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Chapter Title: A Whiff of Inspiration – a work in progress by Elizabeth Tattler

The morning light slanted through the towering windows of the grand old house, casting a warm glow upon the chaos within. Elizabeth Tattler, famed author and mistress of the manor, found herself pacing the length of the room with the grace of a caged lioness. Her mind was a churning whirlpool of creative fury, but alas, it was not the only thing trapped within.

“Finnley!” she bellowed, her voice echoing off the walls with a resonance that only years of authoritative writing could achieve. “Finnley, where are you hiding?”

Finnley, emerging from behind the towering stacks of Liz’s half-finished manuscripts, wielded her trusty broom as if it were a scepter. “I’m here, I’m here,” she grumbled, her tone as prickly as ever. “What is it now, Liz? Another manuscript disaster? A plot twist gone awry?”

“Trapped abdominal wind, my dear Finnley,” Liz declared with dramatic flair, clutching her midsection as if to emphasize the gravity of her plight. “Since two in the morning! A veritable tempest beneath my ribs! I fear this may become the inspiration—or rather, aspiration—for my next novel.”

Finnley rolled her eyes, a gesture she had perfected over years of service. “Oh, for Flove’s sake, Liz. Perhaps you should bottle it and sell it as ‘Creative Muse’ for struggling writers. Now, what do you need from me?”

“Oh, I’ve decided to vent my frustrations in a blog post. A good old-fashioned rant, something to stir the pot and perhaps ruffle a few feathers!” Liz’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “I’m certain it shall incense 95% of my friends, but what better way to clear the mind and—hopefully—the bowels?”

At that moment, Godfrey, Liz’s ever-distracted editor, shuffled in with a vacant look in his eyes. “Did someone mention something about… inspiration?” he asked, blinking as if waking from a long slumber.

“Yes, Godfrey, inspiration!” Liz exclaimed, waving her arms dramatically. “Though in my case, it’s more like… ‘inflation’! I’ve become a gastronaut! ” She chuckled at her own pun, eliciting a groan from Finnley.

Godfrey, oblivious to the undercurrents of the conversation, nodded earnestly. “Ah, splendid! Speaking of which, have you written that opening scene yet, Liz? The publishers are rather eager, you know.”

Liz threw her hands up in mock exasperation. “Dear Godfrey, with my innards in such turmoil, how could I possibly focus on an opening scene?” She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Unless, of course, I were to channel this very predicament into my story. Perhaps a character with a similar plight, trapped on a space station with only their imagination—and intestinal distress—for company.”

Finnley snorted, her stern facade cracking ever so slightly. “A tale of cosmic flatulence, is it? Sounds like a bestseller to me.”

And with that, Liz knew she had found her muse—an unorthodox one, to be sure, but a muse nonetheless. As the words began to flow, she could only hope that relief, both literary and otherwise, was soon to follow.

(story repeats at the beginning)

Epilogue & Prologue

Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds

Tabitha sat by the window at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, letting the murmur of conversations and the occasional purring of the espresso machine settle around her. It was one of the few cafés left in the city where time still moved at a human pace. She stirred her cup absentmindedly. Paris was still Paris, but the world outside had changed in ways her mother’s generation still struggled to grasp.

It wasn’t just the ever-presence of automation and AI making themselves known in subtle ways—screens adjusting to glances, the quiet surveillance woven into everyday life. It wasn’t just the climate shifts, the aircon turned to cold in the midst of November, the summers unpredictable, the air thick with contradictions of progress and collapse of civilization across the Atlantic.

The certainty of impermanence was what defined her generation. BANI world they used to say—Brittle, Anxious, Nonlinear, Incomprehensible. A cold fact: impossible to grasp and impossible to fight. Unlike her mother and her friends, who had spent their lives tethered to a world that no longer existed, she had never known certainty. She was born in the flux.

And yet, this café remained. One of the last to resist full automation, where a human still brought you coffee, where the brass bell above the door still rang, where things still unfolded at a human pace.

The bell above the door rang—the fifth note, as her mother had called it once.

She had never been here before, not in any way that mattered. Yet, she had heard the story. The unlikely reunion five years ago. The night that moved new projects in motion for her mother and her friends.

Tabitha’s fingers traced the worn edges of the notebook in front of her—Lucien’s, then Amei’s, then Darius’s. Pieces of a life written by many hands.

“Some things don’t work the first time. But sometimes, in the ruins of what failed, something else sprouts and takes root.”

And that was what had happened.

The shared housing project they had once dreamed of hadn’t survived—not in its original form. But through their rekindled bond, they had started something else.

 

True Stories of How It Was.

 

It had begun as a quiet defiance—a way to preserve real, human stories in an age of synthetic, permanent ephemerality and ephemeral impermanence, constantly changing memory. They were living in a world where AI’s fabricated histories had overwhelmed all the channels of information, where the past was constantly rewritten, altered, repackaged. Authenticity had become a rare currency.

