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J.A.A. Novum

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2025

Stories (8)

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8 Stories

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The Button Collector

J.A.A. Novum

The first button Eleanor ever found was shaped like a star and half-buried in the dirt behind the old laundromat. She was eight years old, wearing mismatched socks and a jacket that smelled like mothballs and worry. The button was gold-colored but chipped around the edges, like it had been trying too hard to shine for too long.She picked it up, turned it in her palm, and whispered, “You’re still beautiful.” Then she tucked it into her pocket like a secret.Eleanor had always collected things no one else wanted: broken toys, bent forks, puzzle...

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The Joke’s On Death

J.A.A. Novum

In which Death meets a clown, and things go sideways. There are many places Death might expect to have a decent cup of coffee.A Parisian café, for instance. Or possibly a lonely mountaintop monastery where monks chant and beans are roasted by lightning. Or, if all else fails, the quiet between worlds.But not—absolutely not—a hospice break room in the lower east wing of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, wedged between a broken vending machine and a refrigerator that hums the bassline from Staying Alive.And yet.Death stirred his coffee with a plast...

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The Clockmaker’s Visitor

J.A.A. Novum

Julian Wren lived above his clock shop in the quiet corner of Barrow Street. His was the only light still burning after midnight, and it burned every night, without fail. The store window was a museum of ticking things—grandfather clocks with brass pendulums, cuckoo clocks chirping on the hour, pocket watches in velvet trays, and tiny carriage clocks with ornate keys.People used to joke that Julian didn’t keep time—time kept Julian. No one ever saw him outside the shop, except on Thursdays when he went out for tea and a single almond biscuit...

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The Unmentionable Truth About Mortimer Blight

J.A.A. Novum

In the grand city of Lankwell, where rooftops shook hands and alleys gossiped about the neighbors, lived a man named Mortimer Blight. He was exactly the sort of man who wore grey socks with an alarming level of confidence and whose idea of excitement was alphabetizing his collection of "Interesting Spoons of the Southern Colonies (Commemorative Edition)." He was, in short, the least suspicious person you could ever meet. And that’s exactly why everyone suspected him. Because no one, no one, is that boring on purpose. Mortimer worked at the B...

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Where the Dream Ends

J.A.A. Novum

I. Ink and EchoesMira woke to the feeling of ink drying on her fingers. The sensation lingered, sticky and oddly warm, as though she'd dipped her hand in the memory of a thought not yet formed. She sat up slowly, brushing sleep from her eyes, and glanced down. Black stains spidered across her palm, fading into the creases like a whispered secret. Her fingers trembled. She hadn't written anything, had she? No journal entry, no note, no sketch. The notebook beside her bed lay closed, the pen still capped. A dream, she thought. Just a dream. Bu...

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The Probability of Parsnip Pie

J.A.A. Novum

If you’d asked Edwin Pilcrow what the odds were of running into his ex-wife, his third-grade teacher, and the ghost of his childhood guinea pig on the same afternoon, he would’ve answered with absolute certainty: “Very low. Especially the guinea pig.”This would have been reasonable, since Edwin Pilcrow was not prone to delusions, excess imagination, or talking to people on the bus. He was a respectable, if unremarkable, employee in the Department of Statistical Plausibility, which most people assumed was either made up or a front for somethi...

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A Map of Impossible Places

J.A.A. Novum

Ever since he turned eleven, Ellis had kept a notebook beside his bed. Not for poems or homework or love letters, but for maps. Maps of cities that didn’t exist, drawn from dreams so vivid they left the taste of smoke or cinnamon or something stranger in his mouth. Each map had crooked streets, rivers that ran uphill, libraries with no doors, and buildings that whispered secrets if you pressed your ear against the stone.He never showed them to anyone. Not even his mother, who said he talked in his sleep like he was giving directions to ghost...

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The Funeral Guest

J.A.A. Novum

Rain fell like a curtain drawn tight over the cemetery. Umbrellas bloomed in black across the hillside, petals sheltering faces more numb than mourning. Somewhere in the distance, a horn blared—long, unbroken, and strange, like it wasn’t part of the world.Julian arrived late. He always did. But this time, no one turned to scold or sigh as he stepped through the iron gates. They just stood, watching the casket lower like they were witnessing a magic trick they didn’t understand.He didn’t understand either.“I saw her yesterday,” he whispered t...

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Author bio

J.A.A. Novum, also known as Jean-Albert Allen Arnold when he’s not dodging the responsibility of being utterly fantastical, writes with a quill dipped in the ink of science fiction and the essence of fantasy. Known in certain circles—ones that usually involve dragons who argue over union dues and robots contemplating the existential—his tales weave through the cosmic dance of ethics, technology, and the human condition, often tripping over their own intricacies just to peek at what happens next. In his world, morality might be programmable, and the future is as uncertain as a coin flip in a zero-gravity chamber. Writing under the looming shadow of Terry Pratchett, J.A.A. hopes to carve his niche, armed with wit sharp enough to cut through the absurdity of reality, or at least to scribble a footnote in its margins.