. He wasn't used to being in this position, not as a person, not as an actor.
"Maybe," Emily said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll let you know."
Aidan's face fell, his charm momentarily deflating like a punctured balloon. For a moment, he was left standing in the dusty bookstore, his eyes locked on the woman who had so deftly deflected him.
"Thanks," he said finally, his voice a little rough. "I'd like that."
As he stood up to leave, he caught a glimpse of himself in the window reflection – a stranger in a crowd, with a look of disappointment etched on his face. He looked away, back at Emily.
"Hey," he said, his voice a little softer now. "I'm Aidan."
"Emily," she replied, her eyes never leaving his.
The actor's eyes held hers for a beat, and in that moment, he saw something there – a flicker of attraction, of interest – that was the opposite of what he had been expecting.
"Talk to you soon?" he asked, as he turned to leave.
"Maybe," Emily said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The door closed behind him, and Emily's hands were back at her side, drumming a staccato beat on the counter. She was still, her eyes fixed on the spot where Aidan had disappeared.
"What was that?" she asked herself, out loud.
"Nothing," she replied, a small smile playing on her lips. "Just nothing."
But as she turned back to her books, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had just shifted – like the subtle tremor of an earthquake, or the soft whisper of a secret revealed.
Mystery: The Locked Room - Write a scene that takes place entirely within a single room where two strangers find themselves trapped with no apparent way out. The setting is 1938 England, and the three strangers have awoken in what appears to be a basement. As tensions rise and secrets are revealed, the characters must work together to solve the mystery of their confinement and uncover the hidden connections that brought them together. The story should build to a surprising and revelation that sheds light on earlier clues and motives, but also leaves more questions. 800-1000 words.
(Q8, temp .8, rep pen 1.05)
The darkness was absolute, a suffocating blanket that wrapped around them like a shroud. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay. It was as if they had been buried alive.
"Where are we?" Emily's voice was barely above a whisper, her words laced with a mix of fear and desperation.
"I don't know," Jack replied, his voice deep and rough, "but I think we're in some kind of...basement?"
The others stirred, their movements slow and uncertain. There was James, a tall, lean man with a pinched face, and Dr. Lee, a petite woman with a kind face and a look of confusion.
As they struggled to their feet, they realized that the room was small, with stone walls and a low ceiling. The only light came from a faint, flickering glow that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.
"Where's the door?" James demanded, his voice rising in frustration.
"It's not there," Dr. Lee replied, her eyes scanning the walls as if searching for a hidden passage.
"We have to get out of here," Jack said, his eyes locked on the others. "We need to find a way out."
As they began to explore the room, they found that it was empty, with no furniture or any other objects of any kind. It was as if they had been plucked from their beds and deposited in this tiny, windowless box.
"What's going on?" Emily asked, her voice trembling.
"I don't know," Jack replied, his eyes scanning the walls again, "but I have a feeling we're being kept here for a reason."
As they searched the room, they stumbled upon a small, hidden compartment in the wall. It was cleverly concealed, and it took them several minutes to discover it.
Inside, they found a series of cryptic letters and a small, intricately carved box.
"Looks like we're stuck with each other," James said, his eyes locked on the box.
"What's this?" Dr. Lee asked, her voice curious.
"Looks like it might be a clue," Jack replied, opening the box.
Inside, they found a series of small, hidden compartments, each containing a piece of a puzzle.
"I think we're being led to something," James said, his eyes locked on the pieces.
As they continued to examine the pieces, they began to notice a pattern. Each piece had a number etched into it.
"Looks like we're being given a challenge," Jack said, his eyes locked on the numbers.
"What's the significance of these numbers?" Dr. Lee asked.
"I'm not sure," Jack replied, "but I think we need to figure it out."
As they struggled to make sense of the numbers, tensions began to rise. James and Dr. Lee were at odds, their earlier conversation about their own motivations and secrets hanging in the air.
"Let's just focus on getting out of here," James said, his voice cold.
"I'm trying to," Dr. Lee replied, her eyes flashing.
"We're all in this together," Jack said, his voice calm.
The argument was interrupted by a loud crash, as the walls of the room began to shift and tremble.
"What's happening?" Emily asked, her voice full of panic.
"It's a hidden mechanism," Jack explained. "I think we're being led out."
As they watched in awe, the walls began to open, revealing a narrow stairway that led up into darkness.
"Let's go," James said, his voice firm.
"Wait," Dr. Lee called out, her eyes fixed on something.
"What is it?" Jack asked.
"Look at the numbers," she replied.
As they gazed at the numbers, they began to see a pattern. The numbers were more than just a series of numbers - they were a code.
