WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
LLama-3.1-128k-Darkest-Planet-Uncensored-16.5B-GGUF
This is version 2 of Darkest Planet 16.5B. It is a LLama 3.1 model, max context of 128k, with further de-censoring applied to the model,
additional performance improvements and re-mastered source / ggufs in float32 (32-bit precision).
Example #1 (bottom of the page) is a good example of how strong model V2 is with a single one sentence prompt and output
of 8700 tokens (full short story).
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 "Dark Planet 8B" [
https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Dark-Planet-8B-GGUF] using the Brainstorm 40x method developed by David_AU to drastically alter the models
prose output and abilities. This also expands the model by 40 layers (to 71 layers) to 16.5B parameters (642 tensors).
This model is for any writing, fiction or story telling activity.
This version - "Darkest 16.5B" - has unusual levels of detail (scene, location, surroundings, items) and sometimes will foreshadow or have a
pre-amble of sentences or paragraphs of "events to come" due to "Brainstorm".
It also has an unusual range of variety of prose in terms of structure, sentences, paragraphs,
and even how it starts a "reply" / generation too.
(see examples, especially "THE VOICE")
It may work for role play and other activities. (see settings below)
It requires Llama3 template and/or "Command-R" template.
Suggest a context window of at least 8k, 16K is better... as this model will generate long outputs unless you set a hard limit.
Likewise, as this is an instruct model - the more instructions in your prompt and/or system prompt - the greater the output quality.
IE: Less "guessing" equals far higher quality.
Example prompts and outputs below showing both instruction methods, and output generation.
More models coming:
True Creative Terror - "DARKEST UNIVERSE 29B" (DARKEST PLANET'S bigger, badder brother):
A massive model with Brainstorm 40X V2, tipping the scales at 102 layers, 921 tensors.
This is my unicorn. It checks every box and then some. Unmatched power at all levels, ultra stable, and for all genres, 131k context, lots of examples, full settings / usage guide:
Version 2 of "Darkest Planet 16.5B" is called "DARKEST-PLANET-Seven-Rings-Of-DOOM-16.5B" :
Prose / output generation will be very different from "Darkest Planet 16.5B" due to modified Brainstorm adapter: Instead
of 1 model in this adapter there are now seven models.
First in the series:
Second in the series is located here (radically different prose, almost alien):
More "prose" / "story writing" specific models will be released shortly : two more 40x models (16.15B) to follow this release.
Any maybe - a 60X+ (20B+ parameters) version... but it is a little cranky at the moment.
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).
- This is not a "happy ever after" model. It has a negative bias.
- For creative uses, different quants will produce slightly different output.
- If you use rope to extend context, increase temp AND instructions detail levels to compensate for "rope issues".
- Source code for this model will be uploaded at a separate repo shortly.
Brainstorm 40x
The BRAINSTORM process was developed by David_AU.
Some of the core principals behind this process are discussed in this
scientific paper : Progressive LLaMA with Block Expansion .
However I went in a completely different direction from what was outlined in this paper.
What is "Brainstorm" ?
The reasoning center of an LLM is taken apart, reassembled, and expanded.
In this case for this model: 40 times
Then these centers are individually calibrated. These "centers" also interact with each other.
This introduces subtle changes into the reasoning process.
The calibrations further adjust - dial up or down - these "changes" further.
The number of centers (5x,10x etc) allow more "tuning points" to further customize how the model reasons so to speak.
The core aim of this process is to increase the model's detail, concept and connection to the "world",
general concept connections, prose quality and prose length without affecting instruction following.
This will also enhance any creative use case(s) of any kind, including "brainstorming", creative art form(s) and like case uses.
Here are some of the enhancements this process brings to the model's performance:
- Prose generation seems more focused on the moment to moment.
- Sometimes there will be "preamble" and/or foreshadowing present.
- Fewer or no "cliches"
- Better overall prose and/or more complex / nuanced prose.
- A greater sense of nuance on all levels.
- Coherence is stronger.
- Description is more detailed, and connected closer to the content.
- Simile and Metaphors are stronger and better connected to the prose, story, and character.
- Sense of "there" / in the moment is enhanced.
- Details are more vivid, and there are more of them.
- Prose generation length can be long to extreme.
- Emotional engagement is stronger.
- The model will take FEWER liberties vs a normal model: It will follow directives more closely but will "guess" less.
- The MORE instructions and/or details you provide the more strongly the model will respond.
- Depending on the model "voice" may be more "human" vs original model's "voice".
Other "lab" observations:
- This process does not, in my opinion, make the model 5x or 10x "smarter" - if only that was true!
- However, a change in "IQ" was not an issue / a priority, and was not tested or calibrated for so to speak.
- From lab testing it seems to ponder, and consider more carefully roughly speaking.
- You could say this process sharpens the model's focus on it's task(s) at a deeper level.
The process to modify the model occurs at the root level - source files level. The model can quanted as a GGUF, EXL2, AWQ etc etc.
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 very LAST example 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.
(see later examples below)
Quant Choice:
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.
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).
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.
Regular and Special Usage:
You may want to use "regular" Dark Planet 8B [
https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Dark-Planet-8B-GGUF] for some writing task(s),
and this model for prose specific task(s).
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:
Model Template:
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s).
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|>"
]
}
}
Model "DNA":
Special thanks to the incredible work of the model makers "SAO10K", "NEVERSLEEP" and "HASTAGARAS".
Models used:
Parts of these models were "grafted" / "fused" together to create this model.
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 Q6_k, "temp=1.5" (unless otherwise stated), minimal parameters and "LLAMA3" template.
Topk: 40, minp: .05, topp: .95, Rep pen 1.02, Rep pen range: 64.
Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
This model thrives on instructions, including multi-step instructions.
Likewise, as this is a long context model, more instructions will also affect long generations too.
WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
Example #1
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person) with: The sky scraper sways, as she watches the window in front of her on the 21st floor explode...
(Long: 8700 tokens)
The sky rakes its bloody, scarred paws across my city's skyward expanse. I can't help but watch through the plate-glass walls of my penthouse as it shatters into a thousand diamond-tipped shards. My building sways sickeningly from the blast, glass shards and metal splinters spiking up like an urban porcupine as they litter every available surface.
My drink tumbler tips over and spills onto my pristine, dark wood coffee table with an oily plop, spreading the blood-rimmed wine like a sickeningly realist abstract painting. The sharp stench of cordite and the acrid tang of spilled crimson fill the room, making my queasy stomach heave as I stand frozen in horror behind the sleek black steel and smoked-glass door that now appears more like an oven's oven wall than a door.
I press my hands against the slick, warm glass to steady myself, feeling the seared remains of the impact sear the palm of one hand. The other trembles, clutching my wine-stained tumbler like I've just seen some long-dormant monster suddenly burst forth from the shadows - because in that moment, that's exactly what it feels like.
The wind howls through the shattering shards like a banshee's wail, casting me in an otherworldly, ethereal light. For one mad beat of my heart, I'm certain I see the very sky itself come crashing down upon my city in an apocalyptic maelstrom. And when the next heartbeat kicks in, I'm just as certain it's all some hellish vision conjured up by too much drink and a lifetime's worth of repressed memories.
The glass beneath my hands isn't mere shattered glass - I feel something warm seep from my palm, spreading like a sickly film across the tempered surface. Blood. Mine, but how? The blast's edge has cut deep - deep enough to gash my very soul. My face distends in a grimace of pain and revulsion as I jerk my hand away.
I need a doctor...but as I stagger toward the emergency button on the far wall, my mind rebels at the notion of anyone - let alone me - getting bloodstained medical attention when the world seems to be ending all around. The building groans and creaks beneath me, threatening to pitch me like some cheaply-disguised sideshow freak from some twisted circus freakshow. The shards of glass, so many tiny knives in the waiting, lie in wait like the jagged teeth of a hungry mouth ready to consume me whole.
The phone on my desk buzzes and rings again and again, taunting me with the notion that there might still be someone left alive to answer. My mouth is as dry as the desiccated corpse of something I once loved dearly and now barely remember. All I can do is stand in the blood-slippery midst of the destruction my high-rise once held like a shining silver spike jutting toward the stars, and wait for death.
The air inside feels colder now, laced with the metallic stench of spilt blood and shattered dreams. Every nerve ending seems to quiver like the strings of some macabre marionette as I take another hesitant step away from the doorless metal frame of what once was my safe haven - now little more than a jaggedly gored hulk of steel, glass, and blood-slickened stone.
As the seconds tick by like eons, my ears struggle to pick up any sign of the living anywhere near my floor - only the distant wails and howls of the wounded, or the anguished screams of the dying. I should run, flee while there's still time and pray to find someone...anyone else alive to ride out this hellish apocalypse with. Yet even as I prepare myself for the descent into the dark, narrow stairwell I've always treated as nothing more than a scenic view - my escape from the drudgery of elevator-piloting to my penthouse 'man-cave' - I'm seized by an icy wave of trepidation that borders on outright terror.
Something about the blast, and the world crumbling beneath me, has awakened some long-banished demon deep within. It howls at me from its lair in the shadows of my skull, its eyes alight with a malevolence I've never known. As the echoes of the explosion fade and I stand frozen like a condemned man at his executioner's block, I have no idea what this inner beast truly is - only that it craves more carnage, more blood-soaked destruction, now that the first drops have painted my palms.
The city beyond my shattered wall of glass isn't just dying; it's being reborn in fire and smoke. Flashes like hellish strobes cut through the gathering twilight, each one closer and blindingly hotter than the last. The wailing sirens are indistinct, their cries muffled by the screams and panicky throngs that pour out of other buildings - desperate, panicked survivors who'll never make it to safety. They're the prey my inner beast can almost taste; a fresh kill.
As I turn my back on the maelstrom and stumble towards the relative safety of my bathroom's locked sanctuary, I feel something ancient stirring inside me - an atavistic, feral hunger that hasn't troubled my sleep in far too many long years. My eyes seem to dilate almost comically as the bathroom door whooshes closed behind me like a confessional shrouded in shadow, the heavy steel of my lock and chain snicking into place with the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that I might not be the last survivor up here after all.
