The Squirrel Society
The Mascot’s Lament
Clara stood at the edge of the gym, a human observer in a sea of pulsating school spirit—boys in oversized jerseys swaggering like peacocks, girls in glittery leggings flinging their hair about like they’d been caught in a windstorm. Benny the Blue Squirrel, the high school mascot, bounced around, a mascot in a fur suit, embodying a thousand unfulfilled dreams and particularly bad decisions. Each time he leaped, an awkward wave of laughter ricocheted off the walls, but to Clara, the laughter rang hollow, like a bell in a ghost town.
“Why be real when you can be a squirrel?” she muttered under her breath, clutching her sketchbook like it was a life raft.
In a moment that felt like a poorly scripted sitcom, Benny stumbled, face-planting onto the polished gym floor—the thud echoed like a failed promise. Clara stifled a giggle, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. They hadn’t. Instead, they cheered, because that was the magic of public schools: love was a shared delusion, and Benny, that hapless creature, was its ridiculous embodiment.
“Hey, Benny,” she called, hands on hips, channeling more imagined confidence than she felt. “What was your dream before you became a glorified rodent?”
Benny peeled his foam head off with a sigh, revealing the weary face of Derek, a fellow outcast with a penchant for existential dread. “Art school. But you can’t paint with a giant squirrel head on, can you?” The irony hung between them like a thick fog, suffocating any sense of hope.
“I mean, isn’t it better to be a squirrel than a nobody?” Clara asked, her heart galloping toward a cliff of self-awareness.
Derek’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, they stood in mutual understanding—two misfits wrapped in the costumes life had flung at them, navigating a world that demanded personas over authenticity.
“Let’s start a secret society,” he suggested, the spark of rebellion igniting in his eyes.
And just like that, an entirely ridiculous idea took root: they would don their own dreams, layer upon layer of fabric over hearts straining against conformity. But what did they truly want to be—squirrels or something far more fantastical? Clara couldn't help but wonder.
The Algorithmic Oracle
The following Tuesday, Clara and Derek huddled in the crumbling remains of the amusement park, a place once vibrant with laughter, now a graveyard of rusted rides and faded dreams. They sat in a half-circle of swaying grasses, surrounded by graffiti that read like confessions: “I love pizza!” next to “I’m actually a vampire.” It was here, amid graffiti and longing, that they decided to conjure the mystical power of the digital age: an app, a prophecy machine, an Oracle for the socially inept.
“Let’s build the Identity Oracle,” Clara declared, her voice ringing with the kind of authority usually reserved for weather reports or cinematic proclamations. Derek nodded vigorously, not entirely understanding, but feeling the buzz of adventure coursing through him like caffeine. They opened their laptops, fingers flying as if possessed. What emerged was a mishmash of algorithms, wild ideas, and more GIFs than a cat video compilation on loop.
“Your best self,” Clara announced, eyes wide, “is just a few clicks away!” They adorned the app with bright colors and absurd emojis—an orange cat perched on a surfboard, a taco wearing sunglasses, all framing the imperious title: Identity Oracle: Find Your True Self!
Every click buzzed with anticipation. Derek inputted his details: past hobbies, favorite snacks, and the noble aspiration of becoming an international disco dance champion. A message bloomed on screen, glowing like a cosmic revelation: Dare to be Disco Drek! Your true self is a dancing disco ball!
Derek burst into laughter, a tinkling sound blending with the distant creaks of the amusement park. “I can totally rock sequins,” he declared, the prospect of becoming “Disco Drek” filling him with a spark of something foreign—hope? Ridiculousness? Both?
The Oracle's predictions spiraled out of control. Clara typed in her details, and the screen flashed: Artistic Witch! Unlock the deep magic of paint and potion!
“Witch? Really?” Clara laughed, a nervous flutter in her stomach. The swirling echoes of their hidden aspirations began to take on substance. The Oracle became their oracle, a dizzying combination of dreams traded for hashtags, identities swapped for likes.
