Liam Hayes

can't

your

thinking

way

problem.

of 

the

think

this

is

You

Mighty seagull

Mean eyes of

Secret bird knowledge

Beak red

From eating

Her ripe peaches bounced on the slick floor. Melons spilled out and rolled towards the isles. Semi-skimmed milk sprayed everywhere.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, helping her pick up a bratwurst. “I didn't see you there.”

“It's okay,” she replied. “It was my fault for mounting the trolley and riding it like a horse.”

“You like riding?” he said, scooping up an armful of toilet rolls, toothpaste, and Tampax.

“If I find a worthy steed,” she giggled.

As he handed her a lump of discarded Stilton, their hands touched. Their eyes met. Their noses twitched. Their palms were sweaty—mum's spaghetti. Was this it? Was this a connection? Was this the result of the blue cheese pong wafting between them?

"Have you experienced an accident that wasn't your fault?" the cold caller says in a voice that sounds like a kitchen appliance given speech.

“For fuck sa—” Harold says, not noticing the drop in the curb. His nose bursts on cold asphalt. His lip is torn and his palms are grated. The expensive vanilla latte voids its bowels all over his nicely-ironed jacket and shirt. The latest and greatest iPhone lands and skids to a halt between a piece of dog-shit and a crumpled energy can.

Another flash fiction prompt from Beardfellow Chuck Wendig. I chose the  “A dead body goes missing” story seed and naturally set it in space featuring a pair of good-for-nothing fuck-ups.

Daris and Juan were fucked. And not in the good sense of fucked. Not in the weekend at Dionys space-port fucked.

Juan sprang through the cock-pit door. “It's gone!”

“What's gone?” Daris replied, swinging round the pilot seat.

“The body! It's missing!”

“Missing? From where?”

Juan furrowed his brow. “From where it should be!”

“How?”

“Because it isn't where it was.”

“What?”

Juan sighed. “Just come.”

Daris put The Charon on autopilot.

***

Daris wiped away condensation to reveal an empty cryopod. His face went went equally blank. “It's gone.”

“Like I said.”

How had this happened? How had the carcass of a Rargovian member of royalty up and disappeared from a locked cargo bay? All they had had to do was get from point A to B, body in tow, and collect a large bonus. Somehow they'd missed B, gone through point C for 'cock-up', and reached point W for 'what the fuck do we do now?'.

Daris began pacing. “Damn, Kia is gonna be pissed. She still hasn't forgiven us for picking up that shipment of sex dolls instead of that multi-bodied Plastoidian ambassador.”

Juan slumped onto the cryopod, hands over his face. “I can hear her now: 'You've set the Interstellar Repatriation Company's reputation back decades.'”

Daris kicked over a crate, spilling its contents: a few cheap laser pistols and a Tentacle Babe magazine. His eyes grew wide, and not just from the memory of issue #132's double spread.

He turned to Juan, smiling. “I got it.”

***

Despite lack of cadaver, the cryopod was surprisingly heavy. Juan and Daris struggled as they loaded it into the trash chute.

“Are you sure?” Juan said, clutching his chest. “I don't think she'll buy it.”

Daris winked. “Trust me. Did I not get us out of that whole misplaced crustacean diplomat ordeal?”

“Yeah... but it was close. And fuck that crab meat looked delicious.”

Daris punched the eject button and the chute slid closed. There was crushing noise, followed by a squeal of highly-compressed air. All evidence of their incompetence had been obliterated and shot into the blackness of space. Their fuck-up had been, as they say in ports of a particular seediness, 'swept under the cosmic rug'.

***

Juan's hands were restless as the Longcom dialled.

“Don't worry,” Daris said, cracking his knuckles. “I got this.”

Kia's voice suddenly filled the cock-pit — Juan sought cover in his lap. “You know, it makes me nervous every time I get a call from you two.”

“Kia, we got ourselves a little problem...”

She sighed an electronic sigh. “Let me guess, you've mishandled another emperor of the miniature people of the Vargos moons?”

“Nothing like that — I don't think this one can be handled by a cheap action figure replacement.”

Kia sighed again, this one with added bitterness. “You two are lucky its hard to find people similarly lacking in ambition and basic human dignity enough to replace you. Just tell me so I can attempt to fix your fuck up.”

