conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Dreams of Distant Shores about Unified, Medusa's, Previously with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Short Stories & Anthologies
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Unified by the theme of supernatural events, these short stories (three previously unpublished) exude mystery and magic in their lyrical texts. The tales range in subject from a boy who was once a horse to a grandmother who hangs out with aliens (much to her family's disbelief) to a frustrated artist who accepts Medusa's help in pursuing art and his model. Previously published as a novella, "Something Rich and Strange" focuses on a couple seduced by ancient sea creatures; they must decide if their relationship is worth fighting for. The selections allude to sex but do not go into great detail. The book is reminiscent of Kelly Link's Pretty Monsters, which also provides a fascinating assortment of paranormal offerings. Young adults who like fantasy tales with strong female characters willing to save themselves and others will enjoy this volume. VERDICT This collection of fascinating and haunting tales that will linger with readers is a strong addition to short story and fantasy collections; hand to fans of Holly Black, Robin McKinley, and Donna Jo Napoli.Tamara Saarinen, Pierce County Library System, Tacoma, WA
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Unified by the theme of supernatural events, these short stories (three previously unpublished) exude mystery and magic in their lyrical texts. The tales range in subject from a boy who was once a horse to a grandmother who hangs out with aliens (much to her family's disbelief) to a frustrated artist who accepts Medusa's help in pursuing art and his model. Previously published as a novella, "Something Rich and Strange" focuses on a couple seduced by ancient sea creatures; they must decide if their relationship is worth fighting for. The selections allude to sex but do not go into great detail. The book is reminiscent of Kelly Link's Pretty Monsters, which also provides a fascinating assortment of paranormal offerings. Young adults who like fantasy tales with strong female characters willing to save themselves and others will enjoy this volume. VERDICT This collection of fascinating and haunting tales that will linger with readers is a strong addition to short story and fantasy collections; hand to fans of Holly Black, Robin McKinley, and Donna Jo Napoli.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first two paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dreams of Distant Shores
  Jake's girlfriend, Blaine, pretty much said the same thing, wailing into his cellphone as he sat with Markham and Scott in a shadowy corner of the Trickle Down Brewery and Pub, "Jake, how could you lose a seven-foot mermaid? You have to find her. I promised Haley! I promised her! That's the focal point of the whole color scheme of her wedding. My best friend is getting married and I want her day to be perfect. I don't care where she went, you have to get her back by Saturday."
  Blaine's voice grew small and far away as Jake stared. She wasn't covered in blue scales; she had two legs under a short black skirt and black tights. But that red mouth, that generous smile, the curve of golden hair along one side of the smile, all that and the fact that she was taller than anyone in the room made his thoughts tangle to an abrupt halt, like an engine seizing up. He ended the call absently, forgetting Blaine. Beside him, Markham and Scott were absolutely still.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She didn't draw that day; she walked back into town. Though it was still barely spring, the license plates on cars were already migratory: California, Nevada, Idaho, even an Arizona on a Winnebago parked near Jonah's shop. They were wanderers, following the paths of birds and whales, wanting to bring home visions, landscapes, the echo of barking seals, the endless siren song of the waves at the edge of the world. Browsing along the street, they would buy strands of abalone beads, driftwood vases, shells for ashtrays. They would buy canned Chinook salmon at Ernie's Fish and Bait. They would get lost, scowl over maps, throw caramel corn at seagulls, snap at one another and their children. They would eat clam fritters, oyster sandwiches, crab cocktail at Lindy's Cafe. Then they would lean over the sea walls at lookout points, their faces wistful, slightly perplexed, as if they were trying to understand some lost language that they once knew, in a distant time when seals walked ashore like men, before all the mermaids changed to manatees.
  What, their faces would ask, do these barking seals, this smell of brine and guano, this vastness no Winnebago can cross have to do with me? Then they would get back into their cars so they could reach the next star on the map before dark. A wanderer herself, Megan knew the lure of the road, the peculiar quest for freedom that had the safe lights of home at the end. The journey was more important than the place; most important was to return home, with crumpled maps, salt and pepper shakers shaped like clamshells, a sweatshirt with whales on it, and to be able to say: I have been there, I have gone on a journey, I have come safely home. The world was a dangerous place for mollusks without their shells, and yet they ventured into it, restless, curious, or maybe following some ancient migratory instinct to return to the place where souls were spawned.
  She studied the drawing. It did need another color, something neutral. "I'm not one of your customers," she said coldly. "Go crab at them."
