conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about Tempe, It's, Temperance with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'Break No Bones'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a story titled Break No Bones.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Break No Bones: Brennan and her students are working on a site of prehistoric graves on Dewees Island, South Carolina (a barrier island), when a decomposing body is uncovered in a shallow grave off a lonely beach.\nBrennan is then called upon to discover what is happening when other bodies begin showing up all around the Charleston area.\nThe story also features a romantic subplot, where Brennan must choose between two men, sometime lover Detective Andrew Ryan and estranged husband Janis "Pete" Peterson, deciding where her heart lies.\nShe also deals with Emma Rousseau, friend and local coroner, who has terminal cancer.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a story titled Break No Bones about Tempe, It's, Temperance with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Break No Bones: Brennan and her students are working on a site of prehistoric graves on Dewees Island, South Carolina (a barrier island), when a decomposing body is uncovered in a shallow grave off a lonely beach.\nBrennan is then called upon to discover what is happening when other bodies begin showing up all around the Charleston area.\nShe also deals with Emma Rousseau, friend and local coroner, who has terminal cancer.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about \nThe, Brennan, Detective, estranged, deciding.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Break No Bones: Brennan and her students are working on a site of prehistoric graves on Dewees Island, South Carolina (a barrier island), when a decomposing body is uncovered in a shallow grave off a lonely beach. \nBrennan is then called upon to discover what is happening when other bodies begin showing up all around the Charleston area. \nThe story also features a romantic subplot, where Brennan must choose between two men, sometime lover Detective Andrew Ryan and estranged husband Janis "Pete" Peterson, deciding where her heart lies. \nShe also deals with Emma Rousseau, friend and local coroner, who has terminal cancer.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Break No Bones
  I was hammered early by those truths. Sure, I had a kid's understanding that mortal life ends. At school, the nuns talked of heaven, purgatory, limbo, and hell. I knew my elders would "pass." That's how my family skirted the subject. People passed. Went to be with God. Rested in peace. So I accepted, in some ill-formed way, that earthly life was temporary. Nevertheless, the deaths of my father and baby brother slammed me hard.
  As a little girl, I lived on Chicago's South Side, in the less-fashionable outer spiral of a neighborhood called Beverly. Developed as a country retreat for the city's elite following the Great Fire of 1871, the hood featured wide lawns and large elms, and Irish Catholic clans with family trees more branching than the elms. A bit down-at-the-heels then, Beverly would later be gentrified by boomers seeking greenery within proximity of the Loop.
  A farmhouse by birth, our home predated all its neighbors. Green-shuttered white frame, it had a wraparound porch, an old pump in back, and a garage that once housed horses and cows.
  My memories of that time and place are happy. In cold weather, neighborhood kids skated on a rink created with garden hoses on an empty lot. Daddy would steady me on my double blades, clean slush from my snowsuit when I took a header. In summer, we played kick ball, tag, or red rover in the street. My sister, Harry, and I trapped fireflies in jars with hole-punched lids.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I didn't notice Daddy's absences at first. Like a pain that builds so gradually you're unable to pinpoint its origin, I realized one day that Daddy just wasn't around that much. Dinners without him grew more frequent. His arrival home grew later, until he seemed little more than a phantom presence in my life. Some nights I'd hear unsteady footfalls on the steps, a door banged too hard against a wall. A toilet flushed. Then silence. Or muffled voices from my parents' bedroom, the cadence conveying accusations and resentment.
  To this day, a phone ringing after midnight makes me shiver. Perhaps I am an alarmist. Or merely a realist. In my experience, late-night calls never bring good news. There's been an accident. An arrest. A fight.
  Mama's call came a long eighteen months after Kevin's death. Phones gave honest rings back then. Not polyphonic clips of Grillz or Sukie in the Graveyard. I awoke at the first resonating peal. Heard a second. A fragment of a third. Then a soft sound, half scream, half moan, then the clunk of a receiver striking wood. Frightened, I pulled the covers up to my eyes. No one came to my bed.
  There was an accident, Mama said the next day. Daddy's car was forced off the road. She never spoke of the police report, the blood alcohol level of 0.27. I overheard those details on my own. Eavesdropping is instinctual at age eight.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Like a pain that builds so gradually you're unable to pinpoint its origin, I realized one day that Daddy just wasn't around that much. Dinners without him grew more frequent. His arrival home grew later, until he seemed little more than a phantom presence in my life. Some nights I'd hear unsteady footfalls on the steps, a door banged too hard against a wall. A toilet flushed. Then silence. Or muffled voices from my parents' bedroom, the cadence conveying accusations and resentment.
  To this day, a phone ringing after midnight makes me shiver. Perhaps I am an alarmist. Or merely a realist. In my experience, late-night calls never bring good news. There's been an accident. An arrest. A fight.
  Mama's call came a long eighteen months after Kevin's death. Phones gave honest rings back then. Not polyphonic clips of Grillz or Sukie in the Graveyard. I awoke at the first resonating peal. Heard a second. A fragment of a third. Then a soft sound, half scream, half moan, then the clunk of a receiver striking wood. Frightened, I pulled the covers up to my eyes. No one came to my bed.
  There was an accident, Mama said the next day. Daddy's car was forced off the road. She never spoke of the police report, the blood alcohol level of 0.27. I overheard those details on my own. Eavesdropping is instinctual at age eight.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Two days after hitting Charlotte, our little party again settled itself in the Chrysler, Gran at the wheel. Mama slept, waking only when the whining of our tires announced we were crossing the causeway.
  Mama's head rose from the seat back. She didn't turn to us. Didn't smile and sing out "Pawley's Island, here we come!" as she had in happier times. She merely slumped back.
  Gran patted Mama's hand, a carbon copy of the gesture employed by the Brennans. "We're going to be fine," she cooed in a drawl identical to that of her daughter. "Trust me, Daisy, darlin'. We're going to be fine."
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conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "
  Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster. Mama slept, waking only when the whining of our tires announced we were crossing the causeway.
  Mama's head rose from the seat back. She didn't turn to us. Didn't smile and sing out "Pawley's Island, here we come!" as she had in happier times. She merely slumped back.
  Gran patted Mama's hand, a carbon copy of the gesture employed by the Brennans. "We're going to be fine," she cooed in a drawl identical to that of her daughter. "Trust me, Daisy, darlin'. We're going to be fine.Two days after hitting Charlotte, our little party again settled itself in the Chrysler, Gran at the wheel.