Mini Brain Dumps

Hello everyone! I’m so excited to share with you all a sneak peek into my latest project. I originally got the idea for this novel while reading an article about the ocean, ghost ships, and snotsicles (yes, these are real and can be found in Antarctica—they’re not just what happens when your snot freezes to your face in winter like I originally thought). Isn’t it weird where we get our inspirations from?

This truly has been a labor of love, and I can’t wait for you to read it.

Summary

In the quaint town of Mareille, young Quentin is torn between the simplicity of his life on the farm and the call of the sea. Raised by his mother, who runs the family farm, Quentin finds comfort in the fields. Yet his heart yearns for something more than Marielle… something bigger, better, different.

As Quentin grapples with his desire to explore the world beyond Mareille, he is caught between his duty to his family and the farm, and following his dreams. He must make a choice that will change his life forever; stay or go?

Will he risk everything to chase his dreams?

Trigger Warning: This novel contains references to sexual assault and mental health disorders. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 1:

Quentin had been born in a small port town known as Marielle. It was there that he had been raised among the cadence of rural existence. His mother, Eleanor, a born-and-raised Mariellien, had inherited the family homestead from her parents when they passed, the same one that had been in the family for nearly a century.

Eleanor had been an only child, but her father had raised her to be the son he never had. Her skills in working the farm and tending to the land had been unmatched, even managing to coax the seeds from the ground despite the droughts that plagued the summer months.

Thomas, Quentin’s father, had met Eleanor one day at the town port, where she had caught his eye while haggling fiercely with one of his best mates. Her spirit, despite her domesticated lifestyle, had been as free and roaming as the ocean that Thomas had learned to love, and she had been almost as unpredictable. They had fallen in love, and soon they had married. Quentin had come along shortly afterward, a union of both the land and the sea.

Quentin’s life had been the picturesque rural existence, each day unfolding in a predictable rhythm that had only been punctuated by the occasional holiday, birthday, or anniversary. On some occasions, sailors had docked at the port, flooding the town with a flurry of activity as merchants and sailors embarked on land to sell their wares and treasures. Those had been Quentin’s favorite days.

When he had been young, Thomas had taken Quentin onto The Tempest, the ship he worked on, and for hours Quentin had pretended he was the captain, shouting orders from the helm. Other times, he had helped the crew carry buckets to their stalls or stared longingly at the distant horizon from the bow of the ship. And Thomas had leaned against the railing, watching his son proudly.

Other times, Quentin had ventured out to the market with his mother. As they had made their way from stall to stall, he had beheld the treasures in front of him—necklaces, crystals, gold coins… Everything had seemed ancient, filled with secrets waiting to be discovered. Sometimes, the merchants had told the stories of the artifacts, and Quentin had listened wide-eyed in fascination as the tales unfolded before him.

On one of these occasions, Quentin’s eye had been captured by a beautiful toy ship carved from oak. Its intricate details and smooth surface had been masterfully crafted by the whittler. He had reached out his hand, running his fingertips over the small boat. And, to his astonishment, his mother had purchased it for him. He had kept it on his nightstand, admiring it each night before bed, imagining the day he might have a ship of his own.

One day, Thomas had headed out in the early hours of the morning to work. He had been set to be gone for a couple of weeks, as was typical. Days had gone by in which Quentin had sat on the wooden steps of their quaint cottage, staring at the well-beaten dirt road that led to their home, waiting for his father to return. Sometimes, Eleanor had joined him, and they had played cards until the sun had set. and had run down the narrow cobblestone streets, reaching the ports breathless. Her eyes had scanned the crowd, searching for the familiar face of her husband, but she had not found him among the throng of people that had gathered, as was their tradition for Thomas’s return.
Instead of Quentin’s father, though, it had been a man with curly salt-and-pepper hair and a splash of matching stubble who had approached them. Eleanor’s eyes had lit up when she saw him, recognizing the man as one of Thomas’s crewmates. She had run to him, asking about Thomas’s whereabouts. But as she had met his eyes and seen the solemn look on his face, her heart had dropped into her stomach.

The sea had always been a cruel mistress, and fate had decided that Thomas would meet his untimely demise at the hands of that which he had loved so much.

