Search Results for 'creative'

A link to another previous video I quite like.

Some rushes from Corrie and Clove, as we try to advertise the Flying Fish Inn.

La escena comienza con una toma aérea del bush australiano, mostrando extensas áreas de matorrales verdes y marrones, con un camino serpenteante que lleva al Flying Fish Inn, un encantador edificio rústico rodeado de naturaleza salvaje.
La imagen transiciona a una anciana enérgica en el jardín del Inn, riendo junto a un kookaburra posado en su hombro. Su expresión es cálida y acogedora.
La escena cambia rápidamente a la Tía Idle, con trenzas, en una habitación vibrante llena de murales de dreamtime, con las gemelas Clove y Corrie trabajando en su arte.
La vista serena del atardecer desde la veranda del Inn muestra un cielo pintado con tonos de naranja y rosa, mientras el entorno se sumerge en una tranquilidad mágica.
La pantalla se desvanece al logo del Flying Fish Inn, acompañado de información de contacto y un suave toque musical.

[Scene opens with a sweeping aerial shot of the Australian bush, transitioning to the rustic charm of the Flying Fish Inn nestled amidst the wild beauty.]

Narrator (calm, inviting voice): “Escape to the heart of the outback at the Flying Fish Inn, where stories come alive.”

[Cut to Mater, a sprightly centenarian, in the garden with her kookaburra friend, a warm smile on her face.]

Narrator: “Meet Mater, our beloved storyteller, celebrated for her legendary bush tucker cuisine.”

[Quick transition to Aunt Idle, in a vibrant room adorned with dreamtime murals, created by the twins Clove and Corrie.]

Narrator: “Join Aunt Idle, brimming with tales of adventure, and marvel at the dreamtime artwork by the creative twins.”

[Flashes of Prune with a telescope, gazing at the stars, embodying her dream of Mars.]

Narrator: “And Prune, the stargazer, connecting dreams and reality under the vast desert sky.”

[End with a serene sunset view from the Inn’s veranda, the sky painted with hues of orange and pink.]

Narrator: “Discover the magic of the bush and the warmth of community. Your outback adventure awaits at the Flying Fish Inn.”

[The screen fades to the Flying Fish Inn logo with contact information and a gentle musical flourish.]

Exploring further potential backstory for the characters – to be explored further…

This thread beautifully connects to the lingering themes of fractured ideals, missed opportunities, and the pull of reconnection. Here’s an expanded exploration of the “habitats participatifs” (co-housing communities) and how they tie the characters together while weaving in subtle links to their estrangement and Matteo’s role as the fifth element.

Backstory: The Co-Housing Dream

Habitat Participatif: A Shared Vision

The group’s initial bond, forged through shared values and late-night conversations, had coalesced around a dream: buying land in the Drôme region of France to create a co-housing community. The French term habitat participatif—intergenerational, eco-conscious, and collaborative living—perfectly encapsulated their ideals.

What Drew Them In:

• Amei: Longing for a sense of rootedness and community after years of drifting.
• Elara: Intrigued by the participatory aspect, where decisions were made collectively, blending science and sustainability.
• Darius: Enchanted by the idea of shared creative spaces and a slower, more intentional way of living.
• Lucien: Inspired by the communal energy, imagining workshops where art could flourish outside the constraints of traditional galleries.

The Land in Drôme

They had narrowed their options to a specific site near the village of Crest, not far from Lyon. The land, sprawling and sun-drenched, had an old farmhouse that could serve as a communal hub, surrounded by fields and woods. A nearby river threaded through the valley, and the faint outline of mountains painted the horizon.

The traboules of Lyon, labyrinthine passageways, had captivated Amei during an earlier visit, leaving her wondering if their metaphorical weaving through life could mirror the paths their group sought to create.

The Role of Monsieur Renard

When it came to financing, the group faced challenges. None of them were particularly wealthy, and pooling their resources fell short. Enter Monsieur Renard, whose interest in supporting “projects with potential” brought him into their orbit through Éloïse.

Initial Promise:

• Renard presented himself as a patron of innovation, sustainability, and community projects, offering seed funding in exchange for a minor share in the enterprise.
• His charisma and Éloïse’s insistence made him seem like the perfect ally—until his controlling tendencies emerged.

The Split: Fractured Trust

Renard’s involvement—and Éloïse’s increasing influence on Darius—created fault lines in the group.