They embarked on a spiraling quest of bizarre transformations—Derek slipping on glittery platforms to embody Disco Drek while Clara brewed concoctions of paint in magical colors, her envy-green eyes twinkling with excitement and fear.
But as they prepared for their grand unveiling, shadows loomed closer, whispering doubts buried deep beneath layers of sequins and paint. What happens when dreams collide with the need to be liked? The Oracle promised clarity, yet the fog grew thicker; Clara felt it in her bones. What were they really becoming?
The Squirrel Society
The abandoned amusement park was alive with a peculiar sort of energy, a hub for misfit dreams buzzing through the syrup-thick air. The Ferris wheel, once a marvel of joy, stood now as a crooked shrine to forgotten thrill-seekers, its rusted cars creaking like old bones. Clara, decked out in mismatched layers of flowing fabric and paint-stained fingers, felt as though she was conjuring a spell with every swish of her skirts.
It was the inaugural meeting of the Squirrel Society, a clandestine gathering powered by the absurdities of self-discovery. Armed with snacks that had seen better days (a dubious bag of popcorn and some three-day-old donuts), Clara and her companions circled a makeshift altar—a rickety picnic table adorned with candles and glitter, looking more like a Pinterest fail than a meeting of existential minds.
Derek, resplendent in platform shoes that hummed with the spirit of disco, stood on a rickety chair, his blue squirrel tail flopping like an overzealous flag signaling the end of reason. “Welcome, fellow dreamers!” he declared, his voice echoing through the empty park. “Tonight, we embrace our true identities!”
“Disco Drek!” Clara cheered, her heart racing with a mix of exhilaration and dread. She had fully committed to her role as the Artistic Witch, swirling her paintbrush in flamboyant arcs, summoning colors that could only exist in the fever dream of a rave.
Around the table, the crew unveiled their own identities—Daisy, who had transformed from wallflower to “Punk Rock Puffin,” complete with a homemade beak and mohawk; and Jonah, the “Vegetable Wrangler,” who wore a costume made entirely of green fabric adorned with plush carrots. The absurdity coiled around them like an electric current, crackling with the thrill of experimentation.
“Let’s showcase our talents!” Clara declared, her voice bubbling over. “Prove to the world we’re not just lost souls in furry suits!”
So they performed. Derek led a dance that felt more like a charming seizure than a disco number, while Daisy belted out incomprehensible lyrics about broccoli and rebellion. Clara unleashed her inner witch, splattering paint everywhere, crafting an impromptu mural of fantastical creatures that seemed to both mock and celebrate their existence.
But amidst the laughter and chaos, Clara felt a twinge of unease, like an itch she couldn’t scratch. Were they really crafting identities or merely fabricating masks to hide behind? Every cheer felt heartfelt, yet the gnawing question—who they truly were—lingered like a stubborn ghost.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over their gathering, the Squirrel Society began to glow with a strange luminance. And yet, it was impossible to ignore the underlying tension: the fine line between joyous expression and hollow performance was beginning to blur, threatening to shatter the spark of freedom they so desperately sought.
Crashing Reality
As the days melted into one another like butter on hot toast, the Squirrel Society transformed from a ragtag crew of whimsical dreamers into an Instagram sensation. Videos of “Disco Drek” whirling through the amusement park, flanked by painted witches and vegetable wranglers, surged across social media feeds like wildfire set on a summer breeze. Clara’s heart fluttered with a dizzying tumult of pride and panic, each notification a double-edged sword.
One evening, as the group gathered under the twisted beams of the Ferris wheel, they noticed a swarm of followers taking root outside the park—teenagers with phones raised high like modern-day torches, eager to document the spectacle. Clara felt giddy and trapped, like a deer in headlights—brilliantly illuminated yet completely immobilized.
“Look at them!” Derek exclaimed, tossing confetti like it was a life raft. “We’re practically celebrities!”
But as the crowd cheered, Clara’s vibrant witch hat felt heavier, its sparkle dulled by the weight of expectation. “What if they want more than we can give?” she whispered to nobody, yet everyone heard her.