Eleanor had collapsed to her knees, clutching Quentin to her chest tightly as tears had flowed freely down her cheeks. The man had gathered them both in his arms, hugging them tightly as he, too, had wept for the loss of Thomas. Quentin had felt like he was going to suffocate with how tightly the two of them had held him. He had been too young to understand what was happening at the time.

As the days had turned to weeks, and weeks into months, Quentin had slowly learned that his father was never coming back. His mother had tried to explain what death was to him, but it had made no sense. His dad wouldn’t leave him. His dad was on his ship, working, and soon he would return and bring him a toy or trinket from his travels, just like he always had. His father would not abandon him.

And so, Quentin had sat on the front steps of their home every night, staring at the well-beaten dirt road, hoping that one day his father would appear again. On the first day, he had perched on the step, waiting until the sun had set and a chill had settled in the air. He had been shivering profusely by the time he had made his way inside to warm his bones by the family hearth.

The second day had unfolded the same. And the third. And the fourth. On the fifth day his mother joined him, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders and pulling him closely. It was then that Quentin wept. His father never returned.

The years passed by, and with it, Quentin’s heart slowly healed, the gaping wound that ripped apart his chest began mending itself until the pain became dulled and manageable. Its presence still lingered in the darkest corners of his mind, rearing its ugly head whenever he saw the empty space where his father should’ve been standing, but it was better. Easier.

His mother, however, had never truly recovered from the loss of her husband. The once fearless woman with a fiery spirit had been diminished to ashes. Her spark, once wild and free, now only flickered.

She had grown to fear the ocean. The fears grew further as Quentin began to get older, become more independent, and expressed interest in becoming a fisherman, or longing to explore the sea, to follow in his father’s footsteps. For Quentin, where fear should reside in his heart there lay an unquenchable desire to set sail on the sumptuous beast, a longing that seemed to pull him closer and closer despite his mother’s resistance.

A compromise was eventually reached between them. She bought Quentin a small rowboat but forbade him from venturing out into the ocean more than fifty feet from shore. It was not much, but it was something.

Those bouts on the water led to little reprieve for his wandering spirit, the pull of the sea and adventures awaiting him so close, yet so far away. Sometimes, he would close his eyes, feel the swaying of the boat, hear the lapping of the waves, and taste the briny air as he imagined the day that he discovered what lay beyond where the sky met the sea.

_____

As the light peeked through his drawn curtains, he rolled over and closed his eyes once more, hoping for a few more moments of sleep. His mother had different plans, though, banging pots and pans loudly in the kitchen as she prepared breakfast. Quentin opened his eyes slowly, grabbed his pillow, and pulled it over his head to stifle the noise.

“Quentin! Time to wake up,” his mother yelled.

A groan escaped from his throat as he threw the pillow to the side. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before swinging his feet over the side of the bed and getting ready for the day. He threw on a pair of jeans, a plain shirt, and a pair of brown boots—his typical attire for working in the fields and tending to the animals. He ran his hand through his dark hair in an attempt to straighten it—failing miserably in the process—before heading out for breakfast.

He was met with a plate of eggs and some toast. Plopping down at the table, he grabbed his fork and dug into the eggs. He took a big bite of his toast, relishing the buttery taste as he wiped his hand across his face.

His mother made a face and shook her head.

“What?” he asked through bites of food.

“You’re just like your dad, eating like it’s the first bit of food you’ve had in weeks,” she grabbed a cloth from the counter and tossing it at Quentin.

He smiled as he grabbed the towel, rubbing it across his face to clean up the food that had gotten onto his chin. “Can you blame me? Your cooking is amazing,” he threw the towel to the side and shoved another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. “Just remember to breathe.”
Quentin answered by shoving another heaping mound into his mouth and giving her a tight-lipped smile as he shook his head at her mockingly.

She rolled her eyes at him, a hint of a smile on her face, as she turned away and began clearing the dishes from the stove. Grabbing a cloth, she wiped the counter before placing the dishes in the sink. Quentin finished his breakfast, added his plate to the stack, and gave his mom a slobbering kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you,” he pulled away quickly to dodge the wet towel she tried to hit him with.

“Get to work.” She rubbed the spit from her cheek and shooed him away with a wave of her hand.

“I love you,” he yelled over his shoulder as he opened the door.

“Love you too,” she grumbled in return.

