Chapbook: The Promise of Lies

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"I do believe you have a wound too. I do believe it is both specific to you and common to everyone. I do believe it is the thing about you that must be hidden and protected, it is the thing that must be tap danced over five shows a day, it is the thing that won't be interesting to other people if revealed. It is the thing that makes you weak and pathetic. It is the thing that truly, truly, truly makes loving you impossible. It is your secret, even from yourself. But it is the thing that wants to live."
- Charlie Kaufman

Excerpt - Luthar Cunningham's Monologue

LUTHER CUNNINGHAM: Good evening. You wouldn’t happen to still be serving breakfast at this hour, would you? I missed mine and would love nothing more than a chocolate crepe. With banana in it, if you got any. I’d kill for a good chocolate and banana crepe right about now. Gotta treat myself every now and then, don’t I? (Beat.) And you know I could stand to put on a few pounds as it is. Yeah, gotta fatten myself up for the winter. That’s what my mother would always tell me at least. ‘If I still see you all thin and scrawny like this by November I’ll have your ear off.’ Oh yep, yep. Lovely woman, she was. If not a little strict, but gotta have some discipline young, wouldn’t you agree?
(Short pause as he examines the reactions of those around him.)
Anyway, did you hear it was gonna be a cold one this year? I dunno how I’ll manage, frankly. I’m as good as frozen. Uh huh. The heater at my workplace is broken. Doesn’t sound like anyone’s gonna be able to fix it. At least not this year. How about that, huh? Well it’s no real harm. Some of my coworkers were saying they’ll be complaining to the boss. I don’t understand the need for whinging, to be frank. Just bring a coat to work and you’re done. (Beat, he examines the other’s reactions again.) You should consider yourselves lucky here, for sure. Oh yeah. Noticed the toastiness right away. And it always is nice, you know. Coming into a restaurant and store out of the cold. Oh! Best feeling in the world. Bar none. Haha. I joke of course. But you’ll be fine, I mean that bit. Yeah. Certainly beats having to stay late after work when everyone else has already got up and left. Yeah they complain about the cold but they don’t even bear the worst of it. Ha!
Grew up in the north of England, I did. Never had weather quite like this. They don’t have as nice of diners as there, for sure neither. Lovely country you all have here. Just gorgeous.

Believe it or not, I’ve been here for fifteen years—not here in this community but in Alberta—and I still just marvel at some of the sights. Went hiking for the first time a few years back. Can’t believe it had never occurred to me to do it before. Just lovely. Lovely place. Nothing like we have back in the UK. Not that I don’t miss it, you know. But if I could choose one place to stay for the rest of my life… well you know… this would be in the top twenty. Haha! I’m joking. I’m joking.
But really though, this is such a nice little diner. What must it be mottled after? Like a fifties style thing? Sixties? Ah well, you know it’s very cozy is what I’m saying. Smells lovely too. Before I came in I told myself ‘gotta eat healthy, now. Can’t spoil yourself too much.’ but I think that’s a bit easier said than done. Goes without saying really. Ha! As soon as I got a good whiff of the inside here—great God in heaven. No forces up there or down here could stop me from treating myself to an old craving of mine. My mother knew it too. She knew once I got a whiff I’d be drooling like a dog, sitting obediently at the table. Ha! Smart woman, she was.
(Beat.)
Noticed you’re only open ‘till about seven this evening. Folks around here actually follow those rules, right? Good, good. (Mutters something indistinctly for a second.) Wouldn’t wanna work you all anymore than you already have to. Rules are there for a reason after all. If my memory hasn’t all but left me yet, I do recall my father having to remind my dear old mom of that every time she drove even a little over the limit. ‘Too lenient on rules, y’are, women!’ he’d yell from the shotgun seat. And she was, often she was. Anyhow, don’t you worry, I’d count myself more like my father there. I’ll be out of your hair soon as I finish. You all work fast here? Oh don’t be modest. I’m sure it’ll be done in no time. You lot use fresh bananas here, I hope. Nothing less satisfying to bite into than a mushy banana. Oh, but once you get a nice good one and you scoop some of the chocolate on it, get a piece of the crepe on it too.