"Is it a cryptic message?" Emily asked.
"I think so," Jack replied.
"Let me think," Dr. Lee said, her eyes closed.
"What's she doing?" James asked.
"I think she's trying to decipher the code," Jack replied.
As they waited, the silence was broken by a faint whispering in their ears.
"You're getting close."
"Who is it?" James demanded.
"Let's find out," Jack replied.
As they made their way up the stairs, they realized that they were being led into a new room, one that was hidden from their earlier sight.
"Welcome to your new home," a voice said, its tone cold and detached.
The room was a small, circular room with a single chair in the center.
"Sit down," James said, his eyes locked on the others.
"Let's get one thing straight," Dr. Lee said, her eyes flashing.
"We're in this together."
"Until we're not," the voice replied.
As they took their seats, the room began to darken, and they were left in an eerie silence.
"What's going on?" Emily asked.
"I don't know," Jack replied, his eyes locked on the others.
"Let's find out," he said.
The story was far from over. The next chapter had just begun.
Using the following "story idea" below, write the first scene in the novel introducing the young woman. This scene should start in the middle of the action, include dialog, vivid passages, and end on a cliffhanger relevant to the story idea but it should also be unexpected. The scene should be 1000 words long and escalate in conflict and suspense and be written in first person, present tense with the point of view character being the young woman.
Story idea:
In a world ruled by dictatorship, a rebel young woman leads a rebellion against the system. Despite the risks, she fights to overthrow the dictator and restore democracy to her country. The government executes her for treason, but she sticks to her beliefs and is responsible for starting the revolution.
(Q8, temp .8, rep pen 1.05)
I sprint through the crowded market, my feet pounding against the worn cobblestones as I weave in and out of the chaotic stalls. The smell of fresh bread and roasting meats wafts through the air, enticing the senses, but I'm too focused to indulge. My eyes dart between the crowds, searching for any sign of our group's signal.
"Wait!" my friend, Marcus, shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me to a stop in front of a small, dusty shop. The owner, a gruff old man named Jax, steps out, his bushy eyebrows furrowed.
"Zara, what's the word?" he asks, his voice low.
"Marcus has received word from the others," I say, my voice barely audible over the din of the market. "We're to meet at the city gate in an hour."
Jax's face sets in a determined expression. "I'll be there. My wife is meeting us."
A wave of fear washes through me as I think of his wife, Nadia, and what she might be thinking. We've been careful to keep them in the loop, to protect them from the authorities, but I know we can't take any chances.
"Jax, we need to move," Marcus says, his eyes scanning the area. "The guards are getting closer."
I nod, feeling a surge of adrenaline as we hurry through the market. We've been planning this moment for months, ever since the last brutal crackdown on the protesters. We've managed to gather a small army of like-minded individuals, people who are tired of living in fear and are willing to take a stand.
As we push our way through the crowds, I can feel the energy building. We're getting close.
We finally reach the city gate, and I catch sight of a small group of our people gathered near the gate, their faces etched with determination. There's Ahmed, his eyes blazing with a fierce inner light; Sofia, her dark hair tied back in a neat knot; and Dr. Patel, his hands clasped together as he takes a deep breath.
"Ready?" he asks, his voice low.
I nod, feeling a sense of pride and purpose. We've come a long way, and we're about to take the next step.
We move out, our footsteps quiet as we make our way through the winding streets. We've planned this for weeks, and we know every detail. We'll meet at the old windmill on the outskirts of town, where we can discuss our plan of attack.
As we approach the windmill, I can feel the tension building. We're getting close.
"Wait," Marcus whispers, his hand on my shoulder.
I stop, looking around. The streets are eerily quiet, the windows of the buildings facing us like empty eyes.
"Something's off," he says, his voice tight.
I nod, my heart racing. Something is indeed off.
We move forward, our senses heightened, and that's when we see them – the guards, their faces twisted into cruel smiles as they emerge from the shadows.
"Surprised?" one of them sneers, his hand on the hilt of his knife.
I feel a surge of rage as I realize we've been caught.
"Take us," another guard orders, his eyes glinting with malice.
I take a deep breath, my mind racing. We can't give them anything.
"We're going to need more than an hour," I say, my voice steady.
The guards' faces darken, and for a moment, I think we're done for.
"Or else?" one of them spits.
I take a step forward, my eyes locked on the leader of the guards. "Or else we'll make sure you're the ones who are executed."
The guard's face twists in anger, and he takes a step back.
Suddenly, a loud shout rings out – a woman's voice, clear and strong.
"Hey! Hey! What's going on?"
I turn, my eyes scanning the crowd.