As he stepped over the threshold, he breathed in the crisp morning air, the tang of the sea filling his nose. The distant sound of birds singing their morning song and the rustling of leaves in the breeze filled his ears. His mother’s rocking chair creaked and groaned as he made his way down the front steps of the porch to begin his day of chores. He dragged his feet through the dew-covered grass as he walked to the barn.

He pulled the sliding door open, slipping inside as it shut behind him. He was met with the meowing of a dozen hungry cats as they eagerly approached him, rubbing against his legs with a force that threatened to knock him over. He smiled warmly at them, bent down to pat their heads, and rubbed a few chins before making his way past them. As he approached the cabinet, their meows became more insistent, their movements more erratic as they tripped over each other to get closer to him, demanding their breakfast.

The cabinet door opened with a creak as he reached in and grabbed the bag of food. He felt the weight of the bag in his hands as he walked over to the food dish—a discarded shallow tub—and filled it for his feline friends. As soon as the food clinked against the pan, the cats ducked their heads and began munching on the kibble, leaving him to
walk back to the cabinet alone, no longer an object of their affection.

Once the food was safely back in the cabinet, he grabbed the two-gallon buckets that were discarded nearby and made his way to the grain bin, where he filled them. He carried the buckets over to the cow’s pasture, slipped through the fence, and walked to the middle of the field where the wooden trough stood. The cows, much like the cats, herded around him and waited expectantly for their breakfast.

“How’s it going, ladies?” he asked.

The cows mooed at him in response.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He smiled, patting the brown and white cow, Daisy, on the head. The cow attempted to dip her head into his bucket as he did so. He pulled the bucket out of her reach and wagged his finger at her. “That wasn’t very nice.” That earned him another moo from Daisy.

As he poured the buckets into the manger, the cows descended on the trough. Quentin watched for a moment as they nibbled on their grain before making his way back to the fence, patting the cows’ sides as he passed. Still holding the buckets, he began the long trek to the well to collect fresh water for the animals.

The path was muddy, deep puddles stretching across the width of the road, forcing Quentin to walk on the grass or jump over them as he navigated his way down the all-too-familiar route. A storm had passed through last night, and despite the loud crackles of thunder and sharp flashes of lightning, he was grateful for the rain. It had been a dry year, and the crops needed it.

He approached the well and threw a large stone into the bucket to weigh it down before letting it descend into the dark depths below. As he reeled the water up, he looked out at the rolling fields of green feed and wildflowers, the butterflies flitting from petal to petal as their delicate wings flapped in the air. His gaze wandered, as it so often did, to the sliver of dark blue visible in the distance.

A flash of light on the horizon caught his eye. He blinked and shook his head to make sure he was not dreaming, but the light remained. His heart began to pound against his ribcage, and he nearly dropped his bucket back into the well. It was a ship.

He wound the handle quicker, pulling the now-full bucket from the rope. Despite the weight of the buckets, he felt light as a feather as he flew down the path, barely able to contain his excitement at the prospect of meeting with the merchants and sailors—of hearing their stories.

Quickly, he dumped the buckets of water into the pails for the animals and made quick work of his remaining chores. He mucked the stalls with determination, scattering new straw in armfuls. With an ax in hand, he chopped the wood in a fervor. He nearly broke a couple of eggs as he collected them from the chicken coop, his hands trembling with excitement as he finished the last of his chores.

As he entered the house, utterly exhausted, Quentin saw his mother nestled into her rocking chair, knitting a sweater. Her blonde hair, which was loose earlier that morning, was now tucked into a braid and swept to the side, likely to keep it out of her face as she tended to the household chores.

“Lucy stopped by,” his mother announced, placing her knitting in the basket at her feet.

“Seems there’s a broken fence near her house. She’s asked if you might lend a hand.”

Quentin could barely contain his exasperation as his thoughts drifted toward the sails he had seen billowing in the wind, the allure of the bustling markets, and the tales that awaited him there.

“But the markets today…” Quentin groaned.

His mom shot him a pointed glare. “Don’t give me that tone,” she clucked. “Go help your lovely fiancée.”

“She’s not my fiancée,” Quentin mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else, as he dragged his feet over the threshold.

As he made his way toward Lucy’s house, his mind drifted. He had known Lucy since he was twelve years old. Her father had moved to Marielle with her after her mother passed away, and they had immediately become inseparable.

