Links to Dani Ripley's short stories published elsewhere:
https://dailysciencefiction.com/science-fiction/time-travel/dani-ripley/the-recent-future
https://everydayfiction.com/jellyfish-by-dani-ripley/
https://everydayfiction.com/little-fish-by-dani-ripley/
https://www.patrickmcnulty.ca/the-floater-by-dani-ripley
And enjoy three more of Dani's favorite flash fiction shorts below!
We are enemies.
Originally we were colleagues. Friends, even. But years of spaceflight and close confinement takes its toll. The vessel carrying us marks the pinnacle of human achievement and creation. The best we could offer. The ship works perfectly. It is we who are broken.
There are only three of us left now. I don’t count the sleepers—them, I envy. May they never wake.
We launched twelve years ago, taking our waking crew of seven plus five thousand souls in cryo-sleep, along with enough genetic material to make millions more. The plan: six years of spaceflight; a slingshot around Jupiter; then point the ship toward Proxima B and lock ourselves down in cryo with the others.
But plans change.
A power surge shot our AI to hell, and without it, we got lost and flew off course. When Captain Abara finally got it back online, we’d blown too much fuel and instead of looping around the old Jovian and using its gravitational mass to propel us to Proxima, we overshot, dooming ourselves and everyone else on board to a slow, strangled death in the dark.
Years went by. Nerves frayed. Resilience was at an all-time low. The seven of us started bickering. At first over small things, but eventually we could barely stand being around one another, so we separated, each retreating to our originally assigned sectors, communicating only via COMMS or chatbots. That calmed things, but only for a short while.
A month ago, McAllister and Kumar finally killed each other over our dwindling water resources, leaving me, Abara, Liu, Hunter, and Jones to pilot and manage the ship. Then last week, our security officer Hunter and Dr. Jones in BioSciences clashed about meal rations again. When Jones threatened to eject the cryo pod containing Hunter’s family, Hunter punched Jones hard enough to shatter his orbital bone. I tried mediating from the doorway, but somehow in a terror-fueled burst of rage, the old scientist managed to shove Hunter out of the mod and lock us both out.
Peering out of the porthole, his left eye purpling and his forehead bloodied, Jones backed up slowly, and, grinning like a maniac, he theatrically pressed the button and released the pod.
Off Hunter’s family floated, into the black. In response, Hunter locked down Bio-Sciences, and after several warning sirens and three manual overrides, he managed to release the clamps and decouple the entire module. Bye-bye, BioSciences and our medical bay, not to mention Dr. Jones. He’d run out of oxygen in less than a day; and from the look on his face as he drifted away, he knew it.
It was okay with me. More resources for those of us who were left.
I waited for Hunter to go back to his room, then ran down to my own. Once there, I grabbed a notebook containing several useful codes I’d ferreted out over the past few months along with all of my food stores and threw everything into a pack. After that, I ran to COMMS, transferred my workstation to Abara’s console; then I retina-locked everything and jogged down to see him on the bridge.
I stumbled in hysterical. “Hunter just killed Dr. Jones!” I yelled.
Abara grabbed my shoulders. “Where is Hunter now?” he yelled back.
I told him, and Abara ran out in a panic as I knew he would. He’d left all of his workstations wide open.
Immediately I locked him out of OPS and entered the override codes from my notebook into his console.
Next, I security-locked Hunter’s room and used the admin login to shut off his oxygen supply. It was a peaceful death, which was more than I could say for the rest of us. I didn’t relish the act, but I couldn’t have a deranged murderer running loose on the ship. As for Abara and Liu (locked in her photosynth lab as usual), I didn’t need their deaths on my conscience too, so I only turned the oxygen levels throughout the ship down just enough to make them loopy and compliant until I decided what to do.
It’s less than a day later and I’m sitting on the bridge when I see something weird. I tweak nav, nudging us closer. On the dark side of Neptune, a wormhole spins. I slow the ship, not really caring about fuel anymore. When we draw near, the COMMS panel lights up. I roll over and squint up at the display. It’s a message. Coming through the wormhole.
After uploading it to Linguistics, the translation doesn’t take long. It says: “welcome friends,” accompanied by a detailed set of coordinates, but not from any galaxy I know.
I sit back, exhaling so hard I practically knock the wind out of myself. Someone or something is offering rescue. The ship lurches. We’re being drawn into the wormhole but not under our own power, moving toward distorted stars in a dark reflecting pool the size of a small moon. And I am helpless to do anything but watch.
