The Inkwell presents: The Lies We Live

By The Inkwell

Each month, the community chooses a prompt, and those interested are tasked to write a tale of no more than 2,500 words. This time around, we tasked our writers to examine the façades they and their characters present to the world. Especially those that run contrary to our real selves, the ones that we are afraid of becoming.

It’s a truth universally accepted that few of us show the world our truest selves. Instead, we hide behind façades, showing only that which we’re willing to share. And at our worst, the image we portray is nothing like the person underneath. Is it any wonder we occasionally fear becoming what the world perceives?

Given that ominous sentiment, the question is —what do others see when they interact with you?

The Last Refuge - Sealed beneath the earth, the mystery of what's above results in a change of leadership
Retch - Faced with trapping another in the life she lives, a cult member takes action
Urban Renewal - How close is the line between pretending and accepting your biases?
Wild is the Heart - Trapped between worlds, Shortclaw must choose between duty and love
Forbidden Knowledge - Once the line from focus to obsession is crossed, all of reality is at risk
I'm Not Afraid - As the waters rise, fear cannot be allowed to win

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Inkwell
• Release date: Feb 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224210091

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

The Last Refuge

Written by Bianca Queenton

It’s the day of the ritual, exactly one week since the last, the closest thing to clockwork their home has.

Henry’s legs burn and tremble, but he knows better than to break position. Standing rigid beside his father, the electrical hum from the bunker’s door infects his mind until all he hears is static. They’ve been here for hours, the pair standing, the other three sitting before them. 

Abigail shifts and whimpers–she’s always been more sensitive to hunger than the rest–but no one soothes her. Still, Henry knows the sound affects Charlotte, sees it in the way her muscles tighten and jaw clenches.

This always takes longest when it’s Charlotte’s turn, but his father doesn’t rush her, and so neither does Henry, who wears the scars of his past insolence on his forearms and face. 

He wills his mind to be stronger than his body, just as his father moulds it to be.

Abigail begins crying, soft and muffled, the hitch of her breath apologetic as she tries calming herself. The sound weighs heavy on his resolve, cracks it, but when Henry reaches for her, it’s Felicia’s hand he encounters, the woman smacking him away to keep him in place without his father having to say a word.

The shame in his belly ignites, sets him aflame, and it only burns worse when he realizes the action draws Charlotte away from her rebellion, her pretence of strength shattered.

The door protects us from what the world has become, Charlotte says, voice hoarse, small, and Henry bows his head, same as the others—the ritual set in motion. 

It keeps us safe, they reply. 

It shields us from the consequences of the world’s sins, she says. 

It shields us, they echo, and Henry clenches his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as his insides squirm at the reverence in his father’s voice. 

We are grateful for the metal, for the bolts, for the locks that prevent temptation, that remind us where we belong.

We are grateful.

Charlotte stands on unsteady legs, and Henry aches to hold his hand out to steady her.

Of course, he doesn’t move. No one but Charlotte does.

She takes a step forward, then another, and he hears Abigail whispering beneath her breath, relieved, thankful that Charlotte’s finally done her part and put the ritual in motion. Henry wants her to shut up, but she’s the youngest, the favourite, and he knows it isn’t her fault. She’s the product of Felicia and Father’s upbringing.

Counting Charlotte’s steps, Henry’s stomach tightens, his heartbeat throbbing against his throat. They’ve done this enough times that he’s familiar with her hesitation, knows how long it takes her to reach out, to look at his father, to touch cool, vibrating metal against her palm.

We are grateful, they say in unison, hushed so as not to mask her scream.

❖❖❖

I think it hurts you more than the others, Henry says from his spot cramped beneath Charlotte’s cot, listening to it creak above him as she shifts, unable to get comfortable.

It does, she says, matter-of-fact. Henry ignores the way her voice trembles; their friendship is built on ignoring each other’s pain and pretending they’re stronger than they are. The longer we wait, the higher he sets the voltage. Or it might be automatic, programmed right into the door’s mechanics at the bunker’s creation–the longer it goes without being activated, the more electricity flows through it– 

If it’s worse the longer you wait, then why– 

Because she’s horrible, that’s why, Felicia hisses from her nearby cot. Because she hates us and hates herself, wants to punish and starve us, wants the door to kill her. I keep telling Father–don’t think I don’t–I tell him he should just shove her out there and let the monsters get her, get it all over with.

Felicia is oldest, almost Henry’s father’s age, and Henry doesn’t dare speak out against her. Biting his tongue, he reaches his fingers through the bars holding the flimsy mattress up, pressing them against Charlotte’s back, letting her know he’s on her side. Her arm dangles down and he laces their fingers together, presses their joined hands to his forehead, hoping she forgives his silence. 

Charlotte doesn’t squeeze back, his apology rejected, and the taste of betrayal is thick and heavy as it rises from the back of his throat.  

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