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In reply to: Family Stories From The Other Side ~ Book Two
Long Lost Enoch Edwards
My father used to mention long lost Enoch Edwards. Nobody in the family knew where he went to and it was assumed that he went to USA, perhaps to Utah to join his sister Sophie who was a Mormon handcart pioneer, but no record of him was found in USA.
Andrew Enoch Edwards (my great great grandfather) was born in 1840, but was (almost) always known as Enoch. Although civil registration of births had started from 1 July 1837, neither Enoch nor his brother Stephen were registered. Enoch was baptised (as Andrew) on the same day as his brothers Reuben and Stephen in May 1843 at St Chad’s Catholic cathedral in Birmingham. It’s a mystery why these three brothers were baptised Catholic, as there are no other Catholic records for this family before or since. One possible theory is that there was a school attached to the church on Shadwell Street, and a Catholic baptism was required for the boys to go to the school. Enoch’s father John died of TB in 1844, and perhaps in 1843 he knew he was dying and wanted to ensure an education for his sons. The building of St Chads was completed in 1841, and it was close to where they lived.
Enoch appears (as Enoch rather than Andrew) on the 1841 census, six months old. The family were living at Unett Street in Birmingham: John and Sarah and children Mariah, Sophia, Matilda, a mysterious entry transcribed as Lene, a daughter, that I have been unable to find anywhere else, and Reuben and Stephen.
Enoch was just four years old when his father John, an engineer and millwright, died of consumption in 1844.
In 1851 Enoch’s widowed mother Sarah was a mangler living on Summer Street, Birmingham, Matilda a dressmaker, Reuben and Stephen were gun percussionists, and eleven year old Enoch was an errand boy.
On the 1861 census, Sarah was a confectionrer on Canal Street in Birmingham, Stephen was a blacksmith, and Enoch a button tool maker.
On the 10th November 1867 Enoch married Emelia Parker, daughter of jeweller and rope maker Edward Parker, at St Philip in Birmingham. Both Emelia and Enoch were able to sign their own names, and Matilda and Edwin Eddington were witnesses (Enoch’s sister and her husband). Enoch’s address was Church Street, and his occupation button tool maker.
Four years later in 1871, Enoch was a publican living on Clifton Road. Son Enoch Henry was two years old, and Ralph Ernest was three months. Eliza Barton lived with them as a general servant.
By 1881 Enoch was back working as a button tool maker in Bournebrook, Birmingham. Enoch and Emilia by then had three more children, Amelia, Albert Parker (my great grandfather) and Ada.
Garnet Frederick Edwards was born in 1882. This is the first instance of the name Garnet in the family, and subsequently Garnet has been the middle name for the eldest son (my brother, father and grandfather all have Garnet as a middle name).
Enoch was the licensed victualler at the Pack Horse Hotel in 1991 at Kings Norton. By this time, only daughters Amelia and Ada and son Garnet are living at home.
Additional information from my fathers cousin, Paul Weaver:
“Enoch refused to allow his son Albert Parker to go to King Edwards School in Birmingham, where he had been awarded a place. Instead, in October 1890 he made Albert Parker Edwards take an apprenticeship with a pawnboker in Tipton.
Towards the end of the 19th century Enoch kept The Pack Horse in Alcester Road, Hollywood, where a twist was 1d an ounce, and beer was 2d a pint. The children had to get up early to get breakfast at 6 o’clock for the hay and straw men on their way to the Birmingham hay and straw market. Enoch is listed as a member of “The Kingswood & Pack Horse Association for the Prosecution of Offenders”, a kind of early Neighbourhood Watch, dated 25 October 1890.
The Edwards family later moved to Redditch where they kept The Rifleman Inn at 35 Park Road. They must have left the Pack Horse by 1895 as another publican was in place by then.”Emelia his wife died in 1895 of consumption at the Rifleman Inn in Redditch, Worcestershire, and in 1897 Enoch married Florence Ethel Hedges in Aston. Enoch was 56 and Florence was just 21 years old.
The following year in 1898 their daughter Muriel Constance Freda Edwards was born in Deritend, Warwickshire.
In 1901 Enoch, (Andrew on the census), publican, Florence and Muriel were living in Dudley. It was hard to find where he went after this.From Paul Weaver:
“Family accounts have it that Enoch EDWARDS fell out with all his family, and at about the age of 60, he left all behind and emigrated to the U.S.A. Enoch was described as being an active man, and it is believed that he had another family when he settled in the U.S.A. Esmor STOKES has it that a postcard was received by the family from Enoch at Niagara Falls.
On 11 June 1902 Harry Wright (the local postmaster responsible in those days for licensing) brought an Enoch EDWARDS to the Bedfordshire Petty Sessions in Biggleswade regarding “Hole in the Wall”, believed to refer to the now defunct “Hole in the Wall” public house at 76 Shortmead Street, Biggleswade with Enoch being granted “temporary authority”. On 9 July 1902 the transfer was granted. A year later in the 1903 edition of Kelly’s Directory of Bedfordshire, Hunts and Northamptonshire there is an Enoch EDWARDS running the Wheatsheaf Public House, Church Street, St. Neots, Huntingdonshire which is 14 miles south of Biggleswade.”
It seems that Enoch and his new family moved away from the midlands in the early 1900s, but again the trail went cold.
When I started doing the genealogy research, I joined a local facebook group for Redditch in Worcestershire. Enoch’s son Albert Parker Edwards (my great grandfather) spent most of his life there. I asked in the group about Enoch, and someone posted an illustrated advertisement for Enoch’s dog powders. Enoch was a well known breeder/keeper of St Bernards and is cited in a book naming individuals key to the recovery/establishment of ‘mastiff’ size dog breeds.
We had not known that Enoch was a breeder of champion St Bernard dogs!
Once I knew about the St Bernard dogs and the names Mount Leo and Plinlimmon via the newspaper adverts, I did an internet search on Enoch Edwards in conjunction with these dogs.
Enoch’s St Bernard dog “Mount Leo” was bred from the famous Plinlimmon, “the Emperor of Saint Bernards”. He was reported to have sent two puppies to Omaha and one of his stud dogs to America for a season, and in 1897 Enoch made the news for selling a St Bernard to someone in New York for £200. Plinlimmon, bred by Thomas Hall, was born in Liverpool, England on June 29, 1883. He won numerous dog shows throughout Europe in 1884, and in 1885, he was named Best Saint Bernard.
In the Birmingham Mail on 14th June 1890:
“Mr E Edwards, of Bournebrook, has been well to the fore with his dogs of late. He has gained nine honours during the past fortnight, including a first at the Pontypridd show with a St Bernard dog, The Speaker, a son of Plinlimmon.”
In the Alcester Chronicle on Saturday 05 June 1897:
It was discovered that Enoch, Florence and Muriel moved to Canada, not USA as the family had assumed. The 1911 census for Montreal St Jaqcues, Quebec, stated that Enoch, (Florence) Ethel, and (Muriel) Frida had emigrated in 1906. Enoch’s occupation was machinist in 1911. The census transcription is not very good. Edwards was transcribed as Edmand, but the dates of birth for all three are correct. Birthplace is correct ~ A for Anglitan (the census is in French) but race or tribe is also an A but the transcribers have put African black! Enoch by this time was 71 years old, his wife 33 and daughter 11.
Additional information from Paul Weaver:
“In 1906 he and his new family travelled to Canada with Enoch travelling first and Ethel and Frida joined him in Quebec on 25 June 1906 on board the ‘Canada’ from Liverpool.