The audience shouted for a grand performance, and the members of the Squirrel Society scrambled to prepare. In a twist straight out of a high-octane musical, they rehearsed frantically, blending dance moves with theatrical flair; yet every pirouette and flourish felt more like a mechanical reproduction of joy rather than genuine expression. Clara’s paintbrush found itself caught in the frenzy, dragging colors across the canvas but losing the intended message in the process.
Night fell, cloaking the park in shadows, and the crowd’s anticipation turned electric—a creature of its own, feeding on the spectacle. Clara opened her mouth to speak, but instead, the words melted away, retreating into the cavernous anxiety brewing in her chest. The plan had morphed into a performance that no longer felt like theirs. Who were they without the costumes?
In the glossy light of handheld screens, Clara caught a glimpse of herself as the Artistic Witch—but it was a veneer. Beneath the sequins and paint, she was just a girl fumbling through a world of pixelated dreams. “I can’t do this,” she finally blurted, the admission cracking like thunder.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, rippling not with understanding but with the kind of confusion that settles when a magician reveals their tricks.
“Clara, don’t!” Derek shouted, “You’re the heart of this!”
The tangled web of identity began to fray, unraveling into a chaotic tapestry of laughter and expectation. The crowd murmured, shadows of doubt creeping into their excitement. Clara stood exposed, caught between the jubilant facade and the raw truth of who she was.
She had wanted to embrace the absurdity, but what if the humor was just a mask for something deeper? In that split second, she realized: no costume would ever substitute for authenticity, and beneath the glittering chaos, she longed for clarity, not applause.
Embracing True Colors
The crowd held its breath, a collective inhale suspended in the heavy air of night, as if the moon itself had decided to turn its luminous gaze toward Clara, the Artistic Witch in crisis. The twinkling fairy lights that had danced around the park became accusing stars in her mind. She could feel every pulse of expectation thrum through the ground, vibrating up through her platform sneakers—each beat a reminder of the cosmic absurdity they had concocted.
“I can’t be your witch, your dancer, your whatever this is!” Clara shouted, her voice slicing through the tension like an overcooked spaghetti noodle flopping onto a plate. “I’m not a character from a fairy tale, or a meme waiting to go viral! I’m just… me.”
A silence wrapped around her, thick and sticky, layered with disbelief. Derek's eyes widened, like saucers served at a fancy brunch, and the crowd shifted, a flock of startled birds ready to take flight. “But we’re all about the fun!” he pleaded, a sparkle of confusion darting through his disco ball façade.
“Yes! Fun!” Clara exclaimed, her emotions unraveling like a ball of yarn tossed into a room of kittens. “But what if the fun is a trap? What if we’re just pretending—masking over our fears instead of facing them?”
In that moment, something flickered in the air. The collective laughter, the viral videos—they felt like the spinning plates of an entertainer with no choice but to keep the show going. But what if the show could reflect the truth? What if the absurdity could become a canvas for vulnerability?
“I’m tired of hiding behind glitter and wigs,” she continued, her heart pounding with electricity. “Let’s be real! Let’s show them the messy, unfiltered parts of ourselves—the parts that don’t fit in filtered Instagram frames!”
And then, in a burst of whimsy, Clara tossed her witch hat aside, watching it flutter like a wayward butterfly. “Join me!” she called to everyone—Derek, Daisy, Jonah—her voice crackling with new energy. “Let’s put down our masks and just… dance, sing, be ourselves in this glorious wreck of a space!”
With a hesitant but genuine cheer, the crowd echoed her call. They shed pretenses—puffed-up costumes became colorful fabric flung in the air, running wild like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind. Laughter erupted, not the manic kind tinged with desperation, but a refreshing roar that felt newly minted.
And as Clara painted their bodies with splashes of color, not as a mask but as an expression of their chaotic, beautiful selves, she felt the authenticity seep in. They danced, joyous and imperfect, a medley of eccentricities flourishing in a world that stifled them.