Traveling through is less dramatic than I expect. I blink and it’s over. A brilliant nebula of orange and pink swirls lazily off our starboard side; infant stars wink out from glittering fog. I see a sparkling green-blue planet with high, thin clouds visible in its upper atmosphere. Behind it, at least three suns burn brightly. One of them is blazing white.
The ship is released from whatever drew us through the wormhole. I have nav back, and I’m provided with landing coordinates. I feel the weight of so many lives resting upon my shoulders.
I punch in coordinates for their closest sun instead—the fat white dwarf suspended above their northern pole. It must be the closest of the three. If they see what I intend, they will likely persist. They don’t understand. They’ve never met beings this hungry.
They can’t possibly know.
We are enemies.
It was August 1983 - the week of my tenth birthday – when the nightmare first arrived. For months after I woke up screaming every single night; panting and sweating profusely, heart slamming against my ribcage so hard I couldn’t breathe. My frantic wails always roused my father, who busted into my room brandishing any impromptu weapon he could find on short notice: a baseball bat hastily yanked from behind his bedroom door; one of his good steelhead golf clubs; the heavy metal yardstick living next to his dresser my mom was always admonishing him to take back to the garage. One time he’d even burst in holding one of my mother’s expensive high-heels aloft shouting, “don’t worry, Louie; I’ll get ‘em!” in his thunderous, sleep-husky voice.
When he inevitably saw there was no one in the room but me, he’d sigh: “Christ, Louie; another one?” All I could do was nod sheepishly and try going back to sleep after he left.
But the nightmare always returned.
My mother thought letting me sleep in their bed might help. It didn’t; and having me there right next to them when I screamed myself awake only served to irritate further my father’s already frayed nerves. Three days later I was banished back to my own room. Later that week I started seeing a child therapist.
The therapist listened over thin, wire-rimmed glasses, took copious notes, and gave my dreams a name: I was experiencing classic night terrors. The therapist provided me with a handy list of coping techniques and promised me if I practiced them, they’d work.
Nothing helped. I still woke nightly in a terror-slicked sweat. My burgeoning fear of sleep had ill effects on my health. I began missing school regularly because I couldn’t stay awake. I tried naps during the day but the nightmare invaded those, too.
I became convinced the shadowy thing plaguing my dreams had followed me into waking life. I studied all dark corners, even in sunny or well-lit rooms. Any gloomy space was suspect: the murkiness beneath the porch and under our couch; the gaping, old-fashioned iron-grated floor vents in our living and dining rooms; and of course the yawning abyss under my bed. My waking hours were fraught with distress over where the thing from my dreams might be hiding.
My mother was at her wit’s end, glancing through the newspaper classifieds one weekend that November when something strange caught her eye:
Bad dreams? I remove for low price of $300 each! Call 555-741-0668!
I still wonder why she decided to call on such a peculiar ad but two nights later three sharp raps sounded at our front door. My mother opened it to an ancient man standing on our porch, stooped over a knotted wooden cane. He looked roughly as old as your average mummy with thin skin stretched like parchment over sharp, angled bones. Hawkish eyes peered out from beneath a tangle of bushy white eyebrows and the darkest fedora I’d ever seen. In his gnarled, age-spotted hands he clutched a giant black leather bag, like an old-fashioned doctor’s. “Hello,” he croaked to my mother. “You must be Misty.”
My mother accepted his outstretched hand, shaking it gingerly as if it might break. “Yes,” she answered. “Are you the gentleman from the ad?”
“I am indeed,” he replied. “May I come inside?”
“Of course,” said my mother, stepping back. He came in and looked around, his eyes finally landing upon me.
“Is that the boy?” he rasped.
“Yes, this is Louis,” she answered, ushering the old man into our living room. “Louis, say hi, please.”
“Hi,” I said.
“I’ll need to take him to the lowest, darkest place in the house,” the old man told her, ignoring my greeting. “And we have to be alone – there can’t be anyone else present or it won’t work.”
“Ah,” my mother said, frowning. Obviously he’d neglected to tell her the part about having to be in the basement alone with her only child.
“It’s perfectly safe, but it won’t come out unless it’s just me and the carrier,” said the man.
“The carrier?” she asked.
“The boy,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “Is he ready? I have two other appointments this evening.”
My mother looked at me. I looked back, not really caring either way. Seeing my ashen face, she nodded. “Yes, he’s ready,” she told him. “You can use the basement; it’s really dark down there.”
