conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled Some Assembly Required about span><span>the, Ph.D, Literature with the genre: Literature & Fiction, United States.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: <span><span>the author has a Ph.D in Literature, and has published poetry, short stories, and non-fiction essays in literary and commercial magazines. Michael lives in Salem, Oregon, USA.</span></span>
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Greening, Ben, Brown, writing, writing, Greening.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: <span><span>the author has a Ph. D in Literature, and has published poetry, short stories, and non-fiction essays in literary and commercial magazines. He regularly runs creative writing workshops in universities and writing groups, and his 2005 novel The Greening of Ben Brown was a finalist for the Ken Kesey Novel Award. Michael lives in Salem, Oregon, USA. </span></span>
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Some Assembly Required
  I paid $75 for a fake student ID—the going rate, I was told. A second-class felony they also said, class C maybe. My contact just wanted me to know the risks and that I would never find him again. That was the deal—a good-enough ID, seventy-five bucks, and mum's the word.
  The attendance at the conference was an exclusive club of scientists who, I suspected, had even nicer lab coats than Dr. S and then add a minor infection of science students and then me undercover. Here's how that worked:
  Dr. S, at the first plenary session, sees me come in and says, "Oh, it's you. How've you been?" Busted. But no matter. He wasn't interested in the revenue from the conference fees.
  The good doctor cocked his head at me, looked over my shoulder, said, "Excuse me, I have to talk to someone over there," and scurried off.
  Dr. S began with a eulogy, and I use the term I think precisely: a eulogy for Rex, the recently departed. No more the sentient blob, the striped conjurer, hunkered in the corner of his Lucite realm. No more wizardry of speaking over someone's neurons with or without permission. Dr. S droned.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I was so happy to have her back, even provisionally, as she made clear. I was not exactly on probation, but we were going to take it slowly, slowly, and that meant keeping two places to live. I had to find Dr. S also. Turned out that was easy.
  On a Wednesday afternoon (Wednesday's child is full of woe), Doctor Sewall called a press conference. He also alerted the local news stations and apparently every AI and sci-fi and comic-con and computer-geek organization his assistants could find. The scene reminded me of a grand opening of a shopping center. The air was thick with commercial funk: ribbons, banners, flowers, a giant scissors, pretty girls and a display of tech gear of some sort. The press was there but not sure why. It was ado and folderol, and shenanigans all at the same time. Dr. S raised his hand for silence.
  Then he stopped talking, still holding the microphone, looking out over the crowd as if someone had pulled his plug. He stood perfectly still for a long, long time. The crowd began to make noises and shuffle as if getting ready to flee. Then just before the crowd got so restless it would break up, he suddenly began talking. More animated this time.
  Several young men in the back behind the doctor began to look at each other wide-eyed. I assume they were the reps from the tech stocks the doctor was about to blow up. More phones came out. Calls being made, stocks being traded. The tapping of phone faces was audible and like the sound of a gentle wind in trees far away.
  The crowd now was in full babble and snort. Whispering had become full on scatting at the first minutes of the apocalypse. Pharaoh's army was about to be drowned.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bernice is a witch living in Glasgow. She loses her way in her life and wanders off the beaten track looking for the garden of enlightenment.
  One rainy afternoon in a Brooklyn diner, Peter Howland punctures an egg with his fork. Repulsed, Peter pushes the plate away and never eats again.
  Jesus is not who you think he is. The year is 75 CE. Joseph ben Jude is frail and ailing, but he has a prophecy to fulfil...
  Martine Haslett, a thirty-something 1980s woman, plays hard on the fringes of the London drag club scene until one night which prompts her to sign up to a charity. She writes to a young Sri Lankan boy, with consequences far and long.
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