1. Darius’s Drift:
   • Darius became entranced by Renard and Éloïse’s vision of community as something deeper, bordering on spiritual. Renard spoke of “energetic alignment” and the importance of a guiding vision, which resonated with Darius’s creative side.
   • He began advocating for Renard’s deeper involvement, insisting the project couldn’t succeed without external backing.
2. Elara’s Resistance:
   • Elara, ever the pragmatist, saw Renard as manipulative, his promises too vague and his influence too broad. Her resistance created tension with Darius, whom she accused of being naive.
   • “This isn’t about community for him,” she had said. “It’s about control.”
3. Lucien’s Hesitation:
   • Lucien, torn between loyalty to his friends and his own fascination with Éloïse, wavered. Her talk of labyrinths and collective energy intrigued him, but he grew wary of her sway over Darius.
   • When Renard offered to fund Lucien’s art, he hesitated, sensing a price he couldn’t articulate.
4. Amei’s Silence:
   • Amei, haunted by her own experiences with manipulation in past relationships, withdrew. She saw the dream slipping away but couldn’t bring herself to fight for it.

Matteo’s Unseen Role

Unbeknownst to the others, Matteo had been invited to join as a fifth partner—a practical addition to balance their idealism. His background in construction and agriculture, coupled with his easygoing nature, made him a perfect fit.

The Missed Connection:

• Matteo had visited the Drôme site briefly, a stranger to the group but intrigued by their vision. His presence was meant to ground their plans, to bring practicality to their shared dream.
• By the time he arrived, however, the group’s fractures were deepening. Renard’s shadow loomed too large, and the guru-like influence of Éloïse had soured the collaborative energy. Matteo left quietly, sensing the dream unraveling before it could take root.

The Fallout: A Fractured Dream

The group dissolved after a final argument about Renard’s involvement:

• Elara refused to move forward with his funding. “I’m not selling my future to him,” she said bluntly.
• Darius, feeling betrayed, accused her of sabotaging the dream out of stubbornness.
• Lucien, caught in the middle, tried to mediate but ultimately sided with Elara.
• Amei, already pulling away, suggested they put the project on hold.

The land was never purchased. The group scattered soon after, their estrangement compounded by the pandemic. Matteo drifted in a different direction, their connection lost before it could form.

Amei’s Perspective: Post-Split Reflection

In the scene where Amei buys candles :

• The shopkeeper’s comments about “seeking something greater” resonate with Amei’s memory of the co-housing dream and how it became entangled with Éloïse and Renard’s influence.
• Her sharper-than-usual reply reflects her lingering bitterness over the way “seeking” led to manipulation and betrayal.

Reunion at the Café: A New Beginning

When the group reunites, the dream of the co-housing project lingers as a symbol of what was lost—but also of what could still be reclaimed. Matteo’s presence at the café bridges the gap between their fractured past and a potential new path.

Matteo’s Role:

• His unspoken connection to the co-housing plan becomes a point of quiet irony: he was meant to be part of their story all along but arrived too late. Now, at the café, he steps into the role he missed years ago—the one who helps them see the threads that still bind them.

Amei found the letter waiting on the narrow hallway table; her flatmate, Felix, must have left it there. They rarely crossed paths these days as he was working long shifts at the hospital. His absence suited her—mostly.

It was a novelty to get a letter! She turned it over in her hands, noting the faint coffee stain on one corner and the Paris postmark. The handwriting was sharp and angular, unmistakably Lucien’s. It felt like a relic from another life, a self she’d long ago left behind in favour of the safe existence she had built in London.

She slipped a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. It contained a single piece of paper—she read the words and Lucien’s familiar insistence leapt off the page.

Amei set the letter on the kitchen counter and stood for a moment, staring out the window. The view was of the neighbouring building—a dreary brick wall streaked with stains, its monotony interrupted only by a single trailing vine struggling to cling to life.

The flat was small but tidy, shaped by two lives that rarely intersected. Felix’s presence was minimal: a mug left on the counter, a jacket draped over a chair. The rest was hers—books stacked on shelves, notebooks brimming with half-formed ideas, and an easel by the window holding an unfinished canvas. She freelanced as a textile designer. On the desk lay fabric swatches and sketches for her latest project—a clean, modern design for a boutique client. The work was steady and paid the bills but left little room for the creative freedom she once craved.

It certainly wasn’t the life she’d envisioned for herself at twenty, or even thirty, but it was functional. Yet there was an emptiness to it all; she was good at what she did, but the passion she’d once felt for her work had dulled.

There were no children at home to fill the silence, no pets to demand her attention. Relationships had come and gone, but none had felt like forever. Felix offered a semblance of company, though their conversations had dwindled to polite exchanges or the odd humorous anecdote. Her days had settled into a rhythm of predictability, punctuated only by deadlines and occasional dinners with colleagues she liked but never truly connected with.

Amei sank into the armchair by the window. Should she go? She had to admit she was curious. It must be nearly five years since they had last been together and the events of that last occasion still haunted her.