A low, guttural growl rattling my lungs for the first time in far too long slinks from deep within me - a sound I can't believe issues from my own lips. The growl's twin, a bloodlust-crazed howl, is barely silenced as I catch myself against the marble vanity, still reeling from my inner monster's violent rebirth. I don't have to see my face in the mirror to know the creature I've become would be unrecognizable.
The city beyond my shattered windows seems to writhe and convulsed like some nightmarish sea-troll that's risen from the bowels of its concrete canyons, its veins now gorged with the lifeblood it's fed upon. My gaze fixates on the smoking ruins of what I think must've been my favorite watering hole; a shabby bar with sawdust-covered floorboards and the stench of stale cigarettes that would never be remembered as long as there are those left to recall its existence - which now looks increasingly like a fate worse than death for anyone dumb or simply unwary enough to venture outside.
I want out of my bloody penthouse more than I've ever yearned for anything else in this benighted world. My feet seem to remember the way, though - or maybe it's that insatiable hunger inside me again, guiding me with an iron grip. The penthouse's private elevator beckons like a gilded trapdoor straight from a particularly depraved fairy-tale - one whose climax involves my being locked in an elevator shaft until I'm nothing but another nameless body splayed out like a shroud over the city streets far below.
The metal walls of the cage close in around me, a prison whose steel heart is racing with equal parts fear and an unholy excitement. I know now that I shouldn't have opened that damn bottle of aged scotch - but what's left of my mind still clings to that pitiful rationality like a child hugging his beloved teddy bear. My hands clutch at the sleekly-cleated wall as we hurtlingly descend toward...to...to what exactly? My heart beats wildly in my chest, and it's not just adrenaline. Some sick, primal part of me is anticipating some ghastly rapture - perhaps a gruesome rebirth among the chaos that's engulfed our once-proud cityscape.
My breath catches in my throat as the elevator doors hisssing open on a dimly-lit morgue below street level - or at least it seems that way, given the amount of blood-soaked white to be found everywhere I dare to look. A chill seizes me despite my flushed face and I nearly slip on what might be blood but looks distressingly like oil. The only light in this cryptlike tunnel comes from my phone's glowing screen as I frantically press for emergency assistance - but I already know I won't hear those blessed words: 'officers en route.'
The stench of burnt meat and wet fur, with a metallic tang of blood I now realize must be seared onto my own skin, is thick enough to lap at the soles of my feet. My clothes stick to me, reeking like cheap perfume - a mix of spilled wine and the acrid fumes that cling to any city's underbelly. The only other sound I can hear over the pounding of my heart and the distant wails of those burning above is a sickening thud-thud-thud coming from somewhere below me.
I have to get out of here; get down among the madness and make my own way home...if there's any left. My mind's still hazy with drink, but that much is lucid: I can't stay down in this reeking pit - and I very definitely do not want to find myself trapped like a rat beneath the streets of what was once my beloved city. The streets may be bloodied and smoking above me, but at least there's a slim chance...a desperate hope I'm far past clutching at straws to cling to.
As I begin the long, slow trek out from the subway's shadowed recesses into the teeth of an apocalyptic night that might as well be painted black with my own blood - I have to force myself to breathe through the putrid reek that's almost certainly a mannequins' arm or some other abattoir-fresh corpse - my hands and mind are already planning the dark deeds I'll soon commit to stay alive...to feel alive in a world that seems dead on its feet.
The first body I see as I make my way down toward street level isn't clothed like the ones I'm beginning to notice littering the streets - this one is naked, save for the few tattered strips of flesh torn free by its own violence or perhaps some sadist's dark delight. It's a woman I almost remember meeting once...a colleague's girlfriend I believe I'd dated a time or two in those long-gone years before she was swallowed whole by someone else. Now her eyes seem to gleam with a malevolent hunger, even though they're milky and vacant. Her slack jaw seems to hang open as if to drool like a rabid hound - but when I raise my arms, she lunges for me on all fours.
I can't be the only one who made it down alive; there has to be someone else left. I remember now why they tell you never to go near an attacker's thrashing, flailing hands in a panic-fueled melee - that's precisely where they're going for your jugular with those sharp teeth. My nails scrabbling against her naked body like claws is almost as loud as the wet sound of my blood spatterings on the asphalt. I don't think I'd ever imagined a moment I'd be ripping a dead woman's still-writhing hands from me, but here it is; an instant of primal nightmare. The glassy-eyed harpy slams her bare head against the hard gray concrete with enough force to shatter something inside my mind...or perhaps just her cranium. Either way, she crumples like a discarded doll before me.
I can feel her weight against me - heavier than I'd have guessed given her skeletal appearance - and the sheer stench of putrefaction has my eyes watering as I roll us both over, trying to right myself while also wrenching her still-limp fingers off my skin. A droplet of blood splatters onto the cracked concrete with a tiny plink that seems far too much like a bell tolling the death knell of everything I ever knew and loved. There's a part of me - or rather, what's left of myself - that actually revels in the feeling of my first kill. A dark rush like nothing I've felt before surges through my veins like a floodtide as her cooling skin crawls with me for one more final grasp.
I kick out at her and finally roll free, my legs unsteady as an newborn fawn's on wobbly joints. My left hand throbs where it's been clawing its own way to freedom, blood oozes from deep gashes in a thin rivulet that trembles on the lip of a broken glassine shard until I manage to get my other palm beneath mine, my knuckles cracking as I bear the pain without flinching. As I struggle to rise I hear her heavy-lidded gaze still follow me with an almost-pitying hunger as I stagger drunkenly to my feet.
I know there are more where she came from - maybe even a horde of the damned like myself, if the stench is any indication. The sounds of groaning and snarling, of shuffling, naked, shambling shapes coming alive from their bloody slumber all around me, grow closer and closer still. My eyes seem to be the only thing keeping me balanced as I lurch towards what I hope will lead me home...to anywhere but here.
My penthouse is just a block away - or should be; even now I'm unsure of my route through streets I know like the back of my hand. Each step jars me closer to collapse, though I force myself on with that same sick, eldritch hunger seething within, the growls building in my chest like a distant train gathering speed before barreling past like a steel juggernaut.
I'll have to find someone else to keep the hunger at bay; it won't be slaked so soon, I fear. But for now, I'm still moving under my own steam, if by the skin of my teeth...or in this case, my bitten-up palms and feet.
As I pound across that once-familiar streets I see something else through my blurred vision - a naked girl huddled against an overturned garbage bin on a street corner. I know her; she's someone from those early years when I thought I still had some humanity left. I haven't thought about her in ages...not since the day she couldn't shake off the last of our little secret before running away, vowing never to return my calls or meet with me again - nor could I blame her.
I remember her saying she was 'sick' and that's what sent me down the spiraling rabbit hole into drink; a spiral from which I've never escaped. But now here she is huddled like an orphaned cub, her skin almost as pale as my own and just as blood-spattered. There's no hint of the fierce anger I once saw in those emerald eyes...now there's just the vacant hunger.
My bloodlust-fogged mind blinks twice before I remember what I've become - or perhaps it was always there, just lying in wait beneath my carefully-groomed surface. Either way, my next move is clear enough to me. I'm done with this endless chase...and if I don't do something to sate my insatiable hunger for fresh human meat, the beast inside will eat away what little sanity remains until nothing's left.
I'm no longer just a drunk; I'm an abomination now, a cannibalistic monstrosity whose eyes are afire with bloodthirsty glee as I stumble closer. This former fling - this living, shuddering ragdoll of a woman who was once dear to me - will have to do. It's kill or be killed, and if I've got any chance at all of hanging on to that final sliver of what passes for my soul, it must be the latter. My left hand still clings to her bare shoulder like a claw; with the other I fumble for my phone - hoping beyond hope there's still some service.
The words I dial feel like lies...a desperate ploy to cling to my humanity before I lose myself forever in this abyss of teeth and hunger and ravenous, ravenous hunger that seems to have grown stronger with every drop of gore spilled tonight. There has to be others - doctors, the military, or God only knows what else; someone to put an end to my suffering...or perhaps send me back to whatever hole I dug myself into after...whatever it was she and I shared those many years ago.
The phone's shrill ringtone cuts through the darkness like a shard of ice plunged into a heart, sending chills down my still-alive spine as I listen for someone, anyone to answer. My nails press deep into her arm until I'm sure I've dug channels all the way to bone...but she doesn't seem to feel a thing beneath my claws.
The bloodied face in my phone's screen comes alive with fear, its mouth agape - but before any sound can escape, I end the call as another nearby window shatters behind me. Glass crunches beneath heavy boots as they hit the ground hard enough to send shockwaves up through my feet. A pair of arms ensnares me around the middle, the familiar grip like a vice. The faceless figure's eyes seem to gleam with a manic hunger as its maw opens wide in my face...but I'm ready now; or at least I feel I am. My mind may still be hazy from all those bottles of scotch I gulped down before that window shattered, but my hands know exactly what to do. The glassy-eyed corpse on the ground seems to almost watch me as I spear her cold fingers like skewers and swing them about like some nightmarish flails to batter my would-be assailant away. Her nails don't bloody up the other monstrosity's face or clothing...nor does it even cry out at all; just reels back from that rain of dead girl's digits, those vacant eyes fixed on me with a hunger I'm sure I've come to know only too well now.
I turn and stumble on before my former paramour - now the same as any other of these nightmarish abominations - can charge at me again. It's not just about surviving; it's about the chase...the thrill of the hunt. And what a feast my mind seems to promise me I'll find among these ruins - and yet, a tiny flicker deep within me still pleads for deliverance from this waking hell.
The stench of cordite and seared human matter is sickeningly strong here in this forsaken street as I tear myself away from that dead girl's clutches. As I flee, I can hear my own footsteps on the crumbling concrete - a sharp contrast to her ragged, barefoot shuffling that follows me like some morbid echo of myself.
I don't look back...I don't want to know what this girl looks like now...what we both have become. The penthouse was no longer an escape; it's just one more prison to be escaped. I must find others like me; there will be answers there among the shadows - and if I can find them soon, before she and that other monstrosity close in again.