  Megan stared icily at the curtain, wanting to toss the red wash over the top of it. A coffee wash, she thought suddenly, between the red and the lavender. Cafe au lait. A diagonal line down the rock, spilling into the sand.
  She parted the curtains. The jewelry maker stood at the counter, studying what Jonah had beneath the glass. She paused half a step, blinking. There was too much of him for the shop. Too much of him for the town, she thought. He didn't belong in this tide pool. He was quite tall, dressed in black denim and leather; his short hair was whiter than Jenny's. He wore an earring in one ear. He turned at her step and smiled. He smiles, she thought. His eyes were pale green, the misty color the sea got sometimes when the sun broke behind the clouds. She was too amazed to smile back.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She was too amazed to smile back. Though it was still barely spring, the license plates on cars were already migratory: California, Nevada, Idaho, even an Arizona on a Winnebago parked near Jonah's shop. They were wanderers, following the paths of birds and whales, wanting to bring home visions, landscapes, the echo of barking seals, the endless siren song of the waves at the edge of the world. Browsing along the street, they would buy strands of abalone beads, driftwood vases, shells for ashtrays. They would buy canned Chinook salmon at Ernie's Fish and Bait. They would get lost, scowl over maps, throw caramel corn at seagulls, snap at one another and their children. They would eat clam fritters, oyster sandwiches, crab cocktail at Lindy's Cafe. Then they would lean over the sea walls at lookout points, their faces wistful, slightly perplexed, as if they were trying to understand some lost language that they once knew, in a distant time when seals walked ashore like men, before all the mermaids changed to manatees.
  What, their faces would ask, do these barking seals, this smell of brine and guano, this vastness no Winnebago can cross have to do with me? Then they would get back into their cars so they could reach the next star on the map before dark. A wanderer herself, Megan knew the lure of the road, the peculiar quest for freedom that had the safe lights of home at the end. The journey was more important than the place; most important was to return home, with crumpled maps, salt and pepper shakers shaped like clamshells, a sweatshirt with whales on it, and to be able to say: I have been there, I have gone on a journey, I have come safely home. The world was a dangerous place for mollusks without their shells, and yet they ventured into it, restless, curious, or maybe following some ancient migratory instinct to return to the place where souls were spawned.
  She studied the drawing. It did need another color, something neutral. "I'm not one of your customers," she said coldly. "Go crab at them."
  Megan stared icily at the curtain, wanting to toss the red wash over the top of it. A coffee wash, she thought suddenly, between the red and the lavender. Cafe au lait. A diagonal line down the rock, spilling into the sand.
  She parted the curtains. The jewelry maker stood at the counter, studying what Jonah had beneath the glass. She paused half a step, blinking. There was too much of him for the shop. Too much of him for the town, she thought. He didn't belong in this tide pool. He was quite tall, dressed in black denim and leather; his short hair was whiter than Jenny's. He wore an earring in one ear. He turned at her step and smiled. He smiles, she thought. His eyes were pale green, the misty color the sea got sometimes when the sun broke behind the clouds.She didn't draw that day; she walked back into town.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She's dead—she remembers her head being cut off by Perseus, that obnoxious, not especially bright boy who got lucky—but, in common with many fictional ghosts and figments, she has the best one-liners in the story. She's funny, sardonic, wise, dangerous—and, at times, very nearly as touching as Jo herself, even though she's only a painted mouth on a canvas. Immortal, her survival in this time and this world yet depends on a questionably talented young artist, Harry Waterman, whose knowing, raucous Muse she becomes. The painter fancies himself passionately, desperately, hopelessly in love with the wife of another artist, whose unspeakable beauty almost literally turns him to stone. It is the Gorgon who rouses a different awareness in him and teaches him, for the first time, to see. It may not make him a better or more successful painter—but there will be more to his work than there was before.
  I couldn't have written that damn story, Pat. I'm old enough and experienced enough to want to write it, but I couldn't have done it. This is not the first time that this has happened.
  I have a particular soft spot for the understated and deeply touching "Alien." I don't think I'll ever consider a "little-green-guys-abductedme-and-studied-me" story in the same way again—sorry, X-Files. Sorry, so many long-beloved clichés of first contact, from monster invasions to physical or psychic bodysnatching. Absurdly, it reminds me, of all things, of a French song I often sang at a restaurant in Santa Cruz, long ago and properly far away. In "Un Tout Petit Homme Timide," a flying saucer lands in a Paris park, and what emerges is a shy, big-eyed little guy with his helmet under his arm." And perhaps quit shooting toy ray-guns at us....