“We were robbed. Velkian Space-horde. They took everything; including the body.”

Juan sprung up from the passenger seat. “They had big gun-spears. One was carrying a human head on a stick. We had no choice but to surrender the goods!”

“What?” Kia replied.

Daris gave Juan the stink eyes. Juan sank back into his seat.

Kia continued: “What would a bunch of pirates want with a dead Rargovian?”

“Ransom it back?” Juan offered.

“Velkian's aren’t that smart.”

“For lunch then. I imagine those eighteen limbs make for great barbecuing,” Daris bargained.

“Perhaps. Either way, I am actually amazed to say that this time it wasn't you fault. Good job, boys. You didn't fuck up, yet you still lost the cargo.”

Juan looked up from his lap shelter, a smear of hope on his face. Could they actually get away with this? Would they avoid being docked another month's pay?

Kia continued. “Well, all we can hope is they have no idea Rargovians go almost invisible post-death. Perhaps they'll eject the pod so you can track it.”

Daris looked at the longcom panel as if it had just exploded apropos of nothing. “Rargovians do what?”

“You know, that thing in the brief. You did read the—”

“Due to an evolutionary hangover,” Juan interrupted, “Rargovian tissue undergoes a process called Necropellucidosis, in which chemical alterations during decomposition result in near to ultimate transparency.”

Kia, “Good boys. Always read the brief.”

Daris looked back at Juan, utterly confused by his sudden scientific insight. He was holding the contract e-pad, glaring at the screen with wide eyes. His eyes then met Daris', tinged with both horror and sudden understanding.

Chuck Wendig posted a flash fiction challenge on his blog, tasking writers to work up a story based on a random image. I got this Daliesque looking time tree and came up with a 665 word entry entitled:

Time Is A Tree In The Desert

The tree is smaller than Dhasha had expected. A gnarled trunk sprouts and splits out of the sand like an elderly paw, grasping for sun.

He unhooks from the stirrup and his feet plant the ground. He wipes his brow, strokes Arbex's horn and approaches the tree. A strange reverence sets in as he gets closers, and he feels like he should bow.

The fruit dangles from thin veiny branches. Dhasha plucks the nearest and the lowest, places it in his palm; it's a ball of purple darkness against his olive skin. The flesh is smooth and pleasing, unnaturally so.

This is it. This is what he had journeyed far for. He lifts it to his mouth, bares his teeth, and a pungent sweet stink charges into his nostrils--

He is an old man, dying in a woven chair; sweet incense in his nose, burnt olfa leaf in his mouth.

He is a young boy, running through the fields, climbing the rocks and catching tads by the lake.

He is a tired young man, the sun burning his back, hands red and raw, pulling kral roots from his father's field.

He is a cruel brother, mocking Dersa for his slow climbing, ignoring obvious tears in his eyes.

He is carrying water from the well, buckets over shoulder, making sure Amea sees his muscles.

He is sat by fire; the elder telling stories of the tree in the desert; who's fruits are magic and allow command of time.

He is watching Dersa climb Gyier's Rock—the other children look amazed. Amea is frightened.

He is an angry husband, shouting at Amea for reasons he forgets or no longer matter.

He is seeing Dersa's face, twisted in pain, his leg in the wrong shape.

He is sad man, watching Amea leave on a caravan headed for the great city.

He is a broken man, asking the elder about the tree in the desert. He is being told to follow the second brightest star at night, the goddess Mirna, keeper of fates.

He is looking back at Dersa, who leans on a walking stick, wishing his brother could also come and play.

He is back in the desert, pulling the fruit from his face, his surroundings spinning. He tries to get back focus. The memories—if they were memories—still swirling in his head.

His purpose slips back in, and the nausea stops. He is now more certain than ever that this is what he wants. He will go back, and he will make sure Dersa is okay, that he may life a full and fruitful life. He will make sure his love for Amea doesn't crack. He will go with her to start a new life in the city—to hell with father's farm. He shouldn't have to break his back and lose his love.

He brings the fruit to his lips again, holding his nose. A sickly syrup erupts as his teeth pierce this skin and—

He is a smiling baby in a woven crib — his mother floats above him, her necklace a toy for his chubby hands.

He is sat by the lake, kissing Amea. She smells like lavender and amber. He feels a warmth in his belly.