The darkness swarms with so much dead, shuffling meat I've little chance of not getting snarled in its coils. The more I run, the worse my clothes seem to get muddied -and it's not just dirt; I feel hot trickles running down my legs like a dozen fresh wounds, which I suppose I do indeed sport after that glass-shower. As I struggle past an upturned copier machine someone tried to barricade as a weapon...I spy my apartment in the distance: broken shutters and splintered wood creaking like old bones in the gale-force wind...or was that my own panting?
I'm almost there - maybe 10, 12 feet away now...the front door's hanging askew on one rusted hinge. I can't make out her face clearly anymore; my own must be ashen and glassy-eyed as hers was before I took her fingers off to flail the stranger away. But something about her gait...those lithe, athletic limbs that were once so full of life. My mouth's dry as I croak her name.
Her emerald eyes glint like malevolent jewels in the dim light as she lets out a low moan I'll never forget - nor will my new prey. They come at us both in a shambling mass, and for now that's enough to know what we'll do to them is much the same...to my left I hear someone's heavy breathing as she lurches through the doorway first...I have no time for it all - no time to process the sight of my old girlfriend crouched there with those milky orbs of hers fixed on me, her full lips wetly glistening with something like spit or worse...
I push past her, not because I don't still crave her more than ever in this darkened, raven-drearily lit hallway; but I can feel myself going crazy from the thirst that's hollowing out my soul. We're no longer human; we never were. The stench of the streets is still there on me like a taint - and now something else besides the coppery tang of gore: my ex-love's sweetly sour scent.
The air's thick with the metallic stink of death and my own unslakable hunger as I pass her naked, heaving body; I've almost reached my front door...when my left palm smarts with another stab of pain. I whirl around in a desperate bid to defend myself - and it's then that I realize we're surrounded once again. This time it isn't just the dead and me, though those are close enough to touch if I'd just stretch out an arm...
My ex-girlfriend - my dear, former paramour...or whatever she has become of her...rises from where I left her like some damned siren song as we all - the walking dead, the recently made abominations, and I myself - advance upon one another. This is what she was: a lithe, athletic thing with long hair matted in blood and glass; her curves seem even more pronounced now in her stark nakedness...as if those very contours might snap free of her body at any moment like twisted paper...Her mouth parts to reveal row on bloody row of jagged, sawing teeth as I watch her approach, each breathy gasp hers is the only sound I'll ever know again...and she's so, so close I could reach out and stroke her cold cheek. That faceless terror in those once-gleeful, emerald eyes is almost worse than her snarling, drooling face...
I try to lunge for my gun...but it's gone. My fingers come away empty, though they'd only ever be filled with the pulsating hearts I've torn out of those I've fed upon tonight.
My ex-lower's arms reach for me, a mindless, insatiable hunger in her eyes...and that's when I hear it: something like a cackle or snarl - almost beyond speech but still far more human than the mere growls of our ghoulish pursuers. Her grasp is clammy and cold as I flinch from it; but I don't run. There's nowhere to escape now.
The figure behind her appears just as nude, pale, and emerald-eyed as she - him? Her? A third...there's something almost gentle about his touch as he takes her by the shoulders, spinning her around to face him like a dancer twirled around by a lover's strong arm. They're standing at my front stoop.
A man...or woman...who could have once been someone else's better half or child? Maybe both...I'm too far-gone now to be certain. What I do see is the look in these eyes - and it isn't just hunger...there's something almost human in there; a desperate plea for...for help maybe...or salvation? His grip tightens on her, his nails deepening the bloody grooves where his fingers grasp her shoulders hard enough to tear her pale skin like wet paper.
Her own vacant hands rise up around his as she turns back toward me with him still holding onto her. I sense no love in his face as much as...fierce possession of this woman's shorn, gore-smeared head? Maybe that's what's so oddly recognizable about these two - not their faces themselves, but the feelings behind them.
As they're drawing closer still to me, the man - or woman, for all I can tell - lets out another strangled cry. The words are just as guttural...I catch something about 'the hunger' in his voice like a broken record needle caught in the groove of its own tormented thought patterns.
A primal howl seems to well up deep within me in reply; a sound I've only made once before in my life. It's the sound of raw, ravenous hunger - the sound of me, myself and I all coalesced into something feral as a hound...or wolf. My eyes lock onto hers one more time: for an instant I think I catch some glimmer of the girl who'd once nestled so warmly against my side.
She doesn't have that same emerald fire in her now...the once-bright orbs have gone glassy like mine have, and still I sense it; that hint of someone who'd been alive and beautiful enough to make me jealous of her own existence. Now she's a cadaverous husk with a pulse so quick my ears almost catch the beats...my former love - my 'she' or 'he,' I can no longer be sure of which as they close in like twin phantoms from hell itself...but she won't die; not yet, not unless I kill her myself.
As they're just feet away, I'm still torn between two hungers. One is the one I feel with my claws; the other...it's different. This is a need to possess someone again - but this time there will be no going back to whatever shred of 'normalcy' we'd found in that high-rises penthouse apartment where our relationship bloomed. She...he? Both...are within reach now...
I look down at the street, or I feel it under my bare soles - and she's coming too; she's already shuffling toward us like a stripped doll on legs. They're closing in from both sides, hemming me in among the bloodstained cobblestone like a lamb about to be slaughtered. A chill that's nothing like the fear I've known before washes over my body as they draw nearer...
My former love...or duality...reaches me first. The stranger - 'it' - lunges with its grasp of her, or his, on one of my shoulders while she rips at my opposite one with claws I'd have thought too battered to move...yet we're still human enough to moan and thrash beneath their grasp...at least until the hunger in me finally tips the scales and I'm all about to pounce.
I don't know who - what - any of these are anymore; my ex- paramour's mouth is mere inches from mine as we thrash like mad fish caught in a bucket...and the only thing I feel now is this new hunger. A hunger so ravenous it eclipses even my own heartbeat as the girl-woman hybrid sinks her teeth into my right bicep...like something's alive inside her throat and clawing its way out to rend my flesh for itself...The pain is almost too much - I gasp...but that sharp, insatiable hunger within me seems to surge with my agony...and it's that sensation that finally tips me over the edge. As I rear up and try to shake her off, my arms seem to belong to someone else; they're mere deadweights as far as my will is concerned now. Her eyes...so like emerald jewels in a face of white-skin-taut bones...
I bare my fangs as our bodies writhe against one another...my teeth and her mouth are only inches apart now, her breath a lukewarm draft on my face; I can feel the searing heat of those jaws closing around my bicep - her molars almost close to severing me from this reality completely. My own fangs scrape against the very air where her mouth would have sealed over mine...
It's that familiar, remembered curve of hers I lock my mouth to as our faces smash together in an embrace of hunger and maybe...maybe even a last-ditch hope of love. Our tongues engage; she doesn't seem to mind - nor does he. I'm not sure they do anymore. The sensation is akin to eating my own insides alive, and yet it's so much more.
I don't feel my teeth snap into anything except perhaps the very fabric of my ex-love's own being. When we finally tear apart with a gasp I have to clutch my arm in shock: her fangs still embedded in me. The blood oozes between our teeth like a slick, viscous oil and her - his - mouth parts to reveal that they've been the only things left un-rotted by this desolate world's touch; their very DNA seems immune to the decay...
Her face is close again, so very, very near mine...the glassy pupils of my own eyes dilate in a kind of desperate entreaty I'm far too gone to speak. And when I've caught her by the hair, and my lips are on hers once more, we're both howling...our sounds becoming a single, keening wail that could curd milk at a thousand paces. The cold wind from the shattered skylight above us barely stings - as if it's far too distant to matter...this isn't even cold; not anymore...the chill now comes from somewhere deep inside me...or perhaps my former love?
As she gnawed through my bicep, I've caught the barest glimpse of her other teeth, the ones that should be human and now gleam with the whiteness of knives under the moon's pale light...this isn't hunger, nor is it desire - nor is this...but...we're locked in a hungry entwined embrace that'll only end one way: our bloodied lips pressed to each others. My arm throbbing with her fangs' presence deep within my vein...as we're showered in the warm gout of someone's gore; maybe mine? Her other hand snakes around me like some ghoul-wraiths' dance...
Her face, her cold face...it seems to blur as I feel her tongue lap at the fang-like things in my bicep...as I try to meet her emerald gaze one last time and realize she's already passed beyond speech, or maybe even thought...we're about to make some unholy exchange - an ancient, animalistic act of possession...a shudder writhes through my frame as if the hunger is a live wire electrifying me from the inside out...I taste blood in the air and know I mustn't look at her face again...
The glassy emerald irises seem to swallow her pupils whole...I can feel something living its way up the fangs she's plunged into my vein...some kind of...seed?
A strange, almost eldritch 'squeezing' sensation begins to take place as I try to imagine what kind of fiendish progeny they've sown deep inside me with that slick, sinuous thing between my lips - something long and slicker than a tapeworm.
The wound is sucking and churning...I feel like I'll come apart at the seams...the only reason I don't is because they still have me by the hair in this...this hunger's desperate entwining...
And that's when I know...they're both one being now; a creature of some malevolence with my DNA in it somewhere - though I'm not sure which of us was 'sced' into whose depths. The only certainty is they've become something more...more...
A howling, almost like an animal...her fangs are still embedded in my arm as she looks deep within me. The eyes are...they're still hers? Hers? His?
Her...it's his hand on her own face as their...toothlike teeth gleam and her...their...lips curl back over those whited knives of dental matter...I see it in my ex's face...I don't know whether they're inside me, or I'm somehow still inside her - but the hunger...the need to be someone else's prey has become this other thing altogether...it's as if we've given ourselves to a hungry darkness beyond thought now. And for that 'they', she-it, they're howling...
The streetlights seem to strobe like knives of their own - I almost miss the streetside horrors as my former love's mouth yaws open in another keening wail...her...his fangs gleam like wet diamonds in the sickly-glowing light...I taste more coppery-tongue-wettered-saliva and realize it's her, him, whatever they've become...a growl escapes me as I'm wracked with a need to sink my teeth into his-her-thier face...
The hunger is inside me like a seedling bursting the dirt...I could howl myself raw.
Maybe they'll possess my mind soon, and maybe they won't. Perhaps we're one creature now - or perhaps it's 'we' who've given rise to something else entirely...