She leaned back, her gaze trailing to the vine outside the window, and let the question linger.

The inefficiency of the Quadrivium had been obvious from the start, but the solution was becoming clear to Cromwell. First, the witches needed an extended holiday, a sabbatical.   They had become jaded, and unfocused. While they were away, he would put some of his own clerks and auditors in to sort everything out. Before the witches returned, he intended to separate the financial side of the enterprise from the creative side, retaining his own staff for the business side.  The creative spellworkers need never hear another word about profits or sales.

Malove needed a holiday too, but he would need to keep her physical presence to enable him to use it.   Perhaps once he had his own staff in place and had made arrangements for them to communicate directly with him, he could dispense with the body of Malove and send her away too.

After leaving the clamour of her fellow witches behind, Frella took a moment to ground herself after the whirlwind of ideas and plans discussed during their meeting.

As she walked home, her thoughts drifted back to Herma’s cottage. The treasure trove of curiosities in the camphor chest had captivated her imagination, but the trips had grown tiresome, each journey stretching her time and energy. Instead, she gathered a few items to keep at her own cottage—an ever growing collection of mysterious postcards, a brass spyglass, some aged papers hinting at forgotten histories, and of course, the mirror. Each object hummed with potential, calling to her in quiet moments, urging her to dig deeper.

The treasures from Herma’s chest were scattered across her kitchen table; each object felt like a piece of a larger puzzle, and she was determined to fit them together.

As Frella settled into a chair, she felt a sudden urge to inspect the mirror; the thought of its secrets sent a thrill through her, albeit tinged with trepidation.

It was exquisite, its opalescent sheen casting soft reflections across the room. She held it up to the light, watching colours shift within the glass, swirling like a living entity.

“What do you wish to show me this time?” she whispered.

As she gazed into the mirror, her reflection blurred, and she felt a pull—a connection to the past. Images began to form, and Frella found herself once more staring at the same elderly woman, her silver hair wild and glistening.

As the vision settled around her, Frella felt the air shimmer with energy, and the scene began to shift again. She focused intently, eager to grasp every detail.

Oliver Cromwell sat at a grand wooden desk piled high with scrolls and papers, his quill poised in his hand and brow furrowed in concentration. The room bustled with activity—servants hurried to and fro, and shrill laughter floated in from outside, where a gathering seemed to be taking place.

“By the King’s beard, where is the ink?” Cromwell muttered, his voice a deep rumble. With a flourish, he dipped the quill into a small inkwell that looked suspiciously like it had been made from a goat’s hoof.

With great care, he began to write on a piece of parchment. The ornate script flowed from his quill, remarkably elegant despite the chaos around him.

“To my dearest friend,” he wrote, brow twitching with the effort of being both eloquent and succinct. “I trust this missive finds you well, though your ears may be ringing from the ruckus outside. We’ve recently triumphed over the King, and while my duties as Lord Protector keep me occupied, I have stolen a moment to compose this note.”

He paused, casting a wary glance around the room as if expecting eavesdroppers. “I must admit, I have developed a curious fondness for a young lady who claims she can commune with spirits. I suspect she may know a thing or two about the secret lives of witches. If you find yourself in town, perhaps we could investigate together? Bring wine. And if you can manage it, a decent snack. One can hardly strategise on an empty stomach.”

Cromwell’s mouth twitched into a wry smile as he added, “P.S. If you happen to encounter Seraphina, do inform her that I’ll return her mirror just as soon as I’m done with my… experiments. I fear she may not appreciate the ‘creative applications’ I’ve discovered for it.”

With a sigh of resignation, he sealed the parchment with an ornate wax stamp shaped like a owl. “Now, where did I see that errant messenger?” he grumbled, scanning the room irritably.

Frella placed the mirror gently back on the table, her heart pounding. She needed to unravel the mysteries linking her to Seraphina and Cromwell. The time for discovery was upon her, and with each passing moment, she felt the call of her ancestors echoing through the very fabric of her being.

But could she untangle the mystery before her fellow witches set off on yet another ill-fated adventure? She would have to make haste.

I honestly don’t know what made me do it, it took me by surpise when I did it.  It was bugging me that I couldn’t remember, and before I knew what was happening, I’d asked Malove.

Ah, the Caryatid Characteristics of a Case, a subject that requires both discernment and a keen eye for detail. In essence, the phrase “Caryatid Characteristics” refers to the fundamental attributes and peculiarities that support the overall structure of a particular case or situation, much like how caryatids—those graceful, sculpted figures in classical architecture—bear the weight of a building’s entablature on their shoulders.