Oh Lord, I should stop myself. Look at me. I’m practically dying waiting here. Guess old habits die hard. Ha!
(Beat.)
Do anything interesting for fun ‘round here? No? Ah well. (Again mutters something indistinctly.) At the very least you’re working and that’s the most important thing, I’d say. And I say it cause it’s true, you know. How many of you got here working this time of night? Just three of ya, eh? (Mutters.) It’s at least nice you’re not here by your lonesome. Oh yeah. When I’m working late at the office all alone… you know I’m not a superstitious man but that place gives me the creeps. But you do the work cause it needs getting done, isn’t that right? Your parents ever tell you something like that? I can’t stand seeing parents mollycoddling their children like there’s no real world outside their playroom. Just ridiculous, that is. They’re lucky they didn’t grow up in my household. My Father wouldn’t allow any of that nonsense coddling. Not even a morsel, an iota, of an idea of being anything but a hard worker would be allowed to enter my brain. Well you know how fathers are. Can’t really be a man without one, now can you? Not that you’d know but. You know. Hell, just the other day I heard—and get this—someone at the office asking someone else to go to their house and pick up their dog’s shit. Can you believe that? And apologies for my french but come on. Those are the types of people that were certainly coddled. That’s why you need strong fathers to raise ya.
(Pause as he examines the others.)
Say uh. A-R-I-A-N-N-E.
Lovely name, really. Lovely name for a lovely face, I always say. You have any friends ‘round here, Arianne? I feel like everyone keeps to themselves so closed off it would do me good to hear about some sorta community beneath it all. Is that the case? (Beat.) How often you talk to ‘em? Really. Well you certainly shouldn’t be forced to talk every day. Not at all. And when you get as old as me you tend to understand when friends need their space. (Mutters again.)
Anyway, my order gonna be here soon, Arianne?

W

Writh’s hand brushed over the imperial war table. The smooth wood surface was so finely furnished that the light pooling into the tent bristled against it. Carved into the table was a detailed depiction of the fine figure of the western continent where Writh now resided.

The Free Archipelago, north from where he stood, had meticulous care crafted into each and every isle scattered along the chain. The slithering snake-like protrusion of Coilings Harbour slunk out in the east, making the name of the continent’s arm all the more apparent. The newly named Hound’s Reach, presented itself as prosperous forests, thick and lush, and the heart of them long cut out to make way for the infamous military training academies.

As dangerous and vile as the creatures of the surrounding Greywood forest were, it was said that soldiers in those academies were bred to be stronger. Their final assignment to be permitted to leave the grounds, was to cut through the forest themselves. Writh shivered at the thought. Growing up, he had heard stories of the Hound soldiers. Bloodhound and his taking of the Marshlands back from the Ghosts of the South. Wolf and his negotiations with the rogue pirates haunting the eatern coasts and Free Archipelago. Redbone and his last sacrifice during the Winter Solstice Siege. At the time they had seemed like distant things, myths, from a foreign land of conquest and battle. Still, he had gorged himself on these legends, seeking out new accounts like a starved traveller scouring the land for nourishment. The more twisted the tale, the more spice and seasoning was added to its original dullness to be made palatable, the more delicious a meal it made to his mind. Had he been told he would one day be the one to spin new yarn of the Hounds and the Imperator of Inquinline… Well, he’d have a hard time believing such a thing. Telling stories was always his greatest desire. And the thing about stories is that once they begin to be truthful, they cease to be stories.

The tent flap behind him brushed open.

A smile possessed his face as he looked down on the table before him. Typically, he tried to conceal such earnest emotions, but lately things seemed to be going so well that smiles came by themselves. All so small, he thought. His hands rested on the imperial capital, Meltinpot. All so small. All filled with liars, is what it was. Delusionals, obsessed with their beliefs, even if it meant lying to everyone including themselves. Above the map of liars, Writh stood, the most truthful man of them all.

“Ah, just the man I was looking for!” a voice piped. Writh turned to find who the voice belonged to. “You must accept my apologies for the long wait. Business with the fifth division is always so… much.” The man was a pale sight, as were most of the Inquinlines, he was finding. This one, however, bore a flush to his thin face which didn’t quite reach his ears. His brow was clearly moist, with thin black hair plastered to his skull. He wore a smile so plainly ingenuine it couldn’t convince a blind man. His words came out wrong, in lumps, like he wasn’t quite sure where he was going with his sentences until he stumbled and fell into them. Ah, the fifth was the reason I’m waiting. No other reasons at all.