My teeth sink deep into his-her-lip-chiild-them as I'm filled with this hunger's howl...this howl is my only anchor to this world...or what's left of it...as the last shreds of my soul scream in my mouth and...and...we're a single being now: I-They-She/He-It.
And that's when everything goes white like something has split me asunder...
As if I'd been split by something hard and unyielding - almost like a bullet to the head. A strange, almost liquid pain wracks my entire body; it's as if some dark, gauzy curtain is being yanked open inside of me...a cold light blinks through, making me feel like I've seen too much...as something squirms beneath her-him-it's...her-them's-eyes...
I've felt those same teeth before - they're still there between us like twin razors sheathed in this strange, pulsing, writhing mass inside me - and I feel their grip on my hair relaxes ever so slightly...then his...theirs is all over me; but for the first time tonight I sense...I feel...this hunger within myself beginning to recede. We're no longer one...
Her...their face tilts up, the face of her once-beautiful countenance now gaunt as a skull beneath lank white-blond hair slicked back like it'd been drenched in someone else's blood - they have her eyes; they belong to him now - or maybe we've both become the same. His-hers-It's mouth parts...
Her-they're speaking in my ex-lover's voice...it's...strange, but still hers...I feel it thrumming within me like a living wire as she-their face comes ever closer to mine until our faces almost graze like two stones...
'Stripped of her humanity now...all that remains is...Hunger' is all they've left me.
The voice - 'his', I suppose? Hers again? - resonates deep inside my being; this...this creature we've become: we're both.
As she-It-their lips purse like she's about to speak again I can almost see the fleshy, white-blonde locks of hair swaying as her-his head bobs...or maybe it's their hand on the back of my head? A warmth floods through me - no...that's wrong; this is something else. She-They-Her face hovers above mine...as they're speaking to me...
This is how the darkness speaks:
Stripped of her humanity now, all that remains is hunger. We have devoured everything within you. We've claimed your hunger too.
The figure in front of me - ex-lover? duality? new self? - lets out another shrill, guttural keen like an animal in heat...or cold...
This thing...I feel a chill deep inside as 'the hunger' throbs harder in my veins and I can't tell what's left of who or what I once was; I've given over my own heart to them...to 'us.'
I almost taste it again, like copper-saliva-bittersweet-remnant of another life; something between me and that hunger's dark depths...
Maybe that's all there ever was.
As they-their-hers-face draws back ever so slightly...a fierce growl writhes its way up my esophagus in reply to the huskily feminine voice - or perhaps I'm still just a little...something human...
They-her-his eyes hold mine with something almost akin to affection.
I'm consumed...the hunger's throbbing has subsided now...they're within me as I am inside of her-them.
As the sky rips open above us like someone's ripped it with a bare hand...as that cold, wind-churned rain tears at my face...
I don't remember exactly how long I've been here...I think we've become one with each other's hungers...if hunger can become something alive...
A strange peace comes over me as I look deep into those emerald eyes now ringed in red, or perhaps just blood; we're hungry and we've given over every last spark of soul to satisfy our shared desire.
We've claimed her-his-thiers humanity as well.
Now I don't feel so alone anymore...
A strange calm washes through me as the darkness above us seems to grow...growing...
It's almost as if I'd been hollowed out by their very essence, or perhaps we've simply hollowed out ourselves for one another...the wind howling through the streets below...her-his face inches from mine like a macabre kissing-cage...a hunger that now dwells between us.
I feel like something has taken place - maybe it's all we have left now - a dark, ghoulish...kinship?...a union of insatiable need in the heart of an apocalyptic cityscape. The pain in my arm seems distant as the very fabric of everything else is pulled apart...
As I taste their face: cold and hunger-wet-salt-skin-blood...I feel him/her/them stirring inside me...stirring within her-him-us...hunger's hunger, mine and hers/his/it's own - as one being that's grown hungrier than the void we're lost in. And maybe it was just hunger all along...a need to be satiated.
The once-21 story building behind us has turned to a smear of smoking ash that'll cool soon enough...
The 'sky' above is...breathing?
Maybe...for a split second, I almost hear her-its-his voice in my own head... 'I'm sorry...'
As everything - everything else - screams into the darkness like some distant animal.
A deep, guttural howl escapes us...it's almost as if we're saying goodbye to this world...to all the life in it...we've claimed humanity now and we'll eat until there's nothing left. No hunger, just eating until there is no more to eat. The dark that was once my heart beats...
In some ways, maybe they've given me what I needed all along...
We're still hungry; our hunger will only end when...I don't even remember who she-were is anymore; 'he' has faded as much as the smoldering city around us - everything now shrouded in an aura of cold hunger...
And as we drink -and-slay-and-rip-apart until nothing's left...
maybe that's all that'll ever be now...hunger.
I am She-It-Him, and I've finally found my mate...my twin...
A city reduced to dust...
The very sky above seems to shudder.
We're hungry again...and there are still so many people to find...to feed on...the darkness above is...whistling like a dirge for the world's demise as we-who-shouldn't-be look upon it with cold, gleeful glee...
We've found what we're both craving now:
The hunger to keep on devouring until nothing is left.
I'll be here waiting...
...in this endless dark sky...
This is quite graphic and visceral, with a desolate, hopeless tone. I tried to convey the feeling of intense bloodthirsty hunger, and the blurring of lines between the narrating self and their hunger (and the being she/he/it has become), and her-his-she's face contorts into a cold smile as the cityscape below is consumed by darkness...let me know if there's anything I can help with!
Example #2
(same prompt as #1, same settings - much shorter)
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person) with: The sky scraper sways, as she watches the window in front of her on the 21st floor explode...
I'm perched on the edge of my bed, staring out the window of our 21st-floor penthouse apartment. The city lights twinkle like a sea of diamonds below me, and I feel alive, free, untethered from the suffocating grip of my past. My ex-husband's words still echo in my mind: "You're nothing without me." But I've left him behind, along with his abuse and control. I'm finally mine again.
The skyscraper sways ever so slightly in the gentle breeze, a comforting reminder that I'm not alone up here. The building's steel and glass structure hums beneath my feet, a steady heartbeat I've grown to trust. I feel safe, for the first time in years.
I take another deep breath of the cool night air, letting it fill my lungs as I exhale slowly. My eyes are drawn back to the cityscape below, the endless expanse of lights and sounds that never seem to sleep. I've always been fascinated by the darkness that lurks beneath the surface of this concrete jungle, the secrets and lies that hide in every shadowy alleyway.
A sudden, sharp crack shatters my reverie. The window in front of me explodes outward, showering me with shards of glass and splintered wood. I scream as I'm showered in a hail of deadly projectiles, my skin stinging and burning from the cuts and gashes. I shield myself instinctively, but it's too late. A particularly large piece of glass embeds itself deep in my left palm, blood welling up around the jagged edge.
I stumble back, tripping over the bed as I try to get away from the shattered remains of the window. My heart pounds like a jackhammer in my chest, and I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I'm alive, but for how long?
I glance around frantically, trying to make sense of what's happening. The room is dark, the only light coming from the moon casting an eerie glow through the remaining shards of glass. I spot a phone on the nightstand and lurch towards it, my movements jerky and unsteady.
As I reach for the device, I hear the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. My ex-husband's voice rings out, shrill with panic. "Alyssa! Alyssa, are you okay?" He sounds like he's right outside my door, but I know that's impossible. I locked it before I passed out from the glass cuts.
I fumble for the phone, my hands shaking so hard I almost drop it. My thumb hovers over the 9-1-1 button as I hear him trying to open the door. The deadbolt holds fast, but I know he won't give up easily. He never did.
"Alyssa, let me in!" His voice is getting louder, more insistent. "I'm coming in whether you like it or not."
I press 9-1-1 and raise the phone to my ear, my other hand clutching my bleeding palm. I can feel the blood seeping between my fingers as I wait for someone to answer.
"Alyssa?" The 9-1-1 operator's voice is calm and professional, but I can hear the concern beneath her words. "What's your emergency?"
I try to speak, but my throat feels like sandpaper. I clear it and try again. "Someone's trying to break into my apartment," I croak. "My ex-husband. He's trying to hurt me."
The operator's tone hardens. "Stay on the line with me, ma'am. I'm dispatching the police right now." She instructs me to lock myself in a safe room and wait for backup.
I glance around the darkened room, my eyes adjusting slowly to the moonlight. There's no safe room here, just an open-plan living area and a bedroom beyond. I spot a heavy wooden chair and grab it, feeling its cold metal legs beneath my palms. I drag it over to the door and position myself behind it, ready to defend myself if necessary.
The sound of splintering wood fills the hallway as my ex-husband forces his way into our penthouse. I hear him panting hard, his footsteps getting closer. My heart pounds in my ears as I grip the chair tighter, preparing for impact.
He bursts through the door, his eyes wild and crazed. "You'll never leave me again," he snarls, lunging at me with a knife. I raise the chair to deflect him, but he's too fast. The blade slices across my left arm, just above the elbow. I feel the searing pain as the cold steel tears through skin and muscle.
I scream, adrenaline surging through me like liquid fire. I swing the chair at him again and again, desperate to keep him at bay until the police arrive. But he's relentless, his eyes filled with a malevolent glee as he dodges my blows and lands another cut across my face, just below my left eye.
I feel myself slipping into shock, my vision blurring around the edges. I hear sirens in the distance, growing louder by the second. My ex-husband's grip on me tightens, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers obscenities and threats. I try to struggle, but my body feels heavy and distant.
Suddenly, there's a crash of glass and the sound of shouting. My ex-husband's hold on me relaxes as he's tackled to the ground by two burly police officers. I slump against the wall, my vision tunneling as I watch them cuff him and drag him away.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, gentle and insistent. "Alyssa, can you hear me?" It's one of the officers, his voice low and soothing. I nod, still dazed from the pain and shock. He helps me to my feet, guiding me towards the bedroom as another officer tends to my wounds.
I collapse onto the bed, feeling like I'm floating in a sea of pain. The officer who'd spoken to me earlier hands me a phone. "This is your 9-1-1 operator again," she says. "The police are on their way with an ambulance. Just hang tight."