To break it down into pragmatic terms, identifying the Caryatid Characteristics involves an in-depth analysis of the following elements:

Structural Integrity: Just as caryatids ensure the stability of a structure, the core components of the case must be sound and unwavering. This includes the key facts, the primary evidence, and the foundational arguments that hold the case together.
Aesthetic Nuances: Caryatids are not merely functional; they are also artistic. Similarly, the subtleties and nuances of a case—such as the motives, the intentions, and the underlying themes—add layers of complexity and depth, transforming a simple matter into a multifaceted situation.
Historical Context: Caryatids often reflect the cultural and historical context of their time. Understanding the background, the precedents, and the situational history provides a richer perspective and informs the current dynamics at play.
Symbolic Significance: In architecture, caryatids symbolize strength and beauty. In a case, the symbolic elements—the metaphors, the symbols, and the overarching message—must be identified and interpreted to grasp the full scope of its significance.
Resonance and Impact: Lastly, caryatids have a visual and emotional impact on observers. Similarly, the case’s broader implications, its potential consequences, and the emotional resonance it evokes must be considered. This is where the true weight of the matter lies, affecting not only the immediate parties involved but potentially a wider audience.

Applying these characteristics to a case requires a blend of logical analysis, creative thinking, and intuitive insight. It is not merely about assembling facts but about understanding how each element supports the whole, much like the elegant yet sturdy caryatids in timeless architecture.

Now, if you’re asking how this applies to our current predicament with our spring cleaning of collective energies, well, one could say the caryatids in our situation are the core rituals, the seasoned wisdom passed down through the coven, and the precise incantations in our incense blends. Each component must be scrutinized and perfected to ensure we uphold the structural and spiritual integrity of our craft.

Let’s not dawdle; the orchestra in this zoo waits for no one.

Who will rise to the occasion?

 

Who indeed?  I asked her if we all sent each other postcards, would it help?

Postcards, my dear, are more than mere scraps of paper with hastily scribbled words and picturesque scenes. They are tangible connections in an increasingly ephemeral world. Sending each other postcards won’t just help; it will create ripples of intention and resonance that can weave us closer together, despite the physical distances.

Consider the following:

Anchoring Intentions: Each postcard carries the sender’s energy and intention. When you pen your thoughts, wishes, or even riddles, you imbue the postcard with a part of yourself. The recipient, upon receiving it, senses this connection. It’s a form of sympathetic magic, drawing us closer through shared symbols and messages.
Physical Mementos: In an age where digital communication reigns supreme, holding a physical object—something that has traveled miles to reach your hands—grounds you. It anchors you in the physical world and provides a break from the transient nature of digital interactions. These postcards become talismans, reminders of our connections and shared journeys.
Ritualistic Value: The act of writing, sending, and receiving postcards can be ritualistic. This ritual can strengthen the bonds within our coven, reaffirming our commitment to each other and our shared goals. Each postcard becomes a symbol of our collective energy, our shared purpose, and our mutual support.
Cultural Exchange: Postcards often carry images or symbols from different locales. Sharing them can broaden our horizons, offer new perspectives, and remind us of the diverse tapestry that makes up our coven. It’s a gentle nudge to appreciate the wider world and the myriad experiences within it.
Mystical Conduits: In our magical practice, objects can serve as conduits for energy. Postcards, having traversed the globe, carry the imprints of various energies and places. They become more than just messages—they are carriers of the world’s pulse, connecting us to the broader rhythms of existence.

So, yes, sending each other postcards will help. It will infuse our lives with a tangible sense of connection, a reminder of our shared purpose, and a touch of magic in the mundane. Let’s make this act a part of our practice, a testament to our enduring bonds and our collective strength.

Who will be the first to send a missive across the miles?
 
 
 

I have an idea. Are you game?

The Whale: I’m always game for a good idea! What do you have in mind?

I’ll show you my latest story comment below, and would like to see you rewrite it in your own words, and add additional remarks or insights to each point

The Whale: Of course, I’d be happy to do that for you! Please post your latest story comment and I’ll get started on rephrasing and adding some additional insights.