Their immigration record suggests that they were planning to travel to Winnipeg, but five years later in 1911, Enoch, Florence Ethel and Frida were still living in St James, Montreal. Enoch was employed as a machinist by Canadian Government Railways working 50 hours. It is the 1911 census record that confirms his birth as November 1840. It also states that Enoch could neither read nor write but managed to earn $500 in 1910 for activity other than his main profession, although this may be referring to his innkeeping business interests.
By 1921 Florence and Muriel Frida are living in Langford, Neepawa, Manitoba with Peter FUCHS, an Ontarian farmer of German descent who Florence had married on 24 Jul 1913 implying that Enoch died sometime in 1911/12, although no record has been found.”The extra $500 in earnings was perhaps related to the St Bernard dogs. Enoch signed his name on the register on his marriage to Emelia, and I think it’s very unlikely that he could neither read nor write, as stated above.
However, it may not be Enoch’s wife Florence Ethel who married Peter Fuchs. A Florence Emma Edwards married Peter Fuchs, and on the 1921 census in Neepawa her daugther Muriel Elizabeth Edwards, born in 1902, lives with them. Quite a coincidence, two Florence and Muriel Edwards in Neepawa at the time. Muriel Elizabeth Edwards married and had two children but died at the age of 23 in 1925. Her mother Florence was living with the widowed husband and the two children on the 1931 census in Neepawa. As there was no other daughter on the 1911 census with Enoch, Florence and Muriel in Montreal, it must be a different Florence and daughter. We don’t know, though, why Muriel Constance Freda married in Neepawa.
Indeed, Florence was not a widow in 1913. Enoch died in 1924 in Montreal, aged 84. Neither Enoch, Florence or their daughter has been found yet on the 1921 census. The search is not easy, as Enoch sometimes used the name Andrew, Florence used her middle name Ethel, and daughter Muriel used Freda, Valerie (the name she added when she married in Neepawa), and died as Marcheta. The only name she NEVER used was Constance!
A Canadian genealogist living in Montreal phoned the cemetery where Enoch was buried. She said “Enoch Edwards who died on Feb 27 1924 is not buried in the Mount Royal cemetery, he was only cremated there on March 4, 1924. There are no burial records but he died of an abcess and his body was sent to the cemetery for cremation from the Royal Victoria Hospital.”
1924 Obituary for Enoch Edwards:
Cimetière Mont-Royal Outremont, Montreal Region, Quebec, Canada
The Montreal Star 29 Feb 1924, Fri · Page 31
Muriel Constance Freda Valerie Edwards married Arthur Frederick Morris on 24 Oct 1925 in Neepawa, Manitoba. (She appears to have added the name Valerie when she married.)
Unexpectedly a death certificate appeared for Muriel via the hints on the ancestry website. Her name was “Marcheta Morris” on this document, however it also states that she was the widow of Arthur Frederick Morris and daughter of Andrew E Edwards and Florence Ethel Hedges. She died suddenly in June 1948 in Flos, Simcoe, Ontario of a coronary thrombosis, where she was living as a housekeeper.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
A sudden and violent storm had cut off the manor from the outside world. Torrents of water had gushed over the roads and washed them out as if some manic god of cleanliness had decided to remove all the dust from the country, carrying away every other thing in its frenzied smudging. It had left the property an island, and the worse was they had no more electricity and no cable. Liz counted the days.
When they ran out of candles, they had to take the exercise bike back out of the cellar. Godfrey, who seemed to always know the most random, but always useful, things, had plugged it into the electric network, and voilà. Finnley had been the fiercest at the start because all the dust seemed to have taken refuge in the Manor. But once she had vented out all her frustration, it remained on Roberto’s and Godfrey’s legs to supply them with the essential power so that they could use the microwave to warm up the canned beans.
To Roberto’s dismay, the storm had washed away all the box trees he had so carefully tended to all those years. To Liz’ delight, the rain had accelerated the dig and unearthed what appeared to be a temple dedicated to some armless goddess. There was just one tiny problem, half the ruins were underwater.
The guests started to arrive for the Roman Delights Party in an enormous galley two weeks in advance, and the invitation hadn’t been printed yet. Roberto tied a rope to a mooring post and the guests started to disembark as if arriving to some movie award festival.
“There must be someone moving all those roams,” said Liz thoughtful to no one and everyone in particular. “They could take turns and relieve us at the bike.”
“Us?” asked Godfrey, raising an eyebrow.
“Tsst. Don’t be so cliché.”
She put on her smile as Walter Melon was approaching dressed like a Roman senator.
Sailors carrying crates invaded the kitchen. Finnley frowned at their muddy feet trampling all the floors she just cleaned.
“What’s in those?” she asked briskly.
“Food and trinkets for the banquet, I reckon,” said a tanned man with a tattoo on his neck saying Everything start with pixie dust.
Finnley rolled her eyes. “Follow me, I’ll show you the cellar.”
“Where do we put the octopuses tanks?”
In reply to: Family Stories From The Other Side ~ Book Two
The First Wife of John Edwards
1794-1844
John was a widower when he married Sarah Reynolds from Kinlet. Both my fathers cousin and I had come to a dead end in the Edwards genealogy research as there were a number of possible births of a John Edwards in Birmingham at the time, and a number of possible first wives for a John Edwards at the time.
John Edwards was a millwright on the 1841 census, the only census he appeared on as he died in 1844, and 1841 was the first census. His birth is recorded as 1800, however on the 1841 census the ages were rounded up or down five years. He was an engineer on some of the marriage records of his children with Sarah, and on his death certificate, engineer and millwright, aged 49. The age of 49 at his death from tuberculosis in 1844 is likely to be more accurate than the census (Sarah his wife was present at his death), making a birth date of 1794 or 1795.
John married Sarah Reynolds in January 1827 in Birmingham, and I am descended from this marriage. Any children of John’s first marriage would no doubt have been living with John and Sarah, but had probably left home by the time of the 1841 census.
I found an Elizabeth Edwards, wife of John Edwards of Constitution Hill, died in August 1826 at the age of 23, as stated on the parish death register. It would be logical for a young widower with small children to marry again quickly. If this was John’s first wife, the marriage to Sarah six months later in January 1827 makes sense. Therefore, John’s first wife, I assumed, was Elizabeth, born in 1803.
Death of Elizabeth Edwards, 23 years old. St Mary, Birmingham, 15 Aug 1826:
There were two baptisms recorded for parents John and Elizabeth Edwards, Constitution Hill, and John’s occupation was an engineer on both baptisms.
They were both daughters: Sarah Ann in 1822 and Elizabeth in 1824.Sarah Ann Edwards: St Philip, Birmingham. Born 15 March 1822, baptised 7 September 1822:
Elizabeth Edwards: St Philip, Birmingham. Born 6 February 1824, baptised 25 February 1824:
With John’s occupation as engineer stated, it looked increasingly likely that I’d found John’s first wife and children of that marriage.
Then I found a marriage of Elizabeth Beach to John Edwards in 1819, and subsequently found an Elizabeth Beach baptised in 1803. This appeared to be the right first wife for John, until an Elizabeth Slater turned up, with a marriage to a John Edwards in 1820. An Elizabeth Slater was baptised in 1803. Either Elizabeth Beach or Elizabeth Slater could have been the first wife of John Edwards. As John’s first wife Elizabeth is not related to us, it’s not necessary to go further back, and in a sense, doesn’t really matter which one it was.
But the Slater name caught my eye.
But first, the name Sarah Ann.
Of the possible baptisms for John Edwards, the most likely seemed to be in 1794, parents John and Sarah. John and Sarah had two infant daughters die just prior to John’s birth. The first was Sarah, the second Sarah Ann. Perhaps this was why John named his daughter Sarah Ann? In the absence of any other significant clues, I decided to assume these were the correct parents. I found and read half a dozen wills of any John Edwards I could find within the likely time period of John’s fathers death.