They had spent their days following the butterflies through the nearby woods, playing hide and seek, or even roughhousing in the mud. One time, they had come back home covered from head to toe in dirt, and her dad had thrown them into the ocean to clean them off.

He passed by Marielle’s central square, where the air buzzed with the vibrant energy of merchants hawking their wares. Colorful stalls lined the cobblestone streets, each one boasting an array of exotic goods from distant lands—shimmering silks from the Far East, intricately carved trinkets from the Northern Kingdoms, and spices that perfumed the air with their heady aromas.

Quentin caught sight of the Sunfire Festival preparations, with the village folk decorating the square with garlands of flowers and ribbons in anticipation of the upcoming celebration. The festival had always been a cherished tradition in Marielle, marked by the summer solstice. Sometimes, he thought it was just a big excuse to get together and eat, but he loved the holiday regardless.

In the distance, the towering spires of Marielle’s grand cathedral reached toward the sky. Quentin’s gaze lingered on the cathedral, its stained-glass windows, their light refracting and casting colorful patterns of light on the streets below it.
Beyond the square, emerald fields stretched out as far as the eye could see, their verdant expanse interrupted only by the occasional cluster of trees or meandering stream.

Lucy lived on the far western side of Marielle, but even as he trudged through the streets, he veered towards the ports to the east in hopes of catching a glimpse of the ships through the houses. As Quentin walked the familiar streets of Marielle, the distant call of the ocean echoed in his ears, beckoning him toward the horizon. He could taste the salt in the air and could almost feel the cool embrace of the ocean’s depths. But the bustling streets brought him back to reality, the sights and sounds of daily life pulling him from his reverie.

As he walked, the cobblestone streets echoed with the lively chatter of merchants and the clang of metal against metal as the blacksmiths plied their trade. The air was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and a blissful combination of herbs. But before he could lose himself in the thrum of the crowd, Quentin’s path veered off course, leading him down a familiar dirt road toward Lucy’s house.

Lucy was in her garden when Quentin approached. Her blond hair was bound in a loose braid that fell to the middle of her back. A few strands around her face had fallen out as they typically did when she was hard at work. She wore an apron over her light blue dress, which did little to help with the dirt that covered her. Streaks of mud ran across her forehead, as if she had brushed her hands across her face.

As he watched her silhouette, framed by the golden light of the late afternoon, Quentin couldn’t help but marvel at her effortless grace.

He leaned on the gate and watched her for a moment. He admired the way her hands moved, plucking weeds from the ground, and the way she mumbled to herself as she worked. The lines on her face and the slight furrowing of her brow were as familiar as the sun-kissed fields that surrounded Marielle.

“Hey,” he said after a moment.

Lucy started, her hand shooting to her chest as she turned to face him. “You scared me,” she chided playfully.

Quentin couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his mouth. He opened the gate and approached her. “Sorry, I can’t seem to help myself, you’re just too easy to scare”

“I am not!” she exclaimed, throwing a weed at him as he approached.

He laughed as he easily dodged the assault. Lucy rose to her feet, brushing the dirt from her apron. As she straightened, a few strands of her hair fell into her eyes. She quickly tucked them behind her ear.

“Here, you have a little something,” Quentin reached up to brush the dirt off her forehead.

Her skin was warm and soft beneath his fingertips. He let his hand linger for a moment before letting it fall to his side. He stepped away sheepishly.

There was a time when Quentin would have thought nothing of what he had just done, when brushing the dirt from Lucy’s face would have been no big deal, just a friendly thing to do. But it no longer felt that way. Ever since it was arranged that they would be married, every touch of hers felt like it held so much implication behind it. He hated it.
“Thank you.” Her cheeks were turning a bright shade of crimson as she looked down at her shoes as if they were the most interesting thing in the world.

In that moment, Quentin couldn’t help but wish for a simpler time when their relationship was unencumbered by expectations, when Lucy was merely a cherished friend and not a betrothed companion. And yet, as he could see a creep of a blush tinting Lucy’s cheeks, he tried to ignore the quickening of his heart. He stepped back, leaning against the storage shed.

“My mom said that you have a fence for me to fix,” Quentin ran his hands through his hair.