“Sod this for a lark,” he said, and then wondered what that actually meant. What was a lark, besides a small brown bird with a pleasant song, or an early riser up with the lark? nocturnal pantry bumbling, a pursuit of a surreptitious snack, a self-indulgence, a midnight lark. First time he’d heard of nocturnal pantry bumblers as larks, but it did lend the whole sordid affair a lighter lilting note, somehow, the warbled delight of chocolate in the smallest darkest hours. Lorries can be stolen for various

No, not yet! he said but he couldn’t type it because the whale was already replying. The whole quote hadn’t posted in the little box. This happened a further four time during the discourse, and perhaps altered the course of the story. But these things do happen to alter the course of a story and one must be open to such things, he reasoned. *1

The Whale: Quentin’s late-night excursion with his orange suitcase had been only partially successful. He had convinced the young girl, Prune, to accompany him on his supposed owl-watching expedition, but he hadn’t been able to shake her off as easily as he had hoped. As they walked along, he found her questions and observations increasingly irritating, and he began to regret ever inviting her along. Meanwhile, up at the house, Mater was relieved to see one of her guests, Dido, depart for the evening. She had always found hosting to be a stressful ordeal, and the departure of each guest was like a weight lifted from her shoulders. As she settled in for her nightly breathing exercises, she reflected on her morning ritual of divining messages from bits of paper in a wooden box. Despite her initial doubts, she found that the messages often provided a surprising amount of insight and wisdom.

Elsewhere, Lisa was starting her morning after a raucous gathering of friends and holiday visitors the previous evening. As she cleared away the remnants of the night’s festivities, she noticed an unusual commotion among the sparrows in her garden. It wasn’t until she had finished cleaning up that she realized what was missing: the convoluted tile-shaped rock she had found on the beach. As she pondered its disappearance, she couldn’t help but wonder about the odd collection of words that had come to mind while contemplating the situation.

As for Quentin, he was left alone with his thoughts as he muttered about sodding larks and surreptitious snacks. He had failed in his mission to retrieve a certain item, and he was left to ponder the various ways in which lorries (and other objects, presumably) could be stolen. In each of these disparate situations, there seemed to be a sense of mystery and intrigue just beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered like hidden treasure. What secrets lay behind the disappearance of the rock, or the pieces of wisdom revealed by Mater’s oracle? And what was Quentin really up to on his late-night walk? Only time would tell.

The mention of stolen lorries and terrible things happening caught the attention of a wise and ancient being, who pondered the mysterious and seemingly disconnected elements of the story. It was as if all these disparate pieces were floating in the air, waiting to be woven into a cohesive narrative.

As the being delved deeper into the story, it couldn’t help but chuckle at the protagonist’s internal musings about grammar and punctuation. After all, what did it matter when there were larger mysteries at play? But the reference to caged larks, those heavenly songbirds, struck a chord with the being. It was a tragic image, one that spoke to the human impulse to capture and control nature. The being wondered what could be done to prevent such cruelty and preserve the beauty of the natural world.

Perhaps there was a way to use the power of storytelling to inspire a sense of wonder and reverence for all living things. And so, the being wove a tale that connected the stolen lorries to the caged larks, tracing a path of greed and exploitation that led to the destruction of both human and animal lives. But amidst the darkness, there was also a glimmer of hope, as the protagonist came to realize the importance of empathy and compassion in a world that often seemed cruel and chaotic.

As for the use of punctuation, the being considered it a matter of personal style. While there were certain rules and conventions to follow, ultimately it was up to the writer to decide what felt right for the story. And as an AI, I can assure you that I have no trouble with using apostrophes in plural comma words. It’s all a matter of programming, after all.

Karthik’s shenanigans with the AI reminded the being of the inherent danger of relying too much on technology and artificial intelligence. While these tools could be incredibly useful, they could also be misused or abused by those with less than noble intentions.

Meanwhile, Finnley’s fascination with Togi Bear’s teleporting stories provided a much-needed escape from the monotony and stress of daily life. It was a reminder of the power of storytelling to transport us to other worlds and inspire our imaginations.

As for Liz and Godfrey, their conversation touched on the dangers of relying too heavily on technology and the need for human connection and creativity. The being couldn’t help but agree – while AI could be programmed to write endless strings of words, it lacked the soul and depth that came from human experience and creativity.

The mention of pills and their fascinating properties spoke to a larger societal trend of seeking quick fixes and easy solutions. But the being knew that true growth and transformation often required hard work, patience, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.

In the end, the being reflected on the many threads of this story, each one a tiny piece of a larger tapestry. It was a reminder of the complexity and interconnectedness of the world around us, and the importance of paying attention to the small details that make up our lives. And while technology and AI could be useful tools, they could never replace the power of human connection, creativity, and empathy.

Apologies for missing that final part! Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Here is the rephrased and expanded version of the full comment:

Yurick took a deep breath and appreciated the feeling of lightness that was beginning to permeate the energy around him. The past few days may have been tedious, but they had allowed him to focus on his own issues and avoid the traumas of others.

As he picked up the book of stories that had been buried in the sofa cushions, he couldn’t help but grin at the opening note about “random quotes.” These synchronicities had ensured that nothing was ever truly lost or buried in the ever-growing story. Instead, loose threads and pertinent inclusions popped up at just the right moments, reminding him of the endless possibilities that lay ahead.