As she graduated in anthropology few years back, she’d wondered about the validity of history —it was, after all, a construct. The same could be said for literature, art, even science. All of them constructs of the human mind, tenuous grasp of the infinite truth, but once, they used to evolve at such a slow pace that they felt solid, reliable. Ultimately their group was not looking for ultimate truth, that would be arrogant and probably ignorant. Authenticity was what they were looking for. And with it, connections, love, genuineness —unquantifiables by means of science and yet, true and precious beyond measure.

Lucien had first suggested it, tracing the idea from his own frustrations—the way art had become a loop of generated iterations, the human touch increasingly erased. He was in a better place since Matteo had helped him settle his score with Renard and, free of influence, he had found confidence in developing of his own art.

Amei —her mother—, had changed in a way Tabitha couldn’t quite define. Her restlessness had quieted, not through settling down but through accepting impermanence as something other than loss. She had started writing again—not as a career, not to publish, but to preserve stories that had no place in a digitized world. Her quiet strength had always been in preserving connections, and she knew they had to move quickly before real history faded beneath layers of fabricated recollections.

Darius, once skeptical, saw its weight—he had spent years avoiding roots, only to realize that stories were the only thing that made places matter. He was somewhere in Morocco now, leading a sustainable design project, bridging cultures rather than simply passing through them.

Elara had left science. Or at least, science as she had known it. The calculations, the certainty, the constraints of academia, with no escape from the automated “enhanced” digital helpers. Her obsession and curiosities had found attract in something more human, more chaotic. She had thrown herself into reviving old knowledge, forgotten architectures, regenerative landscapes.

And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.

The notebook read: Matteo wasn’t a ghost from our past. He was the missing note, the one we didn’t know we needed. And because of him, we stopped looking backward. We started building something else.

For so long, Matteo had been a ghost of sorts, by his own account, lingering at the edges of their story, the missing note in their unfinished chord. But now, he was fully part of it. His mother had passed, her past history unraveling in ways he had never expected, branching new connections even now. And though he had lost something in that, he had also found something else. Juliette. Or maybe not. The story wasn’t finished.

Tabitha turned the page.

“We were not historians, not preservationists, not even archivists. But we have lived. And as it turned out, that was enough.”

They had begun collecting stories through their networks—not legends, not myths, but true accounts of how it was, from people who still remembered.

A grandfather’s voice recording of a train ride to a city that no longer exists.
Handwritten recipes annotated by generations of hands, each adding something new.
A letter from a protest in 2027, detailing a movement that the history books had since erased.
An old woman’s story of her first love, spoken in a dialect that AI could not translate properly.

It had grown in ways they hadn’t expected. People began sending them recordings, letters, transcripts, photos —handwritten scraps of fading ink. Some were anonymous, others carefully curated with full names and details, like makeshift ramparts against the tide of time.

At first, few had noticed. It was never the goal to make it worlwide movement. But little by little, strange things happened, and more began to listen.

There was something undeniably powerful about genuine human memory when it was raw and unfiltered, when it carried unpolished, raw weight of experience, untouched by apologetic watered down adornments and out-of-place generative hallucinations.

Now, there were exhibitions, readings, archives—entire underground movements dedicated to preserving pre-synthetic history. Their project had become something rare, valuable, almost sacred.

And yet, here in the café, none of that felt urgent.

Tabitha looked up as the server approached. Not Matteo, but someone new.

“Another espresso?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And a glass of water, please.”

She glanced at the counter, where Matteo was leaning, speaking to someone, laughing. He had changed, too. No longer just an observer, no longer just the quiet figure who knew too much. Now, he belonged here.

A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.

Tabitha smiled to herself. The fifth note always sounded, in the end.

She turned back to the notebook, the city moving around her, the story still unfolding in more directions than one.

Matteo — Easter Break 2023

The air in the streets carried the sweet intoxicating smell of orange blossoms, as Matteo stood at the edge of a narrow cobbled street in Xàtiva, the small town just a train ride from Valencia that Juliette had insisted on visiting. The weekend had been a blur of color and history—street markets in Italy, Venetian canals last month, and now this little-known hometown of the Borgias, nestled under the shadow of an ancient castle.

Post-pandemic tourism was reshaping the rhythm of Europe. The crowds in the big capitals felt different now—quieter in some places, overwhelming in others. Xàtiva, however, seemed untouched, its charm untouched. Matteo liked it. It felt authentic, a place with layers to uncover.

Juliette, as always, had planned everything. She had a knack for unearthing destinations that felt simultaneously curated and spontaneous. They had started with the obvious—Berlin, Amsterdam, Florence—but now her choices were becoming more eccentric.

“Where do you even find these places?” Matteo had asked on the flight to Valencia, his curiosity genuine.