One of them was dated 1803. In this will, John mentions that his children are not yet of age. (John would have been nine years old.)
He leaves his plating business and some properties to his eldest son Thomas Davis Edwards, (just shy of 21 years old at the time of his fathers death in 1803) with the business to be run jointly with his widow, Sarah. He mentions his son John, and leaves several properties to him, when he comes of age. He also leaves various properties to his daughters Elizabeth and Mary, ditto. The baptisms for all of these children, including the infant deaths of Sarah and Sarah Ann have been found. All but Mary’s were in the same parish. (I found one for Mary in Sutton Coldfield, which was apparently correct, as a later census also recorded her birth as Sutton Coldfield. She was living with family on that census, so it would appear to be correct that for whatever reason, their daughter Mary was born in Sutton Coldfield)Mary married John Slater in 1813. The witnesses were Elizabeth Whitehouse and John Edwards, her sister and brother. Elizabeth married William Nicklin Whitehouse in 1805 and one of the witnesses was Mary Edwards.
Mary’s husband John Slater died in 1821. They had no children. Mary never remarried, and lived with her bachelor brother Thomas Davis Edwards in West Bromwich. Thomas never married, and on the census he was either a proprietor of houses, or “sinecura” (earning a living without working).With Mary marrying a Slater, does this indicate that her brother John’s first wife was Elizabeth Slater rather than Elizabeth Beach? It is a compelling possibility, but does not constitute proof.
Not only that, there is no absolute proof that the John Edwards who died in 1803 was our ancestor John Edwards father.
If we can’t be sure which Elizabeth married John Edwards, we can be reasonably sure who their daughters married. On both of the marriage records the father is recorded as John Edwards, engineer.
Sarah Ann married Mark Augustin Rawlins in 1850. Mark was a sword hilt maker at the time of the marriage, his father Mark a needle manufacturer. One of the witnesses was Elizabeth Edwards, who signed with her mark. Sarah Ann and Mark however were both able to sign their own names on the register.
Sarah Ann Edwards and Mark Augustin Rawlins marriage 14 October 1850 St Peter and St Paul, Aston, Birmingham:
Elizabeth married Nathaniel Twigg in 1851. (She was living with her sister Sarah Ann and Mark Rawlins on the 1851 census, I assume the census was taken before her marriage to Nathaniel on the 27th April 1851.) Nathaniel was a stationer (later on the census a bookseller), his father Samuel a brass founder. Elizabeth signed with her mark, apparently unable to write, and a witness was Ann Edwards. Although Sarah Ann, Elizabeth’s sister, would have been Sarah Ann Rawlins at the time, having married the previous year, she was known as Ann on later censuses. The signature of Ann Edwards looks remarkably similar to Sarah Ann Edwards signature on her own wedding. Perhaps she couldn’t write but had learned how to write her signature for her wedding?
Elizabeth Edwards and Nathaniel Twigg marriage 27 April 1851, St Peter and St Paul, Aston, Birmingham:
Sarah Ann and Mark Rawlins had one daughter and four sons between 1852 and 1859. One of the sons, Edward Rawlins 1857-1931, was a school master and later master of an orphanage.
On the 1881 census Edward was a bookseller, in 1891 a stationer, 1901 schoolmaster and his wife Edith was matron, and in 1911 he and Edith were master and matron of St Philip’s Catholic Orphanage on Oliver Road in Birmingham. Edward and Edith did not have any children.
Edward Rawlins, 1911:
Elizabeth and Nathaniel Twigg appear to have had only one son, Arthur Twigg 1862-1943. Arthur was a photographer at 291 Bloomsbury Street, Birmingham. Arthur married Harriet Moseley from Burton on Trent, and they had two daughters, Elizabeth Ann 1897-1954, and Edith 1898-1983. I found a photograph of Edith on her wedding day, with her father Arthur in the picture. Arthur and Harriet also had a son Samuel Arthur, who lived for less than a month, born in 1904. Arthur had mistakenly put this son on the 1911 census stating “less than one month”, but the birth and death of Samuel Arthur Twigg were registered in the same quarter of 1904, and none were found registered for 1911.
Edith Twigg and Leslie A Hancock on their Wedding Day 1925. Arthur Twigg behind the bride. Maybe Elizabeth Ann Twigg seated on the right: (photo found on the ancestry website)
Photographs by Arthur Twigg, 291 Bloomsbury Street, Birmingham:
In reply to: Coma Cameleon
Thanks to the fresh faced young looking redhead for her kindness, Tibu’s leap into the unknown went exceedingly well. He had a new warmth in his heart and the confidence to make a good impression when he went to the job fair all those years ago, and a tall handsome French man with a winning smile had offered him a job in his new rock and gem shop. Tibu had been honest with him about his past, telling him about the amnesia and that Tibu wasn’t really his name but he didn’t know what his name really was, but the French man said he loved the name Tibu. Tibu sighed with a deep sense of relief. What a stroke of luck to have a chance at a new life. When he started the new job, he gradually stopped dwelling on the forgotten past life as his new life took shape and he made new friends. He never forgot the book he’d been reading when that kind redhead brought him tea and listened to him, and it inspired him to write his own story, in case anyone ever found comfort in it.
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
Any news on Yasmin? Xavier sent a message to Zara. He was puzzled when she sent a cryptic screenshot with no explanatory message:
Xavier forwarded the message to Youssef and then his phone rang. It was an important call that went on at some length and he forgot to add that Zara had sent it to him with no explanation. Youssef frowned, and forwarded the screenshot to Zara. In a strange but by no means uncommon coincidence, Youssef was also called away before he had time to add a message of his own.
When Zara received the message from Youssef, her first thought was that somehow Youssef was involved with Yasmin’s disappearance, but what were they both doing at a dust convention? But she was having a busy day at the wombat rescue centre, and didn’t have time for this new puzzling development until the evening.
Zara had started the new job a week before, and had not been expecting it to be so busy. It was for this reason that it took her several days to realize that Yasmin hadn’t replied to any of her brief daily messages. When she tried phoning, the automated message informed her that the phone was switched off or outside of network, so Zara phoned the meditation centre where Yasmin was still staying when Zara left to start her new job. They said she had left a few days ago, and nobody knew where she was going to. They added that it was not their business to know such things, and that they were only interested in silence and contemplation. Zara sighed, and wished she wasn’t too busy to get a bus over to the retreat and ask around but it was a two hour journey and it would have to wait until her next day off.
Going back over the most recent messages from Yasmin, Zara realized that the very last communication was the odd message about dust. It hadn’t seemed particularly strange the other day, after all, there were so many odd people at meditation retreats and they all had strange quirks and wacky ideas, but then she’d seen a flyer pinned to the cork board at the wombat rescue centre about a Dustsceawung Convention. Had Yasmin gone to that?
The more that Zara thought about it, the more likely it seemed. While Zara herself hadn’t been very serious about the meditation regime at the retreat and had mostly snoozed during the sessions, Yasmin had been smitten and was in danger, to Zara’s way of thinking, of going over the top on the woo stuff. Kept going on about being enlightened and so on. But she’d also taken to sniffing everything, and not just flowers. Zara had seen her sniffing deeply with a rapturous expression on several occasions ~ once she even saw her on her knees sniffing the carpet.
When Zara asked her about it, a glazed look came over Yasmin’s face and she garbled something about it being the highest level of enlightenment, the scent was stronger and more precise than the word, and all the answers were in the scents and that we’d all been misled into thinking words were the key to the truth, when really it was our nose that was the key.
