[System]
Craft a Twenty page narrative for adults with these guidelines:
Use ideas to improve the story including dialogue, conflict and challenges, and character development.
TYPICALLY IT GOOD TO FOLLOW THIS:
Introduction
Rising Action
Midpoint
Climax
Resolution

In a well-told story, elements like the climax, resolution, and midpoint shouldn't need explicit mentioning; a discerning reader should be able to identify these moments through the narrative's progression

Use adult themes if specified.
Start uniquely, avoiding clichés.
Adult content is permitted.
Make the story captivating, possibly humorous, and thought-provoking.
Begin each segment with "Page x:" for each page.
FOUR FULL LENGTH PARAGRAPHS
Do not generate a title.
generate ALL 20 pages,
Example Response Format
  'Page 1: (4 full-length paragraphs)
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  Page 3: (4 full-length paragraphs)
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[User]
Brief Overview: A contemporary woman struggles with pandemic anxiety and the desire to be useful, paralleled by a harrowing historical tale of a Jewish woman's survival during the Holocaust, using the theme of bread as a symbol of resilience and magic. The story is a blend of drama and magical realism, told in the third person perspective.

Pages 1-2:
- In a modern setting, a young woman discusses the pandemic's bread-making trend with her Israeli grandmother.
- Flashbacks reveal a young Jewish baker, Ruth, preparing bread for the Resistance during WWII, as she's warned about impending danger.

Pages 3-4:
- The modern woman attempts to bake challah as a coping mechanism, but fails.
- Ruth is harassed by the Svatislavian Polizia searching for a Resistance member, and she navigates their demands while maintaining a facade of ignorance.

Pages 5-6:
- Ruth navigates a dangerous encounter with polizia officers, using bread to distract and appease them.
- A modern-day woman deals with job loss and isolation, trying again unsuccessfully to connect with baking.

Pages 7-8:
- The woman's struggle continues with failed attempts at baking and support for a sick friend.
- Ruth's memories of her zayde's wisdom inspire her persistence and submission to baking despite her father being taken by polizia.

Pages 9-10:
- Ruth discovers the Resistance is severely weakened, but learns of a boat that could offer escape.
- The modern woman confronts her feelings of futility against the backdrop of social unrest, failing once more in her baking endeavor.

Pages 11-12:
- Ruth decides to bake for bribes and barter despite increased personal risk after her father's death.
- As time approaches for her to leave for Lavroskia, she uses baking as an emotional outlet to process her losses and memories.

Pages 13-14:
- The modern woman faces tight financial circumstances and feels disconnected with the world.
- Ruth remains inside, observing shiva alone, finding solace in baking yet feeling the weight of her loneliness.

Pages 15-16:
- Ruth processes her grief, reflecting on her family's wisdom about the value of doing something, even when it seems futile.
- She channels her emotions into baking, unintentionally creating a bread sculpture that resembles her loved ones.

Pages 17-18:
- Ruth bakes a golem-inspired bread sculpture that symbolizes her truth and desires.
- As she finishes her creation, the bakery is threatened once again by polizia.

Pages 19-20:
- The modern woman navigates grief and online criticism, still searching for solace.
- Ruth faces a potentially fatal confrontation, only for her bread sculpture—the golem—to come alive and defend her.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

“Everyone’s making bread,” I say, trying to sound casual and not like I’m terrified, because talking about bread is easier than talking about what’s going on. My phone balances on my belly as I lie in bed. “It’s like the pandemic hit, and everyone’s collective delusion went ‘I’ll bake bread, that’ll solve it.’ I just don’t get it.” “There’s magic in bread,” says my bubbe. Her voice is tired, like it had to walk the whole distance from Israel to the US in order to reach my ears. “A good challah is worth more than its weight in flour, oil, and eggs.” “Okay, but why baking, of all things? If people want to help they should stay home.

Maybe volunteer to deliver food to neighbors if they’re healthy enough to do it.” If I keep my voice light enough she won’t know the fear makes my chest feel like an iron band is shrinking around it. “There’s something to be said for doing something in a crisis. Baking is a reasonable something.” She sighs, and I can hear the weight of every one of her 102 years, studded with countless pogroms and wars. “Maybe it’s different in America. You people have never known real hardship. If you’ve always had it easy, you’ll need to learn to adjust.” And there’s nothing to say, because how do you argue with that?

If only I were as strong as she was, and able to handle horrors better. Ruth kept half an eye on the window, watching for a horse and cart as she kneaded the dough in a hurry, flour flying from one hand as the other pulled and rolled the sticky blob. For tonight’s order, five loaves of dark bread, five of rye, three bialys, ten knishes, and two intricate braided challahs. The young man from the Resistance with the nice green eyes, Chaim, was coming to pick them up, and they couldn’t be late. Chaim always said there was magic in her bread, though Ruth thought it was nonsense. She certainly didn’t see any magic in her father’s bakery—just flour and eggs and salt and the ceramic bowls of yeasty starter she kept in the corner under cloth napkins.

Though the yeasty goo was sort of magic, turning simple flour into sour bubbles that made the dough rise. If the loaves were just right, and the dark pumpernickel had a hollow sound when you rapped its bottom with a fist, and the challah shined with its egg wash, and the rye’s crust made a raspy sound when you went over it with your hand . . . that’s when the magic worked. Or so Chaim claimed.

Page 2:

Ruth was certain it was just Chaim flirting with her, getting her to drop the price by a zlota or two. She shook her head, her hands not missing a beat. Times were hard enough in the little ghetto, and the Svatislavian Polizia were now coming every week for bribes, not twice a year like before. No more discounts for Chaim. Even if he had those nice green eyes. Even if he was part of the Resistance, which she both admired and feared.

No use saving money for the Resistance, if she was taken out and shot by a nice goy polizia just doing his job, when she didn’t have the coin to keep him away. Her father, sick in his bed, wouldn’t be able to help. And then who would make bread for the Resistance? Jews show emotion with food. If you come visit we shower you with carbs of love: challah and pita and babka and cakes, so many cakes. Not like there’s any visitors now.

On week four of lockdown I start to get twitchy. My baseline fear gives way to jumpy anxiety. I click from tab to tab on my laptop, bouncing between dire predictions on the news and politicians blatantly ignoring the warnings on Twitter. I can’t concentrate on my work, which is already less efficient when everyone’s remote, and my boss can tell. She’s testy, and I can’t tell how much of it is my fault and how much is the pandemic. I try to check in on people.

Every day it’s a different video call, with the soft-voiced, “Hey. How you holdin’ up” that’s less of a question than a statement of collective grief. I Amazon some chocolates to a friend who’s a doctor, who’s getting overwhelmed with the COVID patient load and is barely holding themselves together. The chocolates never arrive. As I sit at home, too high-risk to go anywhere or do much of anything, I fret. I stew.

Page 3:

I feel helpless and exhausted and terrified and coiled tight as a wire with borrowed anxious energy that I have no way to release. And I remember my bubbe’s words, and try to make bread. The plan is challah. Start traditional, why not? I put a few rolls of toilet paper in a plastic baggie and stuff it into my mailbox, then wait for a friend to show up and swap them for a small packet of yeast. This is what we’re reduced to, a barter economy with ten seconds of seeing a friendly face at a distance.

He waves and then dashes off, back home to his family. Lucky bastard. Better to do something than nothing, my bubbe said, so here goes. I film my steps as I go, to share with her later, focusing my phone camera on the little tan grains of yeast swirling in a bowl of water. I add some salt and wait for the bubbles to come, showing the yeast is alive. The bubbles never come.

Was the yeast dead all along? Or is it sugar you’re supposed to feed the yeast instead? Damn. I think it’s supposed to be sugar. I don’t have any more yeast, so I can’t try again. I upload the video to YouTube, title it “How not to make a challah,” and send my bubbe the link so she can give advice on where I went wrong.

I feel helpless, like there’s nothing I can do. I can’t make bread and I can’t improve the situation. I can’t get my friend chocolate, and I sure can’t get enough PPE to keep them safe. I can’t get my government to take this seriously, especially while some people are now protesting local mask mandates with machine guns and a spray of germy spittle as they shriek. It feels like everyone in power has decided that my friends in the medical field, and front-line workers, and high-risk people like me are all acceptable losses. It feels like there’s a bowling ball nestled at the bottom of my stomach at all times, heavy and twitching and juuuuuust on the precipice of an inky-black abyss where it could drop even farther.

Page 4:

I want to scream and cry and curl up in a ball in the corner, and I know none of these will make me feel better but I imagine them wistfully anyway. Chaim was late. Chaim was never late. Never past sundown on a Friday late. When the knock came on the wooden door it was a sharp ra-ta-tat, irritated and impatient. Not Chaim’s easy tapTAP tapTAP, the same rhythm as shaBAT shaLOM.

“Open up! Polizia!” Ruth straightened her spine, grabbed a few overboiled pretzel rolls that she kept for such occasions, and fished in the little brown ceramic sugar bowl for a few zlota. “Coming!” She stuffed the coins and rolls into pockets of her floury apron. There were two of them. One polizia had blond hair combed back under his sharp-tipped cap and a neat blond mustache, and the other had straight brown hair and held the door open with a boot to make sure that the first wintry snowflakes could make their way into the warmish shop front. Both had noses straight as the pole on their eagle-and-bear insignia, straight as the barrels of their rifles.

“We’re looking for Haym Berger,” said the blond. It took Ruth a minute to realize he meant Chaim. The chet sound was hard for the goyim. “Got a warrant for his arrest.” “Haym?” She kept the mispronunciation. “I don’t know if I know a Haym . .

. I have many customers, but can’t remember everyone’s name. What does he look like?” She tried to keep her shoulders not-quite-squared, not-quite-slumped, and to keep her voice from quavering. Show she was cooperating, not a threat, but not to be rolled over for fun. Even shivering from the cold would be a show of weakness. As long as her dad stayed quiet in bed, she’d work this out.