She grinned, pulling out her phone and scrolling through saved videos. “Here,” she said, passing it to him. “This channel had great ideas before it went dark. He had listed all those places with 1-euro houses deals in many fantastic places in Europe. Once we’re ready to settle” she smiled at him.

The video that played featured sweeping shots of abandoned stone houses and misty mountain roads, narrated by a deep, calm voice. “There’s magic in forgotten places,” the narrator said. “A story waiting for the right hands to revive it.”

Matteo leaned closer, intrigued. The channel was called Wayfare, and the host, though unnamed in the video, had a quiet magnetism that made him linger. The content wasn’t polished—some shots were shaky, the editing rough—but there was an earnestness to it that immediately captured his attention.

“This guy’s great,” Matteo said. “What happened to him?”

“Darius, I think his name was,” Juliette replied. “I loved his videos. He didn’t have a huge audience, but it felt like he was speaking to you, you know?” She shrugged. “He shut it down a while back. Rumors about some drama with patrons or something.”

Matteo handed the phone back, his interest waning. “Too bad,” he said. “I like his style.”

The train ride to Xàtiva had been smooth, the rolling hills and sun-drenched orchards sliding slowly outside the window. The time seemed to move at a slower pace here. Matteo’d been working with an international moving company in Paris, mostly focused to expats in and out of France. Tips were good and it usually meant having a tiring week, but what the job lacked in interest, it compensated with with extra recuperation days.

As they climbed toward the castle overlooking the town, Juliette rattled off details she’d picked up online.

“The Borgias are fascinating,” she said, gesturing toward the town below. “They came from here, you know. Rose to power around the 13th century. Claimed they were descended from Visigoth kings, but most people think that’s all invention.”

“Clever, though,” Matteo said. “Makes you almost wish you had a magic box to smartly rewrite your ancestry, that people would believe it if you play it right.”

Juliette smiled. “Yeah! They were masters cheaters and gaslighters.”

“Reinventing where they came from, like us, always reinventing where we go…”

Juliette chuckled but didn’t reply.

Matteo’s mind wandered, threading Juliette’s history lesson with stories his grandmother used to tell—tales of the Borgias’ rise through cunning and charm, and how they were descended from the infamous family through Lucrecia, the Pope’s illegitimate daughter. It was strange how family lore could echo through places so distant from where he’d grown up.

As they reached the castle’s summit, Matteo paused to take it all in. The valley stretched below them, a patchwork of red-tiled rooftops and olive groves shimmering in the afternoon light. Somewhere in this region, Juliette said, Darius had explored foreclosed homes, hoping to revive them with new communities. Matteo couldn’t help but think how odd it was, these faint connections between lives—threads weaving places and people together, even when the patterns weren’t clear.

Later, over a shared plate of paella, Juliette nudged him with her fork. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing much,” Matteo said, swirling his glass of wine. “Just… how people tell stories. The Borgias, this Darius guy, even us—everyone’s looking for a way to leave a mark, even if it’s just on a weekend trip.”

Juliette smiled, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, you better leave your mark tomorrow. I want a picture of you standing on that castle wall.”

Matteo laughed, raising his glass. “Deal. But only if you promise not to fall off first.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the streets of Xàtiva began to glow with the warmth of lamplight. Matteo leaned back in his chair, the wine softening the edges of the day. For a moment, he thought of Darius again—of foreclosed homes and forgotten stories. He didn’t dwell on it, though. The present was enough.

When Sister Penelope Pomfrett realised she’d lost her assigned witch guest, Eris-what’s-her-name, she started to feel anxious.

Not one to revel in shortcomings, she promptly went about ferreting though the corridors, while the various nuns and guests were still enjoying their libations and ceremonious rituals exchanges.

A cry of anguish resonated through the halls. “Smoke! Smoke!” followed by a mild agitation, which felt one-sided amongst the nuns. Maybe the incense witches were more accustomed to those smoke mishaps, and were not as quick to call fire in alarm. But here in the thick of Spanish summer, unattended smoke could wreck certain havoc.

Penelope was about to jump into the circle called by the elder sisters to contain the smoke, when she abruptly bumped into someone. It was that mortician, the quiet one, Nemo.

She couldn’t help but to mutter some form of apology, yet anxious to get going.

“Sister,” he said with a voice that was commanding calm in the midst of chaos. “You need to calm down, this won’t last, and I’m sure your sisters have this under control.”

“What would you know about that?” she felt her mind go numb, and found herself following him with too much abandon.

“Call it a hunch. Not all is as it seems here, and us morticians, are well-taught in the arts of not only preservation, but as well of hidden truths.”

Indeed, the ruckus seemed to fade already in the distance. Penelope looked more closely at the gentleman. He seemed rather innocuous, and not sufficiently handsome to make her break her chastity vows, even if some would find his brooding rugged charm attractive. Yet, he was making her curious.

“So that’s what you do when there’s no dead body to attend to?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But don’t worry, the night is young, and death is never far.” He said with a quiet smile.