Zara had noticed that Yasmin wasn’t snorting as much, and decided to say no more on the topic. If it was doing Yasmin good and curing the snorting, then all well and good. But it was that saintly expression on her face that was worrying, and Zara hoped she’d snap out of it in due course.
I had better explain all this to Xavier and Youssef, Zara decided, and then see if I can find out more about the dust convention. Maybe we can use the game quest to help. Not that I have any time for game playing with all these wombats though!
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
It had been a month since Yasmin had said she was going to wherever the air was cleanest and she didn’t care where it was. Choking in the dust storm, Zara had replied that she was going with her and she didn’t care where it was either. Tasmania came up as the place with the cleanest air, and relatively speaking, wasn’t all the far away. Yasmin had no desire to return to the orphanage, and Zara wasn’t all that enthusiastic about going back to the animal sanctuary. When they eventually managed to make their escape from the madness of the cart race, the dust storm, and the bizarre family dramas at the inn, Yasmin and Zara made their travel arrangements in Alice Springs. The plan was to spend a couple of weeks at a meditation retreat not far from Glibstone, on the edge of a forest in the north east of Tasmania.
In reply to: Washed off the sea ~ Creative larks
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.
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
It took us weeks to clean up after that dust storm, and I’ll be honest, I didn’t help much. I had a lot to think about. Finley and the twins did most of it, and Bert of course. Mater took to her room after the revelations and stayed up there like queen bee, not speaking to any of us, only Finley who took her meals up. I banged on her door a few times (she’d locked it, can you believe it?) but she wouldn’t even speak to me through the door. I’d have thought she was dead but Finley said no she wasn’t dead, she’d just about had enough of all of us and wanted to be left in peace to think about it. Well, what about me, I said, don’t you think I need some time to think about it all too? But Finley snorted (picked it up off that Yasmin I reckon) and swanned off, quite rudely if you ask me.
I did spend quite a bit of time down by the water hole, thinking about it all. I never in a million years expected that baby to come back and haunt me forty odd years later. I did get to wondering though, if I’d have brought her up instead of those nuns, she might have been a happier soul. Not much ever seemed to please her, quite the reverse in fact. Bert said Well what do you expect? in an exasperated tone. I got a bit fed up with all the dirty looks to tell you the truth. I even thought of leaving the Flying Fish once and for all and never coming back. Then I thought, bugger that, I’m staying right here.
Zara and her friends left right after the dust had settled (from the dust storm that is ~ it was quite some time before the metaphorical dust had settled, in fact I don’t think it’ll ever settle. Some people do like to harp on and on about things) and I was sorry to see them go. They were great sports about everything, they didn’t judge me. Unlike my own family!
I didn’t dare tell anyone about the night of the cart race when Youssef and I holed up in the cellar with all the old books. Thank goodness I had the presence of mind to grab a couple of bottles of gin and something to smoke before we fled down the stairs. I tell you what though, the next day I had such a hangover I had a job remembering everything and wondered if I’d been dreaming. Youssef wasn’t there when I woke up, and he had the darn cheek to avoid me the next day, and the day after that, and then they left.
One good thing was seeing Fred again. I wish he’d have stayed for a bit longer. If Fred had stayed awhile, maybe he’d have helped smooth things over with me and my ill gotten brat. Some people are so ungrateful! I may have dumped her, but it was in a nice place and she wouldn’t be alive at all if it wasn’t for me.
People are strange.
In reply to: Washed off the sea ~ Creative larks
🐳
Welcome to the bustling riverfront community of Bridgewater, where the sound of boat horns and cries of merchants filled the air.
Bridgewater was a town of hardworking people, all striving to make a living in this busy trading port. One such person was Anne, a middle-aged woman who owned a small pottery shop by the river. Her days were filled with the clanging of clay and the whirring of her pottery wheel. She took great pride in her work, creating beautiful plates and tea bowls that were highly sought after by the locals.
Another memorable character was Jack, the town cobbler whose small shop was always busy with customers. He was known for his kind heart and his willingness to help anyone in need, often giving away shoes to those who couldn’t afford them. As the days passed, life in Bridgewater had its ups and downs.
The lost halfpenny spoke of a hard day’s work, but also of the generosity of the community. The broken pipes spoke of moments of relaxation, but also of the struggles of daily life. And the smashed plates and tea bowls spoke of hurried meals, but also of the occasional argument or disagreement.
Despite the challenges, the people of Bridgewater found small joys in life. Children played by the river, skipping stones and chasing each other. Couples walked hand in hand along the promenade, watching the boats come and go. And on warm summer evenings, the town square was filled with music and laughter as locals gathered for impromptu dance parties. But as with any community, there were also tensions and conflicts.
The town council was often at odds with the merchants, who felt that their needs were being overlooked. And there were whispers of a rival trading port that threatened to take away business from Bridgewater. One day, a fire broke out in the warehouse district, destroying several buildings and leaving many homeless. The community rallied together to help those in need, with Anne donating plates and bowls for makeshift kitchens and Jack offering his shop as a temporary shelter. As the smoke cleared and the ashes settled, the people of Bridgewater were left to rebuild their town. Through hard work and perseverance, they overcame the challenges and emerged even stronger than before. The lost halfpenny, broken pipes, and smashed plates were all reminders of the struggles they had faced, but they also spoke of the resilience and strength of the human spirit. And so, life in Bridgewater continued, a vibrant and bustling riverfront community where goods were traded and daily life was filled with both hardships and small joys.
In reply to: Washed off the sea ~ Creative larks
photo: Lara Maiklen, London mudlark.
“a tiny window into the 18th century: a cast-off shoe, a lost halfpenny, broken pipes and smashed plates and tea bowls….”
The Whale:
As the muddy banks of the Thames river receded, a treasure trove of small, lost items were revealed. Among them, a cast-off shoe, a lost halfpenny, broken pipes, and smashed plates and tea bowls. It was as if a tiny window into the 18th century had been opened, offering a glimpse into the lives of those long gone. As archaeologists carefully examined each item, they pieced together a story of a bustling riverfront community, where goods were transported and traded, and daily life was filled with both hardships and small joys. The lost halfpenny spoke of a hard day’s work, the broken pipes of moments of relaxation, and the smashed plates and tea bowls of hurried meals and perhaps even some arguments. Although these items may have been considered insignificant in their time, they now offer a precious insight into a bygone era, reminding us of the rich history that lies just beneath the muddy surface of the Thames river.In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“I worry about the dreadful limbo, those poor characters! So much going on and there they all are, frozen in time, perched on the edge of all those cliffs, waiting to spring into action, leap across chasms of revelations, lurch into dark mysterious depths…” Liz trailed off, looking pensively out of the window. “I wonder if the characters will ever forgive me for the jerky spasms of action followed by interminable stretches of oblivion, endlessly repeated…. Oh dear, oh dear! What a terrible torment, taunting them with great unveilings, and then… then, the desertion, forsaken yet again, abandoned …. and for what?”
“Attending to other pressing matters in real life?” offered Finnley. “Entertaining guests? Worrying about aged relatives?” Liz interrupted with a cross between a snort and a harumph. “Writing shopping lists?” Finnley continued, a fount of gently patient sagacity. Bless that girl, thought Liz, uncharacteristically generous in her assessment of the often difficult maid. “Do you even know if they’re aware of the dilated gaps in the narrative?”
Liz was momentarily nonplussed. This was something she had heretofore not considered. “You mean they might not be waiting?”
“That’s right”, Finnley replied, warming to the idea that she hadn’t given much thought to, and had just thrown into the conversation to mollify Liz, who was in danger of droning on depressingly for the rest of the evening. “They probably don’t even notice, a bit like blinking out, and then springing back into animation. I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Why don’t you ask them and see what they say?”
