conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled The Farmer's Son about G.A, Best, Author with the genre: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Books, Literature & Fiction. End with the sentence ' has won awards from All Romance eBooks for Best Author 2010, 2009, Best Novel 2008, Mile High, and Best Author 2008, Best Novel 2007, Secrets and Misdemeanors, Best Author 2007.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ; Award-winning author G.A. the author was born in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, USA and attended university in New York City. She moved to Seattle, Washington where she worked as a patrol officer with the Seattle Police Department. In early 2000 G.A. moved to Hertfordshire, England where she began her writing in earnest and published her first book, In the Shadow of Alexander. Now a full-time writer, G.A. has written over ninety novels, including several best-sellers of gay fiction. GA is also the Executive Producer for her first feature film, CAPITAL GAMES. For more information on other books by G.A., visit the author at her official website. www.authorgahauser.com www.capitalgamesthemovie.com G.A. has won awards from All Romance eBooks for Best Author 2010, 2009, Best Novel 2008, Mile High, and Best Author 2008, Best Novel 2007, Secrets and Misdemeanors, Best Author 2007.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first four paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Farmer's Son
  When the photographer came to take my picture for the literary journal, Da insisted I not take him to see the yard. Those were the first words he had spoken to me in nearly two weeks.
  The bales are all but gone now. Mother has asked me to get some more and I agreed. Whatever our differences, the animals should not be made to suffer. I drove to Clonfin one of the days and gave the cattle their food. I did this not for him, nor to ease his workload, but out of habit and to see the animals once more.
  The new bull has arrived. He is young and strong, snow white with a splash of darkness around his head. I am not decided on the animal yet. His head is different: he is a Charolais, yes, but he has a different look from the old bulls. He seems to have a temper. A wicked bull is of no use on a farm, but perhaps he is afraid and getting to know his new home. These things take time.
  The launch of the literary magazine is to take place in Galway, and my friend Duncan is coming from London to go with me. It has been many months since we have seen one another. We are to take a trip down the coast afterwards. It will be a break, a break from here. And at last I shall see the ocean again.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: After searching for six months, the nearest genetic match for the cow was found to be a young Shorthorn bull called Felix. He was owned by Tommy and Jack Brady, the bachelor brothers known as the Wild Men of Soran. They lived on the brow of Soran Hill, they were farmers and shopkeepers, they were our friends.
  When they agreed to sell Felix, the islanders banded together to purchase him. It was the talk of the county, for the television cameras and newspapermen had come from Dublin to record the event. The Tory people saw the reestablishment of the cow line as imperative to their livelihoods and tourism trade, and it would provide fresh milk for them and allow them to export safe, BSE-free beef.
  The islanders treated it as a marriage and presented Felix the bull with a laurel halter woven with wildflowers. Tommy Brady said Felix was going home, for the bull's grandfather had been a Northerner, the Letterkenny Eagle.
  The bull and cow lived happily for a time and the Wild Men gained a new fame in the area as breeders of great bulls.
  We finished the trip with a mighty run through a forest. Duncan was faster than me and tore off into the distance. Now that I was alone again and our time together was coming to an end, I knew I had to make a decision. He would go to London, but where, where should I go?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He would go to London, but where, where should I go? He was owned by Tommy and Jack Brady, the bachelor brothers known as the Wild Men of Soran. They lived on the brow of Soran Hill, they were farmers and shopkeepers, they were our friends.
  When they agreed to sell Felix, the islanders banded together to purchase him. It was the talk of the county, for the television cameras and newspapermen had come from Dublin to record the event. The Tory people saw the reestablishment of the cow line as imperative to their livelihoods and tourism trade, and it would provide fresh milk for them and allow them to export safe, BSE-free beef.
  The islanders treated it as a marriage and presented Felix the bull with a laurel halter woven with wildflowers. Tommy Brady said Felix was going home, for the bull's grandfather had been a Northerner, the Letterkenny Eagle.
  The bull and cow lived happily for a time and the Wild Men gained a new fame in the area as breeders of great bulls.
  We finished the trip with a mighty run through a forest. Duncan was faster than me and tore off into the distance. Now that I was alone again and our time together was coming to an end, I knew I had to make a decision.After searching for six months, the nearest genetic match for the cow was found to be a young Shorthorn bull called Felix.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The cutting of turf is an ancient thing. The peat is fossilized plant debris, the remnants of ancient forests that once covered the whole island. The turf is cut from the bog and left to dry in the sun. Then it is burned in the winter for heat. This work is older than the nation, older than any of us know. The Celts made sacrifices to the bogs, to the gods, and bodies have been found preserved like leather in the peat: men and women of ancient days, their faces contrite, almost prayerful, mummified in the black, gloopy mass.
  We cut the turf and load it into the trailer. It is black and cool in my hands. He begins slowly to talk to me, telling me his news; he asks of my writing and how was Spain. I tell him there were no cattle but lots of sheep. We talk of football and rugby, of Rory and Uncle Davy. I ask after the new bull and the lambs. We talk now as if we have not spoken in a long time. It has been a long time.
  It is as close as he may come to "I am sorry," as close as we come to "I love you." We wipe our brows and curse the heat, but jokingly so, for we are glad of the sun, of the change of season. High above, the birds sing and a murmuration of starlings passes, cresting and falling as a giant black sky shoal. The patterns of nature do not change, but we can.
  It is the end of the calving season. We have all our stock, we have each other. It is all we need. It is all we want.
  And, of course, reading the works of Henry David Thoreau has been a defining moment in my reading life.