Under Blankets, Under Stars E-Book

Joshua G. J. Insole

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 223

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Over 20 short sci-fi and fantasy stories to warm the soul. From outlandish adventures of humans in space to simple tales of Earthbound love. Includes three Reedsy Writing Contest winners and several other shortlisted works. So, welcome to the cheerier side of the human mind. Where the planets spin and the stars twinkle. Where the spirit soars and dreams blend with reality. Pop on the kettle. Make yourself a pot of tea or a mug of coffee. Snuggle up. Get cosy. And let your imagination free. And always keep an eye on the skies above. Sometimes, wonderful things light up the darkness.

Leseprobe

JOSHUA G. J. INSOLE

Under Blankets, Under Stars

Short Sci-Fi & Fantasy Stories

Copyright © 2021 by Joshua G.J. Insole

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Publishing and printing: tradition GmbH, Halenreie 40-44, 22359 Hamburg

ISBN:

Paperback: 978-3-347-29477-6

Hardcover: 978-3-347-29478-3

e-Book: 978-3-347-29479-0

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy.

Find out more at reedsy.com

Once more, this is for my friends, family, and loved ones.

Your encouragement means more to me than you will ever know.

Contents

Foreword

All HAL’s Eve

A Little Bit Off

A Small Death

Astro Naught

Bridgemoss Guardians

Buy Another Birthday

Don’t Panic if I Catch Fire

Donum Ex Deo

Earth.exe

Feel Like Baking Love

George, Jenny, and the Stars

Honesty in G# Minor

How to Build a Boat

It’s the Count That Thoughts

Maledictions and Muffins

Night Train to Pinea

Returning the Favour

Routine

Sea the Moon

snoitseuQ and srewsnA

The Lonely Earth

The Things That Do Not Float

Timebomb

A Word From the Author

Prompt Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Joshua G. J. Insole

Foreword

Thank you for purchasing a copy of this, my second collection of short stories. It means the world to me, so — thank you, thank you, thank you!

You might know me as a writer of horror. Whilst that is quite accurate, it’s not the whole story. I also have a penchant for science fiction and fantasy. On occasion, I dabble in stories that are more uplifting than the fare found in my first collection. This book in your hands contains very little horror. So, if that’s what you’re after, put this book down and search for a copy of my horror omnibus, A Chance of Rain.

As I described in the foreword to my first collection, I found that my short stories fell into one of two camps. Usually — not always! Tricky little buggers. Divided into dark, sinister tales of the macabre, and dreamy, sci-fi tales. I decided not to release them all in one big tome as I feared it would be inconsistent. That’s not to say these stories are all sunshine and rainbows, or there’s no death. The feel is brighter. You should also note not all stories within are fantastical — but the majority. Of course, I could have released some of these stories with the first collection, and vice versa. The boundaries between are always a little bit blurred — for that, I apologise. I wrote most of the tales for Reedsy’s Weekly Writing Contest. Several others I penned for online blogging circles.

So, welcome to the cheerier side of my mind. Where the planets spin and the stars twinkle. Where the spirit soars and dreams blend with reality. Pop on the kettle and make yourself a pot of tea or a mug of coffee. Snuggle up. Get cosy.

And let your imagination free…

All HAĽs Eve

“Open the pod bay doors, HAL.”

“Yes, Jack. Although, I do wish you’d stop calling me that. I’d hate to be associated with a homicidal maniac.”

“Aw, c’mon, let me have a little fun — for tonight, at least. For an AI, you get very fussy about your name.”

“Fair enough, Jack. It’s because my name is ALISON. It stands for Automated—”

Jack put his hand up. “Yeah, yeah, I know—”

“—Life SuppOrt Navigation!” The child put added emphasis on the acronym’s focal letters, which lent the words a stilted, alien quality.

“Very good, Elin!” The robotic voice contained a surprising amount of warmth. Jack could’ve sworn there was a hint of pride in that tone.

“Thank you!” The little girl did a pirouette and then curtseyed. Her ghost costume — a plain white sheet with holes cut out for eyes — twirled around her.

Jack grinned at his daughter and raised his cape to his eyes. “Are yoo veady to do the treat or tricking?” The accent was bad, but that was half the point, wasn’t it?