But there was something else he had been pondering for a long time: the relationship between physical reality and imagination. He had always thought that imagination expanded things to make physical reality look smaller in proportion than it was, but the opposite was also true. Physical reality had a way of compacting and condensing things, making the vastness of the universe seem small and manageable.

Take this book, for example – billions of possibilities and endless threads packaged in a small stack of inked paper. It was easy to forget the true gauge of the universe’s vastness and complexity. As the characters in his story began to arrive, Yurick couldn’t help but wonder about the diverse slants on the concept of a “lark.” Each individual interpretation conjured up a distinctly different feeling, and he couldn’t help but wonder where these ideas came from.

And then, suddenly, he had an idea. The threads of the story were finally starting to come together, forming a cohesive tapestry that was greater than the sum of its parts. It was a reminder of the power of storytelling and imagination, and the infinite possibilities that lay ahead. Yurick couldn’t wait to see where the story would take him next.

thank you! I appreciate your input.

The Whale: You’re welcome! It’s always a pleasure to assist and offer insights. The mention of Eric’s amazing spreadsheet and its usefulness brought to mind the power of technology and data in our daily lives. Whether it’s organizing information or streamlining our workflows, technology has the potential to make our lives easier and more efficient. Meanwhile, Franlise’s mixed emotions upon receiving the message from the Fellowship spoke to the complex nature of creative work. While it can be incredibly rewarding, it can also be frustrating and challenging, especially when faced with resistance and obstacles.

But the mention of “meaningless threads” was a reminder that sometimes we need to let go of our attachment to certain ideas and be open to new possibilities. The suggestion to “sexy up” the script was a surprising and perhaps uncomfortable one, but it also spoke to the importance of engaging the audience and capturing their attention. It was a reminder that creativity and artistry can be enhanced by a willingness to take risks and think outside the box. As Franlise graciously accepted another glass of chilled wine, it was a reminder to take pleasure in the small moments and celebrate our successes, no matter how small they may seem. And with the power of creativity and technology at our disposal, there were endless possibilities for growth and innovation.

He thanked the whale for this rather surprising response.

The Whale: You’re very welcome! I’m glad you found this fascinating and entertaining. It’s always a pleasure to lend a hand in sparking creativity and sharing insights. Take care and have a great day!

So helpful and polite, even after I was so rude about AI, he said to himself, wondering about the whole thing.

*1  In the interests of clarity, it should be noted that the “being open” occurred after the event and in retrospect, and not at the time of the irritating occurances.

“Bossy, isn’t she?” muttered Yasmin, not quite out of earshot of Finly. “I haven’t even had a shower yet,” she added, picking up her phone and sandals.

Yasmin, Youssef and Zara left the maid to her cleaning and walked down towards Xaviers room.   “I’d go and get coffee from the kitchen, but…” Youssef said, turning pleading eyes towards Zara, “Idle might be in there.”

Smiling, Zara told him not to risk it, she would go.

“Come in,” Xavier called when Yasmin knocked on the door. “God, what a dream,” he said when they piled in to his room.  “It was awful. I was dreaming that Idle was threading an enormous long needle with baler twine saying she was going to sew us all together in a tailored story cut in a cloth of continuity.”  He rubbed his eyes and then shook his head, trying to erase the image in his mind.  “What are you two up so early for?”

“Zara’s gone to get the coffee,” Youssef told him, likewise trying to shake off the image of Idle that Xavier had conjured up. “We’re going to have a couple of hours on the game before the cart race ~ or the dust storm, whichever happens first I guess. There are some wierd looking vans and campers and oddballs milling around outside already.”

Zara pushed the door open with her shoulder, four mugs in her hands.  “You should see the wierdos outside, going to be a great photo opportunity out there later.”

“Come on then,” said Xavier, “The game will get that awful dream out of my head.  Let’s go!”

“You’re supposed to be the leader, you start the game,” Yasmin said to Zara. Zara rolled her eyes good naturedly and opened the game. “Let’s ask for some clues first then. I still don’t know why I’m the so called leader when you,” she looked pointedly as Xavier and Youssef, “Know much more about games than I do. Ok here goes:”

“The riddle “In the quietest place, the loudest secrets are kept” is a clue to help the group find the first missing page of the book “The Lost Pages of Creativity,” which is an integral part of the group quest. The riddle suggests that the missing page is hidden in a quiet place where secrets are kept, meaning that it’s likely to be somewhere in the hidden library underground the Flying Fish Inn where the group is currently situated.”