“Oh, yes!” Lucy’s head popped up and she began to walk briskly.

“Um… Betsy got out this morning,” she called over her shoulder as Quentin tried to catch up to her. “I was chasing her for hours to get her back in. I’d fix it myself but it’s more of…” She wiggled her hands in front of her, “a four-hand job.” It was more of a question than a statement.

“So, more like my mom saw you struggling and insisted I help?” Quentin cocked a brow at her. He already knew the answer.

“Sorry,” she seemed to shrink into herself a bit. “You know she would’ve found another reason for you to come here today.” “So, you’re using me, huh?” he shot her a crooked smile.

The blush on Lucy’s cheeks somehow got even brighter. “I might as well get some benefit from it, don’t you think?”

Quentin rolled his eyes. She wasn’t wrong. Leave it to Eleanor Hayes to play matchmaker. Quentin did like Lucy. They had known each other for years, had went to school together, faced the bullies of fourth grade together and made it out on top. Everyone wanted them to be together, sometimes Quentin did too, but he wasn’t sure if that was his heart telling him, or the weight of everyone else’s expectations. “It’s over here,” Lucy pulled open the gate and held it for Quentin. He bowed his head slightly as he passed through earning him a beloved eye roll in return. They headed north, to the large oak tree that they had played in as children.

As Quentin and Lucy approached the broken fence, he could see the clear reason why the brown-haired cow, Betsy, had gotten out. The sturdy wood beams, weathered by years of standing guard against the elements, had splintered and cracked under the weight of an errant branch from their beloved tree, which must have come loose in the storm the night before.

Quentin took a deep breath, surveying the damage with a furrowed brow. Splinters of wood lay scattered around the perimeter, and the fence posts had been uprooted from their once-sturdy foundation. So much for seeing the merchant’s today…

“I’m sorry, Quentin…”

“It’s okay,” Quentin cut in. He was used to it. And he very well couldn’t return home until he was done here.

“Well, let’s get to work,” he smacked his hands together in front of him.

He returned to Lucy’s backyard, grabbing a roll of sturdy wire and some wooden posts from the storage shed. He could feel the weight of the tools in his hands, the rough texture of the wire against his fingers. He lazily tossed them in circles as he made his way back to the fence. Lucy joined him, placing a pair of gloves on his head with a giggle. Quentin rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t hide the smirk that spread across his face as he pulled the gloves on.

He began carefully removing the damaged wood. Splinters scattered in his wake, and the earthy scent of freshly cut wood filled the air. With each swing of the hammer, the dull thud echoed through the field.

Meanwhile, Lucy busied herself with securing the fence posts, running wire between and around the poles, securing it with a nail. The hair she had tucked behind her ear came loose, dangling in front of her as it always did when she was focused.

They talked as they worked, as they always did, about the latest rumors spreading through Marielle, the weather, how her garden was doing. She always lit up when she spoke of her garden. It was pleasant enough, but even still, Quentin found that every so often, he would cast his gaze towards the ocean when he thought Lucy wouldn’t notice.
Overall, they had made quick work of the fence, but the sun was beginning to make its descent from the sky by the time they had finished.

Breathless and weary, Quentin and Lucy shared a moment of quiet satisfaction, their chests heaving with exertion. They exchanged a tired smile before walking back to Lucy’s house together, arms full of broken timbers. He deposited the broken beams into the wood pile so that they could be burned later, and Lucy put the tools in the shed.

“You should hurry if you want to make it to the market,” Lucy shouted from inside the shed.

“It’s fine, there’s always next time,” Quentin brushed his hair away from his eyes.

“We both know that is likely months away… Besides, I saw the way you kept staring at the port when you thought I wasn’t looking.” Lucy glanced up at him. “The fence is fixed. I’ll clean up the rest.”

He looked toward where he knew the ports lay, just barely hidden from sight. “Are you sure?” he turned back to Lucy.

She shot him a grin over her shoulder. “Bring me back something pretty.”

He returned her smile.

“I will.”

Your Thoughts Matter!

I would love to hear your thoughts on this first chapter. What did you think of the characters, the setting, and the overall feel of the story? Please leave your comments below. Your input will help shape the future of this project and ensure it’s the best it can be.

Thank you for taking the time to read and I can’t wait to hear from you!