conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled Still Life with Tornado about Sarah, Sarah's, UpAt with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction.. End with the sentence 'Janet Hilbun, University of North Texas, Denton'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gr 9 UpAt 16, Sarah is facing what she calls an "existential crisis," questioning whether her life has meaning or value, an event fueled by an unfair art show, a cruel teacher, a toxic and abusive family, a missing brother, and the loss of her ability to draw. Sarah wanders through the streets of Philadelphia and meets her future self at age 23 and 40 as well as her 10-year-old self. With the help of these past and future selves, she uncovers hidden memories of the vacation leading up to her brother leaving and the lies and violence that have driven her family dynamics for years. This beautifully written, often surreal narrative will make readers wonder if Sarah is schizophrenic, if she has post-traumatic stress disorder, or if she just needs to take a break from the realities of her life. Two weeks before Sarah's crisis, her friend Carmen drew a tornado and told Sarah that it was not a sketch of a tornado but of everything the tornado contained. This drawing becomes an analogy for all that Sarah is hiding in the emotional tornado of her life, the secrets she has hidden from herself and the world. the author's brilliance, artistry, and originality as an author shine through in this thought-provoking work. Sarah's strength, fragility, and ability to survive resonate throughout. VERDICT This is a complex story that will not appeal to all readers, but for others it will be an unforgettable experience.Janet Hilbun, University of North Texas, Denton
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Still Life with Tornado
  Subjects: | CYAC: Family secrets—Fiction. | Family violence—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Marriage & Divorce. | JUVENILE FICTION / Art & Architecture. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Physical & Emotional Abuse (see also Social Issues / Sexual Abuse). Classification: LCC PZ7.K5693 St 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2015049462
  My art teacher, Miss Smith, once said that there is no such thing as an original idea. We all think we're having original ideas, but we aren't. "You're stuck on repeat. I'm stuck on repeat. We're all stuck on repeat." That's what she said. Then she flipped her hair back over her shoulder like what she said didn't mean anything and told us to spend the rest of class sorting through all the old broken shit she gets people to donate so we can make art. She held up half of a vinyl record. "Every single thing we think is original is like this. Just pieces of something else."
  Two weeks ago Carmen said she had an original idea, and then she drew a tornado, but tornadoes aren't original. Tornadoes are so old that the sky made them before we were even here. Carmen said that the sketch was not of a tornado, but everything it contained. All I saw was flying, churning dust. She said there was a car in there. She said a family pet was in there. A wagon wheel. Broken pieces of a house. A quart of milk. Photo albums. A box of stale corn flakes.
  All I could see was the funnel and that's all anyone else could see and Carmen said that we weren't looking hard enough. She said art wasn't supposed to be literal. But that doesn't erase the fact that the drawing was of a tornado and that's it.
  Our next assignment was to sketch a still life. Miss Smith put out three bowls of fruit and told us we could arrange the fruit in any way we wanted. I picked one pear and I stared at it and stared at my drawing pad and I didn't sketch anything.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bruce didn't answer. This was not Bruce's usual behavior. It was as if something were happening to Bruce in Mexico. I don't know if it was the lying, the truth, the seaweed, or the shooting stars that changed him, but he was different on Day Five than he had been.
  She said that to me. But Dad acted like she said it to him. He said, "I don't need to look at the fucking kids' club schedule. I'm not here for games."
  Mom said, "Why not let them go and have fun?" I wanted to tell her that the kids' club was for little kids, not for me and Bruce, but I kept quiet.
  Mom got up and I got up and Bruce got up. We all went to look at the kids' club activity schedule for the day.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She got up and turned on the kitchen light and ran some hot water into the sink for the dishes. "I'll see you later, love."
  When I went back to my room (now my own room, for six whole months since Patricia moved out), I lay on my bed and sobbed softly to myself for my Uncle Willie. It seemed—even though I knew about how bad the world could be—that I still had no control over hormones and the adolescent urge to cry my eyes out over the oddest things.
  It was all about my potential. Since I became girl genius in first grade, I seemed to signify some sort of escape for her. She was so into education and my being smart that I knew there was no way to avoid college—which I already knew would be a complete waste of my time.
  For the next five years, all I would hear would be questions about it. Where would I go? What would I study? Could I earn a scholarship? But I had more important things to take care of. I had three hundred years' worth of buried bones to dig up, a curse to break, and paradise to build with a man who would never come back from the dead.
  But first I had to turn eighteen, graduate, and tell my mother that I wasn't going to college, and I guess I was crying for the night to come when it would be me who would make her sit at the darkened kitchen table and hopelessly mutter things into her bottle. I guess I was crying for the day Saffron Adams would ultimately switch roles—from girl genius with the hopes of a desperate family riding on her brain, to the biggest disappointment who ever lived within twenty miles of Hollow Ford, Pennsylvania.