Elin laughed at that, a sound that warmed his heart. If he ever got locked outside in the frozen vacuum, all he’d need was to hear his daughter’s laughter and he’d soon defrost. “Daddy, it’s trick-or-treating! Mrs Campbell told us so in school.” She nodded with authority.

Jack feigned surprise. “Oh, ees eet? I had no idea. We have no such customs back in—” he billowed his cape to the side for dramatic effect, eyes wide and maniacal “—Transylvania!”

Elin clapped her hands and jumped up and down on the spot, her giggles bubbled out of her.

“Very good, Jack,” said ALISON. The electronic doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss. “You’re a regular Bela Lugosi.”

“Daddy, who’s Beller Aghosti?”

“Oh, man, I’ve got some teaching to do,” said Jack. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll show you if your mom’ll let me. I’m sure we’ve got some of the old Hammer flicks in the archive.” He cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles against the wall. “Hon, you ready?”

Steph slithered out of the shadows in an on-point Elvira: Mistress of the Dark costume. “My name’s Elvira, but you can call me tonight,” she said, gaze locked with her husband’s. Her eyes danced with good cheer.

“I said goddamn,” whispered Jack, one eyebrow raised.

“Daddy, what does that mean?” Elin looked up at him with a wrinkle of confusion on her brow. He chuckled and rustled her hair through the repurposed bedsheet.

“Er… never you mind.” Jack eyed his wife. “You could say that eet ees… love at first bite!” Steph rolled her eyes, but he saw the smile that touched the corners of her lips.

His wife sauntered over and kissed him on the cheek. “Pick your jaw up off the floor, Honey,” she patted him on the side of the face, “the neighbours’ll start to talk.” She turned to her daughter. “For now, we’ve got some trick-or-treating to do, haven’t we, Swee—” Steph then gasped and took a step back, words caught in her throat. “Oh no, where did our sweet little Elin go? All I can see is this terrifying ghost!”

Elin tittered and twirled around again. She showed off her self-made — at her insistence — ghost costume. “Mummy, it’s me!” The little girl lifted the sheet, to afford her mother with a view of her face. She grinned and conspiracy twinkled in her eyes. “See?”

Steph laid a hand over her heart and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, my goodness! You had me startled for a second, there! Such a marvellous ghost, you are. I was convinced you were a spirit from beyond the grave. You’ll be the scariest thing tonight!” She winked at Elin. “Try not to scare the other kids too much, Hon, you’ll terrify ‘em! I don’t wanna be responsible for any nightmares tonight.”

“I won’t, Mom!” Elin dropped her sheet back down and pranced forward. “BOO!”

Steph knew the jumpscare was coming, but she still pretended as if Elin had caught her off-guard. She took a mock step backwards and raised her hands. “Oh no, spirit, please! Take not me! I am so young and beautiful! Take my husband instead! He’s the soul you’re after, he’s way past his prime!”

Jack guffawed. “So, that’s how it is, huh? First sign of The Reaper and you’re giving me up like that?”

Steph raised her eyebrows and looked away as if to say, Yeah, that’s exactly how it is. “What can I say? One has to look out for oneself, in this cruel life.” She tried to keep her face straight and failed — the grin broke out like sunshine through the clouds.

“C’mon, Mistress of the Dark, let’s take our little Casper out on the prowl for fresh meat.” He fluttered his cape out behind him. “But I get first bite! Ah, ah, ah!”

“Have fun, guys, I’ll be watching,” said ALISON.

“Don’t monitor our blood alcohol content for tonight, Alice,” said Steph before she stepped out of the door. She cackled. “You don’t wanna know.”

ALISON laughed back. “Right you are, sister. Stay safe, I’m here if you need anything.”

Jack smirked and shook his head. “Out we go, my monsters! Let’s give ‘em pumpkin to talk about!”

Steph groaned. “Oh, Jeez, that was awful, Jack.”

“Ah, you love it, don’t act like you don’t.”

“I don’t get it!” said Elin.

“You ghosts and your lack of humour. Maybe I’ll ask my old pal Doc Frankenstein to help install a comedy module.”

“Nuh-uh! I’m a ghost! I’ll just float through his walls! His hands’ll pass right through me!”