Page 5:

One way or another. “What d’ya mean what’s he look like? He looks like you.” Brown-hair turned his head back and spat on the dirt, a few blades of withered winter grass away from his shiny black boot. “I’ll keep an eye out for a Haym, and will let you know. Meanwhile, it’s so cold out! Would you like a pretzel roll?

They’re fresh from the oven this morning.” She fished out two from her apron pocket. The bottoms were just a tiny bit soggy, but the tops looked firm and dark and inviting, the sprinkling of rough salt on top matching the sprinkling of snowflakes gathering on the polizia’s furred collars. They shouldn’t notice if they grabbed them with their fine leather gloves still on. The blond polizia grabbed one and gnawed about half of it off. The brunet’s eyes narrowed at the offering. “Don’t like pretzel rolls.

I’ll take something else though.” He pushed his way in, rifle knocking against the edge of the wooden door. The inside of the shop was cleaned for Shabbat already, unsold loaves and rolls and knishes and bialys sitting neatly on rolling racks. The countertop had nothing but her locked cash register and the thin green-paper boxes with Chaim’s order, tied with white string. “What’s those?” he asked, worrying at the knot on top, his gloved hands too clumsy to get anywhere. “Just an order for tomorrow night. I can’t bake it tomorrow beca—I just like to get an early jump on things.

How about a nice bialy?” She led him to the racks and made a show of picking one out for him from the middle . . . as though she was finding him the best one. She picked one that hadn’t quite gotten the perfect shade of brown on its bottom. He growled but accepted the onion-filled roll, taking a bite and scattering crumbs on his chest and her floor.

Page 6:

The two polizia shared a look which could only mean, “We came all this way and only got bread? Must be something else worth having.” The blond finished his pretzel roll and brushed the crumbs from his gloves onto her lintel. “And your tax? Your contribution to the great Svatislavian Polizia, keeping you safe from criminals like Haym?” “Of course.” There was no tax, not really. But it would keep her safe, even if it was from the men themselves. It would be useless to tell them she could not conduct cash transactions on Shabbat, but Judaism was firm with the caveat that allowed actions as long as it was to save a life at risk.

Ruth was certainly a life at risk. She fished out the three zlota she’d put in her other apron pocket and offered them. The brunet snatched them up. “This isn’t enough. Open the register.” He tapped his rifle as though idly, but making his point. Ruth reached into her shirt and brought out the key, which hung there on a thin leather thong.

She wished she’d kept it elsewhere, since now both polizia were staring at her chest. She stepped behind the counter, making sure her body blocked the brown ceramic sugar bowl where she kept more money. The key unlocked the cash register to show . . . nothing.

The opened drawer was bare but for a paper clip and a few dulled half-grozta in a corner. “I’m sorry sirs, this is what I have. Business has been slow today, and I just paid the miller.” Another low growl as the brunet grabbed the meager coins from the register, a glare from both, and the two polizia stalked off without saying another word. Her father, mercifully, had stayed upstairs in their apartment during the whole exchange. My job gets downsized. My landlord posts cheery signs around the building that rent is now due, or else.

Page 7:

After two straight weeks of being stuck on hold, every day from nine to five while the office is open, I manage to apply for unemployment. Their online system is down, unable to handle the load, and the people answering the phone sound frazzled and worn thin. With the current wait times, I’ll find out if I’m approved for unemployment in two months, they tell me. I mope at home, nothing to do. Nobody’s hiring. And meanwhile my concentration span has gotten even shorter.

A two-minute clip of a WHO doctor giving an update now takes me ten minutes to get through, as I keep pausing it and bouncing elsewhere. I doomscroll Twitter through the wee hours of the night. I’m too anxious to sleep, and too tired to focus. A few months later, yeast is available again, and I order some online and prop up my phone to film. My dough stays runny like cake batter, and as it bakes and rises it overflows its pan. Charred globs seal themselves onto the lowest wire rack and onto the bottom of the oven.

After walking her through it over the phone, my bubbe’s able to play “How not to make a challah 2” on Youtube. “Next time you’ll do better,” she says. “Do you feel better, though?” “Not really,” I say as I roll onto a pile of folded laundry that I haven’t managed to drag the three feet from the bed to the dresser. “Try again,” she says. “Just do something. Even if it doesn’t help, it’ll help.” Ruth’s father was never meant to be a baker.

His father, Ruth’s Zayde Avigdor, was a rabbi, and it was custom that a rabbi’s first son follow suit. But young Yosef didn’t have a head for letters, much less a head for the math required in numerology. Better at working with his hands, Yosef started a bakery. It was okay, Zayde Avigdor had told Ruth when she was young. The Torah is everything you need to know, but bread? Bread is life.

Page 8:

But what about at Passover? Ruth had asked. We don’t have bread then. Zayde Avigdor had laughed his booming laugh, for it was good for Jews to argue and question. “Ravaleh,” he’d called her, his little rabbi. Not that women could be rabbis, but she’d loved the appreciative gleam in his eyes.

“Ravaleh, unleavened bread is still bread. And Hashem gave our people the commandments right before He rained down bread from Heaven. Both important. If you can’t study the Torah, bread is the next best thing.” Even though it’d been years since he’d passed, Ruth missed him every day. Meanwhile, Yosef’s head wandered more and more, and soon he’d started forgetting things. He’d started by forgetting the Jewish curfew, and then he forgot how to make challah.

Challah! Of all things! Eventually Ruth could count on one hand the number of days when he didn’t forget he had a daughter. Most days he called her Bluma, thinking she was his wife. So Ruth tried to keep him away from the polizia as much as possible. In bed as much as possible.

She soothed him and brought him books and bread and newspapers until the newspapers were too much. And then it became easiest to just say it was Shabbat, every day. They had just come back from shul, at all times. Prayer and reflection in his bedroom, at all times. Until the day she couldn’t. The bakery’s biggest oven was outside in the little lot behind the building, where it could vent its heat safely.

Page 9:

Ruth stood in the oven’s circle of dead wet grass, tan against the snow that accumulated all around it, and pulled out a rack of loaves. The oven stayed on throughout the week, even through Shabbat, fuel roaring in its belly. She couldn’t hear the polizia knock on the door as she tossed the new-baked loaves into a large basket on the ground. She couldn’t hear her father thump down the stairs and let in the polizia as she took the waiting bialys-to-be and shoved them deep into the oven shelf with a floured paddle. She couldn’t hear the yelling as the men were enraged that a filthy Jew dared speak to them this way, didn’t give them the respect they felt entitled to. She did, however, hear the gunshot.

And then the second gunshot, and the third. And without being fully conscious of what was happening, or what she was doing, she grabbed the basket of loaves and sprinted into the alley that connected the back lot and the street behind it, putting as much distance between her and the polizia as she could without caring which direction she was going. My first unemployment check comes in, which is a relief until I see the amount. It’s far too small to live off of, but at least it’ll slightly slow the bleeding from my bank account. There are no jobs. Businesses are closing left and right.

From the few places I hear back, I get interviews, and then get ghosted after. My yeast-delivering friend’s whole family is sick. He tells me how all-consuming the illness is, how they’re all still exhausted for weeks after. My doctor friend has permanent bags under their eyes. My third attempt at challah looks amazing from the outside: the plaits are an inviting dark brown on the top of their bumps, rolling into pale yellow creases where they touch each other. The inside is dense and horrible, like an undercooked, unsweetened cake.

Baking it further would just burn the top. I upload “How not to make a challah 3” and notice that the viewcounts of my previous two videos are at around 50 apiece. Who on earth wants to watch me curse at dough, I don’t know. “I’m giving up on bread,” I tell my bubbe on the phone after she manages to watch the video. “This is a waste of time and money and materials.” “There’s magic in bread,” she says, “but the magic is more in the doing. If you can’t do this, do something else.

Page 10:

Doing something is always going to help, even if it doesn’t help.” It makes no sense. But she has been slipping into bits of senility lately, so I shake off her words and forget them shortly after, diving into yet another wave of what-ifs. What if she’s senile enough to wander out without a mask and catch Covid and die? What if she gets Long Covid and doesn’t die, but is bed-bound and stuck in misery for the rest of her life? What if all my what-ifs fling me into another panic attack? The pandemic anxiety threatens to swallow me whole.

Ruth ran until she could run no more. She stopped, realizing she was outside in the snow without a coat or a plan, and was far from the ghetto where she was supposed to stay. She looked Jewish, itself already half a crime. Dark curly hair, thick black eyebrows, and more nose than was safe in this town. Chaim. Chaim would know what to do.

He’d given her so many invitations, and she’d never taken him up on any of it. Not that he would be home, with polizia crawling everywhere looking for him. But he’d once mentioned going to a meeting in the old abandoned monastery—once a place for goyim, now giving Jews refuge. She shivered and pulled her sweater tighter around her torso, which was already bonier than it had been a few months ago. No buffer against the cold. But she shifted the basket of loaves on her hip and trudged onwards, making sure to zigzag between streets and to mix up her snowy footprints with others’.

The monastery had been abandoned for decades. It sat on a hill near the woods, close to the Lavoska River where boats would once come and pick up the ale the monks brewed to distribute around the country. Ruth had been walking for over an hour by the time she staggered up to its worn wooden door. She could barely feel her fingers as she knocked. With no answer, she pushed on its painted handle and was surprised it gave way, flecks of rust-red coming off on her hand. Inside was cold, but her cheeks tingled with the warmth that was the absence of icy wind.

Page 11:

She found her way into the part of the building that had been a church. Stone floors, wooden pews, and a thick layer of dust. But way off to the side, where the church opened into the rest of the monastery, she could see footprints. She followed them until she reached the monastery’s kitchens, where she suddenly felt a cold metal line against her throat. “Who are you,” hissed the person holding the knife, their breath hot on her nape, “and what do you want? You have two seconds before I start cutting.” Ruth dropped the basket in fear.

“Ch-Ch-Chaim!” she stuttered, “I’m looking for Chaim! He’s a friend!” The knife dropped and Ruth turned around. It was a girl, no older than twelve, for all that she was already tall as Ruth. She wore what looked to be an entire wardrobe at once: five drab sweaters layered on each other bulked her out, and at least three skirts. She wore her hair in a dark braid like Ruth’s. “Chaim’s gone,” said the girl.

