The Inkwell presents: A Literary Mixtape II

By The Inkwell

So many songs are simply stories wrapped in notes and put out there to wrench at our hearts, drive up our passions, and fill us with wonder. Is it a surprise that writers have drawn on the inspiration they provide, used them to stoke the fires of creativity, or simply sunk back into the rhythms to clear their minds? Stirred by the sounds of generations, we weave them into the tales within.

So, what more is there to ask than - Will you join us and hear what they have to say?

Anything, Anyone - Being king isn't all it's cracked up to be
Oak and Ash and Thorn - Willow learns more about herself than she bargained for helping her mother
Takes Two to Tango - In the middle of the dance floor, all is revealed
Boredom's Escalation - Certain people should never be left with time on their hands
A Story of Ashes - There are songs that last forever, and there are those that need to die
Count to Ten - Leo's coping mechanisms need some serious work
Tags 'n' Bags - Doing the job right sometimes means doing it wrong
Chosen - A father and son rush to investigate a light in the sky
Knockdown - Victory over a compatriot always comes at a price
The Dying Song - Some conversations can only be had after the fact
3 AM - In the depths of night, memories rise to taunt us
The Last Bastion - Ophelia learns her future is not yet written from an unlikely source.
A Devil Set Aside - A mother is forced to face her past to save her son's future

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Inkwell
• Release date: Jun 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215193716

The Inkwell

We are a writing collective founded on Discord that currently includes 20+ writers all helping each other on the climb to completed works.

Book preview

Anything, Anyone

Written by H.K. Visser

The stairs passed under my feet, fluid and surreal like a tumbling river. Skipping them one and two at a time, I artfully ignored my persistent shadow. That was until the stairs leveled out into a narrow landing, and it became obvious avoidance was no longer among my options.

This is not a laughing matter.

Yaren Lancaster’s brazen voice broke the comfortable silence in the uppermost tower of Rivenmere Hall. It was that silence I had sought, but I doubted I would find it again until Yaren delivered the speech he had undoubtedly prepared while trailing me from the Middle Courtyard.

A man is only as great as his worst moment.

I chased the words out of my head with a deep breath of the parched Rivenmere air. Turning halfway around, I demanded pleasantly, Who is laughing?

Yaren was not so pleasant. They are. At you, he snapped, flinging a wide gesture towards the open window. Through it, I could still hear the uproar, and it made my skin crawl. I would have been tempted to slam it shut if not for the convincing breeze going swish, hush through the trees outside. Memory stirred in its wake, and my mind drifted back to the University. Given the chance, I would have stayed forever within the quiet safety of its gardens.

But no such fortune was beholden to me, by any means. Yaren made that perfectly clear when he fetched me from my solitude with four simple words. 

Your father is dead.

That was a disaster, my attendant reiterated, forcibly returning my attention to the sitting room. Door met jamb with some force, speaking volumes of his anger. Or was that disappointment? I’d never had much luck telling them apart. I have witnessed the crowning of seven separate princes from as many kingdoms in my time, and not one has gone so abysmally wrong.

That may be so, I conceded, scratching a bit of drying ink from my arm, but I could hardly expect them to love me. Not after my father passed so suddenly. Casting a loose, mocking gesture towards myself, I added, "I’m an ill omen. I was born under the wrong stars, remember? So every blame in every matter tumbles down on my head."

Yaren sputtered a religious oath. They’ve named you a usurper, he warned, lingering by a small table boasting a towel, an amphora of lukewarm water, and a footed basin. You understand what that means? We have work to do. A lot of work to make you a prince in their eyes. 

Without my consent, a little hiss of laughter spurted past my lips. I never will be. As much of my heart as I feed to this kingdom, I will never have the love my father did.

My lord… Yaren muttered, slinging the towel over his shoulder, and emptying the amphora into the basin. The edge of warning was hidden—albeit poorly—by an overcoat of exhaustion. 

If they doubted my loyalty to Rivenmere, I continued, loud enough to cut off anything else he planned to say, all they needed to do was ask for blood. I wouldn’t mind, Yaren. 