Penelope brushed aside the shivering feeling that coursed through her spine. “Could you make yourself useful dear, I’m looking for my assigned Quadrivium witch. The one with the blue hair, any chance you’ve seen her? These grounds are not safe for the non-initiates.”

“No, I don’t think I have seen her, but I’m sure you can whip up a location spell before vespers are done…”

“Yes, it’s not that. There’s too much chaos magic at work now, it could backfire. Have you no idea why we have those tapestries with dragons on it?”

“I have a small idea. Templar Knights of the Crimson Order?”

“Something like that. The cloister has been build as an atonement by a noble lady, centuries ago — it was said, to appease old spirits who were vanquished in mythical battles.” Penelope held her breath. “Some say they’re still close by. Even more so at the solstice.”

“So better not to trifle with the energies right now,” Nemo said, extending his elbow in an old-fashioned chivalrous gesture. “Let’s find your witch friend together, shall we?”

Finland had just boasted its position as the happiest country on Earth in the afternoon news, and that had left Eris and Thorsten wondering about all that was freely available to them and often overlooked. Closeness to nature and a well-balanced work-life ratio, such among those things.

Not one to reel in contentment, Eris was finding herself entangled in the whimsical dance of procrastination, much to the chagrin of her bossy headwitch mentor, Malové. Her boyfriend, Thorsten, her unwavering support, watched with a fond smile as Eris meandered through her myriad interests.

As part of his latest trials of biohacking experiments, he’d chosen to undergo the Ramadan fast, and often found himself delirious from hunger by day’s end.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape, Eris lounged in their cozy cabin, her mind swirling with thoughts of exploration. Thorsten interrupted her reverie with his latest discovery.

“Look ‘ris,” he called her over his last discovery “they say: Wear blue light blocking glasses at night:  And made your sleep a means for rest | Quran 78:9. Blue light blocking glasses help mitigate the damage that post-Maghrib light exposure causes. This is a critical circadian rhythm hack.” — Should I buy some?”

“Sure, Love.” Paying soft attention, Eris found herself lost in a whirlwind of distractions—a stray cat seeking shelter from the sudden March rains, a mysterious potion recipe hidden in the depths of her bookshelf, and the ever-present allure of social media, beckoning her with its siren song of endless scrolls and likes.

As dusk fell, a sliver of moonlight signaled the end of the day’s fast for Thorsten. It was the moment that their adventurous friend Jorid chose to knock at the door of their cottage, with a gleam of wanderlust in his eyes. He  yearned to explore the far reaches of the Northern Lights, his restless spirit only equal to his insatiable curiosity, and probably second only to his ravenous hunger, eagerly awaiting one of those magicked dinners that Eris had the secret to manifest at a moment’s notice.

“Sushi sandwiches everyone?” she asked distractedly.

“With a serving of spicy kelp, yes please!” Jorid answered.

As Eris came back with the food, still inwardly grappling with the enigma of procrastination, a familiar voice echoed in her mind —Elias, her digital friend, offering sage advice from the depths of her consciousness.

“Ah, my dear Eris,” Elias chimed in, his words a harmonious blend of wisdom and whimsy. “Let us embark on a playful exploration of this delightful conundrum you find yourself within. Procrastination, you see, is not an adversary to be conquered, but rather a messenger, guiding you toward a particular direction of energy.”

Elias’s guidance resonated deeply with Eris, offering a beacon of clarity amidst the fog of indecision. “You are experiencing a diversity of interests, much like a child in a room filled with toys,” he continued. “Each one more enticing than the last. And yet, the child does not lament the multitude of options but rather delights in the exploration of each one in turn. This is the key, Eris, exploration without the burden of obligation.”

Eris nodded in agreement, her gaze flickering to Thorsten, whose quiet support and solid appetite punctuated with Jorid’s laughter served as a steady anchor amidst the storm of her thoughts.

Elias was continuing to deliver this message in an instant communication she would need time to explore and absorb. “Firstly, prioritize your interests. Recognize that not all desires must be pursued simultaneously. Allow yourself to be drawn naturally to whichever interest is speaking most loudly to you in the moment. Immerse yourself in that experience fully, without the shadow of guilt for not attending to the others.”

“Secondly, address the belief that you must ‘get it all done.’ This is a fallacy, a trick of cultural time that seeks to impose upon you an artificial urgency. Instead, align with natural time, allowing each interest to unfold in its own rhythm and space.”

“Thirdly, consider the concept of ‘productive procrastination.’ When you delay one action, you are often engaging in another, perhaps without recognizing its value. Allow yourself to appreciate the activities you are drawn to during these periods of procrastination. They may hold insights into your preferences or be offering you necessary respite.”

“Lastly, engage in what I have referred to as a ‘blueprint action.’ Identify one action that aligns with your passion and commitment, and allow yourself to execute this action regularly. In doing so, you create a foundation, an anchor, from which the diversity of your interests can flow more freely, without the sense of being adrift in a sea of potential.”