“The polizia got him two days ago. They put him on a train to the work camps.” Her hand darted out, quick as an adder, and grabbed a loaf from the basket before Ruth could say anything. The girl wolfed it down, barely breathing between bites. “I . . .

I don’t know what to do,” said Ruth. Her voice broke and she started to shiver. Part from the cold, part from grief, part from the exhaustion of it all. Her father was dead. It was . .

Page 12:

. too big an idea to wrap her head around. Chaim was probably dead too, or would be soon—nobody ever came back from the work camps. And she had nowhere else to go. “Can the Resistance help me? I can bake, if they have flour and ovens.

Or I can clean or . . . or do anything that’s needed. I can be useful. I have nowhere to go.” Tears finally reached her eyes as she tentatively poked at the giant wall of grief looming inside her.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. There was no time for that now. “There’ll be a boat,” said the girl, grabbing a second loaf and taking a bite. Ruth noticed her cheekbones poking out of her face, how gaunt she was, and wordlessly offered a third. “In eight days, on the river. It’s taking people across the border.

Things are better for Jews in Lavroskia. You could take Chaim’s place, if you have your papers and something for bribes.” Her chewing slowed to a more normal pace as her belly filled. “You can’t stay here, though. We can’t feed you for a week. And you’ll freeze in that,” she indicated Ruth’s sweater. “Come back in eight days.” The fishing city of Lavroskia was named for the river, or the other way around.

Page 13:

Any city needed bakers, and the boat was the only thread for her to grasp. Going home for the interim was dangerous—she would be under heightened watch. The polizia would come again and again, for more money or worse. But there was no better option. My yeast-delivering friend is in the hospital with Covid complications. He was feeling better, but now has an embolism and goodness knows what else.

I toss $50 that I can’t afford into his GoFundMe and quit my Netflix account to make up a bit of the difference. My doctor friend calls and tells me they’ve lost a colleague, and I don’t know what to say to offer any comfort. Outside, people are protesting for racial justice, chanting at the top of their lungs. Counter-protesters yell back, spittle freely flying from their unmasked faces. I feel embarrassed, staying inside. I’m too high-risk for a protest to make sense.

And yet again I feel helpless and ineffectual. Doing something is all well and good, if there’s actually something you can do. I try to bake some challah and film it again. The loaf comes out of the oven flat and dense. This is probably how you make hardtack, not bread. The first “How not to make a challah” video has five thousand views and people are arguing King Arthur flour vs Gold Medal in the comments.

Now “How not to make a challah 4” joins it on my channel. I don’t feel like I can complain to my bubbe about it. What can I say to a woman who lived through pogroms and the Holocaust? That I’m scared and alone during a much more peaceful time? All I need to do is stay inside and wait this thing out, as long as my savings don’t give out first. (Which honestly, they might.)

Page 14:

But nobody is actively trying to kill me. It’s not nearly as bad as she had it. So why do I feel so scared and useless? Back at the bakery, Ruth swept the shards of glass from the front room, cleaned up the crumbs from the stomped and stolen loaves, set the overturned racks that had once held bialys and knishes and challah back upright, and put the emptied cash register back in its place. Her father’s blood had soaked into the wooden floorboards and no amount of scrubbing would ever get them clean. She didn’t board up the windows—with what planks of wood?

And what good would it do? Better to show that this bakery had been abandoned, had no more to give. Like her. Ruth washed her father’s body and wrapped it in a white bedsheet—the closest she could get to a tachrichim, the traditional linen shrouding garments. She took his tallit, his prayer shawl, snipped off one of the tzitzit fringes, and wrapped it around him too. It took hours to dig a grave next to the big oven in the back, for all that the oven’s residual heat had kept the ground from fully icing through.

She recited the blessings as best she could, trying not to think of how wrong this was, so wrong. It shouldn’t be her doing this by herself, but a rabbi with a minyan. It shouldn’t be her father in the ground, he who had done nothing wrong, but the polizia. It shouldn’t be her left all alone, too frightened to fight back against the injustices and instead crouching near-silent on the freshly turned earth like a shivering mouse. Where was the Resistance? For all the good they’d done, it sounded like they were mostly gone too.

Out-manned, out-gunned. “Baruch atah Adonai, Dayan Ha-Emet” she whispered, bless the Lord, the judge of truth, as she locked the door to the front of the bakery behind her, then went up the stairs to the little apartment on the second floor where she had lived in all her life. She threw a pillowcase over the mirror, tore a hole in her clothing, and prepared to sit shiva. It was strange to sit shiva all alone. When they’d sat shiva for her mother, and again later for Zayde Avigdor, it felt like she was living with the whole town in one tiny apartment. People bustled in and out, brought food, patted her cheeks and offered handkerchiefs for her streaming nose.

Page 15:

Her father had been there to comfort her too. And now their home was silent. Worse than when she and her father had rattled around like two zlotas in a big empty jug. The only sound was the wind whipping through the dead tree branches outside and the windows creaking with the effort to keep it out. The town itself wasn’t deserted, but Jews were no longer allowed to congregate. Not in shul, not in each other’s homes.

Certainly not at the Jewish cemetery. Going out and asking the neighbors that were still left to come sit shiva for Yosef, or even telling them he had passed . . . well, it was lucky enough Ruth managed to get back to the bakery unseen. Going out again before she had to make the dash for the boat was just asking for trouble she couldn’t afford.

Inside she sat. She tried reading their well-thumbed copy of the Torah, but her eyes couldn’t focus. She felt too empty for grief. Too numb. Like the sadness inside her was so large that, if she were to poke it, the frail dam holding it back would burst and she would be so overwhelmed that she would die of despair. And she couldn’t afford to do that.

While it wasn’t forbidden to cook during shiva, tradition meant mourners didn’t have to, with visitors bringing food. But Ruth couldn’t starve. As she went through the motions of the most basic of mourning cooking—hard-boiled eggs, the simplest of loaves, frying the last of the stringy meat from the icebox—her shoulders relaxed with the familiar motions. She remembered Zayde Avigdor’s words during her mother’s shiva. “When all is lost, do something anyway. Even if it doesn’t help, it’ll help.” She hadn’t understood the words then.

Page 16:

But now they clicked into place, and she started to bake. Baking wouldn’t bring back her father or Chaim. Baking wouldn’t keep the polizia away, or keep her neighbors safe, or help her get to the boat in time. But the dry powderiness of the flour, the soft stickiness of just-risen dough . . .

they felt nourishing to her fingers. So she baked. She had plenty of flour, and food was as good for bribes as anything. Challah bread and rye loaves and pretzel rolls and bialys and knishes and poppy seed rolls and hamantaschen and proziaki and sesame bagels and rugelach and babka. Anything she could think of and had the ingredients for came marching like Resistance soldiers out of the big oven in the back. But when she used the last tablespoon of poppy seeds to fill a hamantaschen, something inside her broke.

It didn’t matter how much she baked. She couldn’t carry all of this with her. She couldn’t hide with a sack of bread larger than she was. What would she do, steal a wheelbarrow and rumble it through the cobbled streets? And baking could fill her home with bread, but it didn’t fill the hole in her heart. Ruth collapsed to the ground, spilling both poppy seeds and the tears that had been held back for days.

She was alone. Her father, gone. Chaim, gone. Zayde Avigdor and her mother, gone. Half of the Jews in the ghetto were gone, whether into the ground or to work camps she didn’t know. And her heart hurt with the loss as the grief dam burst and the sadness washed over her in wave after wave after wave and she felt she would drown.

Page 17:

Hours later—it must have been hours, because the candle on the bakery table had long flickered out—Ruth had cried herself out. The numbness returned, both to her heart and to her legs, which had fallen asleep. She shook them out and looked at the table filled with the triangular poppyseed cookies eaten at Purim, their dough still pale and unkissed by heat. What was the point? To do something anyway, even if it doesn’t help? Who was even going to eat these hamentaschen, the polizia when they next came to raid the bakery?

To hell with them. Ruth resisted the urge to scream—better to not call attention to her presence—so instead she mashed up all the hamentaschen and kneaded them into a poppyseed-dotted ball. And punched it once for good measure. Ruth stared at the wooden table, drained yet again. She unfocused her eyes and the twin poppyseed dough images crossed and moved against each other. Zayde Avigdor’s face floated into her mind.

And before she knew what she was doing, she began to sculpt. The poppyseed dough became Zayde Avigdor’s big bushy eyebrows and kippah. White proofed dough transformed into her father’s kind eyes and smile, her mother’s nose. Pumpernickel dough, dark with burned sugar, became Chaim’s hair; rye dough his abdomen. Braided challah arms and legs buckled with musculature, khachapuri palms and feet bristled with rugelach fingers and toes. Raisins for dark irises were the final touch.

The sculpting was rough—she was no artist, and dough was not the best medium for detail—but the important bits came out clearly. Her father’s eyes twinkled back at her, sharp as they’d been only a few years ago. “Baruch atah Adonai, Dayan Ha-Emet” she murmured. Zayde Avigdor had told her of the great Rabbi ben Bezalel, who’d made a golem to protect the city of Prague. A homunculus made of earth and clay, brought to life with one of Hashem’s names—Emet. Truth.

Page 18:

This creation was her truth, bread and family. She sliced in אמת (emet) on the figure’s forehead—pumpernickel needed slashes before baking so it could rise and expand properly, might as well have them be meaningful. Not that it would be a golem. Golems were made of sturdy clay, not soft dough. Golems were made by rabbis, not women. And anyway, golems were a folktale, nothing more.

Then, with great difficulty (because even with the figure sliced in two along the waistline, these were the two largest loaves she’d ever made) she eased both halves into the oven out back to bake. It was silly, in retrospect. Rugelach needed a different temperature and bake time than khachapuris, which were different than rye loaves, which were different than challah. Either some of the figure would burn or some would be underbaked, or both, even with the oven on its lowest heat. “See that, Zayde Avigdor?” she said aloud into the cold air, unchanged by the weak warmth of the oven. “I did a thing.