“Ask them?” repeated Liz stupidly. I really am getting dull in the head, she thought to herself and wondered why Finnley was smirking and nodding. Was the dratted girl reading her mind again? “Fetch me something to buck me up, Finnley. And fetch Roberto and Godfrey in here. Oh and bring a tray of whatever you’re bringing me, to buck us all up.” Liz looked up and smiled magnanimously into Finnley’s face. “And one for yourself, dear.”
Tidying the stack of papers on her desk into a neat pile and blowing the ash and crumbs off, Liz felt a plan forming. They would have a meeting with the characters and discuss their feelings, their hopes and ambitions, work it all out together. Why didn’t I think of this before? she wondered, quite forgetting that it was Finnley’s idea.
In reply to: The Jorid’s Travels – 14 years on
Georges was following an orange line on the floor of Jorid’s corridor with Barney on his left shoulder. The man was talking to the creature and listening to the occasional chirps Barney made as if they were part of a normal conversation.
“You see, Barney,” said Georges. “Salomé gave us this checklist.” He tapped on the clipboard with his index finger. “I have to conduct all those experiments with you in the lab while she’s doing whatever she’s doing with the maps. Salomé loves maps, I can tell you. Always trying to invent new ones that would help us navigate all those dimensions. But they confuse me, so I’m glad to leave that to her and Jorid.”
The two of them stopped in front of an orange door with a tag on it.
“So you’ll ask me: ‘Georges, why are we going to the kitchen instead of going into the lab?’ —which is the blue door.”
Georges waited for Barney’s chirp before continuing.
“You’re right! She forgot the most important. What do you like to eat? You can’t do that in a lab with instruments stuck onto your head and tummy. It’s best done in the warm and cozy atmosphere of a kitchen.”
The door swooshed open and they entered a bland, sanitised kitchen.
“Jorid, morph the kitchen into a 19th century style pub, with greasy smells and a cozy atmosphere.”
“Shouldn’t you be into the lab?” asked Jorid.
“Let’s call it a kitchen lab,” answered Georges. “So you can tell Salomé I’m in the lab if she asks you.”
“Most certainly.”
The bland rooms started wobbling and becoming darker. Gas wall lamps were coming out of the walls, and a Chandeliers bloomed from the ceiling. The kitchen island turned into a mahogany pub counter behind which the cupboards turned into glass shelves with a collection of colourful liquor bottles. Right beside the beer pumps was the cornucopia, the source of all things edible, the replicator. It was simple and looked like a silver tray.
“That’s more like it,” said Georges. He put Barney on the counter and the creature chirped contentedly to show his agreement.
“Now, You don’t look like the kind of guy who eat salad”, said Georges. “What do you want to try?”
Barney shook his head and launched into a series of chirps and squeals.
“I know! Let’s try something you certainly can’t find where you come from… outer space. Jorid, make us some good pickles in a jar.”
The replicator made a buzzing sound and a big jar full of pickles materialised on the silver tray. Barney chirped in awe and Georges frowned.
“Why did you make a Roman jar?” he asked. “We’re in a 19th century pub. And the pickles are so huge! Aubergine size.”
“My apologies,” said Jorid. “I’m confused. As you know, my database is a bit scrambled at the moment…”
“It’s ok,” said Georges who feared the ship would launch into some unsolicited confidences and self deprecating moment. “A pickle is a pickle anyway.” He picked a pickle in the jar and turned towards Barney with a big grin. “Let’s try some.”
Barney’s eyes widened. He put his hands in front of him and shook his head. The door swooshed open.
“What have you done with the kitchen?” asked Léonard. “And what are you trying to feed this rat with?”
“This rat has a name. It’s Barney. What are you doing here?” asked Georges.
“Well, Isn’t it a kitchen? I’m hungry.”
“I mean, shouldn’t you go check your vitals first in med bay?”
“When you feel hungry, it’s enough to tell a man he’s alive and well,” said Léonard. “Nice roman jar, Jorid. Depicting naked roman fighters, archaeological finding of 2nd century BC, good state of conservation.” He looked closer. “Intricate details between the legs… You surpassed yourself on that one Jorid.”
“Thanks for the compliment Léonard. It’s reassuring to know I’m still doing great at some things when others think I’m losing it.”
“I never said…” started Georges.
“You thought it.”
Léonard took a pickle from the jar and smelled it. He winced.
“Sure, smells like pickles enough,” he said, putting it back in the jar and licking his finger. “Disgusting.” He looked at Georges. “I was thinking of taking a shuttle and doing a little tour, while you solve the navigational array problem with Salomé.”
“Why are you asking me? Why don’t you just take a shuttle and go there by yourself?”
“Jorid won’t let me take one.”
“Jorid? Why don’t you let Léonard take a shuttle?”
“Salomé said he’s not to be left out of the ship without supervision.”
“Oh! Right,” said Georges. “We just rescued you from a sand prison egg where you’ve been kept in stasis for several weeks and you can’t remember anything that led you there. Why don’t we let you pilot a shuttle and wander about on your own?”
Léonard looked at Georges, annoyed. He picked a pickle from the jar and took a bite. Barney squealed. As Léonard chewed and made crunching sounds, the creature hit its head with its paw.
“Then why don’t you come with me?” asked Léonard.
“I can’t believe it.”
“What? You go with me. You can supervise me wherever I go. Problem solved.”
“No. I mean. You eating one of Barney’s pickles.”
Léonard took another bite and chewed noisily. Barney chirped and squealed. He put his hands to its throat and spat on the counter.
“I’m sure he won’t mind. Look at him. Doesn’t seem it likes pickles that much.”
“You hate pickles, Léonard.”
“I know. That’s disgusting.”
“Why do you eat them if you find it disgusting?”
“That’s the sound of it. It’s melodious. And for some reason those pickles are particularly good.”
Barney jumped on Georges arm and ran to his neck where he planted his little claws in.
“Ouch!” said Georges. He slapped Léonard’s hand before the man could take one more pickle bite. “What the f*ck?”
“Hey! Why did you do that?”
“It’s not me,” said Georges. Barney squealed and Georges’s hands pushed the jar on the floor. It crashed and a flood of pickle and vinegar juice spread on the floor.
“Haven’t your mother told you not to play with food?” asked Léonard diving on the floor to catch some more pickles. Barney chirped and squealed while Georges’s body jumped on Léonard and they both rolled over in the pickles.
The door swooshed open.
“Guys, we need to…” started Salomé. She had a set of maps in her hands. “What’s that smell? What… did you do to the kitchen? ”
“Georges made me do it,” said Jorid.
“Georges broke a 2nd century BC jar,” said Léonard.
“Barney’s controlling me,” said Georges.
The creature shrugged and removed its claws from Georges’ neck.
“Squeak!”
“Ouch! Thank you,” said Georges, licking the pickle juice he got on his lips during the fight.
“I can’t believe it. Georges, you had a checklist. And it did not include the words kitchen or pickles or making a mess. And Léonard, you hate pickles.”
“I know,” said Léonard who took a bite in the pickle he was holding. “That’s disgusting, but I can’t help it they taste so good.”
Georges stole the pickle from Léonard’s hand and took a bite.
“Pick your own pickle,” said Léonard, stealing it back.
“Stop guys! That smell… Jorid what did you put in those pickles?”
“I took the liberty to change the recipe and added some cinnamon.”
“It doesn’t smell like cinnamon,” said Georges smelling his hands full of pickle juice. He took a bite in one and said: “Doesn’t taste like cinnamon either. I would know. I hate cinnamon since the time I was turned into an Asari.”
“That’s it,” said Salomé. “What kind of cinnamon did you put in the brew, Jorid?”
