"The Wriggle and the Worm: A Snake's Tale of Party Manners"
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Maggie didn’t normally volunteer as tribute for parties in the woods, particularly on Halloween. She was more of a “eat candy at home and judge celebrity costumes on Instagram” type of person. But when her best friend, Ted, waved the e-vite with the promise of a *real* cabin and *mystery-themed punch*, Maggie succumbed—not just to peer pressure, but also to the opportunity to break in her recently acquired snake costume.
Now, this wasn’t your average, “printed t-shirt, pair of green leggings” snake getup. Maggie had gone all in. The ensemble consisted of a glittery, emerald bodysuit with scales that shimmered in suspiciously unnatural hues, a tail stuffed with tinsel, and a headpiece complete with a pair of beady, googly eyes—she looked like a children’s book villain crossed with a disco ball. When she walked, her tail wobbled. When she stopped, so did traffic (okay, only sometimes, and only if she stood under a lamplight).
To top things off, she had agreed to bring snacks. In her hands she balanced a box of suspiciously squished cheese puffs and a plastic tray upon which perched four luminescent green drinks—something Ted swore would “really get the party started,” despite looking like radioactive pond water.
Darkness blanketed the forest as Maggie tiptoed (hissed, let’s be honest) up the path to the cabin. The place, lit only by a Jack-o’-lantern with a dented nose and a porch light flickering like a strobe, looked semi-abandoned, or possibly haunted. The sound of a distant owl made her consider she’d overdressed; if something slithered tonight, the odds were good it would be her.
She reached the stoop. Her tray tilted dangerously, threatening to baptize her feet with green goo. She stiffened her tail, summoned her most hiss-terical confidence, and raised her fist.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
“TRICK OR TREAT!” she yelled, voice booming into the night. “And by the way, the TRICK WILL BE BIGGER!” She cackled, imagining her dramatic reveal—a snake-disco queen and a four-armed punch tray! Surely inside, a crowd of partygoers would leap for the door, cheering at her entrance.
She waited. Nothing.
She knocked again, louder. “TRICK OR TREAT! Did you hear me? THE TRICK WILL BE BIGGER!”
Inside, footsteps shuffled. She could almost see shadows moving behind the curtain. She wrangled the box of cheese puffs, leaned into the door, and bellowed. “TRICK or—”
Suddenly, the tray wobbled. One green drink tumbled off, landing with a splat at her feet. The smell wafted up—a pungent mixture of lime Jell-O and celery. A moment of silence, as everyone inside collectively decided Maggie was not the haunted spirit they’d anticipated.
The door remained shut.
It was at this point that a new character entered the story: Ted, dressed as a vampire, teeth gleaming, cape swishing in the autumn breeze. He appeared beside Maggie, judging her microphone-worthy attempts at entry.
“Mags,” he said solemnly, “maybe—just maybe—we take it down a notch?”
“What do you mean?” Maggie hissed (again, commitment to costume).
Ted gestured at the drinks puddling at her shoes, the cheese puff remnants, and her wild-eyed door assault. “Sometimes… parties require—a gentle tap. You know. Party manners.”
Maggie glared. “That’s not very monstrous.”
“Just try it,” Ted insisted, smiling with the easy confidence of a man whose costume did not include a tail.
So, for the first time all evening, Maggie set down her snack box, recovered what she could of the drinks, straightened her headpiece, and delicately tapped the door. She even managed a polite, “Trick, or treat, please?”
Within seconds, the door swung open. There stood a gaggle of monsters: one pirate, two zombies, and one person inexplicably dressed as a hotdog. They stared. Maggie smiled—friendly, not menacing, nor wild-eyed.
“I brought snacks,” she said, “and drinks. Also, my tail lights up, and if you need a trick… I can do the worm.”
They burst out laughing, ushered her in, and declared her costume the “best snake to ever cross the woods.” Inside the cabin, Maggie performed a gentle dance she called the “Wriggle,” distributed cheese puffs, and let vampire-Ted handle all future knocking.
On Halloween night, Maggie learned three important lessons: never threaten elaborate tricks at the door (unless you actually have one), always let someone else handle radioactive-looking drinks, and, most importantly, that even snakes—especially snakes—could learn party manners.