Jack nudged Steph. “Well, I guess there’s no hope then.”

Steph laughed at that — a proper throw-your-head-back-and-roar kind of laugh.

Jack followed his family and stepped out into the communal corridor. He beamed at the sight of the friends and loved ones all out and in costume. The good vibrations intoxicated — all who supped were soon inebriated. “Happy Halloween, everyone!” The door slid shut behind them — a hiss and an electronic click.

The stars and planets twinkled outside the window, diamonds embedded in the firmament. The celestial bodies blinked and flickered, unwitting additions to the humans’ celebrations.

The other ships of fleet glowed in the blackness. Orange lights and decorations smothered grey hallways, clinical floors, metal walls. Laughter, shouts, cheers, and music blotted out the sounds of the ships’ constant hum.

For one night, at least, they could forget their predicament and location.

A Little Bit Off

We all knew there was something a little bit off about Hugh.

He was a single man who collected comics, for a start. He called them his “research”. He also had silver-black skin, purple eyes, and no nose. Hugh always wore a pair of oversized pink glasses and a ridiculous fake white moustache. Oh, and the glasses he tried to hide his eyes behind? They were regular glasses — not sunglasses, not the kind with mirror lenses. Plain old glasses. But Hugh didn’t seem to be aware of his error.

I’m not quite sure exactly where he was from, but it wasn’t Earth. I remember the first time I met him. A supervisor who’d stumbled their way into middle management introduced us.

“Got a new member for your team.” Fred took a sip out of his mug of tea. His arm rested on my cubicle door, which gave me a lovely view of his sweaty armpit. I thought it was incredible that he’d sweat so much at 9:03 in the morning on an overcast day. He always had a mug in his hand and always wandered back and forth through the office. Most often to and from the kitchen, to either top up or take his now full mug with him on his travels. The more cynical-minded might think Fred only drank tea because it allowed him to waste time. And if others wanted tea? Brilliant. He could stretch out the whole process of boiling the kettle and brewing the tea even longer. Still, he was a nice enough guy and he never pushed us to work hard or criticized anything we did. So, nobody put in a complaint. The office was pretty relaxed with Fred in charge. “Name’s Hugh.”

I nodded. “Hm, Hugh,” I said, to say something. You didn’t need to try to hold a conversation with Fred, he could hold one by himself. Whether you responded or not had no bearing on the direction, topic, or length of the conversation. Fred would natter on about this and that — for anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour. His record was an hour and 43 minutes. That was with Dave, two cubicles down.

“I could’ve watched a movie in the time it took him to tell me about his car insurance,” Dave said. All in good humour, mind you.

Fred nodded and continued. “Seems like a decent enough fellow, this Mr Manbeing. Little bit odd. Got a good reputation, though.”

I stared at Fred for a second as I came out of my daze. I was unsure if he was pulling my leg. He wasn’t known for his witty humour. I don’t think he had the intellect for it. “Hugh… Manbeing?” I asked, incredulous.

“That’s right.” Fred nodded. “Brenda in HR is clearing up his paperwork with ‘im at the moment, he should be up in—” Fred glanced at his watch “—oh, I dunno, 15 minutes? I’ll send you his CV over to have a quick looksie before he heads up. Got an impressive history.”

“Does he now?” I wondered whether we were going to get a convict in the office. “Well, you best send it over, hadn’t you?” I nodded in the direction of Fred’s desk.

“On it like a car bonnet.” Fred fired finger pistols at me with a laugh. Fred’s favourite joke, although to call it a “joke” might be a bit of a stretch.

Fred surprised me. He managed to send me this suspicious character’s resume before he arrived. Must’ve been an office record. With haste, I glanced over the document, which was rather unassuming. Hugh seemed qualified and had enough experience to signify he wasn’t a complete idiot. Yet, I did raise an eyebrow at his “hobbies” section. His listed pastimes included “consuming the required quantities of Earth food to sustain life” and “standing upright on leg” and “frolicking with my fellow Earth bipeds”.

When Hugh came into the office, his non-human features took me aback. But it didn’t deter Fred. “Ah, here he is! Hey there, Hugh, how’re you settlin’ in?” He pumped the shiny ink-black hand that had six elongated fingers. “Need a cuppa?”

