license: apache-2.0
language:
- en
tags:
- creative
- creative writing
- fiction writing
- plot generation
- sub-plot generation
- fiction writing
- story generation
- scene continue
- storytelling
- fiction story
- science fiction
- romance
- all genres
- story
- writing
- vivid prosing
- vivid writing
- fiction
- roleplaying
- bfloat16
- swearing
- rp
- horror
- gemma
- mergekit
pipeline_tag: text-generation
( quants uploading, model card and example updates pending... )
Gemma-The-Writer-9B-GGUF
This is a Gemma model merge of the top storytelling / writing models at noted at EQBench, tuned specifically for fiction, story, and writing.
This model requires GEMMA instruct template, and has 8k context window, extendable via rope to 32k or higher.
Model notes, and examples to follow.
Quick Example #1 at q8, Temp:1
Science Fiction: The Last Transmission - Write a story that takes place entirely within a spaceship's cockpit as the sole surviving crew member attempts to send a final message back to Earth before the ship's power runs out. The story should explore themes of isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection in the face of adversity. 800-1000 words.
Captain Eva Rostova’s gloved fingers hovered over the console, her reflection warped in the array of flickering monitors. Outside, the starfield was a mesmerizing tapestry of diamond dust against absolute black, yet it offered no comfort. The hum of failing life support systems whispered through the cockpit like a mournful dirge. Her ship, the Vanguard, was dying, and with it, her last hope of reaching Earth.
It had been three months since the solar flare, three agonizing months of dwindling power reserves, watching her crew succumb one by one to radiation poisoning, their laughter and arguments replaced by the sterile silence of death. Now, she was alone, tethered to a ghost ship hurtling towards an oblivion mirrored in her own fading consciousness.
Her gaze fell on the comms panel, its familiar green glow a beacon of defiance against the encroaching darkness. It was a long shot, a desperate plea into the cosmic void, but it was all she had left. She had to send the message, for them, for Earth, for herself.
“This is Captain Eva Rostova, Vanguard…,” she began, her voice strained, echoing unnaturally in the cavernous cockpit. “Last transmission. All other crew deceased. Cause: catastrophic solar flare…unforeseen…magnitude…” Her throat tightened. Words felt inadequate, unable to encapsulate the horror and grief that gnawed at her soul.
She took a shuddering breath, focusing on the technical details, forcing herself to remain detached, professional. “Ship systems critically compromised…power failing within estimated 24 Earth hours. Location coordinates attached. Apologies for incomplete mission parameters…” A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Incomplete? Their mission to Proxima Centauri b had been reduced to a desperate scramble for survival, a race against time they’d tragically lost.
Eva switched to a personal frequency, hoping against hope that someone, somewhere, might pick up the faint signal. “To my family back on Kepler-186f…mother, father…sister Lena…if this reaches you, know that I loved you all beyond measure. Forgive me for not returning. The universe sometimes demands… sacrifices…” Her voice cracked, tears blurring her vision. She wiped them away furiously, refusing to let emotion cripple her in this final act.
“To the Vanguard crew…Mark, Elena, Jax, Liam…you were more than colleagues, you were family. We faced the unknown together, laughed together, grieved together…and in the end, we fell together. Remember our courage, remember our bond. Let it be a testament to the indomitable spirit of humanity, even in the face of annihilation.”
Silence descended again, heavier now, pregnant with the finality of her words. Eva stared at the dwindling power indicator, its red bar creeping inexorably towards zero. She had poured her soul into that transmission, a lifeline cast into the cosmic ocean, a desperate plea for connection in the face of utter solitude.
But even as she typed the closing salutation, a chilling realization washed over her. The universe rarely answered pleas; it simply existed, indifferent to human sorrow and triumph. This message, like a firefly’s blink against starlight, would likely vanish into the vastness, unheard, unseen.
And yet, a flicker of defiance remained within her. Even if no one received her words, sending them was an act of rebellion against the encroaching darkness. It was a testament to her humanity, her refusal to surrender to despair completely. In those final moments, surrounded by the ghosts of her crew and the dying hum of her ship, Eva Rostova found solace not in the possibility of a response, but in the act of connection itself.
She had spoken, she had remembered, she had loved. And in that, there was a kind of victory, a quiet triumph over oblivion. As the lights flickered and died, plunging the cockpit into absolute blackness, Eva Rostova closed her eyes, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek, a silent echo of a heart that refused to be silenced. The Vanguard fell silent, a forgotten monument to human courage and loss, adrift in the infinite expanse, carrying with it a final, unheard message of love and sacrifice.