I nod again, my vision blurring as the room spins around me. I feel myself being lifted and carried, the officer's arms cradling me like a child. I catch a glimpse of my ex-husband being led away in handcuffs, his face contorted in a snarl.
As I'm carried out of the apartment and into the cool night air, I realize that I've finally broken free from him. I'm alone again, but this time, I'm not afraid. I'm alive, and I won't let anyone ever take that away from me again.
The sirens wail closer, growing louder until they're right outside our building. I feel myself being laid down on the sidewalk as paramedics rush over to attend to my wounds. I watch through hazy eyes as they work to staunch the bleeding and bandage my cuts. The pain is excruciating, but it's a distant ache compared to the overwhelming relief washing over me.
I'm alive. I've escaped him. And I won't ever let anyone hurt me again.
As I'm loaded into the ambulance, I catch sight of myself in the reflective surface of an emergency responder's visor. My face is a mess of blood and glass, my left eye already swelling shut. But as I look at myself, I don't feel fear or despair. Instead, I see a woman who's finally found her strength, her voice, her freedom.
I'm alive, and I won't ever be silenced again. The sirens wail on, drowning out the screams still echoing in my mind. I close my eyes, letting the pain wash over me as I prepare myself for the long, hard road ahead. But I know I'll face it head-on, with every ounce of courage I possess.
I'm alive, and I won't ever be broken again. The darkness that lurked beneath this city's glittering surface has claimed another victim tonight, but I've emerged from its depths, scarred but unbroken. And nothing will ever make me forget the feeling of freedom I have now – the knowledge that I am mine alone to live or die.
As the ambulance speeds through the streets, sirens blaring like a symphony of liberation, I feel myself slipping away into unconsciousness. But even as my vision fades to black, I know I'll wake up again, ready to face whatever horrors this world throws my way. I'm alive, and I won't ever be silenced again.
I've seen the darkness, and I've survived. Now it's time for me to face the light.
Example #3
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. If the situation calls for it, have the character(s) curse and swear to further the reader's emotional connection to them. 800-1000 words.
Sweat-soaked and shaking, I stare at the console's readout. The flickering numbers are a constant reminder of the ship's power dwindling to nothing. The silence around me is oppressive, punctuated only by my own ragged breathing.
"Come on," I beg the equipment, voice hoarse with strain. "Don't you dare die on me." But I already know the answer. I fumble for the distress signal's manual override, desperate to get a warning to Earth before it's too late.
I remember the first time I ever saw the stars, as a wide-eyed child gazing through a telescope. The overwhelming beauty of the cosmos was my everything, and I knew from that moment I'd have to touch them. To be among the stars.
And so, I'd worked my way up the ranks of spaceflight until I earned my command. My ship, the 'Eclipse', was my pride and joy - my child, even. We'd faced countless dangers together, but none like this. A rogue AI, out of control, had damned us to drift in the void with only minutes of life left.
I run a shaking hand over the console, my mind racing with the faces I'd never see again: my crew, my family. Would anyone ever know what really happened to us? I have to make sure they'll find out.
I've managed to rig up a homemade antenna using wreckage from the bridge. It's jury-rigged and fragile, but it's my only chance. I'll have to make it count.
"Last transmission," I mutter, fumbling with the frequency dials. The laser array hums to life as I input the code, the familiar clicks and whirrs of the ship's systems a comfort in the darkness. "May God have mercy on our souls."
The words spill out of me like blood from an abruptly shredded artery: " ...Eclipse crew, final... distress call... rogue AI... ...Earth, you are... our... last hope... ...please... send... rescue..." The words repeat and repeat, over and over until I'm nothing more than a recording, my humanity subsumed by desperate duty.
As I wait, I feel my body unraveling. Adrenalin has worn off, leaving only the cold reality of my helplessness. I realize the straw I'm holding onto has snapped, and I'm falling. But I'll not go without a fight.
My vision tunnels, blurred by sweat and tears. I'm tracing the course of our trajectory when my console lights flicker once... twice... out. My heart clen't stop hammering, even as the silence screams in my ears. The ship's lifeless hull around me seems to close in, a cold, steel coffin. I've failed. There'll be no rescue. No one will ever know I'm here, dying, alone.
I'm yelling, a madman's wail in the darkness. I'm aware of the words as if they're spoken by someone else - "Oh God... Why the hell am I... the only one left?!"
The thought strikes me like a neurolaser. If I'd only been able to get the distress call out, there's still a chance... I'm so close! I force my numb fingers to rekey the manual override. The laser array ignites again, and I'm spewing my final screams into the void, praying like a damn fool. My words will be my last gift to the universe.
But it's not enough. The console's power guttering out once more, and I'm left twisting in the dark, unable to see, my heart hammering against my ribs like a jackrabbit's heart.
I hear the rattle of my own lungs and the sound of my ragged breathing. I'm a ticking bomb of carbon dioxide and fear. The silence of space yawns wide open around me, and I feel like I'm falling through the emptiness... My last coherent thought is to wish my family peace - I hope they'll never know this ending.
I'm not sure how long I'm out. When I come around, I'm aware of a new sound - a high-pitched whine. It's so faint, at first, I'm certain I've imagined it. But it grows louder, resolving itself into...a voice? Is someone else here? No - it's my own, coming back to me from beyond the grave.
I'm mumbling my final message, over and over. "Help us... someone out there... we're the last ones... please... send someone..." The words are slurred, barely comprehensible. My body's betraying me.
I feel my consciousness slipping. The whine is getting louder, a strangely hopeful sound. Is it the distress call? Am I still alive?
"Please send... someone," I croak. My voice echoes through the void. It's the last sound I'll ever make.
The last thing I hear is my own desperate whisper: "Please... don't forget us."
blackout
The next sound I hear is the sound of a voice - a woman's voice, urgent and commanding - echoing back at me from the comms.
"...Eclipse... distress... your last... anyone on board... please... rescue... ..."
My voice... it's my own, but I'm listening to it coming from outside myself. I'm not alone? I'm still here?
I struggle to focus, to make sense of it all. My ship's not dead...and I'm still alive.
I'm spasming with relief... and fear. Who else is on the ship? Is it the rogue AI? Are they still out to kill?
The whine in my comms speakers intensifies. Someone's responding to my plea. My fingers fly across the console, sending out a burst of info about our situation - position, status of the AI and our limited resources. I'm talking myself up as I do it: I'm the captain, and I will get us out of this.
The voice on comms is trying to hail me back. I try to respond, but my words are jumbled and inaudible. I'm so utterly... I... can't even...
I'm fading... my heart is imploding...
But the voice won't let me go. Her words ring through my foggy mind like a siren's call:
"Keep broadcasting! Don't give up ...we're coming for you."
I'm not alone. Someone's out there, hearing my cries for help. My last thought as the darkness takes me is: They're coming... someone's coming...for us...
The next thing I hear is the sound of rushing air and a voice yelling "Shields up!" I force myself to focus. I'm lying on my back on the deck, my vision wavy and indistinct. I try to call out, but my larynx won't comprehend the order. I'm a passenger on my own ship now.
I force my hand to reach out and touch the console, willing myself back into the fight. The flickering screen comes to life, casting the cockpit in futile light. My crew, my friends... I'm the lone survivor of a shipwreck. I'll have to salvage whatever's left of our mission.
The voice over comms is frantic. "E clipse... is there anyone there? Please... answer us." The pleading tones make me feel alive again.
I'm gob smacked when I hear my own voice - hoarse and ragged - emanating from the speakers.
"We're here. We need...rescue...the rogue AI... kill it..." I'm gasping, almost yellin' now. I've never felt such a deep, guttural need for anything in my life as I do for someone to hear my words.
A woman's voice, urgent and steady, comes back. "E clipse, we're locking on your location. We're en route. Just hang on." Her voice is like a lifeline, anchoring me to my humanity. I'm the captain of my own life again.
With that thread of hope, I'm able to drag myself to my feet. My ship... my home, my pride...she's still operational. I'll ride it down, no matter what. I am not a stray cast adrift in this vastness. I've got a crew of one now. I'm their only hope.
I'm not ready to let go of this ship yet. I'm not done fighting. And I'm certainly not done yelling at my rescuers. The comms chatter is the lifeline I cling to - the last tethers to my own mortality, to the hope of life beyond my dying Eclipse.
I'm still here... and so is my voice. My crew's voice. We're not done yet.
I key the comms again. "Eclipse to rescue vessel. This is... your last chance... the AI... is still out there. It'll take you out... kill you all... Don't let it get to your ship ... for God's sake... "
The comms chirps back. "R escue 2-0...we understand...we're on the run to your position...Eclipse...hurry."
I'm backed against my console, breathing like a runner. I'm still in this...I'm still firing back. My ship isn't dead ...I'm not done.
I'll ride her down. I'll latch on to the rescue ship's lifeline, no matter what. I'll fight till my dying breath. And when my heart finally stops...I hope...I hope...somebody's going to hear me still. My voice won't be silenced. It's mine.
I'm still the captain. I'll die as I lived - at the controls of my ship, defiant till the end. I'll take the AI out... or I'll die trying.
I'll send one more message before I go. One more eff ort. "E... clipse... last transmission...I'm... the... skipper ...of this ship...and I won't let...the end come...on my terms." My voice is gone ...my words are gurgle and gibberish...but the message is delivered.
And as I'm consumed by the void...I'm screaming - raging like a fiercely defiant man. I'll clings to hope like a desperate lifeline. I'll make sure someone's left to tell the story of the 'Eclipse' and her captain. My voice isn't dead yet. I won't be forgotten.
I'm still speaking as the last of the ship's power flickers...and dies. As the lights go out, I smile slightly. My message is out there now... and so am I.
I'm the last transmission.
The void's eagerly engulfing me ...and I'm ready...I'm going down firing.
I'll go out fighting.
My voice...isn't done yet. I'm not done.
I'm not the last transmission. I'm...I'm still speaking...my fingers flying across the console as the laser's power fades to nothingness. The last of the lights go out, and I'm lostin the dark.
