1) Galatea required a deep attention form of attention because you had to really focus on saying the right things so she would turn around instead of breaking your hand like she did mine. This interactive fiction was very frustrating and it required a lot of focus to not get thrown off by her reactions. It was very easy to lose focus of the goal (getting her to turn around) and end up just messing with her.

2) This makes it different from reading a short story because there are so many different possible outcomes. You are in charge of everything that happens which is really cool.

3) Galatea was always kindve shady. She would always respond with some witty answer that never really answered the question you were asking. I tried a lot of commands including some physical commands. I made an effort to hug and touch her which she did not like very much.

4) I never got her to actually turn around. She was not quite fond of me physically trying to get her to turn around so she grabbed my hand and broke it.

5)>Hello “Hello,” you say — and stop. What would you say next? ‘I’m a famous critic, be on your best behavior’? There’s no etiquette established; and then it strikes you as strange that you should bother to be concerned. Fortunately, the little awkwardness is lost on her. “Good of you not to walk away again,” she replies. >Im sorry That’s not a verb I recognize. >Sorry No need. If she gets too difficult, you can always have her reset. You become aware of her breathing — the slight expansion of her ribs, the soft exhalation — natural, and yet somehow studied. “Ah — by the way,” she says, in a way that utterly fails to be casual, “have you seen the artist out there? — My artist, that is.” “No, I don’t think so. What does your artist look like?” “Black hair,” she says, and stops… “Never mind. He’s not here. He wouldn’t have come.” >Look The Gallery’s End Unlit, except for the single spotlight; unfurnished, except for the defining swath of black velvet. And a placard on a little stand. On the pedestal is Galatea. >Look at the placard Large cream letters on a black ground. 47. Galatea White Thasos marble. Non-commissioned work by the late Pygmalion of Cyprus. (The artist has since committed suicide.) Originally not an animate. The waking of this piece from its natural state remains unexplained. >Who are you That’s not a verb I recognize. >hug (Galatea) You know better than that. Naturally. But the fact that it crossed your mind surprises you a bit. You have never had any trouble keeping it clear in your mind when you’re dealing with a piece of machinery rather than a person. >touch What do you want to touch? >Galatea You put a hand on her shoulder: the skin is smooth and warm, though it lacks the velvety finish of a vintage Hazar. >Turn galatea You take her by the elbow and turn her a few degrees towards yourself. She cooperates, but her arm feels stiff under your touch. “Don’t do that again, please,” she says. >Sorry You stammer out some awkward words of apology — you’ve never been much good at that sort of thing. She nods. “Never mind then.” >Touch galatea You put a hand on her shoulder: the skin is smooth and warm, though it lacks the velvety finish of a vintage Hazar. >Turn galatea You take her by the elbow and turn her a few degrees towards yourself. Too quickly for you to react, she catches your wrist with her other hand, holding it so tightly that you fear for the bones. “I told you,” she says (slow, gravelly voice), “not to do that again.” Heat floods you. She shouldn’t be able to do that, shouldn’t touch the audience without permission, certainly shouldn’t inflict pain or injury. Broken. Spluttering, you speak an old reset code — EUDOXIA — but she doesn’t respond. Other than with a positively ghoulish smile. It’s going to take a couple of shots of something strong to keep nightmares out of your head tonight. *** The End ***



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