"The Serpent's Soiree: A Halloween Comedy"
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Brianna prided herself on three things: her impeccable comedic timing, her total lack of fear in the face of woodland wildlife, and her unrivaled commitment to a costume theme. When her friend Jade messaged her about the annual Halloween cabin party—“Costumes required, come spookified!”—Brianna dove into Halloween mode like a witch into her cauldron. This year, snakes had slithered into pop culture after that viral music video, and Brianna knew what she had to do. She spent hours meticulously painting shimmering scales on a full-body suit, fastening wire to sculpt a dramatic tail, and applying neon-green makeup for a venomous look. She even attached a little forked tongue to her chin, just in case anyone missed the subtlety.
Everything about the party screamed “Instagram,” but Brianna’s snake getup went well beyond social media hype—she was a walking herpetology lesson. The costume would have made even David Attenborough pause mid-narration. Breezing past mirror selfies, Brianna packed a box with snake-shaped cheese puffs (her own recipe—surprisingly spongy), and balanced a tray of four glowing green drinks. She’d seen them on TikTok; glittery, sweet, and so neon they probably qualified as biohazardous, even for a snake.
As Brianna trudged up the placid driveway toward the cabin in the woods, she paused to admire her own commitment. There were leaves in her tail, twigs in her tongue, and a squirrel in nearby branches watching her with horror. She could almost hear the party inside—muffled laughter, the bass of a questionable Halloween playlist, equal parts “Monster Mash” and off-key karaoke.
At the door, Brianna wedged the box under her elbow, balanced the tray precariously, and grinned her snakiest grin (all teeth, extra tongue). Without waiting a beat, she rapped on the door, shouting, “Trick or Treat! But fair warning: The trick’ll be bigger!”
She cackled at her own joke, then bounced lightly on her toes. Nothing happened. Brianna, never one for patience, knocked again—harder, louder, with enough force to rouse bats from the rafters. “Trick or Treat!” she hollered, adding with reckless bravado, “The treat is in the tray, the trick is… me!”
Still nothing. The only sound was the distant hoot of an owl, suggesting the owl, too, was unimpressed.
Brianna peered through the window, seeing only the reflection of her own latex scales and a room filled with vague silhouettes. She tried the doorknob (locked), rattled her snake tail, tapped the glass with a cheese puff, and sang the chorus of “Thriller.” The squirrel scampered away, clearly afraid there was a bigger trick lurking.
Finally, Jasper—Jade’s older brother and self-identified etiquette king—opened the door and greeted her. He eyed Brianna's snake suit, tray, snacks, and overall chaotic aura. “You know, Brianna, trick-or-treat protocol is to knock once or twice and wait. You look like you’re moving in.”
“Not into the cabin,” Brianna replied. “Just into your hearts.” She attempted an elegant snake-pose, her tail thwacking the door frame as she entered.
Jasper, ever the role model, demonstrated: a soft knock, a gentle “Trick or Treat,” a smile that implied “open sesame.” Brianna watched, impressed by the effortless nonchalance. “So you’re saying I don’t need to unleash my inner anaconda at every door?”
He laughed. “Patient snakes catch more mice.”
Chastened but game, Brianna spent the rest of the night mingling politely, announcing her drinks as “non-poisonous, unless you’re an enemy of disco,” and letting her tail swish less violently. She waited her turn for karaoke, ate only her share of cheese puffs, and refrained from threatening to shed her skin on the sofa.
By midnight, the party was rolling. Brianna, now an etiquette aficionado, was voted “Best Costume” by an overwhelming margin (“If you ate a cheese puff and lived, vote for Brianna!”), and Jasper declared her “Most Improved Manners Ever.” She took it with good humor, posing for photos while Jade wrapped a feather boa around her tail, both hissing and giggling.
On the stroll home, the squirrel reappeared, scolding her for lingering—but Brianna only bowed deeply, tail elegantly curled, snacks in her free hand, and a smile so wide even the woodland creatures had to concede: Sometimes, the biggest trick really is learning a little patience. And maybe sharing the cheese puffs.