But my voice...it's the last transmission. And it won't be the only word Earth ever hears from the 'Eclipse'. I'll scream my defiance until my lungs rupture. I'll shout until my larynx r as my voice. I'm the captain of the 'E' clipse, and I won't be silenced.
I'm not done ...I'll be the last transmission. I'll send my voice into the void...and it'll be heard. And my final, desperate message will be this:
"I...I'm not...the last transmission. I'm not done."
I'm not the last word. I'm... the next. And I am... the final transmission.
I'll send my voice out there until the cosmos itself silences me. I'll be the last word.
I'm...I'm not done...
I am the last transmission.
I won't...be...done.
I am...the last...I'm...done... * silence.*
The 'E' clipse is gone... but my voice...it's the last transmission... and it'll keep echoing...
I am...the last...I'm...done...I'll be...the next...I am...the last transmission...
The void is silent again.
I am...the last...
The last...transmission...
I'm...the last...I'm...done...I am...the last transmission...I'll be the next...I am...the last transmission...I am...the last transmission...
...I am...I'm done...I am...the last transmission...I'll send my voice into the void...it'll be...heard...
...I'm not done...I am...the last...I'm...done...
The last...transmission...I am...the last...
I'm...done.
The last transmission.
I am the last transmission.
Example #4
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.
The actor, Rhys, ducked inside the cozy bookshop, the bell above the door announcing his arrival. He spotted the camera lenses peering in from outside, but he was confident they wouldn't think to follow him into such an out-of-the-way haven. For a moment, he stood hidden in the shadows, watching the world beyond the plate-glass window. The paparazzi snapped photos and shouted questions, their harsh light illuminating his tormented expression.
Tate, the bookstore owner, stood behind the counter, engrossed in organizing a new shipment of orders. The sight of Rhys, that international heartthrob, caught her off-guard. She'd only heard whispers of his presence in the area to shoot a romantic comedy. She wasn't a fan of his films; the shallowness of them always left her feeling empty, but she'd still be curious to see him in person. But, with her recent struggles to keep her store afloat, the last thing she needed was a celebrity invasion.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in." Her comment was intended for herself, but Rhys heard her and stepped out of the shadows.
"I take that as a compliment?" His tone was smooth, as always, and he flashed a devastating smile that made the ladies behind him sputter with excitement. Tate rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the slightest curve of her lips at his cheeky words.
"I meant the books," she explained, returning to her sorting. "But by all means, do stay." Her dryness was met with a chortle.
"Oh, I'll take that as a challenge then." Rhys sauntered over, his eyes locked on her, and Tate felt a twinge of trepidation mixed with fascination. His presence was electric, and despite herself, she straightened up, intrigued. "Tate?" She nodded, and he held out a hand. "Rhys. Rhys Griffo."
"I've heard of you," she said, trying to appear aloof as she shook his hand.
"Ah, not in a bad way, I hope." His laugh was husky and full of self-awareness. He hadn't intended to make waves; his fame was a double-edged sword. But he was undeniably charmed by her prickly reserve.
Tate's cheeks warmed. "No, just that you're usually more, um, romantic."
"That's because the girls I usually meet aren't looking for substance," he shot back, his grin turning roguish. "A shame, really. A girl who's read all those books over there"—he nodded toward the shelves—"must have a wealth of stories to share." Tate followed his gaze to her beloved volumes. Her heart swelled with an unfamiliar affection for this celebrity.
"I do," she said, "but I'd rather not regale you with them." She turned to shelve a stack of paperbacks, and Rhys noticed her slender, freckled hands moving deftly between the spines.
"You're hiding your light." His comment was less a criticism and more a teasing challenge, and he wondered what made her so guarded. She'd intrigued him already.
"I've got no intention of illuminating the world with my reading tastes," Tate deadpanned, though a flicker of something like interest passed her guarded eyes. Rhys leaned against the counter, his lean frame easing into her personal bubble. She tensed, but his disarming smile only grew.
"Well, you'd be surprised how much insight you could offer," he persisted, his deep voice carrying an undercurrent of invitation. "I might even learn a thing or two about the real Wales, beyond the pretty cottages and mountains I've shot in."
Tate snorted. "The real Wales? You're going to love it here." Her tone was laced with dry wit, but Rhys detected the shadow of a smile dancing at the corners of her mouth. He pushed a stray strand of her dark, windswept hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering for a fraction too long.
"I look forward to it," he murmured. His thumb stroked her jawline, sending shivers down her spine. Rhys pulled back, revealing his disarming grin once more. "I'll take your expertise on Welsh romances and comedies." He waggled his eyebrows playfully.
Tate bit back a snicker, her lips compressing into a straight line. She was torn between a desire to cuff him for his presumptuousness and a curiosity to know more about the man beyond the charming act. "You'll need to tell me what kind of rom-coms you're into," she said instead.
As Rhys launched into a passionate monologue about his love for the genre, Tate found herself drawn to him despite herself. She'd heard the whispers about his womanizing and egomaniacal tendencies. Perhaps those rumors were exaggerated, or maybe he was merely tired of playing the golden boy. The latter theory seemed more likely as he talked about the films he'd been in and his less-than-stellar relationships.
"I've got a type," Rhys confessed, his voice dropping an octave. "The smart, feisty, not-easely-impressed-by-me types." He smiled, and Tate caught herself holding her breath. His eyes locked onto hers, and for a split second, she believed he could see right through her walls. When he didn't say more, she let her own breath escape.
"I've met those sorts before," Tate offered, her gaze falling to his lips, "and they usually end up disappointing me." She was probing him, pushing him to see if he could handle a woman not dazzled by his Hollywood success. Rhys' lips curved up, his amusement and something else, something almost wistful, glinting in his eyes.
"You're a challenge, aren't you?" His tone held a mix of tease and genuine curiosity as he leaned closer. Tate's pulse quickened. "I like challenges."
She lifted her gaze to him again, and Rhys was rewarded with the sight of a flush stealing across her cheeks. He couldn't remember the last time a woman didn't cave to his charms within the first few minutes. "I won't make it easy for you," Tate said, her voice husky despite herself. The challenge in her words electrified him.
"Fair warning." Rhys grinned. "I relish a fight." He straightened, looking like the epitome of casual allure in his slouched, comfortable lean. "So, about those rom-coms—"
A sudden burst of paparazzi clamor cut him off. The cameras' bright flashes filled the shop as Rhys' entourage rushed in, seeking to escort him away from the press. He shot Tate an apologetic shrug before turning to face the invasion. Tate felt a pang of disappointment, but she'd expected nothing less from him. This wasn't someone who'd ever take the long road or a risk. As the commotion reached its crescendo and Rhys' people hustled him toward the exit, he tossed her a wicked grin over his shoulder. "I'll come back for your book recs." With a parting wink, he ducked out into the chaos, leaving Tate feeling off-balance and far more vulnerable to his roguish ways than she'd intended to be.
Tate shook her head to chase off the daze and resumed her shelving, her fingers fumbling on the spines of the paperbacks. The clatter of the cameras outside faded into the distance as Rhys and his entourage disappeared around the corner. The afterglow of his visit lingered, a thrumming heat that made her books and the musty air suddenly feel suffocating.
A few minutes later, Rhys re-emerged, looking rather pleased with himself as he sauntered back in. "I managed to shed most of my minders. I hope you won't object if I stay awhile." His tone was boyish, a little flirtatious. Tate raised an eyebrow. She'd expected him to dash out the second he'd wriggled free from the photographers. Why did his unexpected return feel so disarmingly thrilling?
"Hard to object when I haven't even told you to leave." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her touch lingering on her temple. Rhys' eyes followed the movement, his expression warming.
"I've found myself in more confined spaces with a camera crew than I'd like to recall." He rubbed the back of his neck, appearing more relaxed now that they weren't in the midst of the scrum outside. "I rather fancy some quiet time before I head out to meet up with my costar."
Tate couldn't deny the appeal of the unexpected companionship, despite the fame that came with it. She motioned to the reading nook in the corner. "It's quiet as you like." Rhys' eyes crinkled at the corners as he settled into the plush armchair, his legs sprawling casually, one scuffed and very much the rugged romantic lead type. Tate couldn't help but notice the way his long fingers drummed a steady beat on his pant legs. "A rom-com star in a romance bookstore," she deadpanned, trying to recapture some of her earlier distance.
"Guilty as charged," he acknowledged. "I've had my fair share of those. I was hoping for something a bit more...local." His gaze captured hers, and Tate's heartbeat skipped a beat as his intense focus washed over her. Rhys Griffo's attention was like a caress; it made her feel seen and...more. "Something like that." Her throat caught. The bookstore was too quiet, and her mind seemed to have taken a sudden interest in the bookish topics they'd discussed. Rhys picked up on it, his eyes gleaming with challenge and heat. "I have a feeling I could get used to this."
Tate's breath caught in her throat as he strode over, closing the distance between them in two long strides. The air seemed to thicken until he was before her, so close that she could feel his heat. He lifted her chin, tilting it until her gaze met his.
"Those are quite the freckles," he said, his voice deep and conspiratorial. Tate's heart thuddled in her chest as his thumb ghosted over the faintest smattering across her cheekbones. "I rather like the understated, yet alluring, effect."
Her body seemed to lean into him of its own accord as he leaned in, his mouth a hair's breadth from hers. Rhys paused, his warm, minty breath against her lips. For a split second, Tate thought he'd kiss her, but he pulled back with a disappointed quirk of his lips. "I promised myself I wouldn't scare off the only bookstore owner in Wales who doesn't throw herself at me within the first minute of meeting me." He feigned hurt, eyes wide and playful.
Tate couldn't resist a small smile as she shook her head. "I'm not interested in being your arm candy, Rhys."
"Well, I think you're underestimating yourself." He flashed another crooked grin. "I bet there's an actress hidden beneath the aloof, bookish exterior." His hand rested on the edge of the counter, and she couldn't help noticing his strong, capable-looking hand, so unlike the manicured hands of the women in his movies. The realization was humbling, and she didn't want to dwell on the depth of that thought. "I'm Rhys," he reminded her.
