conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Penhallow, Boston, Boneless with the genre: Children's Books, Growing Up & Facts of Life?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Last Gargoyle'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first two paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Last Gargoyle
  My earliest memory is of a crib, a darkened room, and three shadows slipping through the doorway with bad intentions.
  You'd be surprised how many first memories include a visit from the shadows. Parents like to stamp these visitors with convenient labels. Nightmares. Figments. Overactive imaginations.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' I join her on the bed and study it suspiciously.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Hetty retrieves some old newspapers she's stashed in a corner. She lays them carefully in front of me on the floor. I blink slowly. Does she expect me to read them?
  Hetty hesitates, pressing her ear to the closed door. Satisfied that her mother has gone to bed, she carefully retrieves something from the pocket of the folded jeans laid over the back of her chair. It's the tiny key. She heads for the desk.
  Hetty unlocks the drawer with the tiniest of clicks. The wooden drawer scrapes open, rough and coarse. Before I can stop her, she reaches inside.
  Hetty brings it to her bed and sits cross-legged, holding it in her lap. She loosens the elastic band around the journal and opens its thick reptilian cover. I join her on the bed and study it suspiciously.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'A hint of sadness crosses Viola's face, and I can only wish she had a chance to know the same'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A hint of sadness crosses Viola's face, and I can only wish she had a chance to know the same. Unfortunately, I don't have the energy to say it.
  She hesitates, and rubs her thumb and forefinger along the crimson streak in her pigtail as if she wants to say more. But instead, she just says, "Goodbye, Penhallow," and turns to leave.
  She offers a final smile, and I watch as she walks deeper into the tiny cemetery. The grounds now seem to stretch on forever, far past the boundaries of the uneven stone walls, until eventually I see Viola no more.
  I blink a third time. A breeze stirs the autumn air, gentle yet strong. It scatters the leaves over my body like a crimson blanket.
  I lived and studied in Boston for seven years. I didn't have a car at the time, and like Penhallow, I roamed the streets and subways by foot. It's a very old city—at least by American standards—one where you might step out of a modern skyscraper only to pass an eighteenth-century meetinghouse. Or look down and find yourself on the historic red-bricked Freedom Trail while walking to the corner store.