I got up and followed as she walked through our kitchen to show the old man our basement access door. He started down the steps with me on his heels. I turned around to look back at my mother, who hovered at the top of the stairs wearing a look of pained anxiety. I thought maybe she was sending me down to the basement alone with one of those child molesters she was always warning me about, but I was wrong. It turned out to be much, much weirder than that.
My mother flipped the light on so we could see our way down to the cellar. My dad’s battered easy chair sat in the southeast corner, and the old man ordered me to pull it to the center of the room and sit. As I did, he called up to my mother to turn out the light. It snapped off in response and the door clicked shut. We were left alone in complete darkness.
“Now get comfortable, boy; and listen good to what I’m about to tell you,” he demanded, his face close enough to mine for me to smell his sour breath. “Lean back and open your mouth real wide, and whatever happens, don’t you move. Understand?”
“Yes,” I told him, my heart pounding in my throat. I pulled the chair’s side-switch and reclined. I felt like I might throw up but I stayed as still as a statue.
“All right, then. I’ll get started. Keep that mouth open and remember whatever happens, don’t you move. Not even one inch.” His eyes gleamed in the dark. I had the uneasy feeling he was smiling even though I couldn’t see it.
“Ok; here we go,” he said. He bent over me, leaning in closer. Momentarily I was afraid he might try to kiss me, but instead he surprised me by singing the ugliest song I’ve ever heard.
The words were unrecognizable, low and guttural, mixed in with some bird-like chirps and something else that reminded me of mechanical buzzing. I wondered how any human being could even make such sounds, but before I could ask, something started crawling up my throat.
It felt like a big spider with sharp legs, scrabbling up from my epiglottis to the rear of my mouth. I wanted to scream but I didn’t. I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to; the thing inside me blocked my windpipe, making it hard for me to breathe. My gag reflex kicked in and I struggled not to swallow it back down. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. The old man continued singing, louder now, so loud the buzzing sounds rattled my back teeth. The thing in my throat moved up some more. One of its spindly legs tap-tap-tapped on the back of my tongue.
“That’s it, now; come on,” the old man said into my mouth. I felt the thing move forward again as he resumed singing; and then it suddenly rushed up and onto the front of my tongue. The old man reached in with thick, nicotine-scented fingers and snatched it out. A moment later I heard a sharp, metallic sound, like a toolbox snapping shut.
“Well, that should do it,” he declared. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the light, I could just make out his dim shadow looming over me. “You done good, boy,” he told me. “You can get up and turn the lights on now.”
I rose, made my way around him to the bottom of the stairs, and flicked the light switch. My jaw ached from having it open so wide, and the back of my throat felt all scratched up. The old man paused beside me, bending down to place what looked like a construction-worker’s metal lunchbox inside of his black doctor’s bag.
“Is it in there?” I asked him, gesturing to the cylindrical box.
“Yup,” he answered with a sly smile. “You don’t seem that scared. Want to see it?”
I didn’t, not really; but I nodded anyway. He undid the clips and opened the cylinder. Something resembling a cross between a dark hairball and steel wool crouched inside, glaring back up at us with shiny, inky black eyes. It pressed itself into the corner of the box, away from the light, hissing softly. The old man gently closed the lid and fastened the clasps.
“What do you do with them?” I asked.
“Just never you mind, boy!” he snapped, stomping up the stairs.
Back in our kitchen, I watched my mother count out three crisp $100 bills and hand them to the old man. “Are you sure it worked?” she asked him.
“I’m sure,” he told her. “It’s been removed.” He patted his bag and gave me a wink. “This one won’t be bothering him anymore, but if he catches any others, let me know.”
“Well, thanks,” said my mother. She sounded doubtful.
“Your boy is a brave one,” he said, looking at me. “How old is he?”
“I’m ten,” I answered before she could. My mother tilted her head quizzically but smiled, probably having decided by then that the old man was harmless.
“Well, he did real good. If you have any more problems, give me a shout.” He turned to leave, stepping carefully down our porch steps. “I take referrals, too,” he called over his shoulder as he lowered himself into a long, black sedan. It looked like a hearse.
My mom draped her arm around my shoulder as we watched him leave. “You know mom,” I said to her as he turned out of our driveway and drove away into the suburban twilight, “I think it’s going to be a really good night.”
Emily sits in the first row of desks at the front of her seventh-grade science class, her right knee jackhammering while she waits her turn. Her name is Emily Ziegler, so she’s always the last to go. Other kids brought props as visual aids: dioramas, hanging mobiles, and elaborate poster boards, but Emily doesn’t need props. All she needs is her mom’s cell phone, borrowed just for this occasion, and a roll of good duct tape.