  And then there's "Something Rich and Strange." What the hell does one say about that story? I hardly knew where to start reading this one, let alone start thinking about it afterward. It's about human beings and sea gods, and I'm not going to try to describe it, except to say that if there's one thing you realize perfectly in this truly r-and-s story, it's the thoughtless otherness of the gods. I think of it, dazed as it left me, as your take on the eternal legend of Tam Lin: the young knight taken hostage by the Queen of the Shi, the fairy folk, and the determined woman who has to rescue him from his otherworldly mistress. Except that in your version, the seducers are two: a brother and sister out of the sea, and the valiant heroine is herself beguiled. And very nearly falls victim to the song that lured her longtime lover from her side. And how they will go on together in the mortal world, knowing what they know, having been where they have been, you have—as, of course, you would have—sense enough to leave to your readers.
  What strikes me more and more about your recent work—apart from the increasing range of your adventurousness—is your obvious determination either to ignore or sidestep the standard tropes of classic fantasy, or to shake them up so as to leave them more than a bit dizzy and disoriented, like Edie and Henry (and, surely, their calmly competent driver, Thompson), when their motoring jaunt takes them down the Road Not Taken and brings them home—or not?—to a familiar world grown promisingly unfamiliar. Or, in your words, to "a world that had shifted, expanded, to let the fantastic in."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Parisians, I'll, leaving.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She's dead—she remembers her head being cut off by Perseus, that obnoxious, not especially bright boy who got lucky—but, in common with many fictional ghosts and figments, she has the best one-liners in the story. She's funny, sardonic, wise, dangerous—and, at times, very nearly as touching as Jo herself, even though she's only a painted mouth on a canvas. Immortal, her survival in this time and this world yet depends on a questionably talented young artist, Harry Waterman, whose knowing, raucous Muse she becomes. The painter fancies himself passionately, desperately, hopelessly in love with the wife of another artist, whose unspeakable beauty almost literally turns him to stone. It is the Gorgon who rouses a different awareness in him and teaches him, for the first time, to see. It may not make him a better or more successful painter—but there will be more to his work than there was before. 
  I couldn't have written that damn story, Pat. I'm old enough and experienced enough to want to write it, but I couldn't have done it. This is not the first time that this has happened. 
  I have a particular soft spot for the understated and deeply touching "Alien. " I don't think I'll ever consider a "little-green-guys-abductedme-and-studied-me" story in the same way again—sorry, X-Files. Sorry, so many long-beloved clichés of first contact, from monster invasions to physical or psychic bodysnatching. Absurdly, it reminds me, of all things, of a French song I often sang at a restaurant in Santa Cruz, long ago and properly far away. In "Un Tout Petit Homme Timide," a flying saucer lands in a Paris park, and what emerges is a shy, big-eyed little guy with his helmet under his arm. He regards the Parisians and apologizes: "Oh, forgive me—wrong planet! But I'll come back again—you seem very nice!" And he's gone again, leaving the singer to comment, "Well, he thought we were nice, which definitely shows that he's not from around here! But once he and his people get a good look at us, at what we are, they'll say, 'Sorry, children, we'll come back when you grow up. " And perhaps quit shooting toy ray-guns at us.... 
  And then there's "Something Rich and Strange. " What the hell does one say about that story? I hardly knew where to start reading this one, let alone start thinking about it afterward. It's about human beings and sea gods, and I'm not going to try to describe it, except to say that if there's one thing you realize perfectly in this truly r-and-s story, it's the thoughtless otherness of the gods. I think of it, dazed as it left me, as your take on the eternal legend of Tam Lin: the young knight taken hostage by the Queen of the Shi, the fairy folk, and the determined woman who has to rescue him from his otherworldly mistress. Except that in your version, the seducers are two: a brother and sister out of the sea, and the valiant heroine is herself beguiled. And very nearly falls victim to the song that lured her longtime lover from her side. And how they will go on together in the mortal world, knowing what they know, having been where they have been, you have—as, of course, you would have—sense enough to leave to your readers. 
  What strikes me more and more about your recent work—apart from the increasing range of your adventurousness—is your obvious determination either to ignore or sidestep the standard tropes of classic fantasy, or to shake them up so as to leave them more than a bit dizzy and disoriented, like Edie and Henry (and, surely, their calmly competent driver, Thompson), when their motoring jaunt takes them down the Road Not Taken and brings them home—or not?—to a familiar world grown promisingly unfamiliar. Or, in your words, to "a world that had shifted, expanded, to let the fantastic in. "