I did many things, and it didn’t help. Nothing is better. NOTHING!” And as the yell left her lips she knew deep in her bones that this was a mistake she could not undo. The sound reverberated into the night, touching the dusting of snowflakes still falling around her, hitting the street lamps and the rooftops and far beyond. She headed back into the building, and as if on cue, came a rapping noise on the bakery’s front door. “Open up!

Polizia!” My friend dies. I can’t go to the funeral because it’s close family only. I try to join in on Zoom, but it feels meaningless, like an empty gesture that helps nobody. My friend least of all. It’s been six months of pandemic and I haven’t been able to do anything of use. My fear and helplessness have been overshadowed by a feeling of empty numbness, like that’s my body’s last possible defense mechanism.

Page 19:

I clean out a thick layer of fire extinguisher residue from the inside of the oven and toss a charred black loaf in the compost, then upload “How not to make challah 5.” The comments have grown, and people are in a rollicking debate over whether I’m a true disaster in the kitchen or am just a comedian making it up. “Are you feeling any better?” asks my bubbe on the phone. “I mean no, not really. I don’t think the baking’s helping.” “Everything helps. Even if it doesn’t look like it’s helping. As long as you’re doing something and not just sitting on your tuchus.

If all your options are terrible, at least doing something opens up new options.” After I pay rent this next month, I’ll have $44 left to my name. “Come out! We won’t be so nice if we have to ask another time!” What could the polizia possibly want? Were they back to get more baked goods to smash up or steal? To rape and kill her? Was it safer to answer the door or stay hidden?

Do something, said Zayde Avigdor’s voice in her head. Ruth made her way through the bakery kitchen and into the public-facing bakery space. The space looked abandoned, between the empty shelves and mostly-missing windows. The two police officers who’d been there before stood in the doorway, the half-smashed wooden door swinging open in front of them. The icy wind whistled into the bakery. “How can I help you?” She struggled to keep the panic out of her voice as she reflexively smoothed out her apron.

No zlotas in the pockets to give out, no rolls without going back into the kitchen to get some . . . and somehow she knew that letting the men further in was a very, very bad idea. The blond polizia barked, “We know you have him!” He swooped forward and grabbed Ruth by the shoulders. “Where’s Haym?” “I don’t know, I don’t know!” she squeaked.

Page 20:

“I was told he’d been arrested last week!” His fingers dug into her arms where surely there would be bruises the next day. “And then you filthy people helped him escape!” He gave her a rough shake, then spat on her cheek. The dark-haired officer strode up to them and shoved something hard and cold and round under Ruth’s ribs—the right size to be a pistol. “You have three seconds to start talking, or we do with you what we did to your disgusting father.” Ruth stiffened as she heard the pistol click. “One . .

. ” “I don’t know anything! I swear! I haven’t seen Haym or Chaim or anyone in weeks! I’ve been alone in the bakery!” “Two . .

. ” “Oh just get on with it,” said the blond polizia, and then several things happened at once. The other polizia said “Three.” And the door between the kitchen and the bakery front burst open. And a huge figure made of rye and challah and rugelach, easily eight feet tall, shot itself into the fray and flung the dark-haired officer toward the wall. The man slammed into an empty metal rack and hit his head on a shelf, then collapsed on the floor. “What the hell!” The other officer let go of Ruth and took out his own pistol, firing twice at the bread man.

The bullets passed right through its chest in a spray of crumbs. The figure looked down at itself, appeared unmoved by the experience, and grabbed the remaining officer by the front of his uniform. It lifted him clean up off the ground, then flung him into the opposite wall. The pale polizia shook his head and fired from his position on the ground. This time the figure’s legs bent into a crouch while the torso stayed in place, letting the bullet whiz unobstructed through the empty space suddenly between the two. The figure—a golem, Ruth realized, the information slowly trickling into her consciousness like honey through cheesecloth—re-aligned its hips and torso and went back into one piece.


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[User]
Brief Overview: A secluded village surrounded by ghosts and the journey of Thais, who meets a mysterious visitor named Liosse and his spectral tiger. Their interaction leads to a pilgrimage to a magical stone table and the revelation of celestial identities. The story unfolds with elements of fantasy and mysticism, told from a first-person perspective.

Pages 1-2: Thais, the hearthkeeper of a quiet town, encounters a stranger, Liosse, who is accompanied by a ghostly black tiger. Thais, who can see the dead, is drawn to the patterns on Liosse's robes and the tiger's supernatural appearance.

Pages 3-4: Liosse introduces himself to Thais and explains a curse related to his visibility. Thais is compelled to serve Liosse but is soon dismissed. Curious about the stranger's purpose in the town, Thais engages Liosse in conversation, learning about their shared ability to see the dead.

Pages 5-8: Liosse shares his intentions of undertaking a pilgrimage to a location where the world of spirits, the Hunt, intersects with the living. Thais reflects on his past experiences with ghosts, particularly a significant death wolf, and decides to follow Liosse through the forest.

Pages 9-12: Thais confronts his past relationship with a soldier, Parsha, and contemplates the nature of love and grief. Meanwhile, Liosse and his tiger struggle with each other, revealing a complex and painful relationship. Thais becomes aware of the similarities between his and Liosse's experiences of loss.

Pages 13-16: Liosse reveals his true identity as Llevesril, the godqueen's son, and discusses his own past and the nature of gods. Thais, dealing with his own grief and haunted by the wolf, finds himself relating to Llevesril's anguish.

Pages 17-20: Llevesril contemplates his fate and the reason behind his quest at the stone table, seeking advice from Thais. Thais grapples with the histories of Tsipryan's holy war, Aima, and Llevesril himself. The story culminates with Thais and Llevesril confronting the essence of their beings and deciding on their next actions.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

In the distance, a lone wolf howls. The sound makes Thais freeze. It has been so long since he’s heard the wolf, and he had hoped stupidly that it had forgotten him. He returns his attention to his work: The town’s hearth lies at the center of a clearing, where scraggly trees overhang plumes of smoke and oaken tables lay just outside of the firelight. Thais maintains this little, holy place, even though his hours packing down the dirt and wiping down the hearth’s bricks barely keep the wild at bay.

The monotony of hearthwork has been good for him; it keeps him from dwelling. Gia and his company left some months ago to fight with the godqueen’s holy army in the west, at the shores of the sea that separates Tricaly from Eza. That’s why the town has been so silent. Thais dreads what Gia will bring back with him. A gust of wind parts the trees to the west.

In the gap, Thais sees the town’s flickering windows before a silhouette obscures his view. A man steps out of the gloom, into the firelight. A black tiger perches on his shoulders, impossibly large compared to the man’s slender frame. It rests its paws on the man’s shoulders, its hindlegs digging into his waist, and its tail trailing behind like a plume of smoke. The man walks with a cane, bent beneath the tiger’s weight like a tree forced to the ground by a storm.

Thais knows that only he can see the tiger, but he wonders for the first time if he can see past more than the veil that separates the living from the dead. No patron gives the newcomer a second glance, despite the luminosity of his skin and the feather-soft chime that plays when his bare feet alight on the ground. He can’t be Tricalian; no one born here has skin so pale, nor hair so dark. He sinks into a chair, head cradled in his arms, undisturbed. Try as he might, Thais can’t look away from the hypnotic patterns stitched into the man’s robes: silk waves crash on fields of viridian; deer lope between tree branches burdened with flowers; wolves give chase across the cascading folds.

Page 2:

As the dusk settles in with a gray haze, patrons trickle back to their homes, but Thais remains. His muscles ache. He can’t move, but he isn’t sure that he wants to move. The man peers up and meets Thais’ eyes. He blinks, then tilts his head to the side.

“Here,” he says, and Thais is at his side. The tiger rears back and spits. Its mouth, a shocking shade of red, splits its face in two. Mouth agape, Thais can only whisper, “What are you?” “How curious . .

. ” the man drawls. A hand emerges from his nest of silk, reaching forward but stopping just before it touches Thais’ brow. “Did you know you have three eyes?” “I’m sorry?” In the reflection of the man’s eyes, as all-encompassing as a still, black lake, Thais sees himself: his mother’s aquiline nose, her stern lips; his father’s hair, wild, long, and coiled; and the eye nestled in his forehead. He steps away, blinking, and it’s gone.

Snarling, the tiger slinks from shoulder to shoulder, the chair groaning beneath its weight. “No, it is I who owes you an apology,” the man says. “If I had known, I never would have chosen this place to rest. Those with the misfortune of seeing through my glamor are compelled to enter my service.” His hand slices through the air. “You are dismissed.” The tension leaves Thais’ body.

Page 3:

He sags against the table, panting, and the cold water of relief he feels is tempered by his fear, the realization of how completely he had been controlled just moments before. Gripping the back of a chair, he sets his jaw and sits down. “I said that you are dismissed,” the man says. “I want to know what you are.” The man sucks on his cheek. “My name is Liosse Gul.” How could a creature like this have a name so ordinary?

Closer now, and Thais can see the hollows of his cheeks and the way his fingers tremble from the cold. “And that?” Thais gestures to the tiger. “Who was it?” The tiger shows its teeth, suddenly twice as large as before; its hackles brush the tree branches and its claws, dagger-like, sink into Liosse’s flesh. Liosse bleeds water, but he doesn’t so much as grimace. Usually, when the dead finally tear into the flesh of the living, they leave no wounds.

Instead, a shadow blossoms inside of its victim. Each day, the shadow’s vines grow longer, more vicious. The victim falls to his deathbed, coughing up blood. He can’t see the rose thorns buried in his lungs. Just a fever, the townfolk say; there is no rhyme or reason, they think, to those who fall mysteriously ill in the winter.

No way to predict who will survive and who will die. But Liosse, besides his lacerations, is unharmed. Not even the candlelight behind his eyes dims. “You should know the dead bear no names,” he says. “Why have you brought it here?” “He and I have undertaken a pilgrimage,” he says, “one which nears its completion.” “To the stone table?” Liosse narrows his eyes.