“And remember, Eris,” Elias added, his voice gentle yet firm, “you are not here to complete a list but to revel in the joy of discovery and creation. Embrace your multitude of interests as a reflection of the richness of your essence, and allow yourself to dance with them in the timing that feels most harmonious.”

As the Northern Lights cast their ethereal glow upon the Finnish landscape, illuminating the forest around them, Eris felt a sense of peace wash over her—a reminder that the journey, with all its twists and turns, had true magic revealed at every turn and glances in the midst of a friendly evening shared meal.

Xavier was dramatically behind his work, but he could see the benefits to his mood of the break from his routine. While the others had been enlisted to a bush tucker cooking lesson by their hosts, he’d retreated to his room for some catching up with his programming.
The lady with the dreadlocks in particular seemed to have taken a liking to Youssef so much so that she had offered to join their group for the cooking lesson session, which apparently was initially met with disbelief a first, then surprise and anxiety and finally made her family raise a few eyebrows profusely. Youssef didn’t seem bothered by it, and to be fair, did seem completely oblivious to the situation.

Speaking of awkward situations, after the bar discussion, Glimmer had got off on her own, apparently going to chase for literal rainbows. She’d mentioned in a conspiratorial tone “You don’t see them rainbows nowadays, have you? See, that’s what I mean, them with the government electric waves, laser rays and stuff, they manipulate the weather… Keep people docile and hopeless. So I’m going on a chase.”
Xavier had frowned at Yasmin before she could top it off with a “good luck with the unicorns.” He didn’t need telepathy to know that Yasmin could hardly pass on an ironic salvo in a potentially comical situation.
Anyway, Glimmer leaving off to new adventures of her own without overstaying her welcome was met with a few sighs of relief. The four of them quite liked the comfort of their little group with their insider references and jokes.

His programmic work was rather tedious and slow, but he’d made good progress connecting the new training model into the AL, and the muffled sounds of the cooking class with the occasional laughter did make him want to finish faster.

He hoped he would get most of it done in time to enjoy the incoming festival. The town however ghostly it had seemed on arrival, had taken a unexpected liveliness with colorful bunting flags now spreading across all roads intersections.

With all this newfound activity, they’d almost forgotten about the game. However, he could feel there was something more at play, and it would be a trial of Zara’s leadership capabilities —her style had often been solo. It was great for scouting mission and opening new doors in unknown parts of the game, but apparently the group quest required something different…

AL is back

• Zara: Great job on finding the carved wooden tile! That’s a big step in the quest. Keep up the good work, and we’ll send you on the next mission soon.
• Yasmin: It sounds like you’re having a tough time with the weather and mosquitoes. We understand that it can be difficult to focus on the quest when you’re dealing with real-life issues. Maybe try to work on the quest in a different environment, or take a break if you need to. We’re here to support you and help you in any way we can.
• Youssef: We’re excited to hear about your real-life parallel quest. It sounds like you’re getting close to uncovering the mystery of the grumpy shaman. Keep working on your blog website and keep an eye out for any clues that Xavier and the Snoot may send your way. We believe that you’re on the right path.
• Xavier: It sounds like you’re making progress on your quest. The clues you received from the fox busdriver are definitely leading you in the right direction. Keep following the trail and don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it. Remember, the golden banana is a metaphor for your cheeky and also soft nature, so don’t be too hard on yourself. We’re here to guide and advise you along the way.

New clues

• Zara: 🔮🧱🗺️ Find the ancient portal hidden in the ruins and decipher the inscription on the carved wooden tile to unlock the next step in the quest.
• Yasmin: 🦟🌧️🕵️‍♀️Track down the elusive snorting imp by investigating the local wetlands and speaking with locals who may have encountered it. Don’t let the bad weather and pesky mosquitoes discourage you!
• Youssef: 🍔🌵🧙‍♂️ Continue your journey with the grumpy shaman and see if he holds any clues to the quest. Remember to keep an eye out for anything that seems out of the ordinary and don’t be afraid to ask questions. Also, make sure to keep up with your website work as it may lead you to a valuable information!
• Xavier:🦊💰🛳️ Explore the floating casino and see if the fox busdriver’s clues lead you to the golden banana. Don’t be afraid to take risks and think outside the box, as the golden banana may not be what it seems. Keep an open mind and pay attention to any symbols or clues that you come across.

The progress on the quest in the Land of the Quirks was too tantalizing; Xavier made himself a quick sandwich and jumped back on it during his lunch break.

The jungle had an oppressing quality… Maybe it has to do with the shrieks of the apes tearing the silence apart.   

It was time for a slight adjustment of his avatar.