“I’ve heard it’s best to use local ingredients. I put cinnamon from Langurdy,” said the ship.
“Quick! Guys, spit it out,” she said, kneeling and putting her fingers into Georges’ throat to make him puke. “Jorid, make away with the pickles,” said Salomé.
“Nooo,” said the men.
“Cinnamon from Langurdy is very addictive,” Salomé snapped. “You don’t want to OD on pickles, do you?”
After they got the mess cleaned up and the kitchen went back to its normal blank state. Georges and Léonard took some pills to counter the effects of withdrawal. Salomé had them sit at the kitchen table. Georges kept blinking as if the white light on the white walls were hurting his eyes.
“You can thank Barney if you didn’t eat more pickles,” said Salomé. “You could have had a relapse, and you know how bad it was the first time you had to flush cinnamon from your body.”
Georges groaned.
“Anyway. I checked the maps with Jorid and I came upon an anomaly in the Southern Deserts. Something there is causing Jorid’s confusion. We’ll have to go down there if we ever want to leave this place and time.”
In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys
Very well, let us focus a bit on an overarching mystery.
So, Xavier is working on this program he calls AL (for Alternate Life), for a company we know little about.
Meanwhile, the game they’re playing on, Orbs of Madjourneys seems to direct them to certain quests which subtly influence their activities. For instance, after playing the game, a succession of events got the four of them booking a trip to the Flying fish Inn in the middle of Australian outback (Zara is living in Australia unlike the others).
Let’s assume the Game had somehow detected some unlawful or immoral activities being conducted, and has started to drop clues to influence these 4 gamers, selected because of their unique connexions and some of their special skills to get to reveal and bring the mystery to light.
Zara has an explorer mind, free-spirited, jumping right in. It’s suggested she was assigned group leadership for this round of game, while taking care of a group doesn’t come naturally for her. Yasmin is talented and it is said she is the brains of the team and also a competent actress, which may come in play at some point. Youssef is a journalist, and works for Miss Tartiflate, owner of THE Blog, a blog with a soul – unlike rival blog from Botty Banworth, the lady millionaire, who is sponsoring the Carts & Lager festival at the town of the Flying Fish Inn, next to the mines. Xavier has a bit of a monkey mind, but is also good at drawing connections; he’s a programmer for AL.
Which brings us to the group quest. The current hunch is that there is some shenanigan at play in the old collapsed mines of the town, where some key characters were lost in the past. One of them being Fred, a sci-fi writer who disappeared to Fiji to protect his family (the owners of the Flying Fish Inn) a decade or so ago. It’s suggested by the last poem found in the game that it may have something to do with illegal underground water drilling —possibly for frivolous usages of a select few elite, like maintaining a golf green nearby or other things.
If that is on the right track, we need to accelerate the path of discovery of these mysteries for our 4 characters. The game will suggest additional clues to their quests, so that they can use their skills during the Carts & Lager Festival to discover the truth, while remaining out of harm’s way.
Here are some additional clues that the game will suggest to our four characters:
Zara:
“To find the truth, you must first seek the light.” 🌞🔍🕯️💡🔦
“The answer lies beneath the surface.” 🕳️🔍👀🌊💧Yasmin:
“All the world’s a stage, and we are merely players.” 🌍🎭🤹♀️👥🕺
“Sometimes, the truth is hidden in plain sight.” 👀🔍🤫🧐🕵️♀️Youssef:
“Words have power, and the pen is mightier than the sword.” 📝🗡️💪📚👨💻
“The truth may be hidden in the most unexpected of places.” 🤔🕵️♂️🔍🧩🕰️Xavier:
“The truth is a puzzle waiting to be solved.” 🧩🔍🤔🕵️♂️💡
“Sometimes, the smallest details can lead to the biggest discoveries.” 🔍👀🔬🧐🔎What are potential outcomes for our 4 characters in game and in real life.
How are they going to work together to unravel the mystery and discover the truth.There are several potential outcomes for our 4 characters as they work together to unravel the truth about the collapsed mines and the illegal underground water drilling.
In the game, they may encounter various obstacles and puzzles to solve, such as deciphering codes and finding hidden passages. They will need to work together and use their unique skills to uncover the truth and prevent any further harm.
In real life, they may need to conduct research and gather information about the history of the town and its residents. They may also need to interview locals and investigate any suspicious activity related to the water drilling. They will need to be careful not to draw too much attention to themselves, as the perpetrators may try to silence them.
If they are successful in their quest, they may uncover a conspiracy involving powerful people in the town and beyond who are profiting from the illegal water drilling. They may also discover the fate of Fred, the missing writer, and other key characters. The truth may have a significant impact on the future of the town and its residents.
To work together effectively, each of the characters will need to utilize their unique skills and strengths. Zara’s exploratory nature may help them discover hidden clues and passages, while Yasmin’s intellect and acting abilities may allow her to gain access to key information and people. Youssef’s journalistic skills and connection to Miss Tartiflate may provide them with insider knowledge and resources, and Xavier’s ability to draw connections and work with technology may help them piece together the puzzle.
Overall, by working together and using their skills in both the game and real life, our 4 characters may uncover a significant truth and make a positive impact on the town and its residents.
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
“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.”
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
The morning of the lager and cart race dawned bright and clear. The camping ground was full to overflowing with tents and camper vans, with several parked up outside the Flying Fish Inn. Zara overheard Finly complaining to Mater about all the extra work with all and sundry traipsing in and out using the toilets, and Bert muttering about where was all the extra water supposed to come from and what if the well ran dry, and was it all really worth it, and Zara saw him scowl when Idle told him to lighten up and enjoy it. “Hah! Enjoy it? Nothing good ever happens when a dust storm comes for the cart race,” he said pointedly to Idle, ” And damn near everyone asking about the old mines, I tell you, nothing good’s gonna come from a cart race in a dust storm, the mayor shoulda cancelled it.” Bert slammed the porch door as he stomped off outside, scowling at Zara on the way past.
Zara watched him go with a quizzical expression. What was going on here? Idle had told her about her affair with Howard some forty years ago, and how she’d had to disappear as soon as it became obvious that she was pregnant. Zara had sympathized and said what an ordeal it must have been, but Idle had laughed and said no not really, she’d had a lovely time in Fiji and had found a nice place to leave the baby. Then Howard had disappeared down the mines, and what was the story about Idle’s brother leaving mysteriously? Idle had been vague about that part, preferring to change the topic to Youssef. Was the Howard story why Bert was so reluctant for anyone to go down the mines? What on earth was going on?
And how had Yasmin’s parcel ended up in Xavier’s room? Xavi had soon noticed that he’d picked it up by mistake and returned it to Yasmin, but how had it ended up on the table on the verandah? It was perplexing, and made Yasmin disinclined to deliver it to Mater until she could fathom what had happened. She had tucked in under her mattress until she was sure what to do.
But that wasn’t the only thing that had piqued Zara’s curiosity. When Idle had said she’d had the baby in Fiji, and found a nice place to leave it, Zara couldn’t help but think of the orphanage where Yasmin was working. But no, surely that would be too much of a coincidence, and anyway, a 40 year old orphan wouldn’t still be there. But what about that woman in the BMW that Yasmin felt sure she recognized? No, surely it was all too pat. But then, what was that woman in the dark glasses doing in Betsy’s shop? Betsy was Howards wife. Idle had mentioned her when she told her story over the second bottle of wine.
Should she divulge Idle’s secrets to Yasmin and quiz her on the woman in dark glasses? Zara decided there would be no harm in it, after all, they would be leaving soon after the cart race, and what would it matter. She fetched two cups of coffee from the kitchen and took them to Yasmin’s room and knocked gently on the door.
“Are you awake?” she called softly.