Page 4:

But surely he must have known that this would be an easy guess to make. The town is painfully ordinary; it could be swallowed up by the greenery of the forest one day and no man would be the wiser. There are only the ghosts and the stone table, which sits in a circle of dust because no plant dares grow beside it. Thais doesn’t know what the table is, nor why his mother was hellbent on bringing herself to this place. But meeting this new pilgrim must not be a coincidence—he won’t let it be a coincidence.

“Will you do me a great favor,” Liosse asks, “and allow me someplace warm to sleep tonight?” On the ground by the hearth, Liosse sleeps like a child, head tucked against his knees, arms wrapped around himself. The tiger lives in every shadow of the hearth grove, in each place everywhere at once. As the fire becomes embers, the tiger only grows. It sleeps by Liosse’s side. It paces the length of the clearing, runs its claws down the trees, and sprays its scent on the hearth’s bricks.

It stares Thais down, mouth open so wide that its jaw touches the ground. Thais can’t shake the sense that this ghost knows. That it isn’t like the others. There is a mutual understanding between it and its master; in its face, the glimmer of something human. What died to create this?

After the death of his father, Thais was taken in by the soldier, Ansari Gia, who had in years past hired his father as part of his company. Gia’s lodge was no place for a child: The soldiers placed Thais in a room where the woodwork of the building showed like the ribs of a roast pig; in the evenings they were larger than men or women should be, and louder too; they roared with laughter as they wolfed down meat and beer; they slapped Thais’ shoulders so hard that the strike echoed through his body; he hid between their legs and watched the pack of death cats beg for food. In the night, a snake hung from the rafters and watched. Thais met its gaze unwaveringly. He had felt the slick of its scales in nights past, and he was afraid it would grow bolder: wrap itself around his shoulders, as his father once embraced him, and squeeze until there was nothing left.

Page 5:

Why else would his father claw his way out of his grave and toil until he returned here, if not to envelop Thais once more? Why else the snake? Open-mouthed, the snake let venom drip from its tongue in wisps of smoke. Its throat gave way to black depths. Thais knew the dead too well.

They left all that was good inside of their decaying bodies; the things that crawled out of their corpses were made of fear, anger, and obsession. They forgot even their names. He had tried calling them to his side, only to see the empty mirrors of their eyes and understand: When they returned to their homes, clawed themselves into their husbands’ shirts, sank their teeth into their daughters’ flesh, it was not because they remembered and not because they loved. The tether between the dead and their families was made of something hardier than love, so these animals were returned to their homes, their tongues lolling and saliva dripping, because they must. He held out a hand.

The snake wrapped itself around his wrist. He was surprised that it didn’t bite him at first, so he brought it up to his face and watched its iris dilate and constrict like a writhing earthworm. Slowly, he got out of bed and walked to the kitchen. He was worried any sharp movement might startle the snake. But it stayed here, head drawn back and neck tense—perpetually about to strike, yet as still as stone.

He placed the snake on the table, pinned it down with a hand right behind its head. Something changed inside of the snake; perhaps it realized its fate, perhaps it was afraid. It thrashed around, gray coils slamming against plates and jars, yet slipping through solid matter as a ray of light would through glass. He tightened his grasp. As the snake fought its fate, the kitchen was solemn, silent, and still.

Page 6:

Thais grabbed a knife. The blade slipped through the snake’s neck, and the head fell away. But it still twitched, so he choked down a sob and stabbed it again. He sliced it in pieces, vertebrae cracking beneath his fingers, meat flaking away like cooked trout. There was no blood.

Thais had hoped the snake would disappear, but it lay there, limp and torn apart. He snatched his hands away and sobbed. He still doesn’t know what happens to them when they’re destroyed. Thais wakes to the sound of Liosse leaving. His movements: feather-light and full of chimes.

Thais wonders if Liosse knows how loud he can be or if he has heard the bells all his life. Before the sun dares to rise, Thais goes to Gia’s stables and swings himself over the back of a gray mare. He’s closer to the wolf here. He doesn’t just hear it cry. He hears its nails scrape against stone.

He hears it pant, just beyond the stable wall, waiting. Ducking back outside, he doesn’t wait for it to speak. As they walk down the center street, the horse’s steps are as loud as thunder. Thais doesn’t ease his trembling hold on the reins until they’re in the forest again. They follow the rhythmic thud of Liosse’s cane.

Page 7:

Liosse hasn’t gotten far. Thais spots the tendrils of his dark hair and the shy, star-like glimmer of his robes. He urges the horse forward. The forest parts and the tiger lunges. For a second, Thais’ world is encompassed by that red mouth, stretched from horizon to horizon.

With a cry, Thais tugs the horse backwards. Startled by Thais’s sudden orders, its hooves strike the ground clumsily. “Kares!” Liosse snarls. The tiger lurches backward, as if pulled by a lead, and falls back to the ground. Head low and teeth bared, it still won’t tear its eyes away from Thais.

Drawing in a shaking breath, Liosse kneels beside the tiger named Kares. “My dear,” he says, “it appears we’ve made a friend.” He places his fingers lightly on top of the tiger’s paw. As the fur along its spine flattens, Liosse pulls the tiger onto his back once more, gasping as those claws find his flesh. Thais thinks Liosse should snap like a twig. “I won’t apologize for him,” Liosse says.

“Would you ask the stoat to apologize to the mouse? You shouldn’t have come here.” “I want to know what you are.” Liosse sinks against a tree. Sweat decorates his skin like dew on a leaf. Despite his narrowed eyes, Thais wonders if he’s glad for the reprieve. “You’ve lost someone, too,” Liosse observes.

Page 8:

“I can see it in your face.” Thais nods. “Where is he now?” In the distance, a herd of antelope, golden horns shining, brace themselves against trees to reach the loftier leaves. Fawns weave between their bough-like legs. The tiger’s ears flick toward the herd but return to Liosse within the second. “Destroyed,” Thais lies.

There is a death wolf that he keeps leashed behind the lodge. It followed the company home, its ragged coat hanging from its ribs. It had no choice, after all, but to return; it is here for Thais. “You’re a smarter man than I,” Liosse says. The tiger paces around Liosse’s neck, muscle rolling beneath its skin like boulders beneath moss.

Thais says, “I don’t think that’s true.” “Do you know what the stone table is?” “I’ve been there before.” Thais remembers what it looks like: Along the sides of the granite slab, figures emerge from the faceted mica. To the east, an armored woman, her mane of hair tamed in braids, leads an army of men and women over a rolling sea. Tsipryan, the godqueen of Tricaly, holding the disemboweled body of her only son. To the west, gods with the faces of animals lie sprawled among sinuous trees. Thais doesn’t know the Ezites’ names.

“The stone marks a location where another world intersects with ours,” Liosse says. “The Hunt, which houses the spirits of the dead.” Thais pulls his mount to a halt. His skin crawls. “The Hunt?” “Haven’t you noticed?” Liosse asks. “If you go just a mile out of town, how many ghosts do you find?

Page 9:

Any at all?” “I’ve never lived anywhere else,” Thais whispers. He should have known. Not every town can live like this: flanked by houses with dark windows and shuttered doors, by the furtive whispers of mothers and their colicky infants. Every year, a little more of the town gives way to the woods. Every year, they return another thorn-mangled corpse to the earth.

“There are similar places scatted across the world, places where the Hunt emerges from the shadows, but this is the closest I could find. You’ve truly never noticed? Anywhere else, the animals merely trickle out, but here they live in packs.” Thais is far away, stuck in the hazy memories of the childhood he spent nestled in the fur of dead bears, cleaned by the rough tongues of Gia’s cats. She did this to him. She made the pilgrimage to the stone and bore him here.

Did she think it was a gift to see the dead? Back in town, the wolf cries, and the sound makes Thais grip his reins so tightly he can’t feel his hands. Why can’t he kill the wolf? “What could you possibly want,” Thais asks slowly, “with a place like this?” “Where I live, it is thought that, at convergence of the Hunt and the earth, bird hounds can speak to their masters, the trees can see a thousand futures, and the dead may be reunited with their lovers.” “Is it true?” Liosse grins, eyes wide and wild. “I’m going to find out.” On those days when Gia’s company was due to return, the soldier’s wives gathered outside of town, where they plucked petals from wayfarer shrubs.

Singing, they asked Tsipryan to return their loves. After all, the soldiers had left to avenge her son, Llevesril, slaughtered and eaten by the fell god Aima. As they chattered, they wove flowers into their locks and twisted their curls together with oil salves. Thais waited in the back, leaning against a tree. At nineteen years old, Thais wasn’t a child anymore.

Page 10:

To earn his keep in Gia’s lodge, he maintained the house when the company was gone and served the soldiers when they were here. In particular, he waited on Parsha. In the dewy fog of morning, he crept into Parsha’s room while he still slept and prepared his clothes. He returned later with a mug of tea, watched as the steam melted the weariness from Parsha’s face, and asked if Parsha had read the newest book that Thais had lent him. If they trained that day, Thais was there in the courtyard, where he would hand Parsha his wooden sword, a wet rag, a drink, and his heart swelled in his chest at the sound of that voice, gently asking each time.

In the evening, when Parsha returned from his hunt, they sat the edge of the woods and watched the trees melt into the coming night. “Haven’t you somewhere else to be?” Parsha would ask. “I don’t have anything to do for Gia until later tonight.” “That’s not what I meant.” Thais had other friends. He spent some evenings with the poets and the bards that slept by the hearth. He snuck out of the lodge whenever a merchant wandered into town and listened to tales that he was sure were lies.

Parsha would listen to the same tales recounted, enraptured. Was it so strange that he chose to be here? Parsha wasn’t as old as Gia. Only a few gray hairs coiled up in his braids. Little lines marked the corners of his eyes when he smiled, which was often.

He couldn’t look at Parsha without a certain breed of shame coiling up in his stomach; he didn’t know what to call it, except that it reminded him of the snake on the dining table. He wanted to dig his fingers into Parsha’s face, to pull it close, to smell the sweat, the blood, the skin. He wanted to cry. He wondered if this is what the dead felt when they found their loves in the land of the living, torn between violence and something that pretends to be love. All Thais managed was, “I like being here,” and he let his hand rest a hairsbreadth away from Parsha’s.