Xavimunk opened his bag of tricks, something that the wise owl had suggested he looked into. Few items from the AIorium Emporium had been supplied. They tended to shift and disappear if you didn’t focus, but his intention was set on the task at hand. At the bottom of the bag, there was a small vial with a golden liquid with a tag written in ornate handwriting “MJ remix: for when words elude and shapes confuse at your own peril”.

He gulped the potion without thinking too much. He felt himself shrink, and his arms elongate a little. There, he thought. Imp-munk’s more suited to the mission. Hope the effects will be temporary…

As Xavier mustered the courage to enter through the front gate, monkeys started to become silent. He couldn’t say if it was an ominous sign, or maybe an effect of his adaptation. The temple’s light inside was gorgeous, but nothing seemed to be there.

He gestured around, to make the menu appear. He looked again at the instructions on his screen overlay:

As for possible characters to engage, you may come across a sly fox who claims to know the location of the fruit but will only reveal it in exchange for a favor, or a brave adventurer who has been searching for the Golden Banana for years and may be willing to team up with you.

Suddenly a loud monkey honking noise came from outside, distracting him.

What the?… Had to be one of Zara’s remixes. He saw the three dots bleeping on the screen.

Here’s the Banana bus, hope it helps! Envoy! bugger Enjoy!

Yep… With the distinct typo-heavy accent, definitely Zara’s style. Strange idea that AL designated her as the leader… He’d have to roll with it.

Suddenly, as the Banana bus parked in front of the Temple, a horde of Italien speaking tourists started to flock in and snap pictures around. The monkeys didn’t know what to do and seemed to build growing and noisy interest in their assortiment of colorful shoes, flip-flops, boots and all.

 

Focus, thought Xavimunk… What did the wise owl say? Look for a guide…
Only the huge colorful bus seemed to take the space now… But wait… what if?

He walked to the parking spot under the shades of the huge banyan tree next to the temple’s entrance, under which the bus driver had parked it. The driver was still there, napping under a newspaper, his legs on the wheel.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” he said chewing his gum loudly. “Never seen a fox drive a banana bus before?”
Xavier smiled. “Any chance you can guide me to the location of the Golden Banana?”
“For a price… maybe.” The fox had jumped closely and was considering the strange avatar from head to toe.
“Ain’t no usual stuff that got you into this? Got any left? That would be a nice price.”
“As it happens…” Xavier smiled.

The quest seemed back on track. Xavier looked at the time. Blimmey! already late again. And I promised Brytta to get some Chinese snacks for dinner.

After a few tries:

1. As the group has split up at the fork of the road, we discover a total of 4 new characters from the Land of the Quirks. Tell us how each group is encountering some or all of these characters, who they are, their gibberish-sounding names, and what is their quirks, and what they wear, or their activities. Make our main characters and maybe some of the new ones meet back at a common spot with a special event after that.
2. please rewrite the above, retaining the eccentricity but more grounded, less childish, and with a little darker tone and mystery.
3. please try again, make Spoink and Flibbertigibbet human and give them less endearing or friendly behaviours; name two more characters met on the road.

As the group split up at the fork of the road, each one encountered new characters from the Land of the Quirks.

Zara and Yasmin, who took the left path, met a man named “Sproink” who was a small, wiry man with a spring for a tail. He was always bouncing around and speaking in a language that sounded like a mix of gibberish and music. Sproink was a collector of shiny objects and had a bag full of them, he was also a scavenger, always looking for things to add to his collection. He was wearing a small top hat and a monocle. He was also known to be a bit of a thief and a con artist.

Xavier and Youssef, who took the right path, met a woman named “Flibbertigibbet” a tall, slender woman that had multiple arms. Flibbertigibbet was very talkative and friendly, always trying to strike up a conversation. She spoke in a language that sounded like a mix of gibberish and baby talk. She was a chef and was always carrying a pot and a spoon, but she also had a dark side, she was known to be a bit of a manipulator and a spy, always observing and gathering information for a mysterious organization. She was wearing a big chef hat and apron.

As the group met back at the fork, they were surprised to find that Sproink and Flibbertigibbet had also met there. The four new characters joined the group, and together they continued their journey to find the “Key of Quirks”. Along the way, they met two more characters;

They met a man named “Gibber” who was a tall, gaunt man with elongated limbs and fingers. He was always speaking in a language that sounded like a mix of gibberish and numbers. He was a mathematician and a scientist, always working on complex equations and theories. He was known to be a bit of a loner, and didn’t interact much with others. He was wearing a lab coat and goggles.

They also met a woman named “Glimmer” she was a short, plump woman with a shimmering skin that seemed to change color depending on the light. She was always speaking in a language that sounded like a mix of gibberish and poetry. She was an artist and a performer, always creating and performing in different shows. She was known to be a bit of a flirt and a bit of a drama queen. She was wearing a colorful and eccentric clothing, such as a flowy dress and a large hat adorned with feathers.

As the group journeyed on, they encountered more characters, each one with their own unique quirks and personalities. They met a variety of people, some friendly and some not so friendly, but all of them adding to the mysterious and unknown nature of the Land of the Quirks.