He is a smiling boy, holding still so Dersa can paint him. His mother and father watch nearby, arms linked.

He is alive with heat and love, as he and Amea share the night.

He is a proud brother, hugging Dersa before he leaves for the city, college invitation in hand.

He returns to a mouthful of pulpy sweet mush, the tang seems to squeeze the inside of his mouth. He spits it out, and the certainty goes with it. The last few memoires bring him a warm calm, swimming as they are in a sea of regret.

I sit under my shelter, and know there is no escape. This is to be my end.

The Maw has pursued me at every turn. I hear it, out in the light; its dark mouth pulling up the fabric of the world, eating all. I could wait, but it would surely find me.

I creep to the light. The Maw is turned. This is my chance.

My feet rage against the earth—but then the roar comes closer. The ground takes flight past me.

I join it, tumbling up into darkness.

***

The vortex ends in soft landing. Where am I? Buried in the beast's stomach?

I can't tell which is up and which is down; the spin down its long throat was too much.

It doesn't matter. This is where I will die.

I close my eyes, and hope to dream of better places.

***

Jennifer holds the end of the hoover up to her face, eyes it with a shrivelled disdain and clenched teeth.

“Ugh... Spiders.”

Do you ever

Get the awkward feeling 

That everyone else is eyeing you

Scrutinising every act and decision for the moment 

You'll screw up and expose the fact 

That you're just not correct, 

And then people with clipboards and a van

Will come and take you away to the place

They take all the other Not-Quite-Right's, and, although 

You'll find common ground with these other rejects

Through mutual pariahship and otherness 

And form something of a close-knit community

The thought that you just weren't meant for this world will linger 

And niggle in the back of your mind 

Until your thoughts are all but dust in the wind?

I think that feeling is called

“You didn't read much as a kid, therefore you’ll never be a good enough writer.”

“You’re stupid, therefore you’ll never be a good enough writer.”

“Nobody will read your work, and if they do, they’ll hate it.”

Just typing these doubts out renders them small, silly and baseless. Still, when something whispers in your ear constantly, thoughts such as these can grow and magnify to unbearable degree—a whisper is a shout if you are close enough. What's doing the whispering? My shoulder goblin, of course. We all have one of these bastards—they come in many shapes and sizes but all share the distinction of being doubt-seeding parasites. Lies and insecurity are the bait which with they tease us, gain our attention, and grow fat on our time and energy. These snagged toothed little shits know the deepest and darkest fears that lurk within our minds, and repeatedly squawk them back at us like misery-parrots. Given their way, they'd suck us dry of all creativity and motivation—at which point they sound more like Vampires than Goblins. (Gobpires? Vamplings? Vamplings. Yes, that’s cuter.) They parade as critical-thinking, self-preservation and insightful bearers of grim portents; eventualities for which we may properly prepare or run away from altogether.  In a primal sense, these Vamplings were helpful and necessary; they worked to protect oneself from the peril of claws, cannibals and giant prehistoric badgers. (I don’t know if giant badgers were a thing, but the past sure does seem to consist mostly of what we have in the present, only bigger, faster, and with more claws than a St. Nick convention.) However, we are no longer ancient people, scribbling indecipherable nonsense on cave walls in mammoth blood—now we use computers and smartphones for our absolute bullshit. Therefore these evolutionary hang-overs are nothing but a nuisance. But just as you can’t shake off that ancient fear of the dark, or the dread of how at any moment a massive bloody-jawed cat-beast might smash through your windows and devour you whole while you watch TV—with your modern but no less temperamental cat—we are all stuck with our Vamplings. They’re hard-wired into our DNA. The Vampling is pretty much vestigial. So more like an unnecessary organ than an actual Goblin and/or Vampire, really.

What can we do the cull their incessant gibbering, you ask? Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

“The littlest puppy”

What? 

WHAT?

HHHWHAT?!

A Short Story By Liam Hayes

Clear blue sky. Warm breeze. Raging headache.

I rub my temples. This part of the forest is unfamiliar: must be miles from home. Waistcoat, shirt and slacks – at least I'm clothed. What did I drink? Thoughts can't penetrate the throb in my skull.

A door creaks. No – Those were words, stiff and wooden ones: “Hello, Sebastian.” I regret turning to see their source. My feet won't move. My legs are weak. I'm stuck. Rooted.