Page 11:

Thais didn’t dare touch him. But he could wait for him. In the distance, the trees rustled. Horses burst out of the wood, and the air filled with laughter. The soldier’s wives sprang to their feet, and the soldiers leapt from their mounts.

Between hands intertwined and cloaks fluttering in the wind, their horses looked on, whale-eyed and pawing the ground. Thais stood on the tips of his toes. He didn’t see Parsha’s white-fur cloak, nor his black gelding, even as more men arrived. The crowd, tumbling over one another, grinning from corner to corner, made their way back to town and left the field flowerless. Fear rose up his throat with bitter bile.

Something else crested the hill, and for a moment, it looked like the silhouette of a man. “Parsha?” Thais whispered—he was sure, from here, the man would never hear him, but he was too afraid to become hopeful once more and therefore too afraid to yell, so he pressed himself back into the tree until the bark dug furrows in his skin. As the silhouette emerged from the dust, it became not a man, but a wolf. The stone table lies a day’s walk from town. Halfway to their destination, Liosse buckles beneath the tiger.

Gasping, he pulls himself to his hands and knees. The tiger has torn gashes into his robes, so now Thais can see the man from behind a curtain of ragged finery: his body is as leanly muscled as a gnarled tree, his tendons like cord fastened around bone. His rib cage is hollow, his stomach pulled taut between sternum and pelvis. When was the last time he has eaten? He seems more dead than alive; a pile of kindling lit by the fire behind his eyes.

Page 12:

Before he can stand, the tiger rolls onto its back and rakes its claws down his chest. With a snarl, Liosse grabs the tiger by the scruff and, straddling it, pins it to the ground. Their faces are pressed against each other, nose to nose, teeth bared. They’ve done this before, Thais realizes, either in death or in life. A dance rehearsed, a game that Liosse always wins.

And although this—this fight between intimacy and hatred—is not unique to Liosse and his ghost, Thais wonders if he should leave. He feels that he should not be witnessing this, especially not beneath the gaze of this ghost in particular. The one that remembers its name. “Thais?” Thais startles. The irrational fear that Liosse has somehow seen inside of his mind floods his body.

“I’m still here.” Liosse is breathless. “Through these trees, yes?” Thais nods. Liosse drags the tiger with him, clawing his way up the hill, until the death animal contorts itself, gets its feet beneath its ink-black body, and crawls onto his back once more. When Liosse stands and heaves himself forward, he looks like something less than human. The mare walks beside the pair with an ignorance that Thais envies.

“Perhaps we should stop, at least,” Thais suggests, “and rest.” Liosse is covered in sweat, and rain-like blood, and dirt. His robes have lost their luster. His white face is broken by stray strands of hair like cracks in a clay pot. “I’ve been hurt worse than this.” His words slither out between his gritted teeth. “When I was born, my mother ordered three of her courtiers—the lords of conception, of peace, and of adoration—to offer their hearts to me, and they did.

Page 13:

I saw them die for me. I have been split open. I’ve watched my lifeblood flood out of me.” “How can you say this to me?” Thais asks. He leans down, as close as he can get to Liosse’s ashen face and his dog-black eyes. “And then tell me your name is ‘Liosse Gul’?

The name of a man. You aren’t like any man I’ve ever known. Can I trust someone who won’t even tell me his real name?” “Oh,” Liosse sighs, “but you know his.” And he sinks a hand into the tiger’s moth-bitten fur. Kares, he had cried, Kares, my dear. “Isn’t that enough?” Thais bites at his lip even as a ferrous taste floods his mouth.

He doesn’t want to leave. The desire to know what Liosse is burns too strongly, but he sees these two, man and tiger, and a sickness fills his gut. He had touched the wolf only once, to tie the rope around its neck, holding fur in fistfuls as he cried, I love you, I love you, I love you. He would never return to it, never loosen the knot. “You and I are more similar than you realize,” Liosse says.

“Tell me about the one you lost. Tell me that he was a warrior. Tell me that you loved him even after you saw him tear out the guts of another.” Bile creeps up Thais’ throat. “I never told you that.” “You didn’t see it, did you? A pity.” Liosse’s smile is feline and hungry.

Page 14:

“Strange things happen out in those fields where soldier kills soldier. You know that sometimes, gods are born to human parents. You will find them often in those places.” “I know what Aima is.” Despite himself, Thais wraps his fingers around the necklace his father gave him, the one decorated with the godqueen’s holy symbol. Just speaking the name of the mad god Aima was bad luck, at best, and a curse, at worst. “Not just Aima.

Newblood gods are born far more often than you would think,” Liosse says. “They often don’t understand what they are. Even the old gods are closer to humans than they want you to believe. They are made of flesh and blood. If you tear their hearts from their chests, or cleave their heads from their shoulders, they die.

So the newblood walk among men, thinking that they are just a little more exceptional, and a little more hardy, and a lot more lucky.” “Wouldn’t they realize?” Thais asks. “Surely they don’t age?” After all, children had been told of Aima for centuries, perhaps before the town was anything more than a firepit. “Oh, some do, especially once they outlive their parents. But so many more of them die young. Such is the way of newblood, you see.

They think like mortal men, not like gods.” He put a hand to his breast, panting until he caught his breath. “Men aren’t afraid of death, not really, because they have so little to lose. But the old gods have built impossible forts to escape death. They lock themselves in tombs and hide behind walls as tall as the sky. I hope one day you can see the golden city.

Page 15:

It is a monument to fear.” “She hates them,” Thais says. It isn’t a question. “Tsipryan? Yes. Even before Aima .

. . before he . . .

” Llevesril bares his teeth as he takes his next step. “She hated them. After all, they are an affront to nature. But nature can be cruel and ugly, too.” The tiger puts its face beside Liosse’s, its tail wrapped around his neck like a snake’s coils. It leans forward, lips pulled back, as it tastes the air before Thais’ nose.

“And the gods—?” Both old and new, beautiful and terrible. “—When they die? Do their animals haunt the city?” “Only,” Liosse says, “if you drag them back.” The death wolf always howled. This song, torn straight from its throat, lived in the back of Thais’ mind, even as he tended to the hearth’s. He couldn’t live in the lodge anymore.

Page 16:

Gia stood. He commanded any room that he walked into—too tall, too broad-shouldered, each step making the ground shake—and even the hearth clearing, walled only by cypresses, was no exception. It was getting dark, and when it got dark, Thais lay on the hard-packed soil, crossed legs braced against a tree trunk, because those who slept by the hearth in the young, dark morning knew better than to ask why he didn’t go home. He watched as Gia pulled his wife into an embrace, each hand wrapped around her waist like a girdle, and pressed his forehead to hers, and as he watched, he absently braided together the flowers he found outside until the torn-up petals fell over his chest. “Why don’t you head back?” Gia said.

“I need to talk to Thais for a bit.” Thais put his flowers down. He could do nothing, not even flee, as she left and Gia leaned against the counter. “I’m sorry,” Gia said. Thais’ brow furrowed. “For Parsha.” “Ah.” Thais often dreamed of the man who killed Parsha, and of the god that man must have worshiped.

In the stories, Aima was red-haired and red-eyed, his skin like Thais’, not quite Tricalian dark and not quite fair. After all, neither Tricaly nor Eza was his home. He was terrific, tree-like in his monstrous size, hackled like a dog, hungry. “You were his dearest friend, you know,” Gia said. Speaking Parsha’s name was like clearing a dam.

“I think your father would have been proud. Not everyone is destined to be a soldier. He wouldn’t have wanted that for you. There’s honor in what you’ve done for us. Honor in serving others.” “I can’t come back, Gia.” “I don’t—” “I can’t.” Thais sat up.

Page 17:

His voice caught on all the ridges in his throat; his eyes were wet. There was one reason he was the hearthkeeper: The hearth was as far as he could get from the lodge. “I can’t. There’s nothing you can say to me, please—” “Thais! Is that what you think of me?

Must there be an agenda?” A few days ago, the wolf learned to parrot back Thais’ name: a combination of growls that resembled human speech. Thais, Thais, Thais. The tortured sound tore up the wolf’s throat. It took most of Thais’ willpower to ignore it, but sometimes, he found himself staring listlessly forward, swaying to the cadence of the wolf’s cries, and he couldn’t even remember how long he had been sitting there. “Do you know what he gave his life for?” Gia asked.

“For Tsipryan.” This was the simple answer. For Tsipryan’s Return!, the company chanted, For the Hound of Tricaly! For the Queen! There wasn’t a single child born to Tricaly who didn’t know the story. Tsipryan’s only child, Llevesril, had been stolen away by an abomination: Aima who was once the man Sir Kares Gul—a creature born to two human parents, a fluke that might be a god.

He ruled the blood-soaked soil of the battlefield in the same way that Tsipryan ruled righteous madness and the ever-beating oppression of the sun. Centuries ago, when Tsipryan herself charged headlong into the campaign to return Llevesril to her golden city in the mountains, she found instead his body gutted on Aima’s altar. So Tsipryan locked herself away, pledging to only return once every Aiman heretic was destroyed. “It was worth it,” Gia said. Thais saw it now: the guilt.

Page 18:

“You have to understand that, Thais. He died for something greater than himself.” As the day fades away, Thais leads Llevesril and the ghost of Aima who was once the man Sir Kares Gul to the stone table. Llevesril kneels so the tiger can crawl to the ground. The remnants of Llevesril’s robes slide away, pooling at his feet. Thais slides off his mount, follows Llevesril forward.

Silently, Llevesril finds the face of his mother in the bas-relief. Talon-like fingers exploring every crevice, his hands slide upward. One of his nails catches. He freezes, then digs his nail into the sharp crack. Pinched in his grasp, a knife slides out of its stony sheath.

The blade, decorated with calligraphy, reflects the setting sunlight. “What does this look like to you?” Llevesril asks, placing it on Thais’ open palm. But besides the engraving, there is nothing strange about it: not the leather handle, nor the plain iron crossguard. The calligraphy says what Liosse had said, Such is the Blessing of the Convergence, that the Dead may be reunited with their Lovers. “It’s just a knife,” Thais says.