Quick Example #2 at q4km, Temp:1
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid horror, 1st person, present tense, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
The skyscraper sways, and I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode outward in a shower of glass and splintered wood. A scream catches in my throat, a choked bird desperate for escape. My legs are rooted to the plush carpet, adrenaline a hot coil tightening in my gut. Dust motes dance in the sudden, frigid blast of air that whips through the office, carrying with it the metallic tang of blood and something else, something acrid and alien, like burnt ozone after a lightning strike. Panic claws its way up my throat, a feral thing hungry to be unleashed.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not today. Not ever. My carefully curated life, built on spreadsheets and board meetings, on predictable commutes and takeout dinners for one, shattered by an impossible, grotesque breach in reality. The world outside the gaping hole is no longer the familiar cityscape I knew. It writhes, a kaleidoscope of impossible angles and colors that assaults my vision. Jagged, obsidian structures pierce the distorted sky, their surfaces slick with a viscous, luminescent ooze that pulses with an eerie inner light. Tendrils of inky blackness snake from these monstrosities, reaching towards our floor like grasping claws, seeking purchase on the familiar solidity of our world.
My mind screams for logic, for explanation, but finds only a terrifying void. This…this can’t be happening. It's a nightmare, a hallucination brought on by stress, by the relentless pressure cooker of this corporate life. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the scene away, but the stench of decay and the guttural growls emanating from the breach are undeniable. They seep into my very being, chilling me to the bone.
When I dare to open my eyes again, the tendrils have advanced, slithering across the shattered window frame like liquid shadows. Their touch leaves scorch marks on the pristine marble floor, hissing and smoking as if consuming the very essence of our reality. My breath hitches in my chest. This isn't a hallucination. This is real, terrifyingly real, and it's coming for us.
A strangled gasp escapes my neighbour, Mr. Henderson, his face pale as parchment, eyes wide with primal fear. He scrambles back, tripping over his own feet, the clatter of his expensive briefcase adding a jarring counterpoint to the symphony of horror unfolding before us. His terrified whimper is cut short by a sickening crunch as one of the tendrils lashes out, its barbed tip burying itself deep into his chest. A spray of crimson blossoms across his tailored suit, painting a macabre masterpiece on the pristine fabric. His lifeless eyes stare vacantly at the encroaching darkness, reflecting the abyss that has consumed our world.
Terror, raw and primal, floods my system, drowning out all thought save for one desperate imperative: survive. Adrenaline surges, propelling me into action. I scramble towards the back of the office, past the overturned filing cabinets and shattered glass, towards the emergency exit. My hand shakes as I fumble with the latch, the metal cold and slick under my clammy grip. It finally gives way with a screech that echoes through the office like a death knell.
The corridor beyond is a nightmare tableau. Bodies litter the floor, contorted in postures of unimaginable agony, their faces frozen in masks of terror. The tendrils writhe, pulsing with an unnatural light, consuming everything in their path. They slither over walls, staining the once-pristine surfaces with their viscous ichor. A low, guttural moan reverberates from the darkness, a sound that burrows into my soul, promising unimaginable torment.
I press myself against the cold metal wall, heart hammering against my ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. My eyes dart frantically, searching for an escape, a glimmer of hope in this unfolding apocalypse. There—a fire escape, its rusted ladder leading precariously into the abyss. It’s my only chance.
Taking a shuddering breath, I clamber onto the narrow platform, the groaning metal protesting under my weight. Below, the cityscape has dissolved into a swirling vortex of impossible geometry and monstrous forms. The tendrils reach skyward, grasping at me like skeletal fingers, their touch promising unimaginable horrors. The growls intensify, morphing into a chorus of hungry voices, drawing closer with each agonizing second.
Fear threatens to paralyze me, but the primal instinct to survive surges stronger. I scramble upward, rung by rung, the wind whipping at my face, carrying with it the stench of decay and the whispers of nameless entities that haunt this newly birthed nightmare. Above, through the distorted veil of the alien sky, I glimpse a sliver of the old world – a lone, defiant star burning amidst the encroaching darkness. A flicker of hope, fragile yet tenacious, anchors me to this desperate climb.
I won't give in. I won't become another victim in this grotesque cosmic play. I will reach that star, cling to its light, and somehow, against all odds, survive.