ash & pen

Drifting bundle of algae, going wherever the seas take me. Frequent lurker, occasional writer.

[ashandpen]

Welcome to ash & pen

Welcome one and all!

Enter here for a collection of short fiction, musings, and whatever else my mood decides to create. Mostly, the plan is to post snippets of world building, and other bits of creative writing. So, if that sounds interesting please follow along on this journey as we delve into dungeons deep, mysterious forests, crumbling castles, and the occasional rant about the world.

[ashandpen]

I lived on a sailboat, for a time.

Recently, I've found myself missing it very much. Longing for the rock of the deck beneath my feet, and the sound of gentle waves lapping at the hull while I sit and read.

It's not always so glamerous as it seems, certainly not as much as social media makes it out to be. There's always work to be done, fixing this or cleaning that.

And living by the weather can take a toll. It's all fun and games lounging on the deck under the sun, feeling the sea breeze on your face. But being cooped up for, sometimes, days on end because of storms can get tiring.

But lately, for various reasons, I find myself daydreaming about being back on the water. I yearn for the freedom that living on a boat affords someone, especially a sailboat.

Having the ability to haul anchor and go, well, anywhere and everywhere is such a temptation. To cast of the ties of a house, of a typical job, and just...go.

I just hope that, one day, I can experience that again. Even if only for a little bit. To have the wind fill my sails and carry me away, to work together with nature to live a life that feels so connected to the world around me.

[ashandpen]

The Sea is an unforgiving home.

Waves wear away at stone, and salt air breathes rot into metal and timber.

A calm day can turn into horror at the drop of rain, and whitecaps can smooth to glass just the same.

Yet, the Sea sings a song summoning us home.

The rush of wind, crash of inviting swells, and the call of seabirds,

All speak to the bounty of the Sea.

It's inexplicable, a primordial draw to return from whence we came.

[ashandpen]

Lobtail

Once, there was a sword known as Lobtail.

It had been passed down through generations of the Weard family of the Misted Coast, Sea-Lords who had ruled the area for nigh on seven hundred years. The story goes that during a Long Night, a period of fierce storms which darkened the skies for several days at a time, a magnificent whale washed onto the rocky shores near an unnamed village.

The village mayor, upon learning of the beaching, ordered a group be sent out to harvest the whale. Beachings were a boon, providing oil and meat to sustain the village for months, and typically the townspeople would be very eager to harvest the dead whale. This night, however, the storm which had been raging for two straight days was reaching a climax which called for shoring up doors and windows and staying by the fire with a hot cup of tea and a pipe.

But the mayor was insistent, as he had increasingly become of late, and demanded that the whale be butchered despite the weather.

A small team of workers made their way to the beach, wrapped tightly in oilskin, to find that the sea had become a violent, roiling beast. Ahead of them, rocking back and forth in the storm-swollen waves, was the hulking shape of the whale.

Normally, they would have taken the time to carefully set out their gear, and to give thanks to the whale for the sustenance she would be providing to the village. But between the risk of the sea reclaiming the carcass, and the eagerness to return to their fires, the villagers quickly got to work.

Sharp, pelting rain and blustering wind threatened to knock them to the ground, or worse, into the unforgiving waters. Despite the cold and difficult work, the butchers almost finished their work without incident. A sneaker wave, rising suddenly from the swells and rushing the shore with much more force than the others, struck the body of the whale sweeping everyone who was not farther up the beach off their feet.

Among these was a young flenser, the daughter of the local innkeeper. As the wave crashed over her from behind, she found herself tumbled and bounced off the sea bottom. She surface a few times, struggling for breath, before being pull down and out into the freezing, darkened abyss.

A few of her comrades attempted to wade out into the waters to help, but barely survived being dragged to the depths themselves. With great sadness, they gathered the blubber, oil, and meat they had gathered and made they way solemnly back to the village.

Upon their return, dripping and full of anger for the loss of their friend, the flensers and other villagers demanded an audience with the mayor. Cornering him in the town hall, the sounds of shouting and bereaved weeping were enough to almost drown out the storm.

The mayor had few supporters, but the ones he had faithfully defended his decision to call for the butchering of the whale. They couldn't pass on the opportunity, they said, it was too important too the town. Think of the greater good, how long the resources from the whale would last them, they insisted. The price was, to them, worth it.

As the argument reached a crescendo of voices and fists slamming on tables, the door to the hall suddenly burst open. Wind rushed into the crowd, and rain soaked the cobbled floor of the entrance. Stepping in with all the anticipation of a looming wave, was the young flenser.

She was soaked head to toe, wet hair tangled and full of strands of seaweed. Her heavy oilskin coat had been lost, her woolen tunic and trousers torn from been tossed about sharp, barnacle covered rocks.

In her hand, she loosely held a short sword, edged on both sides. Its cross guard curved up towards the tip, and its pommel had the recognizable shape of a whale's fluked tail. In all, the blade was very modest, but the craftsmanship was undeniable.