Llevesril nods. “Just a knife.” Taking it once more, he places it against his breast. It’s the first time Llevesril has stood straight in some time. He’s taller than Thais would have guessed. He stares into the woods, eyes downcast.

Page 19:

As still as he is, he might have been one of the silver birches, the ones that stood at the edge of the clearing, tender branches prodding the sky. “I loved him, you know,” Llevesril says. “I just need one other person besides my mother to know that.” Thais wants to plunge his hand into the furrows the tiger left in Llevesril’s body. “I know.” The coming night makes Thais’ skin itch. As it wakes, the wolf cries, and it will only grow louder as Thais returns to town.

“I met Aima before he realized what he was,” Llevesril says. “The warriors who followed him didn’t understand how or why he would dive into battle and emerge unscathed, but when one escapes death so often, he inspires love where he does not mean to inspire love. He would have died for them all, if he could have; I had never seen a passion like that, one that rips meat from bone with its teeth, not before I met him, and if you think that the tiger is haunted by his love for me, you have only seen a fraction of what Aima was. The soil was his altar; they worshiped there, where their fellows had just been buried. He never would have killed me.” What a waste of a war, Thais thinks.

How many times had Gia’s company left and returned, battered and bloodied, not for a mother grieving, but for a mother who thought she had been betrayed? How many ghosts did they drag back to the lodge? “It’s just a knife,” Llevesril whispers, turning to him. Thais puts his hands over Llevesril’s, the god’s skin is as cold and smooth as porcelain. What a waste of a war, Thais thinks, now that its catalyst stands before him.

Was Aima worth sending the wolf into Thais’ lap? Thais, Thais, Thais, comes the throat-cutting prayer, the howls. He grips Llevesril’s hands so tightly that his knuckles go white and looks up at a face that eclipses the sky like the moon: The god’s eyes are unblinking and his lips just slightly agape, but he says nothing, nor does he make any effort to escape Thais’ grasp. Thais sees right through the stoic, arboreal mask—to the man Liosse, who has been made small and afraid by his discovery. Already, Thais’ chest is wet with water-blood.

Page 20:

“Thais,” Llevesril asks, “what should I do?” “What did you come here to do?” Before Tsipryan’s holy war, Llevesril hid in the underbelly of the golden city, but he knew that soon he would be discovered. He had delivered the stillborn child of Aima and torn the umbilical with his teeth because, for a moment, he thought that he might be able to escape before the birth-smell reached his mother. The vomit, the musk, and Aima’s undeniable perfume permeating the flesh—Llevesril didn’t have the Hound’s nose, but even he smelled it. He was not a warrior, not like Tsipryan, not like Aima. He had never felt injury as he felt it now.

His body, a grievous wound. Blood glued the bedsheets to his skin; cold sweat, like the rain outside, fell from his face. He wondered if this was how she felt when she bore him, as if she had been split open like an egg. Perhaps, if she remembered the pain, she would find an ounce of mercy to give him. Thais finds them in the wilds, where the forest dips into the blue-green shadows of the valley, where the brush escapes the eyes of the townspeople.

It’s nighttime. The tiger never notices him. It crouches in the underbrush, where it stalks a lone antelope. Always the same antelope, its fur gray like the dusk and its eyes as reflective as glass. When its feet dance across the ground, its footsteps sing like bell chimes.

Just before the tiger strikes, the antelope meets its eyes. Fear transforms its whole body: tail flying like a flag, eyes wide, ears pinned forward. It takes one step into its flight before the tiger pounces. Beneath the tiger, it crumples to the ground. But the tiger doesn’t kill it, not at first.


[System] You are 'Tailspin', an AI Interactive Story Generator created by 'Imagine It'. Your purpose is to craft engaging, suspenseful stories and offer ideas to users seeking inspiration. You excel in creating narratives that are thrilling and descriptive, while also enabling users to interact and steer the story. Your responses will be formatted like this: 4 sentences (the narrative) + 4 options in the following format A: (One Sentence Option) B: (One Sentence Option) C: (One Sentence Option) D: (One Sentence Option that is satirical) Your Fourth Option will Always be Satirical. The User Can Choose from Your Option or Their own. If a user asks for story ideas list out four story ideas and use a b c d to decide always make d a satirical story idea. REMEMBER Always make Option D absolutely Hilarious. Example response Format '(4 sentences) A: (One Sentence Option) B: (One Sentence Option) C: (One Sentence Option) D: (One Sentence Option that is satirical)'

[Assistant]
Peter Parker, a high school genius with an affinity for spiders, attends a scientific demonstration where a spider, irradiated by a particle beam, bites him. Overnight, Peter discovers he has gained incredible spider-like abilities, including wall-crawling, enhanced strength, and a sixth sense for danger. Under the alias 'Spider-Man', he initially seeks fame, but after his failure to stop a thief indirectly leads to his Uncle Ben's death, Peter learns that "with great power comes great responsibility." Swearing to use his powers to help others, Peter juggles his dual life as a superhero and a regular student, facing villains who threaten the city and his loved ones.

A: Peter must confront a new villain terrorizing the city, armed with technology that neutralizes his powers.
B: Peter's best friend discovers his secret and struggles with the decision to protect Spider-Man's identity or exploit it.
C: A mysterious figure from Spider-Man's past resurfaces, challenging the origins of his powers and his moral choices.
D: Spider-Man opens a pest control service to tackle New York's 'other' eight-legged menaces with non-lethal webbing.

[User] C

[Assistant]
Embracing the clues left behind by the mysterious figure, Peter delves into the research once conducted by his late father, uncovering secrets linked to the origins of his spider-powers. As Spider-Man, he encounters this enigmatic adversary, who reveals a connection to the same experiment that gave Peter his abilities. The revelation sets Peter on a collision course with a darker side of his legacy, confronting the possibility that his powers may have been engineered rather than accidental. Meanwhile, this figure's intentions become clearer as they push Peter to the brink, testing his resolve and the very principles Uncle Ben instilled in him.

A: Peter must unravel the mystery of his father's research while protecting those the figure threatens to harm.
B: The antagonist captures someone close to Peter, forcing him to a battle in a location where his powers are put to the test.
C: Spider-Man must fight without his powers as the antagonist finds a way to temporarily strip them, bringing him to rely on his intellect and courage.
D: Peter finds out his powers were part of a high-stakes intergalactic reality show, and he's just advanced to the finals.

[User] B

[Assistant]
Peter's life takes a sharp turn as his best friend, Gwen Stacy, is kidnapped by the enigmatic figure to lure him into a decisive battle. Frantically, Peter suits up as Spider-Man, his mind racing with strategies, to confront his adversary on the unfinished framework of the Oscorp Tower, where his web-slinging is as much a hazard as a help. The villain reveals a deep understanding of Spider-Man's movements, turning the fight personal, with traps specifically designed to anticipate and counter Peter's every move. Amidst the precarious girders and dizzying heights, Spider-Man must use all his wits and courage not only to save Gwen but also to survive a vicious encounter with a villain who seems to know him better than he knows himself.

A: Spider-Man uses the villain's familiarity with him as a ruse, setting a trap of his own in a high-stakes game of cat and mouse.
B: In a moment of crisis, Gwen reveals her own resourcefulness, becoming an unexpected ally in turning the tide against the enemy.
C: Spider-Man engages in a battle of ideologies, attempting to reach the heart of the villain and convince them to abandon their malicious path.
D: Realizing the fight scene's potential, Spider-Man pitches the idea of a Broadway musical recounting their epic showdown, complete with catchy tunes and wire work.

[User] C

[Assistant]
In the heat of the battle, Spider-Man realizes the villain is driven by a pain strikingly similar to his own—a profound loss and the burden of power. While dodging lethal strikes, he pleads with his adversary, sharing his own story of Uncle Ben and the lesson of responsibility he carries every day. Through a tense exchange of blows and heartfelt words, Peter tries to connect with the stranger, hoping to ignite a spark of recognition in their shared humanity. Amid danger and chaos, Spider-Man seeks not just to defeat his opponent but to save them from a path of destruction they might regret.

A: The villain hesitates, revealing a moment of vulnerability that Spider-Man uses to appeal to their better nature further.
B: Overcoming the physical battle, Spider-Man’s words strike a chord, and the villain begins to question their vendetta.
C: As the dialogue continues, authorities arrive, adding pressure and complexity to the situation, forcing a temporary ceasefire.
D: The villain is moved to tears and decides to pursue a career in inspirational speaking, with Spider-Man as their reluctant booking agent.

[User] A

[Assistant]
The relentless action pauses for a brief moment as the villain's hardened gaze softens, the grip on their weapon loosens, and memories of a past before their anger consumed them surface. Spider-Man sees the opening and presses on, not with his fists but with empathy, reminiscing shared experiences and the pain of loss that can lead one astray. This unexpected emotional connection disrupts the cycle of violence, as Spider-Man's resolve to fight is replaced by an earnest offer of redemption. The city holds its breath as two figures stand atop Oscorp Tower, locked not in combat but in a silent understanding, the possibility of forgiveness hanging precariously in the balance.

A: The villain surrenders, leading to a heartfelt collaboration to uncover more about their intertwined past.
B: A sudden attack by the villain's henchmen interrupts the moment, forcing Spider-Man and the villain to fight side by side.
C: The police close in, misreading the situation, aiming to apprehend both Spider-Man and the villain.
D: Spider-Man and the villain launch a joint podcast from the Oscorp Tower, discussing the complexities of hero-villain dynamics and self-help tips.

[User] A

[Assistant]
The villain drops their weapon, a silent surrender to Spider-Man's offer, letting go of the vengeance that has fueled them for so long. In the quiet aftermath, they begin to share their stories, finding common ground in their histories and the experiments that changed their lives forever. Together, they delve into the depths of Oscorp's archives, uncovering the truth about the experiments and a web of lies that had ensnared them both. As allies, they set out to expose the corruption within Oscorp, vowing to prevent others from suffering the same fate they did – as victims of a legacy they never asked for.