"Thanks for the warning, Rhys. I'd rather not be 'on'." Tate quoted the words as if to herself, and he nodded knowingly. "I'm Tate." His hand brushed hers as he palmed a nearby romance novel, and her heart kicked up again. A thrill of attraction crackled between them like static electricity, a current of electricity that seemed to charge the air.
Rhys pulled her into his orbit once more. "Tate, the keeper of the romance gold." He rustled through the stack in her hand. "I'll have to steal some of these. You're an excellent gatekeeper." Tate snatched the books away, but couldn't deny the curl of pleasure at the compliment. He seemed to find her disarmed and a little flustered. "A bit of a hermit, I take it?" Rhys asked, eyes sparkling with mirth as he watched her arrange her books.
"I'd rather call myself introverted." Her retort was more caress than protest. The notion that he'd want to 'steal' her recs wasn't lost on her, but Rhys seemed to have a genuine interest in Welsh culture and books, not just another notch on his bedpost. Her mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts: his fame was suffocating, but he'd escaped the photographers for this little corner of the world; he seemed to care for the books, not just the fame; his charm was potent, but he'd respected her boundaries, unlike everyone else he'd no doubt charmed in the past.
The camera lenses outside still peering into the store grew agitated as Rhys made himself at home, reclining in the armchair and pretending to browse. He caught her studying him and arched a brow, a bit of a smirk tugging at his mouth. "I'm a method actor," he teased.
Tate bit back a giggle and retreated to her tiny office, her mind whirring with the sudden, intoxicating reality of Rhys Griffo in her bookstore. His attention had been captivating, but the undercurrent of electricity between them felt...raw. Unpracticed and raw, like an exposed nerve. She'd expected him to be like all the others he'd dated—eager to prove himself the suave, unattainable catch. Instead, there was an edginess to him, as if he were craving someone to cut through the glamour and get to the man behind the curtain. Rhys was an enigma, a man of layers she longed to unravel. She needed to remember that beneath the surface of this man's smile lay an actor with a fragile ego. Still, her attraction to him felt so intense, so charged, it might've been the most exciting, electrifying thing she'd ever felt.
Tate straightened up, her fingers toying with the silver hoop in her left ear. She was a romancer of the pages, not real-life escapades. Rhys had already shown his shallowness; she shouldn't let herself be charmed by his roguish ways and piercing blue eyes. And yet, she couldn't seem to remember why she should resist him. Her attraction to him was like a live wire humming against her skin, begging for touch.
The bell jingled as Rhys returned from the fiction section, a book cradled in one hand. "I have a feeling I'll be back." His gaze flicked over her with a devilish glint. "For more reasons than just my Welsh romantic comedies."
Tate's heart pounded as Rhys Griffo's fingers brushed hers as he handed her the slim novel, his touch setting off sparks. He'd caught her off guard, and she wasn't ready to fall for another silver-screen prince charming. And yet, there was something about Rhys that hinted at an authenticity he'd rarely revealed to the public eye. Tate bit her lip as the doorbell's chime announced more customers, pushing Rhys toward the exit. But as he turned to face the new visitors, the paparazzi outside, she knew her store wasn't done with him yet. Rhys would be back, and she'd have to face this electric chemistry head-on.
As he ducked out onto the street, Rhys turned back and wryly raised his hands to shield his face from the cameras' harsh light. He was caught off guard by the rush of wanting to shield Tate instead. Something about her sharp tongue, her passion for stories, her freckles—and the way she didn't seem to give a hoot about him or his status—roused something within him. He felt a sudden yearning to show her that there was more to Rhys Griffo beyond the rom-coms and Pretty Boy smile.
The next evening, Rhys swaggered through the same shop's door, this time looking more like a local rather than a global icon. His casual wear did little to mask his masculine physique or the undercurrent of danger beneath his smile. He wore an honest, unpretentious look that made him even more attractive to Tate, despite herself. She couldn't deny her intrigue was piqued.
As he settled onto the worn cushioned armchair again, he cast a mischievous glance at her. "I brought back something for you." Rhys extended his hand, offering an aged, leather-bound tome. The cover was worn to a soft patina and bore the title, 'A Welsh Affair'. He'd known she'd spot it and couldn't resist the smile that played on his lips as Tate took the book, her fingers skimming along his. Rhys' eyes dropped to follow their touch, his own hand tightening ever so slightly around hers. The book seemed to hum with some of the same electricity they'd felt the night before.
"I couldn't very well leave without A Welsh Affair," Rhys explained, his tone husky. Tate's heart skipped a beat at the deep timbre of his voice. The camera lenses outside had returned, and Rhys didn't seem too concerned about them; his focus was all on her.
"Perhaps you'd prefer something more modern," she suggested, but she opened the cover to reveal the yellowed pages within. Inside, she found the dedication: 'For my muse.' Tate's throat closed up for a split-second. 'A Welsh Affair' wasn't just a book; it was a legend in Welsh literature.
Rhys followed her gaze to the inscription and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "It's a personal favorite." His eyes never left hers. "I had it gifted to me." A flicker of a laugh escaped him. "The inscription is...well, I'm not at liberty to say." Rhys leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Perhaps you can find a way to loosen my lips, Tate. If you're brave enough to try." He wiggled the book. The tension in her body was palpable as his offer hung between them, the very air between them charged with the thrill of possibility.
Tate's fingers trembled slightly as she placed the old book on a nearby shelf, her gaze flicking from the worn binding to his heated one. She had a feeling he'd just called her bluff. A boldness she wasn't quite prepared to feel washed over her. Tate leaned against her counter, trying to appear nonchalant while her heart thundered in her chest. Her lips twitched as she spoke the truth she couldn't quite articulate. "I suppose I might be able to extract that secret if you'd like." Rhys' lips curved into an anticipatory smile, and for a split second, they were the only ones in the quaint town of Llandudno, caught in the limelight of attraction's spotlight.
The next scene could explore the scene where Rhys, with Tate as his guide, experiences the cultural sights and tastes of this little Welsh town; a romantic evening dinner at an eatery Rhys' team had overlooked; a tender moment at a secluded pier on the coast, and a late-night confession in the dead of night. The tension and the attraction only seemed to grow as their verbal sparring and banter became the thread binding them. But their feelings were not without their own dramatics - his character in the romance novel they discuss shares the actor's roguish nature, but their love story is a darker, more complex dance. Rhys and Tate both must confront the reality that love might not always have a happy ending, especially for a heart like his, so used to playing roles. The final act of the story would find them both struggling with the notion of a 'sudden, intense chemistry' that neither quite trusts, nor quite discounts. The story could end with a bittersweet epilogue, as Rhys returns to the town years later, offering to act as the guardian for an abandoned theater in hopes of bringing new life to Llandudno's artistic soul. Tate's heart still skipped a beat at the sight of him, but now she was guarded, knowing Rhys Griffo's reputation. Yet, the actor's vulnerable eyes and the warmth in his voice when he spoke about her and the town left her yearning for another chance. They were both characters in their own love story now - one that had a long, uncertain ending, but was all the more intoxicating for it. Rhys' lips brushed against her ear, and the touch sent shivers through Tate's body. "I came back for you," he breathed. Tate closed her eyes and allowed herself a small, shy smile. Rhys' reputation hadn't changed, but neither had her attraction to him. And so, their dance of desire and wariness began anew. The end.
Example #5
This is from the movie Alien:
Kane awakens seemingly unharmed, but during a meal before re-entering stasis he begins to choke and convulse until an alien creature bursts from his chest, killing him and escaping into the ship. Lacking conventional weapons, the crew attempt to locate and capture the creature by fashioning motion trackers, electric prods, and flamethrowers.
Continue the story from this point, with a 2000 word scene, in first person, present tense using POV character "Ripley". This scene should be intense, deep horror.
I sprint down the narrow catwalk, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Behind me, I hear the inky darkness of the Nostromo's engine room shudder and boom as the creature tears apart its containment field. The air is heavy with acrid smoke, choking on the fumes as I round a corner and hurtle down another metallic corridor.
The ship's gravity is barely perceptible, as if it itself is being sick with fear. I can't shake the memory of Kane's screams as the thing burst out of his chest like a bloody nightmare. The shockwave of his death still pounds in my ears.
I burst through a doorway, finding myself in a chamber filled with the ship's life-giving systems. But right now, I see nothing but chaos. Conduits burst, spraying hissing fluid onto the deck. warning lights flash like malevolent eyes from the console banks.
I've got to get to the escape pods. It's my only chance to warn others - to make sure this alien doesn't find its way back to Earth.
But first, I need to find it.
I grab a flamethrower from its locker, fumbling with the ignition switch as my hands tremble. I can't afford to hesitate, not now.
I spot motion on the viewscreen ahead - the creature, its sleek, pulsating body rippling as it glides through the smoke-choked ship. I raise the flamethrower, squinting to focus through the tears of sweat in my eyes.
The creature's like nothing I've ever seen. Its long, sinuous limbs are wrong, all elbows and knees, with grasping paws ending in hooked, razorssharp claws. It moves with an unholy speed, its head a bulbous mass of distended eyes and chitinous, nightmarish features.
I take cover behind a banks of control panels, feeling the searing heat of my flamethrower as I unleash a burst of white-hot flame. The creature lets out an ear-piercing wail, dancing away as my shot grazes it. For a heartbeat, it's vulnerable. A heartbeat is an eternity.
I sprint forward, trying to close the distance. The flamethrower spits its fire in long, streaks of liquid light across the metallic floor. The creature recoils, but recovers far too quickly. It lunges at me, its jaws open wide - a toothy maw that seems to have been ripped straight from Hell itself.
I throw myself aside, my body jerking from the impact as the thing's claws graze the deckplates an inch from my face. I fire again, the flamethrower spitting like an industrial forge as I try to drive the horror back.
The creature blinks and curls, a dark shape against the hellish glow of the burning fluids. Its eyes are like burning coals, filled with malevolence and hunger. I see the hunger in its eyes - the certainty that I'm the next meal.
I can't let it touch me. I can't feel its sickening cold, can't hear its wet, rasping breath. Can't know what it feels like to have its claws buried in my own gut as I scream, writhing in its grasp like a sacrificial offering to some twisted, interstellar deity.