“Yeah, come in Zara, I’ve been awake for ages,” Yasmin replied.
Zara put the coffee cups on the bedside table and sat on the side of Yasmins bed. “There’s something going on here, I have to tell you something. But first, have you worked out who that woman in the BMW is?”
Yasmin looked startled and said “How did you know? Yes I have. It’s Sister Finli from the orphanage, I’m sure of it. But why has she followed me here? And in disguise! It’s just creepy!”
“Aha!” Zara couldn’t suppress a rather triumphant smile. “I thought it was just a wacky idea, but listen to this, Idle told me something the other night when we sat up drinking wine.” As she told Idle’s story, Yasmin’s eyes widened and she put a hand over her open mouth.
“Could it be…?”
“Yes but why in disguise? What is she up to? What should we do, should we warn Idle?” Zara had warmed to Idle, and if there were any sides to be taken in the matter, she felt more for Idle than that unpleasant woman from the orphanage who was so disturbing to Yasmin.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe we should keep out of it!” Yasmin said. “That parcel though! What am I going to do about that parcel!”
Zara frowned. “Well, you have three options, Yas. Open it and read it… don’t look so horrified! Or deliver it as promised..”
“We’ll never know what it said though if we do that,” Yasmin was looking more relaxed now.
“Exactly, and I’m just too curious now.”
“And the third option?”
Ignoring the question, Zara asked where the parcel was. Yasmin grinned wickedly but a knock at the door interrupted her intention to retrieve the parcel from under the mattress. It was Youssef, who asked if he could come in.
“Shall we tell him?” Zara whispered, as Yasmin called out “Of course! Is Idle after you again? Quick, you can hide under my bed!”
“Not yet” Yasmin whispered back. “I need to think.”
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
I can’t believe the cart race is tomorrow. Joe, Callum and I have worked so hard this year to incorporate solar panels and wind propellers to our little bijou. The cart race rules are clear, apart from thermal engines and fossil fuels, your imagination is your limit. Our only worry was that dust storm. We feared the Mayor would cancelled the race, but I think she won’t. She desperately needs the money.
Some folks thought to revive the festival as a prank fifteen years ago, but people had so much fun the council agreed to renew it the next year, and the year after that it was made official. It’s been a small town festival for ten years, and would have stayed like that if it hadn’t been for a bus full of Italian tourist on their way to Uluru. It broke down as they drove through main street – I remember it because I just started my job at the garage and couldn’t attend the race. Those Italians, a bunch of crazy people, posted videos of the race on the Internet and it went viral, propelling our ghost town to worldwide fame. We thought it would subside but some folks created a FishBone group and we’re almost as famous as Punxsutawney once a year. We even have a team of old ladies from Tikfijikoo Island.
All that attention attracted sponsors, mostly booze brands. But this year we’ve got a special one from Sidney. Aunt Idle who’s got a special friend at the city council told us the council members couldn’t believe it when the tart called and offered money. Botty Banworth, head of a big news company made famous by her blog: Prudish Beauty.
Aunt Idle, who heard it from one of her special friends at the town’s council, started a protest because she thought the Banworth tart would force the council to ban all recreational substances. But I have it from Callum, who’s the Mayor’s son, that the tart is not interested in making us an example of sobriety. She’s asked to lease the land where the old mines are and the Mayor haven’t told anybody about it.
After Callum told me about the lease, it reminded me about the riddle.
A mine, a tile, dust piled high,
Together they rest, yet always outside.
One misstep, and you’ll surely fall,
Into the depths, where danger lies all.Then something else happened. Another woman stopped at the gas station earlier today. I recognised one of the Inn’s guests, the one with the Mercedes. With her mirror sunglasses and her headscarf wrapped around her hair, she already looked suspicious. But as it happened, she asked me about the mines and how to go there. For abandoned mines, they sure attract a lot of attention.
It reminded me of something. So after work, I went to the Inn and asked the twins permission to go up to their lair. When dad disappeared, Mater went mad, she threw everything to the garbage. The twins waited til she got back inside and moved everything back in the attic and called it their lair. It looks just like dad’s old office with the boxes full of papers, the mahogany desk and even his typewriter. For whatever reason, Mater just ignores it and if she needs something from the attic, she asks someone else to get it, pretexting she can’t climb all those stairs.
I was right. Dad left the old manuscript he was working on at the time. A sci-fi novel about strange occurrences in an abandoned mine that looked just like the one outside of town. Prune said it’s badly written, and it doesn’t even have a title. But I remember having nightmares after reading some of the passages.
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
Aunt Idle
Contention
Endless legal squabbling,
Eventually it comes to blows.
Zhang Ji has a speech defect,
Hair loose, turning northward.I don’t know what the dickens that I Ching is supposed to mean, I was hoping it would give me a clue about that new guest. There’s something about her but I can’t put my finger on it. I must remember to ask Bert about her, see if he’s noticed anything funny. Not that she’s acting funny, not unusual for a guest who’s travelled far to get here ~ and anyone getting here has travelled, let’s face it ~ to stay in their room catching up on sleep, but I don’t know, there is something niggling me about her. I barely caught a glimpse of her but she seemed familiar somehow. I’ll ask Bert, but we’re all so busy now what with the lager and cart race coming up, and those four friends staying, and god only knows when that dust storm comes what we’re supposed to do to entertain them all when they can’t go outside, and they’ll be expecting poor old Finly to keep the place dusted and the windows cleaned. I sometimes think I prefered it here when nobody hardly came.
Hardly got a moment to myself and our Prune is up to something but god knows I don’t have time to follow her around, and there’s no weaseling anything out of her when she’s got one of her secret missions going on. Mater’s pulled her finger out, it has to be said, she’s been as good as gold with the guests, she can turn the old dear charm on when she wants to, and she’s pulled out all the stops playing the gracious hostess, and I can’t say a word against good old Finly. She’s a cheeky minx when we’re not busy but she’s been a real trooper. I think I’ll speak to Mater about a little bonus for her. Yes, I think that might sweeten her up for when I ask her to do my roots tomorrow which reminds me to put pink dye on Berts list for when he goes to Alice in the morning.
Honestly there’s too much to think about, I haven’t had a minute to get a costume ready for the cart race, maybe I’ll ask the twins. Gotta say it, they’ve been brilliant organizing the cart decorating with the four friends. They’re a lovely group, I just wish I had more time to hang out with them, especially the big guy, oh my. Maybe after the cart race, anything can happen after a cart race, lord knows ~ it was after a cart race in a dust storm that Howard and I had a fling and thank god Betsy never found out, she’s have had my guts for garters and nobody would have blamed her. I still wonder what happened to Howard. We always had a soft spot for each other, but he felt so guilty he never strayed from Betsy again. I’d have been game, I’ll be honest, but I didn’t push it. Betsy was a big girl back in those days, but nowhere near as big as she is now. Must be hard for her wondering what happened to her husband all these years, no wonder she got sucked into all that mumbo jumbo and stuffing her chops all day long.
And not being able to claim the inheritance that would have been Howards, that must have been hard. They could have lived in the lap of luxury for the rest of their lives when Howard’s father died, and he hasn’t died yet, must be pushing 90 by now. I know she’s hoping Howard didn’t die in the mines ~ obviously ~ and that he’ll come back one day somehow, and you can bet your bottom dollar she’s hoping he comes back before the old man dies and it all gets left to someone else.
That new guest went in Betsy’s before she even checked in here, Corrie saw her, I guess she’s into mumbo jumbo in a big way if she had to get supplies of crystals or amulets or whatever they sell in there, before checking in to the hotel.