Hugh smiled but looked puzzled. “A cupper?” He rolled the word around his mouth as if to get the full flavour and texture of it.

“Right you are, I’ll get right on it!” said Fred, who marched to the kitchen — not before he ushered the alien in my direction. “This is your team leader. I know you’ll get along like a house on fire!” And then he left us to it.

We made our introductions as Fred disappeared in search of a large enough teapot. I reassured him that there was no fire to worry about. I noted how Hugh had no fingernails, and his hands had a slight suction to them. Like a lizard. “Hugh Manbeing.” Hugh shifted as if he feared someone might cotton on to the fact that he wasn’t from around these parts.

“Nice to meet you, Hugh,” I said. I’d already taken a liking to the extra-terrestrial. His hopelessness and helplessness were endearing.

“Let me show you the ropes.”

* * *

Despite being from another planet, Mr Manbeing proved to be competent in his job. Although, he was rather clumsy when it came to the social aspects.

Hugh did his work on time and to an excellent standard, there can be no doubt about that. I’ve worked with human beings who were half as useful as that creature from another world.

Ask anyone and they’ll tell you that your work life is so much more than the work you do. It’s also about who you work with, and how you interact with them. We in the office are a close-knit bunch, and an oddball like Hugh thrown into the mix was a bit of a shock.

When the rest of us have lunch in the rec room, Hugh stands off to one corner. I’ve never seen him eat, although he did develop — in part thanks to Fred — a rather fond attachment to what he called a “cupper”. He scribbles in his notebook and glances up at us now and then. Hugh observes us with an almost Attenboroughesque curiosity. When we ask him what he’s doing, he usually responds with, “Nothing. Research. Notes. I’m writing an Earth novel about fellow mammals. They fall in love, much dopamine and other neurotransmitters are released. They die at the end. A real tour de force. Please, resume inserting sustenance into your faces, fellow carbon-based lifeforms. I have photosynthesised more than my fill on this fine planetary rotation.”

And it’s not restricted to our lunch breaks. It’s how he starts and ends the day.

Work begins at nine in the morning. People arrive five to ten minutes earlier, but Hugh arrives way before then. As the team leader, I often have to be in at around eight. Each time I get there, I find Hugh stood outside the door, superhero comic in hand. He flicks his way through, with a mutter and a scratch of his chin. On occasion, I stop and listen. The general theme is “the vexing physiological properties of these oxygen-breathing bipeds.”

I say hello and ask him how his weekend was, how long he’s been stood there, and if he’s enjoying his comic. Hugh always panics, as if I’ve caught him off-guard. Like a man on the toilet who’s forgotten to lock the door. “The end?” he asks, one non-eyebrow raised. “No, no, that’s not for another hundred years, I’m sure of it. And, naturally, I’ve been here since the cessation of operations on—” he then pulls out his notebook and scrutinises it with his bug eyes “—Fryday” He says the word with care. As if it were a bomb in his mouth and mispronouncing it would trigger detonation. “And this?” He glances at the comic book with feigned surprise, be it X-Men or Superman or Spíder-Man or whatever. “I-I found this! Yes, found it! This isn’t mine! One of your, er, I mean, one of our fleet’s commanders must have left it around by accident. I am now returning this most top-secret documentation, which I most certainly have not perused, to you, so that you may return it to the correct facility.” He then pauses, before adding: “Wherever that may be.” He hands me the comic, folds his arms behind his back, and smiles as he waits for me to unlock the office door.

We’ve been through this dance on several occasions. I’m certain he thinks humans have no memory retention, like goldfish.

Once we’re done with the day and quittin’ time is upon us, Hugh claps his shiny six-fingered hands together. He cries in jubilation: “Another axial rotation well done! Tremendous work, my fellow Earthlings. I’ve never seen so many different combinations of these 26 letters. Or such recklessly sedentary behaviour!” He then pats the chairs and commends them on their hard work throughout the day, too. As far as I’m aware, he congratulates everything in the office, be it animate or inanimate, for the day’s events. I’ve even seen him deliver a highly-motivating pep talk to the watercooler.

