LITTLE FICTIONS

Links to Dani Ripley's short stories published elsewhere:

https://dailysciencefiction.com/science-fiction/time-travel/dani-ripley/the-recent-future

(link currently broken, am checking into this!)

https://everydayfiction.com/jellyfish-by-dani-ripley/

https://everydayfiction.com/little-fish-by-dani-ripley/

https://www.patrickmcnulty.ca/the-floater-by-dani-ripley

Please enjoy three more of Dani's favorite little fictions below, and if you like these, give Dani's new science fiction short story collection, Strange Worlds, a try. It's available now on Amazon!

*All stories appearing here copyright Dani Ripley*

     *Warning: references to (but no depictions of) animal abuse*

     James is my best friend. He picks me up in the nondescript white van he saved up for working nights at a gas station, a job I initially expressed surprise at his ability to tolerate, what with his antisocial personality and all. He says he enjoys passing the time by sizing each one of his customers up, imagining which would make better victims and which would not.

     James thinks he’s a serial killer, but he hasn’t killed anyone yet. No people, anyway. When he first showed up in third grade, everyone was afraid of him. Maybe that’s why we started hanging out, because no one was afraid of me.

     At our high school graduation, Katie Miller pulled me aside and told me I should get away from James because he’d ruin my life. I’d never spoken with Katie before. She was pretty, and popular. I don’t know why she chose to speak with me that day, but I do know I have James to thank for it. When I asked him later if they’d ever had an encounter, he shrugged it off, but the glint in his eye told me all I needed to know.

     Everyone else is afraid of James, but I’m not. He’s my best friend. We hang out all the time. Sure, sometimes he’s moody, but he’s also the smartest person I’ve ever met.

     When we were fourteen, James killed one of the neighborhood cats in my garage while my mom was out of town and then insisted we dissect it together. I won’t get into details, but suffice to say I was too scared to say no at the time, and James said it was just a science experiment, anyway. He was convinced the cat was heavier when it was alive, and he needed to find out why.

     James was always curious about stuff like that. He had a whole board of butterflies and beetles hanging above his desk, each mounted with a shiny pin and sprayed to remain as lifelike as possible. He also regularly trapped spiders and mice and kept them in jars until they starved to death. He had a digital scale where he could zero out the weight of the jar, so he could obtain an accurate weight of his victims before, during, and after.

     The spiders were tough to calculate. Most only weighed a fraction of an ounce, and so for his sixteenth birthday, James asked his parents for a more powerful scale.

     They gave it to him without complaint. James’ parents are totally rich.

     But by then he’d already moved on to larger prey. The new scale was too small to capture accurate weights, so it sat in its unopened box on the top shelf of his bedroom closet while we hunted for bigger game.

     When it came to animals I was reluctant, but I’ll admit I was still too scared to say no. James grew a lot during our sixteenth and seventeenth years, and he towered over me and most of the other kids at school. Those who’d dared tease him in the elementary and middle grades steered clear, and they left me alone, too. Even if I didn’t enjoy all the things James did, at least I was protected from others who’d bullied me in the past, before James was in the picture.

     There was only one other person James liked, and that was this girl, Lucy. She always dressed in black and sat at the back of the class looking miserable—just the type of girl he’d be into. When they started talking right after graduation, I felt a bit jealous, but it was ok. I had other stuff to do.

     Then I ran in to Lucy at the car wash last week, and she asked about me and James, and how we got to know each other. From the look on her face, I knew I’d said too much, so I backtracked and mumbled something about not actually knowing him that well. Maybe I said all those things because I didn’t want them hanging out anymore, but I think it’s ok. I’m not afraid of James. Lucy might be, now, but I’m not. He’s my best friend.

     When he picks me up, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares straight ahead, dark hair hanging over his brow so I can’t see his eyes. He pulls out of my driveway and points the van toward the outskirts of town, his current favorite hunting ground. I don’t ask where we’re going. I already know. I also know his moods, so I stay quiet, looking out my window past the droplets at the gray scenery blurring by.

     We’re leaving town, but I’m not afraid.

     We do this all the time.

     City lights give way to darkness. James still hasn’t spoken, but I’m still not afraid. He’s my best friend.

     We pull off the road, into a field we’ve used before. He shuts off the van’s engine but leaves the lights on. Tall, untended grass waves in the glow of the headlamps. Grainy mist covers the car. The windows fog with our collected breath.

     I haven’t seen James in a while, not since he’s been hanging out with Lucy; but I’m not worried. He’s my best friend. We come out here together all the time. This is our spot.

     Then I see the knife. He’s pulled it from his pocket, unsheathing it silently, and he’s turning it over in his hands.

     Finally he speaks.

     “Did you talk to Lucy about me?” he asks.

     I say nothing. He knows I did.

     He nods as if I’ve answered. “I liked her,” he says.

     I nod. I’m sorry, but I don’t say it out loud. I know enough not to show weakness around a predator when their blood’s up.

     “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says.

     My heart pounds. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so rash. 

     I thought we were friends.

     Meanwhile, James gets out his notebook and a pen. Finally, he looks over and meets my eyes. 

“How much do you weigh?” he asks.

     It was August 1983—the week of my tenth birthday—when the nightmare first arrived. For months I woke up screaming every single night, panting and sweating profusely, my heart slamming against my ribcage so hard I couldn’t breathe. My frantic always wails roused my father, who would burst into my room brandishing whatever impromptu weapon he could find at a moment’s notice: a baseball bat hastily yanked from behind his bedroom door, one of his good titanium golf clubs, the heavy metal yardstick that lived beside the dresser my mom was always admonishing him to take down to the garage. One time he even busted in holding one of my mother’s expensive high-heels aloft shouting, “don’t worry, Louie; I’ll get ‘em!” in his thunderous, sleep-husked voice.

     When he inevitably saw there was no one in the room but me, he’d sigh: “Christ, Louie; another one?” I was helpless to do anything but 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 right there next to them when I screamed myself awake only served to further irritate 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 her thin, wire-rimmed glasses, took copious notes, and gave my dreams a name: I was experiencing classic night terrors. Shen then provided me with a handy list of coping techniques and promised me that if I practiced them, they’d work.

     None of them helped. I still woke nightly in a terror-slicked sweat, and my burgeoning fear of sleep began having ill effects on my health. I started missing school regularly because I couldn’t stay awake. I tried naps during the day, but the nightmare soon 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, 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 daylight 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 a strange ad 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 offer, but two nights later, three sharp raps sounded at our front door. My mother opened it. An ancient man stood on our porch, stooped over a knotted wooden cane. He looked roughly as old as your average mummy, 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. 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,” the old man 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 glinted in the dark. I had the uneasy feeling he was smiling, even though I couldn’t see it. 

     “Okay; 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 a 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 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 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.