conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Denise, Michigan with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Bitter Waters'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bitter Waters
  Tucked under his arm, of course, a cuddly toy. How not, when it would infuriate him to find her there? Besides, she had a function: this was Vespa, the vast fluffy wasp we'd bought him years back and hung on the back of his door to remind him never to go out without his epinephrine.
  That, of course, was the moment that Alix yelped, and scurried out of the room; and came back a minute later, blushing and laughing, with his EpiPen in her hand. We'd almost sent him off without it.
  So that went into his jacket pocket with the fags, because there was nothing he liked better than a smoke after a crisis; and then we were done. The vodka was gone, but hey, there's always another bottle. And this was a wake and a houseparty and, what, did anybody imagine we were going to bed tonight...?
  At some uncertain time during that long night, when the others were all out in the kitchen, concocting some witches'-brew punch to welcome Gerard home, I slipped into the front room—laughingly renamed the parlour, just for the occasion, because that's what he would have done—and I added one little memento of my own, slipping it into his pocket with the rest of his loose change. My lucky silver dollar, that I'd been carrying since I was thirteen, since my astronomer-uncle sent it to me from Mount Palomar: the design showed an eagle with an olive-branch in its claws, descending on the moon. It was a sharp counterpoint to his own moon-medallion, and I wanted him to have something that would hurt one of us, at least.
  Later we gave Gerard some time with him alone, while we went out walking in the dawn mist and the chill of it, climbing a hill and passing a bottle from hand to hand, drinking one more toast on the summit. And then—at last, too soon, whichever, both—it was properly tomorrow, and we had to let him go. See him off. We had to be good in public, dress as sober as he was and act as quiet in church and at the graveside and over sandwiches and squash in the church hall after. His sister presided, while his mother sat quiet and proud and miserable in her wheelchair at a table in the corner. One by one we all went over to do the dutiful by him as well as her, listening to her and failing utterly to recognise her son in anything she said.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'There were heavy, unhurried footsteps on the cellar stairs, and the widow heaved her bulk up through the trap behind the bar'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There were heavy, unhurried footsteps on the cellar stairs, and the widow heaved her bulk up through the trap behind the bar.
  Dressed in her usual filthy black, she had a little more grey perhaps in her wild hair than when I'd last seen her, her skin was mottled more and her jowls hung lower. But for all the changes she was like the sea, she was still unchanged. Her small, dull eyes strained to focus through the smoke to where I stood in shadow, and she slapped one meaty hand down on the bar with a noise like wet canvas snapping in the wind.
  And while she talked, she drew a deep jugful of ale, carried that and two tankards in one hand, a bottle of spirit and two glasses in the other; rolled around the bar and over to a table by the window. The pane was too dirty to see through, but this was my table nonetheless, I always sat here. Today it was empty, but she'd thrown men off before, thrown them out even for daring to be sat at my table when I came in.
  I sat with my back to the wall, where I could see every door and every corner of the room, every conversation. She pulled up two stools, set them together and lowered herself with a little more care than she used to take.
  Two shots of spirit were sloshed into the glasses, and we toasted each other silently, tossed the drinks down. Oil and fire, as vicious as ever, and as effective. Then the glasses were topped up, tankards of ale were poured and tasted and approved, and she leant her massive arms on the table and said, "What of my boy, then, my Toby, what of him?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: An hour later, he was the one running sluggishly at the stirrup, cuffed and leashed and naked, with the pack on his back now. His clothes were still damp—and all too big for me—but I wore them gratefully, with stockings stuffed into the boot-toes to keep them on my feet. His rings wouldn't stay on my fingers, so I carried them in a pouch. The horse was equable beneath me. Its former master less so, but I'd gagged him once I tired of his moaning.
  Boys are cheap after war and men too, but horses not. Horses never. Between the two, they'd fetch enough to buy me passage overseas. A new land, new opportunities. Put the war behind me, put it all behind me, start again. With quick feet, a quick tongue, quicker fingers. I could rise and rise.
  Merrick's family would be expecting him. When he didn't arrive, there would be questions asked, people sent in search. Of course they'd find their way to the tavern where he'd spent so much time in recent weeks. Of course they'd interrogate Largo; of course they'd see and recognise the ring he wore so blatantly on his finger.
  He'd have nothing to offer but the truth, that Merrick had paid it fairly for a dancing-boy. But boys are cheap, and that ring meant much to him; no one would believe Largo. Not the family, not the magistrate.
  A man, a captain gone, and his ring on a tavern-keeper's finger? I thought Largo would hang, like enough.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A man, a captain gone, and his ring on a tavern-keeper's finger? I thought Largo would hang, like enough. His clothes were still damp—and all too big for me—but I wore them gratefully, with stockings stuffed into the boot-toes to keep them on my feet. His rings wouldn't stay on my fingers, so I carried them in a pouch. The horse was equable beneath me. Its former master less so, but I'd gagged him once I tired of his moaning.
  Boys are cheap after war and men too, but horses not. Horses never. Between the two, they'd fetch enough to buy me passage overseas. A new land, new opportunities. Put the war behind me, put it all behind me, start again. With quick feet, a quick tongue, quicker fingers. I could rise and rise.
  Merrick's family would be expecting him. When he didn't arrive, there would be questions asked, people sent in search. Of course they'd find their way to the tavern where he'd spent so much time in recent weeks. Of course they'd interrogate Largo; of course they'd see and recognise the ring he wore so blatantly on his finger.
  He'd have nothing to offer but the truth, that Merrick had paid it fairly for a dancing-boy. But boys are cheap, and that ring meant much to him; no one would believe Largo. Not the family, not the magistrate.An hour later, he was the one running sluggishly at the stirrup, cuffed and leashed and naked, with the pack on his back now.