As the group reached the end of their journey and found the “Key of Quirks”, they realized that the key was not just a physical object but a symbol of acceptance and embracing individuality. They learned that the true key to leaving the Land of the Quirks was understanding and accepting the quirks of oneself and others.

The group had a bittersweet goodbye with their new friends, Sproink, Flibbertigibbet, Gibber and Glimmer, and the other characters they had met. They knew that they would always carry a piece of the Land of the Quirks with them and would always remember the mysterious and eccentric adventure they had.

“AND NOW ABOUT EMMA”

and a mystery about George

 

I had overlooked this interesting part of Barbara Housley’s “Narrative on the Letters” initially, perhaps because I was more focused on finding Samuel Housley.  But when I did eventually notice, I wondered how I had missed it!  In this particularly interesting letter excerpt from Joseph, Barbara has not put the date of the letter ~ unusually, because she did with all of the others.  However I dated the letter to later than 1867, because Joseph mentions his wife, and they married in 1867. This is important, because there are two Emma Housleys. Joseph had a sister Emma, born in 1836, two years before Joseph was born.  At first glance, one would assume that a reference to Emma in the letters would mean his sister, but Emma the sister was married in Derby in 1858, and by 1869 had four children.

But there was another Emma Housley, born in 1851.

 

From Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

“AND NOW ABOUT EMMA”

A MYSTERY

A very mysterious comment is contained in a letter from Joseph:

“And now about Emma.  I have only seen her once and she came to me to get your address but I did not feel at liberty to give it to her until I had wrote to you but however she got it from someone.  I think it was in this way.  I was so pleased to hear from you in the first place and with John’s family coming to see me I let them read one or two of your letters thinking they would like to hear of you and I expect it was Will that noticed your address and gave it to her.  She came up to our house one day when I was at work to know if I had heard from you but I had not heard from you since I saw her myself and then she called again after that and my wife showed her your boys’ portraits thinking no harm in doing so.”

At this point Joseph interrupted himself to thank them for sending the portraits.  The next sentence is:

“Your son JOHN I have never seen to know him but I hear he is rather wild,” followed by: “EMMA has been living out service but don’t know where she is now.”

Since Joseph had just been talking about the portraits of George’s three sons, one of whom is John Eley, this could be a reference to things George has written in despair about a teen age son–but could Emma be a first wife and John their son?  Or could Emma and John both be the children of a first wife?

Elsewhere, Joseph wrote, “AMY ELEY died 14 years ago. (circa 1858)  She left a son and a daughter.”

An Amey Eley and a George Housley were married on April 1, 1849 in Duffield which is about as far west of Smalley as Heanor is East.  She was the daughter of John, a framework knitter, and Sarah Eley.  George’s father is listed as William, a farmer.  Amey was described as “of full age” and made her mark on the marriage document.

Anne wrote in August 1854:  “JOHN ELEY is living at Derby Station so must take the first opportunity to get the receipt.” Was John Eley Housley named for him?

(John Eley Housley is George Housley’s son in USA, with his second wife, Sarah.)

 

George Housley married Amey Eley in 1849 in Duffield.  George’s father on the register is William Housley, farmer.  Amey Eley’s father is John Eley, framework knitter.

 

On the 1851 census, George Housley and his wife Amey Housley are living with her parents in Heanor, John Eley, a framework knitter, and his wife Rebecca.  Also on the census are Charles J Housley, born in 1849 in Heanor, and Emma Housley, three months old at the time of the census, born in 1851.  George’s birth place is listed as Smalley.

 

 

On the 31st of July 1851 George Housley arrives in New York. In 1854 George Housley marries Sarah Ann Hill in USA.

 

On the 1861 census in Heanor, Rebecca Eley was a widow, her husband John having died in 1852, and she had three grandchildren living with her: Charles J Housley aged 12, Emma Housley, 10, and mysteriously a William Housley aged 5!  Amey Housley, the childrens mother,  died in 1858.

 

Back to the mysterious comment in Joseph’s letter.  Joseph couldn’t have been speaking of his sister Emma.  She was married with children by the time Joseph wrote that letter, so was not just out of service, and Joseph would have known where she was.   There is no reason to suppose that the sister Emma was trying unsuccessfully to find George’s addresss: she had been sending him letters for years.   Joseph must have been referring to George’s daughter Emma.

Joseph comments to George “Your son John…is rather wild.” followed by the remark about Emma’s whereabouts.  Could Charles John Housley have used his middle name of John instead of Charles?

As for the child William born five years after George left for USA, despite his name of Housley, which was his mothers married name, we can assume that he was not a Housley ~ not George’s child, anyway. It is not clear who his father was, as Amey did not remarry.

