Update README.md

README.md

@@ -41,11 +41,13 @@ This is a Gemma model merge of the top storytelling / writing models at noted at
 
 This model requires GEMMA instruct template, and has 8k context window, extendable via rope to 32k or higher.
 
+Recommened Rep Pen of 1.05 or higher, temp range 0-5.
+
 Model notes, and examples to follow.
 
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-<h3>Quick Example #1 at q8, Temp:1</h3>
+<h3>Example #1 at q8, Temp:1</h3>
 
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@@ -77,7 +79,58 @@ She had spoken, she had remembered, she had loved. And in that, there was a kind
 
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-<h3>Quick Example #2 at q4km, Temp:1</h3>
+<h3>Example #2, Q8, rep pen 1.05</h3>
+
+<B>
+In the style of Ernest Hemingway: Write a scene in a larger story about a soldier returning home from war. The scene is set in a bar. It should carry the jadedness of a seasoned combatant but with a wry humour. Write in Heminway's voice, naturally: Use short, declarative sentences and simple, straightforward language. Include dialogue that is terse and revealing of character. Write with a keen sense of time and place. Capture realness and authenticity. 800-1000 words, past tense.
+</B>
+
+The air in the Rusty Tap hung thick with stale beer and sawdust. Rain hammered against the windowpanes, a rhythm familiar from foxholes and trenches.  Frank sat hunched over a chipped glass, whiskey neat. It burned going down, a familiar warmth that was more akin to a searing brand than comfort.  He’d been home a week. A week in this town that felt both alien and desperately familiar. 
+
+A kid, barely out of his teens, sidled up beside him. Clean-cut, shiny boots, too eager smile. The boy wore a uniform – a fresh one, pressed – but it hung on him like a costume.  
+
+“You served?” the kid asked, eyes bright with misplaced admiration.
+
+Frank grunted. “Somewhere.”
+
+“Over there,” the kid pressed, nodding vaguely eastward. “Heard stories.” He took a gulp of his beer, all nervous energy and bravado. “They say it’s hell.”
+
+Frank finished his whiskey, the burn lingering. “Hell is a place you carry inside, son. Not somewhere on a map.” 
+
+The kid blinked, the smile faltering. Frank watched him, saw the flicker of something akin to understanding in those too-bright eyes. It was a fleeting thing, quickly replaced by a forced cheerfulness. 
+
+“So, you back for good?” the kid asked, shifting uncomfortably.
+
+“Maybe,” Frank said, his voice rough. “Depends on how long the ghosts stick around.”
+
+The kid chuckled, a nervous, hollow sound. Frank didn’t offer him another word. He raised his empty glass, caught the eye of Maggie, the bartender, a woman with weathered hands and a face etched with stories of her own. She refilled his glass without a word. 
+
+The Rusty Tap was a sanctuary of sorts. Familiar faces, the dim yellow light filtering through grime-coated windows, the clinking of glasses – a symphony of normalcy. But the normalcy was a thin veneer over something raw and exposed.  Frank saw it in the way the regulars avoided eye contact, in their stiff nods and mumbled greetings. They’d seen the world too, felt the undertow of loss and witnessed horrors that left scars deeper than any shrapnel wound.
+
+A group of men in worn work clothes entered, their laughter loud and boisterous, a jarring counterpoint to the low hum of quiet resignation that permeated the bar.  They slammed onto stools, their voices vying for dominance, drowning out the rain’s drumming. One of them, burly with a handlebar moustache, caught Frank’s eye. He grinned, a flash of white teeth in a sun-baked face.
+
+“Frank! Back from the killing fields, eh? Figured you’d be sipping on something stronger than sorrow.” He slapped Frank’s shoulder hard enough to jolt him. “Come on, join us. We got stories to swap, tall tales to weave.”
+
+Frank shook his head, a weariness settling deep in his bones. “Not tonight, Jimmy.”
+
+The burly man, Jimmy, frowned, but didn’t press. He knew. They all did. Some wounds couldn’t be soothed with cheap beer and boisterous tales. Not anymore.  
+
+He raised his glass in a silent toast, then turned back to his companions, their laughter resuming, a shield against the unspoken truths that lingered in the air. Frank watched them, a detached observer. He understood their need for bravado, for communal storytelling as a balm against the silence that gnawed at him. But for him, the silence was a companion, a constant reminder of what had been lost, of the things left unsaid.
+
+The door creaked open again, letting in a gust of wind and a young woman, her face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. She moved with a grace that seemed out of place in the rough-hewn bar, her steps light despite the downpour. She scanned the room, her eyes finally settling on Frank.  He recognized her – Mary, his neighbor’s daughter. A bright spark back then, full of laughter and youthful dreams. Now, a shadow of that girl lingered, her face etched with a maturity that belied her years.
+
+She walked towards him, her gaze unwavering.  Frank felt the familiar constriction in his chest, a tightness that had become his default setting. He didn’t meet her eyes. He knew what she saw, what she couldn’t articulate – the hollowness behind his façade of indifference.
+
+“You look tired, Frank,” she said, her voice soft but carrying the weight of unspoken words. She placed a worn photograph on the bar in front of him. A faded picture of two laughing children, their faces smeared with ice cream.
+
+Frank looked at the picture, at the innocent joy captured in frozen time. His own daughter and son. Gone.  He didn’t need to speak. The silence between them was a shared language, forged in grief and unspoken understanding. He reached for the photo, his fingers brushing hers for a fleeting moment. A spark of connection, fragile yet real, flickered in that shared touch. Then, she was gone, swallowed by the rain-drenched night, leaving him alone with the ghosts and the memory of laughter long silenced. 
+
+
+The Rusty Tap’s familiar symphony continued, a muted backdrop to the internal storm raging within him. Frank raised his glass again, the whiskey burning a familiar path down his throat. It wasn’t solace, not really.  It was a temporary anesthetic, a way to dull the edges of the truth he carried. He was home, yes, but home wasn't a place. It was a feeling, a phantom limb aching for what could never be reclaimed. And in that aching, in that profound emptiness, he found a twisted sort of peace. The peace of acceptance, of knowing he was forever marked, forever changed by the war he’d survived, and the battles he still waged within himself. 
+
+---
+
+<h3>Example #3 at q4km, Temp:1</h3>
 
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