@EricRFine prompt. But I think AI could have done a better job. The text was not especially interesting or entertaining. And the non-sequiturs didn't add anything. They subtracted by getting in the way. The cat might prefer to be in better story. In essence, this didn't feel real. It felt more like a couple of people in a stage play that needs a lot of work. Around here most people of a certain age still call it The Sears Tower. Most people still call it Fields. Maybe in New York some people still call it Idlewild. And does anyone call it Gulf of America? Almost for certain Mount McKinley doesn't care.
While the Trump Kennedy debacle is of some interest, maybe it's too real for fiction. And in many ways maybe it just doesn't matter. Heck, why don't we rename New York New Trump? And put his picture on the Bit Coin? A lot of towns have a sign on the highways entering town saying Mayor So-And-So Welcomes You. Usually after the next election they get a new sign. Maybe a bigger sign so as to provide more cover for the speed trap.
I gave CoPilot this prompt:
A middle-aged couple, John and Mary, have lived in Pleasantville for all of their lives. It's a small suburban town in the Midwest. The local library, always known as The Pleasantville Library, has been in the town for more than one hundred years and the building needs considerable work. A well-to-do local realtor has offered to provide a million dollars toward the renovation with the provision that the library be named after her. John thinks this is a bad idea. Mary doesn't mind. As the two are having breakfast one morning, Mary, who has to catch a train to her job in the city, asks John if he can pick up the new Stephen King novel that the library has on hold for her after he drops their child off at school. Please write the beginning of a story about this situation, including a lot of dialogue between John and Mary.
Here's a beginning that leans into the domestic rhythm of their morning, the smallβtown texture of Pleasantville, and the tension humming quietly beneath their conversation. I've kept the dialogue frontβandβcenter, as you asked:
John was standing at the stove, coaxing the last bit of crispness into the bacon, when Mary hurried into the kitchen with one earring in and the other clenched between her teeth.
"You're up early," he said without turning. "Train running on time today?"
She made a muffled sound, then popped the second earring into place. "Supposedly. But you know how it is. If it's not late, it's early, and if it's on time, it's a miracle."
John slid the bacon onto a plate. "Miracles are in short supply around here."
Mary caught the tone. "Oh boy. We're starting the day like that."
"I'm just saying," he replied, "the library's been called The Pleasantville Library for a hundred and six years. And now we're supposed to rename it afterβwhat is she calling it? The Marjorie L. Davenport Center for Literacy and Learning?"
Mary sat down and reached for the toast. "It's her money, John. A million dollars. You've seen the roof. You've seen the basement. You've seen the⦠everything."
"That doesn't mean we should sell the name of the place," he said. "It's not a baseball stadium."
Mary buttered her toast with the calm of someone who had already had this argument twice in her head before breakfast. "I don't love the idea, but I don't hate it either. And I really don't think the town council is going to turn down that kind of money."
"They should," John muttered.
"They won't."
He sighed and sat across from her. "It's not right. The library belongs to the town. To everyone. Not to whoever has the biggest checkbook."
Mary took a sip of coffee. "You know what also belongs to the town? Mold. Cracked windows. A heating system from the Eisenhower administration."
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point."
They sat in a brief, familiar silenceβthe kind that comes from years of knowing exactly how far to push and when to let the air settle.
Mary glanced at the clock and jolted upright. "Oh! I have to go. I'm going to miss the 8:02."
John nodded. "I'll drive you if you want."
"No, no, I'll run. Butβ" She grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "Can you pick up my book today? The new Stephen King? They emailed me yesterday that it's on hold."
"Sure," he said. "After I drop Emma off."
"Thank you." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "And try not to start any library uprisings before lunch."
"I make no promises."
She laughed as she backed toward the door. "Just pick up the book. And maybe don't lecture poor Linda at the circulation desk about the sanctity of historical naming conventions."
"I don't lecture," John said.
"You absolutely lecture."
The door closed behind her, leaving John alone with the cooling bacon, the ticking clock, and the uneasy feeling that Pleasantville was about to change in ways he wasn't ready for.
CoPilot also redid the story from Mary's point of view.
Here's a version that shifts the center of gravity into Mary's interior world β her tempo, her morning urgency, her mix of practicality and mild exasperation. I kept the dialogue intact in spirit, but the emotional camera now sits on her shoulder, catching the little frictions and affections that shape her day.
Mary was already running late when she stepped into the kitchen, still fastening her earring. The smell of bacon hit her first β warm, familiar, grounding β and then John's hunched shoulders over the stove, which told her he was thinking about something he didn't want to be thinking about.
"You're up early," he said, not looking back. "Train running on time today?"
She made a sound around the earring clenched between her teeth. The clasp finally clicked. "Supposedly. But who knows. If it's not late, it's early, and if it's on time, it's a miracle."
He slid bacon onto a plate with the solemnity of a man delivering bad news. "Miracles are in short supply around here."
There it was. She could feel the conversation forming like a weather front.
"Oh boy," she said, dropping into her chair. "We're starting the day like that."
"I'm just saying," he began β which meant he was absolutely not just saying β "the library's been called The Pleasantville Library for a hundred and six years. And now we're supposed to rename it afterβwhat is it? The Marjorie L. Davenport Center for Literacy and Learning?"
Mary buttered her toast with deliberate calm. She didn't love the new name either β it was long, fussy, and sounded like a place where you'd be scolded for breathing too loudly β but she also wasn't about to pretend the building wasn't falling apart.
"It's her money, John. A million dollars. You've seen the roof. You've seen the basement. You've seen the⦠everything."
"That doesn't mean we should sell the name of the place," he said. "It's not a baseball stadium."
She took a sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle her. "I don't love the idea, but I don't hate it either. And I really don't think the town council is going to turn down that kind of money."
"They should."
"They won't."
He sat down across from her, looking like a man bracing for a moral storm. She knew this posture well β the earnestness, the stubbornness, the way he felt the town's history like a personal inheritance.
"It's not right," he said. "The library belongs to the town. To everyone. Not to whoever has the biggest checkbook."
"You know what also belongs to the town?" she said gently. "Mold. Cracked windows. A heating system from the Eisenhower administration."
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point."
They fell into a silence that wasn't hostile β just familiar, like a well-worn path they'd walked before. She checked the clock and felt her stomach drop.
"Oh! I have to go. I'm going to miss the 8:02."
"I'll drive you if you want," he offered.
"No, no, I'll run." She grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "But β can you pick up my book today? The new Stephen King? They emailed me yesterday that it's on hold."
"Sure," he said. "After I drop Emma off."
"Thank you." She leaned in and kissed his cheek, catching the faint smell of bacon and dish soap. "And try not to start any library uprisings before lunch."
"I make no promises."
She laughed as she backed toward the door. "Just pick up the book. And maybe don't lecture poor Linda at the circulation desk about the sanctity of historical naming conventions."
"I don't lecture," he said.
"You absolutely lecture."
She stepped out into the cold morning, pulling her coat tight as she hurried toward the station. Behind her, the house settled into its quiet. Ahead of her, the train tracks gleamed faintly in the early light. And somewhere in between β in that small, stubborn town she loved β the library's new name was already hanging in the air, whether anyone liked it or not.