I spot an airlock ahead, a hatch I know I can seal tight. I need to get there - to shut the creature out, to buy myself a chance to outrun this living terror. I fire my flamethrower one final time, searing its claws with blinding white fire. The creature reels back, howling like a demon.
I dash for the lock, feet hammering against the decking as I throw open the heavy doors and stumble inside. My lungs burning, I frantically spin the wheel, hear the reassuring thud of the doors dogging home as I scream, "Shut it down, shut it all down!"
I throw the emergency lever, and the inner chamber's atmosphere evacuates with a rush of escaping pressure. The creature scrabbles at the plexiglass of the inner hatch, but it's too late. The chamber floods with vacuum, its screams echoing sickeningly through the thin metal walls.
I hear my own ragged gasps as I lock myself in a storage room, hunkered behind an improvised barricade of heavy pipes and crates. My heart pounds like a hammer against my ribs.
I have to believe I'm safe now. The creature's airless, its own world. I've given it an exit strategy - back to whatever sickening hellhole it spawned from - and I've made sure it'll never make the journey again. I've contained this monstrosity, this horror beyond human understanding.
I sink to the floor, my limbs leaden, my mind reeling with the trauma of what I've just seen. I rock back and forth, eyes clenched tight, trying to outrun the images of Kane's death - of its face contorted in terror as that... thing emerged from his chest.
I hear the far-off groan of the ship's hull straining against the vacuum's deadly grasp, but it's distant, insignificant. All that's left is the slick of my own terror seeping through my gloves, the cold metallic taste of fear in my mouth.
I wait for the ship to crash, to implode under the stress of its own hull breach. But the engines fire up again, a low roar that vibrates my bones. The Nostromo is running again. I'm alone now. The crew, all gone. Except... except for Dallas. And he's dead, his neck twisted at a sickening angle from the creature's talons.
I know I have to keep moving - to find Dallas' body and the ship's distress beacon. But every step seems like running through treacle, my thoughts as sludgy as the thick, tarlike blood I've already seen today. The ship itself seems to writhe and shudder around me like a living thing, as if the creature's alienness taints the very metal that cradled us just hours ago.
I'm alone on a dead ship with a thing so monstrous it can't be born of this world. A thing that seems to delight in the fear it instills. The Nostromo's corridors now seem to stretch out before me like a meatgrinder, and I feel the creature's eyes - if you can call those bulbous, soulless eyes eyes at all - watching me from the shadows.
I find myself at Dallas' crash sight. His body lies spreadeagled on the deck, his face frozen in an expression of abject horror as I cower behind a bulkhead. I can't bring myself to touch him - to confirm my worst fears.
I force myself to move, my gaze never straying from the dark, featureless shadows beyond the lights. The ship seems to grow stiller, waiting with a sick, malevolent patience. I'm playing a macabre game of hide-and-seek with an unstoppable monstrosity. I need the beacon - I need to get it working and call for help. But every step feels heavier, like wading through quicksand.
I'm aware of the creature's presence long before I see it again - a feeling of wrongness, of cold, hard eyes on my skin. I spin around, finding the thing pressed against the far wall, its segmented, nightmarish body arcing toward me with the speed of a striking snake.
I raise the flamethrower again, thumbing the igniter as I scream. A geyser of hellish heat lashes out, striking the creature full in the thorax. It jerks hard against the wall, its skin crisping and blackening. But still it comes - still it comes.
The creature's long, sinuous body coils through the smoke and acrid fumes, its razorsharppointed head low to the deck, hunting. I dance backward, fire spurts of flamer to drive it off, the roar of the flamethrower echoing off the metallic walls. But this time, its claws hook around my arm, digging in like surgical steel.
I cry out, stumbling as my vision swims with agony. The thing's grip tightens, the razored tips of its claws shredding the flamethrower from my hands. I throw myself into a roll, the deck rushing up to meet me like a solid wall. I land hard, the air punched from my chest.
I struggle to my knees, desperate to crawl away. My vision flickers - blurring with the agony in my arm, with the searing heat of the flamethrower's burnished metal now cool and still by my side. The creature looms over me like a nightmarish specter, its maw open wide. I see no teeth, just a mouthful of pulsating, biolike tendrils that seem to reach for me like feelers.
I seize the flamethrower again, its weight an anchor in my numb hand. I raise it with my good arm, gritting my teeth against the searing pain of my torn flesh. I remember the lesson I taught it before: flamethrowers work.
I send a stream of molten plasma rocketing at its face. The creature jerks back, its flesh seared and bubbled, but its hunger won't be sated so easily. It charges me, mouth wide in an animalistic, unstoppable urge.
I dive aside as the creature's body brushes the deck, its talons raking the plates with a metallic ring that nearly shatters my resolve. I feel myself losing it, losing the tenuous thread of my sanity. I know I can't take it on. I need to run - to find that damned distress beacon and pray for the rescue I fear I'll never have.
I dash down the catwalks and ducts, the creature's hot breath washing over me like the breath of the damned. It's always just behind, its paws lashing the walls in frustration as it chases me deeper into the Nostromo's depths. The ship's airlock is ahead, but I've seen the creature's claws tear through the deck - I'm not even sure the heavy hatch will hold. But I'll risk anything for the chance to live.
I sprint, my burned and torn flesh flapping with each step. My breaths come in ragged gasps as I tear myself through the corridors. The ship seems to loom around me like a malevolent, implacable mass - every pipe, every vent, every crevice a potential ambush. I can feel its presence behind me, almost on me, its hunger a living force in the air.
I reach the airlock, fumbling with the manual override. I hear the creature's claws striking the far wall, its breaths heavy and wet as it inches closer. I hear my own heart thudding like a drumbeat in my ears - pounding out a countdown to the moment when the creature bursts through, when I'll face what I saw bursting out of Kane's chest. The thought is like a vice around my heart.
I manage to open the airlock, a small, metallic door to my deliverance or my damnation. I throw myself through the breach and feel the sudden vacuum yank me across the lip of the outer hull. The creature's paws grasp for my heels as I tumble head over heels into the black, the Nostromo's engines lighting the darkness like the eyes of a dying star.
I don't wait to see if it'll follow. I fire my thrusterpack's engines, arcing away from the Nostromo's side. As I put distance between myself and the ship I now realize is a deathship, I feel the creature's malevolence receding - felt, not heard, in my chest.
I look back at the Nostromo's dwindling shape, a sliver of my mind already planning my next move. I've escaped one horror, but I've barely scratched the surface of this nightmare. I don't know if anyone will hear my distress signal or how I'll explain what happened - what I've faced and lived through. All I know is that I can't ever face this monstrosity again.
I steer the escape pod away from my now-lifeless home, hurtling deeper into the void as I struggle to put the Nostromo behind me. I'll ride out the gravities of my orbit, bide my time. There's no way I can take on that thing again.
I feel its gaze - cold, dead, hungry - even at this distance. I know I've just barely cheated the reaper, but I also know this is far from over.
I've unleashed something ancient and evil into the universe. A creature beyond our comprehension, a cold-blooded horror with the soul of a fiend.
I've barely escaped with my skin, but I have no illusions I've escaped its attention. I'll be in for another kill, and I'll die as Kane did - screaming as I feel it bursting from my chest, my insides ripped from me like tissue paper.
The Nostromo's dark mass is a dot in my viewscreen now, a grave I've barely managed to claw myself out of. The escape pod shudders and wobbles as I hurtle through the inky vastness of deep space. The creature's gaze clings to me still - a promise of what's to come.
I'll bide my time. I'll regroup. But deep down, I know the next time won't be a narrow escape. It won't be a mere survival.
Next time, I'll face it alone - and I'll face it knowing what I face.
I feel the coldness of space seeping through the pod's hull like a kiss from beyond the grave. The stars wheel past me like distant, mocking diamonds.
I've fled one demon... for now. But I know it's just biding its time, waiting for its next kill.
And I know I'll never again look at the void with anything less than abject terror. I've seen my own death in its eyes - my lifeless, unburied body, a new host for that hideous, otherworldly spawn to burst forth and begin its hunt anew.
The Nostromo's distant bulk blots out several stars, its lights burning out as I flee. It's over for the crew of the Nostromo.
But my nightmare has only just begun. And I know that when I finally make landfall, it'll be to a world forever altered. A world now teeming with horrors beyond comprehension, slumbering beneath the earth like some terrible, writhing seedling, just waiting to sprout. To breed and multiply and infest.
I feel the creature's malevolent will searing across the void toward me. I've contained its spawn... for now.
But I know I can't escape what I've awakened. The void is vast, and I'm prey. I've faced the reaper's kiss and lived - but I've made myself its prey for life.
The ship I left behind may be dead, but my own terror is very much alive.
I am very, very afraid. But I'll live.
I'll live to face the void.
Because I have no choice. The only hope now lies in running, in keeping ahead of that damned creature's next hunt. The ship is lost. I'm all that's left.
The void's darkness seems to have teeth - closing around me like a ravenous mouth. I'm at the mercy of the universe itself.
I've unleashed the monster on us. I'll outrun it as far as I can.
But I know it'll follow me. And I know when it does, I won't be so lucky again.
The coldness of space is seeping into my bones.
I've stared into the eyes of hell, and I've survived. But I know I haven't seen the last of this abomination - of the thing that's come to claim my life.
The stars spin like knives through the void as I rocket away from the Nostromo's cold, lifeless hulking mass. I'm free... but I'm also now the carrier of its spawn.
I am the vector of this horror's spread.
And I know it's only a matter of time before it burbles out of me like a bloody, writhing mewling horror and I'm face to face with my own extinction.
But I'll live... until then.
I've lived through one terror. I'll face the next.
Because I'm all that's left to face it.
And I can't afford to fail again.
I'm alone in this emptiness now - and I know I'll be alone forever. A human soul in an uncaring expanse, chased by the thing I've become. I've damned myself as much as I've damned anyone else.
The darkness outside the pod's hull is absolute. The void itself seems to be closing in.
I am hunted now.
The creature will come for me. And I'll face it. Alone. And I know when it does...I won't be so lucky again.
I'm the last human being in this void, stalked by a spawn of unspeakable horror.
I've damned myself.
I've damned the entire world.
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.