“What are you?” I mumble.

The groan of twisting, grinding wood scrapes my ears as the thing takes a step forward. “A tree, in these borrowed words.”

I whimper and laugh at once. “I'm dreaming – this is a nightmare.”

A long slender branch unfurls from an eerily human frame. The spider hand at its end reaches out and a twig finger strokes my forehead. The prickles dig all the way to my spine, and settle in my stomach as a sickness.

It's no dream. I'm gone. Totally and completely gone in the head. All those hours hunched over elixirs, the fumes have stripped my mind.

The tree-thing cocks its head, sharply, to a crack of bark or snap of neck. “I want to see it. I want to see it all.”

Cold that stings. Warm tears. A hand in mine; father's. Fresh toiled earth and a wooden headstone; mother's.

I try to squeeze my father's hand, but my body won't allow it. I try to say something to comfort him, but the words don't come out. I am stuck behind my eyes, staring down at the grave.

Knives rake my skull, digging in, pulling me back to the forest. I fall to my knees, stomach a tangle of vines.

“That picture was strong. I want more like that.”

I wipe spittle from my mouth. “I'm—I'm delusional.”

The impossible tree bends down, its face—dark tunnels eaten into bark—in mine.

“More.”

Candlelight does nothing to dispel the monsters. They're still here; in the shadows, waiting for me to sleep. The wind spurs them on, beating ghostly screeches against the window.

I fling the quilt. It doesn't distract them; they chase me down the dark corridor. Their gaze at my back commands every hair to stand. Father's door barely holds onto the frame. “Father! The monsters! They–“

“Father?”

He doesn't answer; he dangles gently in the dark, eyes red and bulging. The monsters have gone.

Hammers smash my head, beating the forest back into view. My legs are dead wood in the dirt. “Why are you doing this?”

“To see. To live.”

Another half-laugh swallowed, drowned in the mire of my stomach. “T-Trees don't live?”

“Not like you do,” it says, walking to the edge of the clearing. “Not able to wander grasses beyond their roots.”

“Take it from me, whatever you are... This life is nothing but death and pain.”

The wooden horror turns its head to me with another crack. The movement turns my stomach upside-down.

“I would trade my roots for it.”

Sulphur burns my nostrils. What will it do to my insides?

Thick sticky liquid coats my mouth as I knock back the concoction—rotten eggs and iron. I slam the vial back on the counter. The broth doesn't go down as easily, it sits heavy in my throat, burning.

I swallow hard. Molten lava oozes down my gullet. Then gurgles emanate from my stomach. Saliva floods my mouth. I taste the foul brew in reverse: it's somehow better coming back up—lunch does come with it. Shame about the alchemical equipment (my priceless alembic) now swimming in liquid wrong.

The stench forces me from my hut. Early morning air cools. I lean and shudder on the lone tree in the back yard.

Why didn't it work? I was sure I had it. The convulsing rage in my stomach works it way up to my fists. I strike the tree.

Twice.

Thrice.

Until the knuckles are bare and bloody.

The memory is torn from my head, the forest—and the tree-thing—pushed into the wound.

“Why did you strike me? Not that my bark would let out my cries.”

“You're... that tree?”

“The one to whom you spoke most evenings? The one to whom you'd complain about the villagers—interrupting your work with their petty boils and intimate rashes?” The tree's semblance of a mouth contorts and twists into a sort-of smile.

It lurches past me, to the opposite edge of the opening. My stick limbs are shaky, but they stand me up. “How... is this possible? Where are we?”

“Inside me. Dull, is it not?”

I let the question wither.

“I desire to fill it with things. I want to see more grasses. But I am stuck to the soil. Rooted. You will show me more.”

“I will show you nothing.”

“I need not ask.”

The cold is biting me. I sit against the tree and feel greater cold on the inside. Why didn't the mix work? I was sure. Damn sure.

I yearn to feel fresh again more than ever: to have hair, smooth skin, and body that does not ache – to stop what is inevitable and irreversible.

I need more time.

The birds chirp pleasant mockery. I watch a worm poke its head above the dirt. Perhaps, like the creatures, I should simply accept my nature.

Another worm dances through the grass. And another. No... These are... Roots? Little brown fingers clawing the air.