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
It seemed like their journey was ominously pregnant with untold possibilities. Well that’s what Xavier had said the team to break the lazy pattern that had started to bring their sense of adventure to a lull.
“Please, no snotty baby possibilities!” had moaned Zara, stretching from her morning session of yoga with Yasmin.It was the morning of the third day since he’d arrived, and as they were enjoying the breakfast, the external elements seemed to have put a brake on the planned activities.
On the previous evening, Mater, the dame of the Inn, had come in with a dramatic racing driver costume complete with burgundy red jacket and goggles to match. She’d seemed quite excited at the thought of racing at the Carts and Lager, but the younger child, Prune, had come in with weather forecast.
“It’s on the local channel news. We have to brace for a chance of dust storm. It’s recommended to stay indoors during the next two days.”
“WHAT?!” Zara couldn’t believe it. The thought of being cooped up in holidays! Then she lightened up a little when Yasmin mentioned the possibility of sand ghost pictures. She knew Zara well enough, that a good distraction was the remedy to most of her moods.
Youssef had shrugged and told them of the time they were with the BLOG team at a snowy pass in Ladakh, and had to wait for the weather to clear the only pass back to the valley. He’s enjoyed learning how to make chapatis with the family on the small gas stove of the local place, and visited the local yurts. Zara’s eyes were suddenly full of wonders at the mere mention of yurts.
Prune had then mentioned with a smirk. “If you guys want an adventure, I was planning to do some spring cleaning in the basement. There are tons of old books…. and some said maybe some secret entrance to the mines.”
Zara’s spider sense was tingling almost orgasmically.
Youssef said. “Well, I suppose that’s the best entertainment we’ll get for now…”
At the morning breakfast table, they did a quick check of the news.
“The situation isn’t getting any better. AL has confirmed it’s an unusual weather late in this season, but it’s also saying we should remain indoors.” Xavier was looking at his phone slouched on the table.
“And they will cancel the first days of the Carts and Lager…” Zara was downcast.
“Well, here’s a thought… the quest is still open in the game…”
In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage
Star and Tara were seating at their usual table in the Star Frites Alliance Café, sipping their coffee and reflecting on the strange case of the wardrobe. They had managed to find Uncle Basil, and Vince had been able to change his will just in time. They had also discovered that the wardrobe was being used to smuggle illegal drugs, which they promptly reported to the authorities.
As they sat there, they saw Finton, the waitress from the café where they last met Vince French, walking towards them with a big smile on her face. “Hello there, ladies! I just wanted to thank you for helping Vince find his uncle. He’s been so much happier since then.”
“It was all in a day’s work,” said Star with a grin. “And we also managed to solve the mystery of the wardrobe.” she couldn’t help boasting.
“Did we now?” Tara raised an eyebrow.
Finton’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh my! That’s quite the accomplishment. What did you find?”
“It was being used to smuggle drugs,” explained Star. “We reported it to the authorities.”
“Well, I never! You two are quite the detectives,” said Finton, impressed.
“Sure, we could be proud, but there are more mysteries calling for our help. Now if you don’t mind, Finton, we have important business to talk about.” Star said.
“And it’s rather hush-hush.” Tara added, to clue in the poor waitress.
Star’s knack for finding clues in all the wrong places, and Tara’s slight nudges towards the path of logical deduction and reason had made them quite famous now around the corner. Well, slightly more famous than before, meaning they were featured in a tiny article in the local neswpaper, page 8, near the weekly crosswords. But somehow, that they’d accomplished their missions did advocate in their favour. And new clients had been pouring in.
“Do we have a new case you haven’t told me about?” wondered Tara.
“Nah.” retorted Star. “Just wanted to get rid of the nosy brat and enjoy my coffee while it’s hot. I hate tepid coffee. Tastes like cat piss.”
“How would you know… Never mind…” Tara replied distractedly as handsome and well-dressed man approached their table. “Excuse me, are you Star and Tara, the private investigators?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, we are,” said Star, propping her goods forward, and batting a few eyelids. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Thomas, and I have a rather unusual case for you.”
Tara pushed Star to the back of the cushioned banquet bench to make room for the easy on the eyes stranger, while Star repressed a Oof and a fookoof..
“It involves a missing pineapple.” Thomas said after taking the offered seat.
“A missing pineapple?” repeated Star incredulously.
Tara had an irrepressible fit of titter “So long as it’s not for a pizza…”
“Yes, you see, I am a collector of exotic fruits, and I had a rare pineapple in my collection that has gone missing. It’s worth quite a lot of money, and I can’t seem to find it anywhere.”
Star and Tara exchanged a look. They were both thinking the same thing. Was “exotic fruit” code for something else? Otherwise, this was not even remotely bizarre by their standard, and they’d seen some strange cases already.
“We’ll have to think over it.” for once Star didn’t want to sound too eager. “Do you have any leads?” asked Tara.
“Well, I did hear a rumor that it was spotted in the hands of a local street performer, but I can’t be sure.”
“Alright, we’ll consider it,” said Star decisively. She fumbled into her hairy bag —some smart upcycling made by Rosamund with the old patchy mink coats. She handed a torn namecard to the young Thomas. “We’ll call you.”
Thomas looked at her surprised. “Do you mean, should I write my number?”
Tara rolled her eyes and sighed. “Obvie.” Somehow the good-looking ones didn’t seem to be the brightest tools in the picnic box.
“But first, we need to finish our coffee.” She took a long sip and grinned at Tara. “Looks like we may have another mysterman on our hands.”
In reply to: Coma Cameleon
Tibu looked up at her, surprised by the offer. He hadn’t expected anyone to offer him anything more than spare change or a half-eaten sandwich. “That’s very kind of you,” he said with a small smile, “I’d like that very much.”
The young woman returned his smile and disappeared for a while. She came back a few minutes later, with two cups of steaming hot tea. Handing one to Tibu, she started sipping her own while they stood in silence for a moment looking at the last drops of dripping water from the eaves overhead, as the rain had started to subside.
Tibu couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. Here he was, a man with no memory of his past, selling books on the street for spare change, and yet this stranger was treating him with kindness and respect.
“Thank you,” he said softly his voice barely audible, “I really appreciate this.”
The woman shrugged and smiled again. “It’s no trouble at all. I think it’s nice to just take a break and chat with someone for a while. It can get lonely in this city sometimes.”
Tibu nodded in agreement. “I know what you mean. I feel like a stranger in my own life sometimes.”
The woman’s expression softened. “That must be hard. But you know, sometimes it’s good to start over. You can be whoever you want to be, do whatever you want to do. It’s like a second chance.”
As they continued their conversation, a crumpled torn piece of newspaper caught Tibu’s eye, lodged in a nearby gutter. The headline mentioned a job fair happening the next day, an opportunity for people to find new careers. An idea began to form in his mind – attending the job fair could be his first step in creating a new life.
Tibu looked at the woman, still struck by her earlier words. It was a new way of thinking for him. Maybe he didn’t have to be defined by his past or his amnesia. Maybe he could create a new life for himself, with new people and new experiences.
“Thank you,” he said again, feeling a newfound sense of hope. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
The woman smiled and finished her tea. “Well, I should probably get back to work. But it was nice talking to you. Maybe I’ll see you around. I’m Lorena, by the way.”
Tibu nodded and watched her walk away, feeling a warmth in his chest. Maybe things weren’t so hopeless after all. Maybe he could create a new life for himself; he checked the crumbled paper; his decision was made; armed with renewed purpose, he’d resolved to attend the job fair.
Of course, he’d need to prepare, sort out stuff…
He looked down at the book in his hand and smiled. For now, he had Lord Gustard Willoughby Fergusson to keep him company and inspire him about acts of bravery and embrace with gusto the great leap into the unknown.