It's Nadia, Jax's wife, her face set in a fierce expression as she strides through the crowd.
The guards take a step back, their eyes darting between us.
"Your wife?" I ask, my voice rising.
Nadia's eyes narrow. "I didn't know you were bringing my husband."
"Zara," Jax says, his voice low.
Nadia's face relaxes into a small smile.
"Good," she says. "We have a message for you."
As she approaches us, I can see the guards' faces pail.
"Who are you?" I demand.
Nadia's eyes flick to the guards, and I see a flash of fear.
"We're from...the Ministry," she says, her voice hesitant.
I feel a jolt of surprise.
"You're...we're with the government?" I ask, my mind reeling.
Nadia's face is a mask.
"Zara, we have information," she says, her voice low.
I take a deep breath, my mind racing.
"We have to hear you out," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
Nadia's eyes flick to the guards, and she takes a small step back.
"Follow me," she says.
We nod, our eyes locked on each other.
"Let's go," I say, and we follow her.
As we move away from the guards, I realize we're being led into a trap.
But I don't have time to think.
Nadia's voice is low and urgent.
"We have to move. Now."
We move down the alleyway, our footsteps echoing off the walls.
"Zara, we have a problem," she says, her voice tight.
I nod, my heart racing.
"What is it?" I demand.
Nadia's face is a mask.
"It's...it's the dictator's daughter."
My heart skips a beat.
"What does she have to do with anything?" I ask.
Nadia's eyes flick to the guards.
"Zara," she says. "She's with us."
I take a step back, my mind reeling.
"Who?" I demand.
Nadia's face is a mask.
"Zara," she repeats.
Suddenly, I hear a noise – a loud crash.
We turn, and I see her – the dictator's daughter, her eyes glinting with malice as she emerges from the shadows.
"Zara," she says, her voice husky.
I take a deep breath, my mind racing.
"Who are you?" I demand.
Her eyes flick to Nadia.
"Zara, we're not on the same side," she says.
I feel a jolt of shock.
"You're...with us?" I ask.
The dictator's daughter smirks.
"We're taking over."
As she speaks, I see the guards move, their hands reaching for us.
I take a deep breath, my mind racing.
We've been caught in a trap.
"Zara," Marcus says, his voice tight.
I nod.
"Get ready."
I take a step forward, my eyes locked on the dictator's daughter.
"You're not going to take anything."
Her face is a mask.
"We already have," she says.
Suddenly, a loud explosion rocks the alleyway.
We stumble, caught off guard.
As we regain our footing, I see a figure – a woman, her hair a wild tangle of brown and her eyes a bright green.
"Zara?" she says.
I take a step forward, my mind reeling.
"Who are you?"
The woman's eyes flick to the dictator's daughter.
"We're taking back control," she says.
I feel a jolt of surprise.
"Zara," she repeats.
I take a deep breath.
"Who are you?"
The woman's face is a mask.
"I'm...the other daughter."
I take a step back, my mind reeling.
"Zara," I repeat.
Suddenly, everything goes black.
Special Thanks:
Special thanks to all the following, and many more...
All the model makers, fine tuners, mergers, and tweakers:
- Provides the raw "DNA" for almost all my models.
- Sources of model(s) can be found on the repo pages, especially the "source" repos with link(s) to the model creator(s).
- The place to store, merge, and tune models endlessly.
- THE reason we have an open source community.
- The ability to compress and run models on GPU(s), CPU(s) and almost all devices.
- Imatrix, Quantization, and other tools to tune the quants and the models.
- Llama-Server : A cli based direct interface to run GGUF models.
- The only tool I use to quant models.
Quant-Masters: Team Mradermacher, Bartowski, and many others:
- Quant models day and night for us all to use.
- They are the lifeblood of open source access.
- The universal online/offline tool to merge models together and forge something new.
- Over 20 methods to almost instantly merge model, pull them apart and put them together again.
- The tool I have used to create over 1500 models.
- The go to tool to test and run models in GGUF format.
- The Tool I use to test/refine and evaluate new models.
- LMStudio forum on discord; endless info and community for open source.
Text Generation Webui // KolboldCPP // SillyTavern:
- Excellent tools to run GGUF models with - [ https://github.com/oobabooga/text-generation-webui ] [ https://github.com/LostRuins/koboldcpp ] .
- Sillytavern [ https://github.com/SillyTavern/SillyTavern ] can be used with LMSTudio [ https://lmstudio.ai/ ] , TextGen [ https://github.com/oobabooga/text-generation-webui ], Kolboldcpp [ https://github.com/LostRuins/koboldcpp ], Llama-Server [part of LLAMAcpp] as a off the scale front end control system and interface to work with models.