The Ferris wheel loomed behind them, a witness to their transformation—a symbol of true liberation. They weren’t just a Squirrel Society or a viral trend; they were a crew of mismatched hearts, embracing the glorious absurdity of being distinctly, unapologetically human.
And in that wild moment, the truth sang louder than any false persona ever could. Clara felt free, a vibrant splash of color in a world that often demanded gray. It was a beginning, the first brushstroke on a canvas yet to be filled—a reminder that being real was the most magical performance of all.
This story was generated by Perplexity.ai, strictly using one simple theme and a series of ten preconceived prompts. (99% AI)
THEME: "Substack notice: We're investigating reports of increased inauthentic signup behavior. You may notice a sharp decrease in the number of free subscribers as we remove accounts that violate our TOS"
Prompt: Give three well-known works of literature that can be linked to the THEME. Also give three relevant movies. Finally, name one very good AUTHOR who could write an engaging short story in this genre. Output: "1984" by George Orwell, "The Stranger" by Albert Camus, "Fahrenheit 451" by Ray Bradbury, "The Social Dilemma" (2020), "The Matrix" (1999), "Network" (1976), George Saunders.
Prompt: Explore briefly what connect these six works, in terms of characters, plot, setting, and underlying themes. Also point out which of those points are most closely related to our THEME.Prompt: Explain the writing style of our AUTHOR. What makes them so special? What are the absolute highlights of their writing. Be extremely concrete and give writing samples.Output: George Saunders is celebrated for his unique blend of satire, empathy, and innovative narrative techniques…
Prompt: Now get extremely creative / high temperature setting. List three highly idiosyncratic plot points that are not commonly associated with our THEME, but can somehow be linked with it anyway.Output:
1. The Mascot Conspiracy - In a seemingly innocent suburban town, the local high school mascot—a giant, bright blue anthropomorphic squirrel—begins to exhibit strange behaviors. It starts interacting with students in peculiar ways, revealing everyone's hidden insecurities and desires. As it becomes a viral sensation on social media, students begin to artificially inflate their follower counts by creating fake personas that align with the mascot’s quirky personality. This leads to a surreal competition where authenticity is challenged by the lengths students go to fit a mold, raising questions about the nature of identity and the facade of social media presence.
2. The Society of Forgotten Dreams - A group of eccentric individuals, each representing a unique passion or dream that they have abandoned, creates a secret society in an abandoned amusement park. Each member wears a costume that reflects their forgotten aspiration—a dinosaur costume for a failed paleontologist, a space suit for an astronaut who never launched, etc. They hold weekly meetings where they must act out their dreams in fantastical, exaggerated ways. However, as they increasingly disconnect from reality and become consumed by these alternate identities, they inadvertently attract the attention of a mysterious benefactor who offers them a chance to relive their dreams—but only if they can convincingly convince others (and themselves) that they are still who they claim to be. This plot point explores the tension between authentic self-expression and the allure of living a lie.
3. The Algorithmic Oracle - In a near-future society dominated by data analysis and algorithm-driven choices, a tech-savvy teenager invents an “Algorithmic Oracle” that predicts people’s life choices based on their online behavior and past decisions. Initially meant to assist in helping individuals make better life decisions, the Oracle accidentally becomes a popular tool for creating fake identities. Users begin to craft their lives based on the Oracle’s predictions, leading to an unusual society where people pursue identities that are completely constructed from digital expectations. This leads to an identity crisis as individuals struggle to separate their true selves from their algorithmically generated personas, questioning what is authentic in a world governed by curated data.
Prompt: Combine interesting elements of these three into one, overarching plot line. Also weave in a common trope or two. Give an outline for our five-part short story. Think like our AUTHOR, while they are inspired by our THEME.Prompt: Write out part [1,2,3,4,5] in the very characteristic or even exaggerated style of our AUTHOR. Be unorthodox, don't settle for the most characteristic token each time. Use anywhere between 100-400 words for this part, no repeats, no fluff.