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: Maggie didn’t normally volunteer as tribute for parties in the woods, particularly on Halloween. She was more of a “eat candy at home and judge celebrity costumes on Instagram” type of person. But when her best friend, Ted, waved the e-vite with the promise of a *real* cabin and *mystery-themed punch*, Maggie succumbed—not just to peer pressure, but also to the opportunity to break in her recently acquired snake costume. Now, this wasn’t your average, “printed t-shirt, pair of green leggings” snake getup. Maggie had gone all in. The ensemble consisted of a glittery, emerald bodysuit with scales that shimmered in suspiciously unnatural hues, a tail stuffed with tinsel, and a headpiece complete with a pair of beady, googly eyes—she looked like a children’s book villain crossed with a disco ball. When she walked, her tail wobbled. When she stopped, so did traffic (okay, only sometimes, and only if she stood under a lamplight). To top things off, she had agreed to bring snacks. In her hands she balanced a box of suspiciously squished cheese puffs and a plastic tray upon which perched four luminescent green drinks—something Ted swore would “really get the party started,” despite looking like radioactive pond water. Darkness blanketed the forest as Maggie tiptoed (hissed, let’s be honest) up the path to the cabin. The place, lit only by a Jack-o’-lantern with a dented nose and a porch light flickering like a strobe, looked semi-abandoned, or possibly haunted. The sound of a distant owl made her consider she’d overdressed; if something slithered tonight, the odds were good it would be her. She reached the stoop. Her tray tilted dangerously, threatening to baptize her feet with green goo. She stiffened her tail, summoned her most hiss-terical confidence, and raised her fist. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. “TRICK OR TREAT!” she yelled, voice booming into the night. “And by the way, the TRICK WILL BE BIGGER!” She cackled, imagining her dramatic reveal—a snake-disco queen and a four-armed punch tray! Surely inside, a crowd of partygoers would leap for the door, cheering at her entrance. She waited. Nothing. She knocked again, louder. “TRICK OR TREAT! Did you hear me? THE TRICK WILL BE BIGGER!” Inside, footsteps shuffled. She could almost see shadows moving behind the curtain. She wrangled the box of cheese puffs, leaned into the door, and bellowed. “TRICK or—” Suddenly, the tray wobbled. One green drink tumbled off, landing with a splat at her feet. The smell wafted up—a pungent mixture of lime Jell-O and celery. A moment of silence, as everyone inside collectively decided Maggie was not the haunted spirit they’d anticipated. The door remained shut. It was at this point that a new character entered the story: Ted, dressed as a vampire, teeth gleaming, cape swishing in the autumn breeze. He appeared beside Maggie, judging her microphone-worthy attempts at entry. “Mags,” he said solemnly, “maybe—just maybe—we take it down a notch?” “What do you mean?” Maggie hissed (again, commitment to costume). Ted gestured at the drinks puddling at her shoes, the cheese puff remnants, and her wild-eyed door assault. “Sometimes… parties require—a gentle tap. You know. Party manners.” Maggie glared. “That’s not very monstrous.” “Just try it,” Ted insisted, smiling with the easy confidence of a man whose costume did not include a tail. So, for the first time all evening, Maggie set down her snack box, recovered what she could of the drinks, straightened her headpiece, and delicately tapped the door. She even managed a polite, “Trick, or treat, please?” Within seconds, the door swung open. There stood a gaggle of monsters: one pirate, two zombies, and one person inexplicably dressed as a hotdog. They stared. Maggie smiled—friendly, not menacing, nor wild-eyed. “I brought snacks,” she said, “and drinks. Also, my tail lights up, and if you need a trick… I can do the worm.” They burst out laughing, ushered her in, and declared her costume the “best snake to ever cross the woods.” Inside the cabin, Maggie performed a gentle dance she called the “Wriggle,” distributed cheese puffs, and let vampire-Ted handle all future knocking. On Halloween night, Maggie learned three important lessons: never threaten elaborate tricks at the door (unless you actually have one), always let someone else handle radioactive-looking drinks, and, most importantly, that even snakes—especially snakes—could learn party manners.
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