Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

The Ray Gun

So, when I was just a little boy, I had a very strange dream.

I dreamed that someone had made a ray gun. A ray gun with a very strange purpose. A ray gun that turned little boys into little girls, and vice versa. A ray gun that, unfortunately, had been used on me.

So, there I was, a little girl . . . not that there's anything wrong with being a little girl, but as a little boy, I had no experience in being a little girl. I wasn't interested in playing house, or playing those games where you chant a verse with a friend while clapping and patting each other's hands to the rhythm, and so I figured the best thing for me to do was somehow get that gun and turn myself back into a little boy. The only other option was to learn how to be a little girl, and it was my understanding at the time (as it is now) that being a girl can be far more complicated and frustrating than being a boy, and so I believe I made the right decision.

The ray gun, I somehow magically found out, was being kept by an old man and his wife in their large house. Even though I never actually saw them in my dream, I knew that the old man was in his 70's or 80's, bald on top with very short white hair around the sides and back, and he wore denim overalls. I never knew much about his wife though. What I did know was that they had agreed to allow this little girl search their house in the hopes of finding that ray gun.

They knew the gun was somewhere upstairs, and so that's where the dream truly started. The upstairs was just one long hallway with stairs at either end that led downwards. All of the doors were on one side of the hallway, and there were between five and ten of them. I ascended the stairs on the right and worked my way left.

While I searched, I could occasionally hear snippets of the conversation between the old man and his wife. They were discussing what had happened to me, and why I was looking for the ray gun. While it was good to hear their voices, there was something I didn't like about hearing them talk about my situation.

Each room had a different theme or purpose, but all of them seemed as though they hadn't been used in a very long time. One was a bedroom with a canopy bed and hardwood floor. I remember seeing a heavy quilt folded up on the foot of the bed, and a rocking chair also in the room. The next room was for sewing, and there was a very old sewing machine. One room was empty except for a dresser and bureau, and I distinctly remember a white ceramic pitcher and water basin sitting on the bureau next to the mirror. I think one other room was dusty and full of boxes, trunks, and chests that were hard for a little girl's fingers to pry open (though, honestly, I'm not sure a little boy's fingers would have succeeded either, as the latches were rusted shut). I got dust on my frilly white dress and cobwebs in my long blonde hair.

Each of these rooms had an unsettling quietness to them. Very still. Very old. It was as if each room were a still photo, or time caught in a bottle, and that I wasn't supposed to be there, lest I disturb it. There was a thin layer of dust on most surfaces, and the air was dry and difficult to breathe. The last room I looked into, however, felt entirely different.

It was downright creepy.

It was somewhat darker than the other rooms, having no windows, and only one lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. It was full of old dolls. Ragdolls. China dolls. Teddy bears and other such toys. Most of the dolls were beautiful, and I remember that, being a little girl, I wanted to play with them (which was the startling discovery that the change was becoming permanent!), but while they were beautiful, they were also very creepy and unsettling. The smiles were non-genuine, and betrayed a veiled malice. The eyes were typically black dots or buttons, and no matter where in the room you went, they seemed to be watching you with evil intent. In the corner of the room was a rocking chair, and in the rocking chair sat what appeared to me to be a scarecrow. It was a pair of the old man's denim coveralls, a long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of old work boots. They seemed to be stuffed with straw or cotton, and a hat was placed on the head to look as if it were an old man with his head bowed, taking a snooze in his rocking chair.

In the scarecrow's hands, in his lap, was the raygun.

A sense of dread and fear emanated from that scarecrow. Something primal. Something that was difficult to overcome. I inched closer, not daring to move too boldly. It took much effort to work up the courage for each tiny step, and my white plastic shoes echoed each time they moved on the dusty, wooden floor. Finally, after agonizing and striving, sneaking ever closer to this deathly-still-yet-oh-so-menacing scarecrow, I was close enough to reach out, stretching my arms and fingers with red-painted fingernails to pluck the gun from the scarecrow's lap . . .

The scarecrow's head jerked up suddenly, and he groaned "Get her!" to all of the toys and dolls in the room. I recoiled in abject horror, stumbling backwards, and ran from the room as every toy, every stuffed animal, every doll came to life and lurched towards me; the voices of a million undead children shrieked out, like zombie children playing zombie games and laughing zombie laughter. I slammed the door behind me, and all was quiet and safe, in that one instant.

I knew that I couldn't get the ray gun on my own at this point, so I decided to go downstairs to the kitchen table where the old man and his wife sat, and beg them for help. I knew that the old man could take authority over the monsters of that room, and command them to relinquish the ray gun. I decided to take the stairs on the left, but what I saw there was unsettling, as well.

About halfway down the staircase was a small group of maybe five or six little mice. They were eating what looked like little fluffy clouds. Imagine a marshmallow shaped like a cloud, or some other sort of sugar-puff. The treats had been placed on each step, and the mice were working their way down, step by step, gobbling up the treats. However, for each step they descended, they could not climb back up, as they couldn't reach. Waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs was a fat cat with a devious smile on his face.

As I watched in horror the plight of the mice, the cat began to recite a verse to me. I cannot remember the meter or rhyme, but the verse laid out the cat's plan in detail. The little mice were aware that the cat was there, but they thought to themselves "As long as we're not on the ground floor with him, he cannot eat us!" However, they could not resist the temptation of the little fluffy cloud treats; they simply kept descending, stair by stair, slowly forgetting the certain doom that awaited at the bottom. As the cat finished his verse, the last line referenced how the mice would descend the last stair into his open and waiting jaws.

With that, I awoke. I never spoke to the old man about help getting the ray gun. I checked, just to make sure, and was relieved to see that I was still a little boy, safe in my bed at home. I've never revisited that dream, and even if I did, I doubt that I would have the courage to brave the room with the dolls and the scarecrow. Fortunately for me, I seem to have grown into a man, and the ray gun wasn't necessary.

Though, if I were forced back into that dream, I think I'd ask the old man for his single-barrel .12 gauge shotgun!

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