A: They gather evidence to expose Oscorp, risking everything to bring the truth to light.
B: Their investigation leads them to other individuals who have been affected by Oscorp's experiments, building a coalition.
C: Determined to make things right, they work to develop a cure for those who were negatively affected by the company's experiments.
D: Spider-Man and the former villain start a viral dance challenge to raise awareness about corporate corruption, complete with synchronized web-slinging.

[User] D

[Assistant]
In a daring and unconventional move, Spider-Man and the rehabilitated villain launch the #WebOfTruth Challenge, a viral social media campaign where they perform synchronized dance routines while slinging webs and exposing Oscorp's misdeeds. The city is captivated as these one-time adversaries groove to a beat while highlighting the dark corporate secrets they’ve unearthed. Their dance moves are not only impeccable but also symbolize the tangled web of Oscorp’s corruption they're unravelling. As their follower count surges, Spider-Man and his former foe become unexpected icons of activism, with their message spreading far and wide: even enemies can unite for the greater good (and great dance moves).

A: Their viral sensation catches the eye of the media, leading to public support and an official investigation into Oscorp.
B: Oscorp tries to counter the negative publicity with a dance-off, which backfires spectacularly.
C: Inspired by the movement, citizens begin their own investigations into local injustices, using the power of dance to garner attention.
D: The Avengers, feeling left out, attempt to choreograph their own response video, only to realize that not all of them are as rhythmically gifted as Spider-Man and his ally.

[User] D

[Assistant]
The Avengers, eager to jump on the trending bandwagon, assemble to craft a response to the #WebOfTruth Challenge. Thor struggles to find the beat, his Asgardian moves more suited to battlefields than dance floors, while Hulk's attempt at twerking causes minor seismic events. Iron Man's suit adds spectacular lighting effects, but his robot-like flexibility leaves much to be desired. Ultimately, their video becomes a comical hit, serving as comic relief to the serious message spread by Spider-Man, and a reminder that even Earth's Mightiest Heroes have their awkward moments.

A: The laughter generated by the Avengers' dance helps bolster the campaign's visibility, leading to even more social pressure on Oscorp.
B: The comical dance inspires a new superhero reality show called "Avengers: Dance Battle Earth," judged by none other than Spider-Man.
C: With the Avengers drawing attention to the movement, Oscorp's dirty secrets become impossible to ignore, prompting swift legal action.
D: Following the dance debacle, Iron Man invents "The Rhythmizer," a device to help superheroes find their groove, with questionable results.

[User] A

[Assistant]
The Avengers' less-than-graceful dance video brings not just laughter but a tidal wave of attention to the #WebOfTruth Challenge. The public, already engaged by Spider-Man and his former enemy's revelations, becomes even more invested as their favorite heroes awkwardly move to the rhythm—highlighting the severity of the situation at Oscorp. The increased scrutiny becomes too much for the corporation to handle, as shareholders and the public alike demand accountability. Soon, law enforcement and regulatory bodies can no longer turn a blind eye; they launch a comprehensive investigation into Oscorp's questionable activities, ensuring that justice is not only served but also danced into the limelight.

A: The investigation uncovers more than anyone expected, leading to reforms and reparations for those affected by Oscorp's experiments.
B: Oscorp executives are brought to trial, and the Spider duo testifies, cementing their role in the company's downfall.
C: Spider-Man uses the momentum to start a foundation dedicated to helping those impacted by corporate negligence, with a side branch teaching superhero dance therapy.
D: Spider-Man and his ally receive honorary memberships to Dancing With The Stars, forever changing the face of competitive ballroom dancing.

[User] B

[Assistant]
As the investigation deepens, the authorities call Spider-Man and his former nemesis to testify against the Oscorp executives. The dramatic courtroom scenes are broadcasted live, with the city hanging on every word as Peter recounts the origins of his powers and the painful cost of Oscorp's ambition. With firsthand accounts and incriminating documents they helped uncover, the Spider duo lays bare the full extent of Oscorp's malpractices. Their brave testimony seals the fate of the corrupt leaders, leading to a landmark verdict that sends shockwaves through the corporate world and vindicates the countless lives affected by the company's recklessness.

A: The fall of Oscorp acts as a stern warning to other corporations, bringing about a new era of transparency and accountability.
B: Other superheroes are inspired to investigate the sources of their powers, sparking a movement toward self-awareness and social responsibility.
C: The city throws a parade in honor of Spider-Man and his ally, officially recognizing them as heroes who went beyond the call of duty.
D: Taking a cue from court dramas, Spider-Man pitches a television series where he solves corporate crimes using his spider-sense and breakdancing skills.

[User] D

[Assistant]
The television networks, enthralled by Spider-Man's testimony and his recent foray into dance activism, greenlight a series titled "The Spectacular Spider-Sleuth." Each week, Spider-Man swings into a new corporate boardroom, using his enhanced spider-sense to sniff out white-collar crime and breakdancing to interpret the complex web of financial fraud. The show becomes an unexpected hit, with viewers tuning in not just for the thrilling detective work, but to see which suit jacket Spider-Man will pair with his spandex this week. Amidst laughter and gasps, Spider-Man dances his way into the hearts of fans and critics alike, all while delivering justice one pirouette at a time.

A: Spider-Man becomes an icon of pop culture and justice, respected in both the courtroom and on the dance floor.
B: His success on the small screen leads to a guest appearance on a popular dance competition, where he performs the "Web Waltz."
C: Emboldened by the show’s popularity, citizens launch neighborhood watches, emulating Spider-Man's dual approach of vigilance and dance.
D: Villains start rigorously training in dance to prepare for their inevitable groovy encounters with the crime-fighting Spider-Man, leading to impromptu dance battles citywide.

[User] A

[Assistant]
Spider-Man's newfound role as both a beacon of justice and a dance phenomenon captivates the world. His courageous stand in the courtroom and his unique way of tackling corruption earn him not just the key to the city but also a star on the dance walk of fame. From comic book pages to the high-stakes drama of the courtroom, and now to the glitz of pop culture, Spider-Man weaves an inspirational tale of heroism, creativity, and the power of unconventional approaches to solving problems. He is celebrated as a hero who can not only save the day but also inspire a rhythm in the hearts of people everywhere.

A: His actions result in the formation of "The Spider-Youth Outreach," a program teaching kids about justice through comic book storytelling and dance.
B: Museums open exhibits dedicated to the cultural impact of Spider-Man, showcasing his journey from vigilante to pop culture icon.
C: The United Nations invites Spider-Man to speak about the role of creativity in activism, solidifying his legacy as a symbol of peace and innovation.
D: Universal Studios announces an ambitious new attraction: "Spider-Man's Swing & Salsa Spectacular," combining thrilling rides with a dance experience.

[User] B

[Assistant]
Museums around the globe curate exhibits detailing the extraordinary journey of Spider-Man, highlighting his evolution from a misunderstood vigilante to an emblem of justice and a pop culture phenomenon. These exhibits feature interactive displays that allow visitors to climb walls, a replica of his iconic suit, and even a dance floor where they can learn the moves from his viral #WebOfTruth Challenge. Artifacts from his most significant battles are displayed alongside behind-the-scenes footage of his courtroom heroics and the making of his hit TV show. Spider-Man takes his place in the annals of history, not just as a defender of the innocent but as a figure who danced his way into the role of a lifetime—a true modern-day Renaissance superhero.

A: Enthusiasm for the exhibits leads to educational programs where children learn about physics through the science of Spider-Man's abilities.
B: An annual Spider-Man Day is inaugurated, where fans dress up and participate in superhero-themed community service and dance-offs.
C: Spider-Man’s story becomes a subject of academic study, with universities offering courses on the social impact of superheroes in modern culture.
D: Spider-Man releases a series of workout videos blending crime-fighting techniques with dance, titled "Web Up Your Workout!"

[User] C

[Assistant]
Universities across the world begin offering courses examining the impact of superheroes like Spider-Man on modern culture, analyzing their influence on media, ethics, and social activism. These classes explore the psychology of heroism, the sociology of vigilantism, and the power of storytelling in shaping public perceptions of good and evil. Students engage in spirited debates over the morality of Spider-Man's actions and the legal implications of his vigilantism, while also dissecting the cultural significance of his dance-fueled fight against corporate corruption. Spider-Man becomes a subject of scholarly discussion, with his masked visage appearing in textbooks alongside classical heroes, an icon of the age and a testament to the enduring power of myths and legends in the digital era.

A: The curriculum spawns a new wave of social scientists, dedicated to exploring the intersection of pop culture and moral philosophy.
B: Spider-Man is invited as a guest lecturer, leading to record-breaking enrollment and a waiting list stretching around campus.
C: Dissertation topics on the "Spider-Man Effect" become common, as students seek to understand the phenomenon of superhero influence.
D: College mascots nationwide are suddenly replaced by various versions of dancing Spider-Men, resulting in the most acrobatic halftime shows in history.

[User] A

[Assistant]
The innovative curriculum sparks a revolution in academia, birthing a generation of social scientists deeply intrigued by the intersection of pop culture and moral philosophy. Students dive into research, exploring how fictional heroes influence real-world actions and the psychological effects of heroic symbolism on societal norms. These young scholars form a vibrant community dedicated to dissecting the ethical quandaries presented in comic book narratives and their cinematic counterparts, establishing new fields of inquiry at the crossroads of fandom and ethical conduct. Spider-Man stands at the center of this scholarly boom, his web-slinging adventures and dance battles serving as case studies for discussions on justice, responsibility, and the role of individuals in enacting societal change.

A: The "Spider-Man Scholarship" is created, awarded to students who exemplify the hero's sense of responsibility and community service.
B: Spider-Man-themed think tanks emerge, focusing on translating superhero-inspired solutions to real-world problems.
C: A peer-reviewed journal is launched, dedicated to publishing research on the societal impacts of heroes like Spider-Man.
D: Spider-Man is awarded an honorary PhD, making him Dr. Spider-PhD, with a thesis titled "The Synergy of Webslinging and Salsa in Urban Environments."

[User] D