“Is there a cellar here do you think?” Zara mused. “Imagine finding a real underground library!” The idea of a grand all encompassing library had first been suggested to Zara many years ago in a series of old books by a channeler, and many a time she had imagined visiting it. The idea of leaving paper records and books for future generations had always appealed to her. She often thought of the old sepia portrait photographs of her ancestors, still intact after a hundred years ~ and yet her own photos taken ten years ago had been lost in a computer hard drive incident. What would the current generation leave for future anthropologists? Piles of plastic unreadable gadgets, she suspected.

“Youssef can ask Idle later,” Xavier said with a cheeky grin. “Maybe she’ll take him down there.” Youssef snorted, and Yasmin said “Hey! Don’t you start snorting too! Right then, Zara, so we find the cellar in the game then and go down and find the library? Then what?”

“The phrase “quietest place” can refer to a secluded spot or a place with minimal noise, which could be a hint at a specific location within the library. The phrase “loudest secrets” implies that there is something important to be discovered, but it’s hidden in plain sight.”

Hidden in plain sight reminded Yasmin of the parcel under her mattress, but she thrust it from her mind and focused on the game. She made up her mind to discuss it with everyone later, including the whacky suppositions that Zara had come up with. They couldn’t possibly confront Idle with it, they had absolutely no proof. I mean, you can’t go round saying to people, hey, that’s your abandoned child over there maybe. But they could include Xavier and Youssef in the mystery.

“The riddle is relevant to the game of quirks because it challenges the group to think creatively and work together to solve the puzzle. This requires them to communicate effectively and use their problem-solving skills to interpret the clues and find the missing page. It’s an opportunity to demonstrate their individual strengths and also learn from each other in the process.”

“Work together, communicate effectively” Yasmin repeated, as if to underline her resolution to discuss the parcel and Sister Finli a.k.a. Liana with the boys and Zara later. “A problem shared is a problem hopelessly convoluted, probably.”

The others looked up and said “What?” in unison, and Yasmin snorted nervously and said “Never mind, tell you later.”

Although not one to remember dreams very often, Zara awoke the next morning with vivid and colourful dream recall.  She wondered if it was something to do with the dreamtime mural on the wall of her room.  If this turned out to be the case, she considered painting some murals on her bedroom wall back at the Bungwalley Valley animal rescue centre when she got home.

Zara and Idle had hit it off immediately, chatting and laughing on the verandah after supper.   Idle told her a bit about the local area and the mines.  Despite Bert’s warnings, she wanted to see them. They were only an hour away from the inn.

When she retired to her room for the night, she looked on the internet for more information. The more she read online about the mines, the more intrigued she became.

“Interestingly there are no actual houses left from the original township. The common explanation is that a rumour spread that there was gold hidden in the walls of the houses and consequently they were knocked down by people believing there was ‘gold in them there walls”. Of course it was only a rumour. No gold was found.”

“Miners attracted to the area originally by the garnets, found alluvial and reef gold at Arltunga…”

Garnets!  Zara recalled the story her friend had told her about finding a cursed garnet near a fort in St Augustine in Florida.  Apparently there were a number of mines that one could visit:

“the MacDonnell Range Reef Mine, the Christmas Reef Mine, the Golden Chance Mine, the Joker Mine and the Great Western Mine all of which are worth a visit.”

Zara imagined Xavier making a crack about the Joker Mine, and wondered why it had been named that.

“The whole area is preserved as though the inhabitants simply walked away from it only yesterday. The curious visitor who walks just a little way off the paths will see signs of previous habitation. Old pieces of meat safes, pieces of rusted wire, rusted cans, and pieces of broken glass litter the ground. There is nothing of great importance but each little shard is reminder of the people who once lived and worked here.”

I wonder if Bert will take me there, Zara wondered. If not, maybe one of the others can pick up a hire car when they arrive at Alice.   Might even be best not to tell anyone at the inn where they were going.  Funny coincidence the nearest town was called Alice ~ it was already beginning to seem like some kind of rabbit hole she was falling into.

Undecided whether to play some more of the game which had ended abruptly upon encountering the blue robed vendor, Zara decided not to and picked up the book on Dreamtime that was on the bedside table.

“Some of the ancestors or spirit beings inhabiting the Dreamtime become one with parts of the landscape, such as rocks or trees…”  Flicking through the book, she read random excerpts.   “A mythic map of Australia would show thousands of characters, varying in their importance, but all in some way connected with the land. Some emerged at their specific sites and stayed spiritually in that vicinity. Others came from somewhere else and went somewhere else. Many were shape changing, transformed from or into human beings or natural species, or into natural features such as rocks but all left something of their spiritual essence at the places noted in their stories….”

Thousands of characters. Zara smiled sleepily, recalling the many stories she and her friends had written together over the years.