More join, thicker and thornier. One seems to grasp my trouser fabric. I watch in fascination—

Another plunges into my thigh. Hard.

I tear it out to a spray of red and try to escape. My foot is tangled in the roots and I hit the ground. They dive for my body like predators to prey. My clothes are torn. A thousand and one splinters penetrate my skin, burrowing. They worm their way  under my flesh, splitting it like dry bark.

My eyes are broken through from behind—skull cracks under tight squeeze.

I am on fire and full of holes; eyelids clenched. I stay down in the dirt, curled into a ball of pain. It towers over me, man and tree and worse for both.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you made me want to see. Your waters—they came into my soil. They went up my roots and made me yearn.”

All those failed elixirs; fed to the soil. They made this thing? I made this thing.

“But now my roots have drank you up into me. And you will show me more.” The tree sits next to me, a child at story-time, awaiting and eager. “I want to see it all. And then I want you tell me other grasses, far away.”

I say nothing.

“Why are you sad, my friend? You had wanted to live longer – to prolong your return to the soil. And I have lived in this earth for five of your lives, and will for many, many more.”

Another wooden smile.

“Now you have all the time you need.”

I am terrible at keeping others updated on my work and its progress. I’d like to think it’s because I am busy writing so hard and so fiercely that I haven’t the time, energy nor finger flesh to form coherent sentences. The truth is much more disappointing; I forget. The thought slips down one of the holes in my many-creviced mind (where it is promptly mobbed by less important, more ubiquitous thoughts such as, “What is for dinner?” and, “How do I know if this society is real or some kind of Truman-show-esque construction designed to gauge the limits of human sanity?”)

As a side note, I am posting via Tumblr because my website is currently under-construction—which is code for “I took too long to pay the renewal fee and it expired.” I literally neglected my website and it died, like a sad tamagotchi, or once-cherished aspiration. But I’m working on getting it back, and making it better than ever. 

I know. I know. I don’t update progress on my work as much as I should.

Rest assured, I will end up in writer’s hell, where the pens are covered in poo and the paper is always out of reach — which isn't much different to my current desk.

If you’ll forgive me, I bring exciting news; We (me and Ryan) have decided to release the first issue of Sunmaker. Initially, the comic was intended to be a graphic novel project, but we just can’t wait to show you our work! There’s a way to go yet, but this will draw closer the moment the actual comic is in front of your horrible faces.

Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more updates!

I promise.

And this time I mean it.

I wrote a short story about noodles and less important human things. Feedback is welcome.

Thanks for reading!

_________________________________________________

All Tim wanted was a pleasant Sunday morning jog. But it was too late. He was trapped; pinned-down by the attentions of a deranged old man – clearly homeless.

“It took fifty years!” the man said, in what approximated words.

Tim caught the man’s breath. Hot piss and cheese snacks. “Umm…” he rattled. “I have change. Do you want ch–?”

“You wanted it. Take it from me!” The man reached into his coat.

“Okay.” Tim waited. Eyed a crusty noodle dangling for its life from the man’s beard. What was that stain on his shoulder – Blood? Sick? Blood and sick?

The man withdrew a piece of folded-up paper and thrust it at Tim. It looked like it had been soaked in toilet water.

“I’m good, thanks.” Tim waved him off.

The man’s expectant expression remained, and he pushed the paper closer.

Tim saw tears in his eyes, and realised he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He grasped the edge of the paper between finger and thumb as if it was a piece of shit-covered Uranium.

A huge grin appeared on the man’s face, followed by actual tears. Then he ran off.

When he was out of sight, Tim dropped the paper on the floor. He stared at it for a moment, half-intrigued at might be written on the inside. Then he imagined the medium it may have been written in.

He felt a little sick, and resumed his jog.

***

It was Monday, and Tim leant against a cubical wall.

“Got that report, Morris?”

Morris looked up from his desk, mouthful of noodles – a doughy Cthulhu. He looked nervous; but that was nothing new, the guy would shit his pants at the thought of shitting his pants.

“Right,” Tim said, “get it to me after lunch.”

An affirmative mumble squeezed its way out of Morris’ mouth.

“Quick as you can, though. I need it by yesterday.”

Morris’ mouth hung open. Noodles plopped back into their pot, splashing his shirt and tie. “Yes… Yesterday…?”