Writh returned a smile with a hint of sardonicism which could only be picked up by someone with a clear mind. “You must be the Commander then.”

The man’s smile faded in sympathy. “I’m afraid not. The Commander has an errand to run.”

Excerpt - The Propagandist

W

Writh’s hand brushed over the imperial war table. The smooth wood surface was so finely furnished that the light pooling into the tent bristled against it. Carved into the table was a detailed depiction of the fine figure of the western continent where Writh now resided.

The Free Archipelago, north from where he stood, had meticulous care crafted into each and every isle scattered along the chain. The slithering snake-like protrusion of Coilings Harbour slunk out in the east, making the name of the continent’s arm all the more apparent. The newly named Hound’s Reach, presented itself as prosperous forests, thick and lush, and the heart of them long cut out to make way for the infamous military training academies.

As dangerous and vile as the creatures of the surrounding Greywood forest were, it was said that soldiers in those academies were bred to be stronger. Their final assignment to be permitted to leave the grounds, was to cut through the forest themselves. Writh shivered at the thought. Growing up, he had heard stories of the Hound soldiers. Bloodhound and his taking of the Marshlands back from the Ghosts of the South. Wolf and his negotiations with the rogue pirates haunting the eatern coasts and Free Archipelago. Redbone and his last sacrifice during the Winter Solstice Siege. At the time they had seemed like distant things, myths, from a foreign land of conquest and battle. Still, he had gorged himself on these legends, seeking out new accounts like a starved traveller scouring the land for nourishment. The more twisted the tale, the more spice and seasoning was added to its original dullness to be made palatable, the more delicious a meal it made to his mind. Had he been told he would one day be the one to spin new yarn of the Hounds and the Imperator of Inquinline… Well, he’d have a hard time believing such a thing. Telling stories was always his greatest desire. And the thing about stories is that once they begin to be truthful, they cease to be stories.

The tent flap behind him brushed open.

A smile possessed his face as he looked down on the table before him. Typically, he tried to conceal such earnest emotions, but lately things seemed to be going so well that smiles came by themselves. All so small, he thought. His hands rested on the imperial capital, Meltinpot. All so small. All filled with liars, is what it was. Delusionals, obsessed with their beliefs, even if it meant lying to everyone including themselves. Above the map of liars, Writh stood, the most truthful man of them all.

“Ah, just the man I was looking for!” a voice piped. Writh turned to find who the voice belonged to. “You must accept my apologies for the long wait. Business with the fifth division is always so… much.” The man was a pale sight, as were most of the Inquinlines, he was finding. This one, however, bore a flush to his thin face which didn’t quite reach his ears. His brow was clearly moist, with thin black hair plastered to his skull. He wore a smile so plainly ingenuine it couldn’t convince a blind man. His words came out wrong, in lumps, like he wasn’t quite sure where he was going with his sentences until he stumbled and fell into them. Ah, the fifth was the reason I’m waiting. No other reasons at all.

Writh returned a smile with a hint of sardonicism which could only be picked up by someone with a clear mind. “You must be the Commander then.”

The man’s smile faded in sympathy. “I’m afraid not. The Commander has an errand to run.”

“Ah,” Writh said. I must not be all that alluring. “I see. That can only mean you’re the Imperator, himself!”

Writh stifled a wince when he was met with an alarming amount of sweat to accompany the Sergeant’s hand. “Writh,” he offered, with a smile no longer genuine.

The man laughed politely and advanced to shake Writh’s hand. “Not yet, I’m not. But is that not the dream of every soldier this side of the Hound’s Reach? I’m Sergeant Varlin. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Extinguished? Writh asked himself. The Imperator can’t possibly expect to wipe out all the Southerners? Even the great Empire of Mourning sought to assimilate various peoples under their wings, and Inquinline doesn’t have nearly the same amount of power. If Inquinline wishes to destroy itself, there are more efficient ways then colliding in a never-ending war for extermination with the south. Then again, even the Empire of Mourning had to collapse in its grief, eventually.