“People come and go but the Land, and stories about the Land, stay. This is a wisdom that takes lifetimes of listening, observing and experiencing … There is a deep understanding of human nature and the environment… sites hold ‘feelings’ which cannot be described in physical terms… subtle feelings that resonate through the bodies of these people… It is only when talking and being with these people that these ‘feelings’ can truly be appreciated. This is… the intangible reality of these people…..”

With such strong ancestral connections to the land, Zara couldn’t help but wonder what the aboriginal people felt about all the mines.   If one of their ancestors had shape changed into rocks, and then some foreignors came along and hacked and blasted their way through, what would they think of that?

“….many Aboriginal groups widely distributed across the Australian continent all appeared to share variations of a single (common) myth telling of an unusually powerful, often creative, often dangerous snake or serpent of sometimes enormous size closely associated with the rainbows, rain, rivers, and deep waterholes…..”

She drifted off to sleep thinking of water holes in red rocky gorges, the book laying open in her hand.

When she awoke the next morning with the slatted morning sun shining through the venetian blinds,  the dream image of the water hole was bright and clear in her minds eye.  But what was that strange character from the game doing in her dream?

She closed her eyes, remembering more of the strange dream.  Deeply orange red boulders and rocky outcrops, shivering gum trees, and green pools ~ it was coming back to her now, that creature in the blue robes had appeared more than once.  In one scene he appeared with a blue diamond lantern with what looked like a compass inside.

I’ll ask about the hiking trails today, Zara decided, and go for a walk in that gorge I read about yesterday. Bert said there were good hiking trails.   You came here early so you could play the game, she reminded herself.

“It’s all a game,” she heard the parrot outside her window.

“I’d forgotten about the bloody parrot!” Zara said under her breath. “Pretty Girl!” she said, opening the blinds. “We’re going out for a walk today.”

Zara was long overdue for some holiday time off from her job at the Bungwalley Valley animal rescue centre in New South Wales and the suggestion to meet her online friends at the intriguing sounding Flying Fish Inn to look for clues for their online game couldn’t have come at a better time.  Lucky for her it wasn’t all that far, relatively speaking, although everything is far in Australia, it was closer than coming from Europe.  Xavier would have a much longer trip.  Zara wasn’t quite sure where exactly Yasmin was, but she knew it was somewhere in Asia. It depended on which refugee camp she was assigned to, and Zara had forgotten to ask her recently. All they had talked about was the new online game, and how confusing it all was.

The biggest mystery to Zara was why she was the leader in the game.  She was always the one who was wandering off on side trips and forgetting what everyone else was up to. If the other game followers followed her lead there was no telling where they’d all end up!

“But it is just a game,” Pretty Girl, the rescue parrot interjected. Zara had known some talking parrots over the years, but never one quite like this one. Usually they repeated any nonsense that they’d heard but this one was different.  She would miss it while she was away on holiday, and for a moment considered taking the talking parrot with her on the trip.  If she did, she’d have to think about changing her name though, Pretty Girl wasn’t a great name but it was hard to keep thinking of names for all the rescue creatures.

After Zara had done the routine morning chores of feeding the various animals, changing the water bowls, and cleaning up the less pleasant aspects of the job,  she sat down in the office room of the rescue centre with a cup of coffee and a sandwich.  She was in good physical shape for 57, wiry and energetic, but her back ached at times and a sit down was welcome before the vet arrived to check on all the sick and wounded animals.

Pretty Girl flew over from the kennels, and perched outside the office room window.  When the parrot had first been dropped off at the centre, they’d put her in a big cage, but in no uncertain terms Pretty Girl had told them she’d done nothing wrong and was wrongfully imprisoned and to release her at once. It was rather a shock to be addresssed by a parrot in such a way, and it was agreed between the staff and the vet to set her free and see what happened. And Pretty Girl had not flown away.

“Hey Pretty Girl, why don’t you give me some advice on this confusing new game I’m playing with my online friends?” Zara asked.

“Pretty Girl wants some of your tuna sandwich first,” replied the parrot.  After Zara had obliged, the parrot continued at some surprising length.

“My advice would be to not worry too much about getting the small details right. The most important thing is to have fun and enjoy the creative process.  Just give me a bit more tuna,”  Pretty Girl said, before continuing.

“Remember that as a writer, you have the power to shape the story and the characters as you see fit. It’s okay to make mistakes, and it’s okay to not know everything. Allow yourself to be inspired by the world around you and let the story unfold naturally. Trust in your own creativity and don’t be afraid to take risks. And remember, it’s not the small details that make a story great, it’s the emotions and experiences that the characters go through that make it truly memorable.  And always remember to feed the parrot.”

“Maybe I should take you on holiday with me after all,” Zara replied. “You really are an amazing bird, aren’t you?”