The crowd went suddenly silent, everyone was turned to look at the young woman. Framed by the doorway, wind and rain lashing around her rugged appearance, she commanded the attention of all present.

"The sea took me," she spoke quietly, though her voice still cut through the sounds of the storm. "And by the will of the sea I have been returned." Stepping fully into the town hall, she shut the doors and dulled the howling of the wind.

She proceeded to tell of how she was dragged far, far out and down to the very floor of the ocean. She found herself amongst stars, fish that lit the impossible darkness with their bodies. Incredible pressure pressed against her and threatened to crush her, but as she was sure she would not be able to stand it any longer the pressure suddenly released. At the same moment, air filled her gasping lungs and the luminescent fish parted to create a path through the abyss.

Without knowing why, she followed the path, swimming just above the sandy bottom which teemed with endless forms of animal she had never imagined. At the end of the path, the sea floor dropped off into an even deeper chasm.

From those depths, she watched in awe as the specter of a massive whale rose to face her. Bigger than she had ever seen, bigger, even, than any fisherman's tale she had ever heard. The whale stopped her ascent directly in front of the young woman, and began a haunting melody.

The song, though certainly not in any language known to human ears, was clear in its meaning. The woman was not meant to die, instead she had been chosen by the sea for a purpose the whale would not yet disclose. The spectral whale had come to guide her back to the surface, so that she may pursue this destiny.

She found herself, as suddenly as waking from a dream, on the storm tossed shore. In her hand, she had found the fluked sword. As she made her way back to the village, she discovered she was not bothered by the storm, and the gusting wind was always at her back, urging her forward.

Her story was met with silence. All those gathered gaped in both awe and fear; it was unbelievable, though the sword in her hand made it undeniable.

The mayor was first to break the silence, offering an awkward laugh at the tale and conveying relief at the young woman's return. She had returned, surely there was nothing to argue about now.

But the woman's story had shaken the villagers. Who were they to defy the will of the sea? They all relied on the sea for their livelihood, and they revered the sea as their provider. It gave freely to those who were respectful, but would just as easily take from those who did not.

That night saw the mayor removed from his position, and the beginning of a new dynasty of Sea-Lords. No one remembers the young flenser's name, or that of the small village where she was raised, but they would all remember the name of that sword and the family who used it to conquer the Misted Coast.

Lobtail, the blade from the deep, and the Weard Lords who wielded it.

[ashandpen]

On Anxiety

I've always had a fair bit of anxiety. It haunts my days like a lurking creature, creeping about behind me and waiting until I'm least expecting. It works in subtle ways, and there are times I don't even realize it was there until days later as I reflect on awkward situations or why I had been feeling a certain way.

Most recently, I've realized I have a lot of anxiety about waiting. When there's the expectation of something, I will often retreat within myself and wait until that thing comes around: a dinner get together, an email I know is coming, etc. It can completely derail me, and make a whole day wasted.

I've also come to consider that, as odd as it seems, I get waiting anxiety when I'm waiting for myself. If I sit down to write, or read an important article, or try to work on my MA applications. That anxiety creeps up without me noticing and I procrastinate, hold off because I have that aching fear that something is coming and I need to be prepared for it.

Except, what I'm waiting for is getting started.

The build up of anticipation for getting started on a project coalesces into a constricting bundle of anxious energy that, ultimately, prevents me from doing much at all. Or, at best, causes me to agonize over details until I've spent much too long trying to get going rather than actually doing what I intended.

This is another thing I'm hoping ash & pen will help me accomplish: training myself to just do things.

Because I do want to create, to write and be active and generally break out of a shell of mulling over things to the point that they're almost meaningless.

So, here I am. Doing Things. This is the first true post I've fully written and posted in years, and hopefully the first of many. And, I promise, they won't all be vague expositions on my personal problems.

[ashandpen]

Statement on AI

Because of the world we live in, I would be remiss to not mention that absolutely no part of this blog will ever contain anything created using generative AI. Not only are the ethics of utilizing such programs scummy at best, their environmental impacts are not something that aligns with good stewardship and sustainability practices. So not only does AI software steal its 'content' from real people, it puts a massive drain our planet's resources.

ash & pen is, and always will be, produced by a person. Artists deserve credit, and their work always deserves to be viewed without fear that it will be co-opted for use in training a soulless resource sucking piece of thieving software.

[ashandpen]

Ten years.

That's the amount of years this blog has sat un-curated and neglected, simply a way to reblog/like other peoples' posts. Mostly worth it, some not, and lots just not relevant to myself any longer.

For years it was a wavering link between myself and a good friend (hello, if you still check Tumblr. Sorry I still suck at staying in touch).

I've given this rickety old blog a smattering of new paint and simple new name, to usher in (hopefully) a new era of actually using it to create rather than collect.

Wish me luck, I suppose, for whatever this ends up becoming.

[classichorrorblog]

The Thing Directed by John Carpenter (1982)