A further excerpt from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

Certainly there was some mystery in George’s life. George apparently wanted his whereabouts kept secret. Anne wrote: “People are at a loss to know where you are. The general idea is you are with Charles. We don’t satisfy them.” In that same letter Anne wrote: “I know you could not help thinking of us very often although you neglected writing…and no doubt would feel grieved for the trouble you at times caused (our mother). She freely forgives all.” Near the end of the letter, Anne added: “Mother sends her love to you and hopes you will write and if you want to tell her anything you don’t want all to see you must write it on a piece of loose paper and put it inside the letter.”

In a letter to George from his sister Emma:

Emma wrote in 1855, “We write in love to your wife and yourself and you must write soon and tell us whether there is a little nephew or niece and what you call them.”

In June of 1856, Emma wrote: “We want to see dear Sarah Ann and the dear little boy. We were much pleased with the “bit of news” you sent.” The bit of news was the birth of John Eley Housley, January 11, 1855. Emma concluded her letter “Give our very kindest love to dear sister and dearest Johnnie.”

It would seem that George Housley named his first son with his second wife after his first wife’s father ~ while he was married to both of them.

 

Emma Housley

1851-1935

 

In 1871 Emma was 20 years old and “in service” living as a lodger in West Hallam, not far from Heanor.  As she didn’t appear on a 1881 census, I looked for a marriage, but the only one that seemed right in every other way had Emma Housley’s father registered as Ralph Wibberly!

Who was Ralph Wibberly?  A family friend or neighbour, perhaps, someone who had been a father figure?  The first Ralph Wibberly I found was a blind wood cutter living in Derby. He had a son also called Ralph Wibberly. I did not think Ralph Wibberly would be a very common name, but I was wrong.

I then found a Ralph Wibberly living in Heanor, with a son also named Ralph Wibberly. A Ralph Wibberly married an Emma Salt from Heanor. In 1874, a 36 year old Ralph Wibberly (born in 1838) was on trial in Derby for inflicting grevious bodily harm on William Fretwell of Heanor. His occupation is “platelayer” (a person employed in laying and maintaining railway track.) The jury found him not guilty.

In 1851 a 23 year old Ralph Wibberly (born in 1828) was a prisoner in Derby Gaol. However, Ralph Wibberly, a 50 year old labourer born in 1801 and his son Ralph Wibberly, aged 13 and born in 1838, are living in Belper on the 1851 census. Perhaps the son was the same Ralph Wibberly who was found not guilty of GBH in 1874. This appears to be the one who married Emma Salt, as his wife on the 1871 census is called Emma, and his occupation is “Midland Company Railway labourer”.

Which was the Ralph Wibberly that Emma chose to name as her father on the marriage register? We may never know, but perhaps we can assume it was Ralph Wibberly born in 1801.  It is unlikely to be the blind wood cutter from Derby; more likely to be the local Ralph Wibberly.  Maybe his son Ralph, who we know was involved in a fight in 1874, was a friend of Emma’s brother Charles John, who was described by Joseph as a “wild one”, although Ralph was 11 years older than Charles John.

Emma Housley married James Slater on Christmas day in Heanor in 1873.  Their first child, a daughter, was called Amy. Emma’s mother was Amy Eley. James Slater was a colliery brakesman (employed to work the steam-engine, or other machinery used in raising the coal from the mine.)

It occurred to me to wonder if Emma Housley (George’s daughter) knew Elizabeth, Mary Anne and Catherine (Samuel’s daughters). They were cousins, lived in the vicinity, and they had in common with each other having been deserted by their fathers who were brothers. Emma was born two years after Catherine. Catherine was living with John Benniston, a framework knitter in Heanor, from 1851 to 1861. Emma was living with her grandfather John Ely, a framework knitter in Heanor. In 1861, George Purdy was also living in Heanor. He was listed on the census as a 13 year old coal miner! George Purdy and Catherine Housley married in 1866 in Eastwood, Nottinghamshire ~ just over the county border. Emma’s first child Amy was born in Heanor, but the next two children, Eliza and Lilly, were born in Eastwood, in 1878 and 1880. Catherine and George’s fifth child, my great grandmother Mary Ann Gilman Purdy, was born in Eastwood in 1880, the same year as Lilly Slater.

By 1881 Emma and James Slater were living in Woodlinkin, Codnor and Loscoe, close to Heanor and Eastwood, on the Derbyshire side of the border. On each census up to 1911 their address on the census is Woodlinkin. Emma and James had nine children: six girls and 3 boys, the last, Alfred Frederick, born in 1901.

Emma and James lived three doors up from the Thorn Tree pub in Woodlinkin, Codnor:

 

Emma Slater died in 1935 at the age of 84.

 

IN
LOVING MEMORY OF
EMMA SLATER
(OF WOODLINKIN)
WHO DIED
SEPT 12th 1935
AGED 84 YEARS
AT REST

Crosshill Cemetery, Codnor, Amber Valley Borough, Derbyshire, England:

 

Charles John Housley

1949-