He snorted. I mind. It’s barbaric. Sit down.

A bench cradled the wall beside the window, and stretching out over its length, I sighed. If nothing else could be said for the day, it had been long, and I was grateful to get off my feet. Can it truly be considered barbaric if our forefathers practiced it for centuries before us? Then, hearing my own words, I grimaced. My forefathers had a nasty habit of spilling a half-pint of their own blood on the stones at the base of Rivenmere Tower, just to prove they had it. Commitment, my grandfather called it. A sacred ritual. The gods were meant to see the heart behind the sacrificial blood, and smite those deemed unworthy of Rivenmere’s seat. My grandfather’s grandfather was the last to enact the ritual, but men of my bloodline were known to romanticize the tradition as if they partook of it. 

Closing my eyes so I couldn’t see Yaren’s face, I added, Don’t answer that. 

I wasn’t planning on it, my retainer replied. His presence intensified as he approached, and the chilling touch of the wet towel made me flinch. But my discomfort held no authority over Yaren’s will, and the sensation continued until my face, at least, was cleansed of ink.

Grunting his satisfaction, Yaren strode across the room. 

Fear kills the mind. I do not grant it the right of control over me.

I opened my eyes, just enough to watch Yaren select the chair closest to the door and sit. 

We need to discuss what happens if they murder you.

I took a breath before dignifying his bluntness. I’ve named an heir, I said, measuring my tone to prevent cracking my dignity. The High Prince has approved it. Rivenmere would be in good hands. Safe hands.

No, Yaren said tonelessly. "What happens to you."

Even if I were affronted by his question, I had no choice but to hide it. There was no place for hysterics in the same room as politics. Turning to face the wall, I mumbled, Oh.

Yaren waited, his silence sitting as heavily on me as his words. You are my retainer, I wanted to snap. My advisor. You tell me what I am supposed to do.

Oh, I don’t reckon it matters, I said at last, returning my gaze to the empty chairs in the middle of the room. I will be dead, you see. What happens to my body afterward is of no importance to me.

Though I could not see Yaren’s face from where I lay, I practically heard the wry lift of his eyebrow when he spoke. So, I will organize a state funeral for you, then.

I sat up so abruptly my head swam. Absolutely not! 

My attendant’s laugh was without humor. Cheeks flooding with color, I threw myself from the bench and into a fit of agitated pacing. "I will not be carried through the streets on a litter, with all that awful pomp and circumstance. They will spit on my corpse as the procession passes, no doubt. And then there is the burning. Seven days, seven nights? It’s ridiculous, and I won’t have it."

I thought it was of no importance to you.

I paused, supporting myself on the back of one of the chairs. I would be content, I managed, to simply die and have done with it.

That, Yaren sighed, his arrogance melting away, is not enough. You are obligated to fulfill the expectations of nobility, regardless of how they feel about you.

Fine, I hissed, "do what you must. Just not the state funeral."

Why not?

Irritation slicked my words. I hate repeating myself. 

You don’t like the spectacle, he concluded. But you will be remembered, my lord. One way or another.

Oh, yes, I mused, fighting to keep my tone from becoming scathing. A kingdom’s peace began in the heart of its Prince, after all. Or so I had heard. I do not doubt you will make certain of that.

I am prepared to offer you a deal, my advisor announced, gesturing to the chair. Sit.

Settling into the cushions, I performed my best mockery of his expressive brows. What do you have in mind, then?

When you die, you will have a state funeral. Or, he held up a finger to silence my budding protest, you are immortalized. A portrait, a statue to stand as a beacon of circumstance for generations to come, something.

Snapping my fingers, I sprang back to my feet. That. That’s it.

Really, Yaren mused, half a startled expression cutting his face. 

Yes, I insisted. Carve my effigy from… from….

Marble, Yaren supplied. 

Gods, no, I snorted, waving a dismissive hand. Think of the expense. Hollow bronze, at best.

Bronze, he repeated, cradling his brow.