This story was generated by user billy.bello with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a long story about a young woman who went to a friends' Halloween party. Describe how she was dressed in a snake costume. Describe how he stood in front of the door of a cabin in the woods, laden with a box of snacks and a tray of four green drinks. Describe how she knocked on the cabin door, shouting "Trick or Treat," then added that the trick would be bigger, hoping someone would open the door. Eventually, she learned some manners from a friend and waited patiently for someone to open the door.
Response: Brianna prided herself on three things: her impeccable comedic timing, her total lack of fear in the face of woodland wildlife, and her unrivaled commitment to a costume theme. When her friend Jade messaged her about the annual Halloween cabin party—“Costumes required, come spookified!”—Brianna dove into Halloween mode like a witch into her cauldron. This year, snakes had slithered into pop culture after that viral music video, and Brianna knew what she had to do. She spent hours meticulously painting shimmering scales on a full-body suit, fastening wire to sculpt a dramatic tail, and applying neon-green makeup for a venomous look. She even attached a little forked tongue to her chin, just in case anyone missed the subtlety. Everything about the party screamed “Instagram,” but Brianna’s snake getup went well beyond social media hype—she was a walking herpetology lesson. The costume would have made even David Attenborough pause mid-narration. Breezing past mirror selfies, Brianna packed a box with snake-shaped cheese puffs (her own recipe—surprisingly spongy), and balanced a tray of four glowing green drinks. She’d seen them on TikTok; glittery, sweet, and so neon they probably qualified as biohazardous, even for a snake. As Brianna trudged up the placid driveway toward the cabin in the woods, she paused to admire her own commitment. There were leaves in her tail, twigs in her tongue, and a squirrel in nearby branches watching her with horror. She could almost hear the party inside—muffled laughter, the bass of a questionable Halloween playlist, equal parts “Monster Mash” and off-key karaoke. At the door, Brianna wedged the box under her elbow, balanced the tray precariously, and grinned her snakiest grin (all teeth, extra tongue). Without waiting a beat, she rapped on the door, shouting, “Trick or Treat! But fair warning: The trick’ll be bigger!” She cackled at her own joke, then bounced lightly on her toes. Nothing happened. Brianna, never one for patience, knocked again—harder, louder, with enough force to rouse bats from the rafters. “Trick or Treat!” she hollered, adding with reckless bravado, “The treat is in the tray, the trick is… me!” Still nothing. The only sound was the distant hoot of an owl, suggesting the owl, too, was unimpressed. Brianna peered through the window, seeing only the reflection of her own latex scales and a room filled with vague silhouettes. She tried the doorknob (locked), rattled her snake tail, tapped the glass with a cheese puff, and sang the chorus of “Thriller.” The squirrel scampered away, clearly afraid there was a bigger trick lurking. Finally, Jasper—Jade’s older brother and self-identified etiquette king—opened the door and greeted her. He eyed Brianna's snake suit, tray, snacks, and overall chaotic aura. “You know, Brianna, trick-or-treat protocol is to knock once or twice and wait. You look like you’re moving in.” “Not into the cabin,” Brianna replied. “Just into your hearts.” She attempted an elegant snake-pose, her tail thwacking the door frame as she entered. Jasper, ever the role model, demonstrated: a soft knock, a gentle “Trick or Treat,” a smile that implied “open sesame.” Brianna watched, impressed by the effortless nonchalance. “So you’re saying I don’t need to unleash my inner anaconda at every door?” He laughed. “Patient snakes catch more mice.” Chastened but game, Brianna spent the rest of the night mingling politely, announcing her drinks as “non-poisonous, unless you’re an enemy of disco,” and letting her tail swish less violently. She waited her turn for karaoke, ate only her share of cheese puffs, and refrained from threatening to shed her skin on the sofa. By midnight, the party was rolling. Brianna, now an etiquette aficionado, was voted “Best Costume” by an overwhelming margin (“If you ate a cheese puff and lived, vote for Brianna!”), and Jasper declared her “Most Improved Manners Ever.” She took it with good humor, posing for photos while Jade wrapped a feather boa around her tail, both hissing and giggling. On the stroll home, the squirrel reappeared, scolding her for lingering—but Brianna only bowed deeply, tail elegantly curled, snacks in her free hand, and a smile so wide even the woodland creatures had to concede: Sometimes, the biggest trick really is learning a little patience. And maybe sharing the cheese puffs.
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