“It is lovely to meet you, Writh.”

The silence which had interrupted the conversation was broken by Varlin. “Wait, all of them?”

The tent flap flipped open to another visitor, this one broader than the thin Sergeant to Writh’s side. A crumply cloak was slung over his massive shoulders. It flowed down his tall frame, somehow managing to reach the ground and collect grass and dirt, which became more obvious as it swished around him. Writh and Varlin were greeted with a glum face, apparently displeased with needing to duck through the tent’s entrance.

“Inquinline has faced threats from the southerners for far too long. Their meddlings have been a thorn in the side of the Imperators since the first Ghosts crossed the Swamp of Souls and invaded our borders. It has only been emboldened by that heathen Academy polluting its Chroschenn ideology. The last thing the Imperator wants is for that disease to be able to spread and infect the fine people of Inquinline.”

“Lord Ulquan!” Sergeant Varlin announced. His posture shifted to one of a soberer man, back straight, jaw squared. His right fist slammed against his heart and his left swung up beside his temple, the traditional Inquinline military salute. Writh might have done the same, if not for how ridiculous it looked.

“Yes, of course, Lord. But you’re asking for something that’s never been successfully pulled off. The Imperial Forces have never invaded that far south. We’ve never been able to capture the Sunbroke Mountains, Lord. The southerners know it too well.”

“Running an errand, Lord,” Sergeant Varlin said.

“Sergeant,” Lord Ulquan, grumbled in acknowledgement. He refused to meet the soldier’s eyes, instead surveying his surroundings, uninterested. “Where’s your Commander?”

Lord Ulquan grunted. “You’re the new Imperial Weaver,” he said, indicating Writh. It wasn’t a question.

“Is it your place to question the wishes of our Imperator, Sergeant?”

“That, I am. And how honored am I, to grace his Imperial Highness' military representative. No doubt the embodiment of everything his army has to offer. Call me Writh, if you would indulge me.” Writh gave him a better smile than he did Varlin.

Varlin’s gaze found a place to rest at his own feet. “No, Lord Ulquan.”

Something spread across Lord Ulquan’s face which wasn’t quite a smile. “And what a Weaver you’ll be. Sit, the both of you.” Ulquan stalked over to the far seat at the imperial war table as Writh and Sergeant Varlin both took their seats. “Sergeant, take careful note of everything said at this table so you can relay it to your Commander. Scratch it down if you have to.”

“Ah, no need. It’s all up here.” the Sergeant tapped his skull. Writh pitied him for the headache he’d have tomorrow.

Despite his initial shock, Wraith had to admit his attention was in Ulquan’s hands. He had suspected this war wasn’t going to end with the usual treaty, which would be silently broken all but four moons later. But to fully conquer the south? This was a tale to be heralded all across the world for the hearts of young children, inspiring them to grow up, join the military and die in the mud somewhere. This was what the bards would sing of for ages to come. This was history being written before his eyes. A few things nagged at him though. Perhaps he thought too highly of one of the most powerful men in the country, but to hear the same lies yelled from preachers in the street come from his mouth was all too disappointing. The lingering, oafish presence of Sergeant Varlin was no doubt what prevented the truth from escaping Ulquan’s lips. Everyone had their part to play in propping up the performance that Inquinline was but an innocent sitting jewel, before the thieving malignant Ghosts came to cross the Marshlands, trying to snatch it away.

“The latest generation of Hounds are nearly ready to slice through the Greywood and join us in our conquest,” Lord Ulquan divulged the news as one might report the birth of a cousin’s nephew’s third grandchild.

Ulquan nodded. “The Imperator wants them extinguished.”

Varlin chuckled. “Well I could’ve told you all that.”

“Very well,” Ulquan said. From this distance Writh could make out the finer details of the Lord’s leathery face. His patchy stubble speckled his square jawline. His brow protruded over his dark eyes. His hair was scraggly. All in all, he looked anything but fit to advise the ruler of the Inquinlines. “The southern campaign is moving along at a satisfactory pace. The morale of the soldiers is high, as is their success rate.” He pointed to where the Sunbroke mountains of the south jutted from the table. “In little time we’ll have them backed against a wall. They’ll be forced to run for the hills once more, retreating back to their homes beyond the mountains.”