Chuckie Tallman stands at the podium, droning on about gravity and its effect on the sun and planets, pointing to his crudely drawn rendition of the solar system for emphasis as he speaks.
Chuckie always tugs her ponytail and leaves dead crickets in her desk drawer, just because she’s the smartest person in class. Also, his report is incredibly boring.
She sits on her hands to quell her growing excitement. Chuckie is finally done and Susan Vaughn is next. Susan has a large mobile strung up on a wire hanger for her representation of the solar system. Her brightly colored planets are fashioned from Styrofoam balls of various sizes. For Saturn, she’s wrapped a piece of yellow cardboard paper around its corresponding ball like a tutu. The ball itself is painted in dark brown swirls.
Susan is one of the popular girls. Susan and her cohorts don’t pick on Emily. Instead they completely ignore her, even when she says “hi” to them or brings her mom’s homemade chocolate chip cookies in for the class. In Emily’s opinion, being ignored is way worse than dead crickets and hair-pulling.
Emily's report will change everything. The kids in her class will finally see her differently: with wonder and perhaps even a little fear. It certainly won’t bring her popularity – she’s way too weird for that – but it might at least garner her some respect.
Emily waits through the rest of Susan’s report, going over her own in her mind. Her uncle, who makes his living archiving old books for the university’s library, helped her locate tons of reference materials for her project. Because part of his job involves programming key words from the old books into the library’s computer, he’d only had to type in the word “gravity” to find some real gems for her to study.
Among the “ancients” collection, Emily discovered one very special book, its binding cracked and dusty, pages barely legible and yellowed with time. She used an obscure website titled “Dead Languages” to translate the text and was astounded by what she discovered.
The day the reports are due, Emily hands in her written portion as late as possible. That way Mrs. Pincetti won’t have a chance to read it before her presentation and will be as surprised as everyone else.
Up front, Susan finishes her talk. Emily is next. She takes a deep breath, grabs the phone and the roll of duct tape off her desk, and walks to the front of the room. On her way, Chuckie sticks out his foot, trying to trip her. She deftly steps over his outstretched calf, smiling to herself. He’ll be sorry in a minute.
“Emily, we said no devices, remember?” Mrs. Pincetti says as Emily arrives at the podium.
“I just need it to play a sound for my report,” Emily tells her.
“Oh, I guess that’s ok,” Mrs. Pincetti says. She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. “Carry on, then.”
Emily has always been Mrs. Pincetti’s favorite.
Facing the class, Emily feels a twinge of doubt. What if it doesn’t work? She’d practiced all week in her room with great success, but seeing 26 sets of judgmental eyes tests her confidence. Swallowing hard, she tears off a strip of tape, bends at the waist, and sticks her left shoe to the floor, strapping the tape across the top so it overshoots the toe box by several inches on both sides, then tamps it down firmly. She adds a second piece for good measure, ignoring the tittering from her classmates as she repeats the process on her right shoe.
“Um, Emily?” asks Mrs. Pincetti.
“It’s ok; I’m ready now,” Emily replies. “I thought I’d do something a little different. I know we’re supposed to do a report about gravity and its effect on our solar system, but I wanted to demonstrate what it would happen we could turn it off.”
The other students laugh. “Yeah right, nerd,” she hears Chuckie mumble under his breath.
“Is everyone ready?” she asks, ignoring Chuckie’s comment.
There are nods all around, and a few eye rolls. Emily reaches for her phone. She queues up her special application and hits “play”. The screaming starts when everything not nailed (or taped) to the floor lifts into the air. Chuckie squeals like a little baby and cries when his body hits the ceiling. His desk follows, bumping against him, making him sob harder.
Susan bobs gently near the southeast corner of the room, curled into a fetal position, her long blonde hair brushing against the pocked ceiling tiles, body shaking like she’s crying too. If she is, her tears are silent. The rest of the kids are in a blind panic, yelling and swatting away anything that floats near. One of them drifts toward the open window. Emily realizes she probably should have shut that before starting her report.
Mrs. Pincetti floats with the rest, her hands covering her mouth, her blue eyes round with shock. When she recovers she tells Emily to stop it; stop it right now. Emily would enjoy letting them suffer for a few more minutes, but her teacher’s tone says she’d better do as she’s told. She turns the sound off. Everything drops to the ground. There are many bumps and bruises. Letters containing a lengthy explanation are sent home to parents, along with the school’s sincerest apologies.
But Emily gets an A.
Ripley Writes
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