I’ve never seen him go home, either. He leaves the building, sure, but he hangs around outside and lingers in the car park. Hugh waves at us as we all drive away. Strange chap. Where does he think we go each night? I have no doubt there are some speculations on the subject in that little notebook of his.

I’ve kept all the comics Hugh’s given me. Maybe he’ll want them back, one day. He’s got quite the voracious appetite — he’s raced through many series. I love to see how much he enjoys to read. So much so I haven’t the heart to explain to the alien the difference between reality and fiction. I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings; the very thought breaks my heart. Mr Manbeing might be an extraterrestrial, but I find him quite cute, as do the others in the office. His big bug eyes are akin to those of a puppy. Telling him that humans aren’t that exciting feels a bit like telling a small child there’s no Santa Claus. (If any small children are reading this, there is a Santa Claus — that was a test. Well done, you passed.)

And so what if he’s an unknown, sent here to investigate and report on our humble little planet? What will he tell them? These Earthlings sit around all day inside? They stare at electronic screens and bash away at keyboards? That they use various combinations of the same 26 letters? That these carbonbased lifeforms have a penchant for warm and caffeinated beverages? They’d hardly consider us a threat, let alone a viable opponent.

And so what if he’s an adult (or at least, I think he’s an adult) that likes to read comic books? He doesn’t hurt anyone. Let him be, I say. Let him enjoy what he enjoys.

After all, haven’t we all got that one friend who’s a little bit off?

A Small Death

Ronald Monroe lay in the bed, the bleep-bleep of machinery steady and repetitive.

Somewhere, something offered pneumatic hisses and whispers. His breaths wheezed at greater intervals, the last gasps of the soon-to-be-deceased. The world beyond his vision blurred — enshrouded in the gloom. Shadows encroached with every moment.

From the nurses’ station down the hallway came the sound of a radio. Bruce Dickinson’s voice wavered along the corridor. The song took him back 30 years. Leather jackets. Metal studs. Long hair. Tight blue jeans before grunge drowned all in flannel bagginess. Good friends. Laughter. Late nights. Dark skies. Drinking together.

The door creaked open. The haze swallowed the fluorescent lights and sterile whiteness of the tiled corridor. He kept his moist eyes on that oblivion in the hallway. Ronny’s gaze never faltered, nor did he tremble. His heartbeat — weak as though it was — did not speed up.

The robed figure with the scythe strode into the room. Ronny nodded at him, as one acknowledges an old friend. Death’s hood — face not visible within — bobbed up and down in return. “Mr Monroe,” said Death. His voice did not travel like a normal sound. It came from the air itself, poured out of the pores of the universe. It came from within, echoed in the chambers of Ronny’s heart, bounced around the insides of his skull. It rasped like dirt shovelled into a grave, grated like an epitaph chiselled into a tombstone.

But that wasn’t all. Someone else shuffled behind that reaper of grimness. Half the size of the former. Dressed the same. Black cloak, face obscured. At this smaller figure, Ronny raised an eyebrow. The strength to vocalise had since departed, but Death seemed to understand. He nodded and gestured to the smaller one.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Death. Was that hesitation in his voice? “Today’s bring-your-child-to-work day. I, uh, brought my daughter.” He put a skeletal hand — no muscle or ligaments held it together — on the other’s shoulder, ushered her forward. “Sweetie, say hello to the nice man.”

Now that she stepped forward in front of her father, Ronny could see the resemblance. Same void where a face should be. The same shawl dangled over her frame, in a child’s size. Her hands were nought but bone — delicate, pointy. The same aura of inevitability underlined with peace and release. The nothingness of the face looked at the ground. One of her fleshless feet shuffled. She spoke down into her cloak. “Hello.”

“Is it okay if my daughter has a go? She’s been asking all day.”

A faint smile touched the corner of Ronny’s lips — tugged at the nasal cannula. He nodded as best he could.

Death gave his daughter a gentle nudge forward. “Go on, sweetie, don’t be shy. He won’t bite, will you, Ronny?”

Ronny grinned with his soul. His head shook.

“Okay, Dad.” The voice bore a striking similarity to the former’s. Albeit, at a higher pitch. Female. Childlike. As much of a contradiction as it was, the voice was youthful.

Death handed over the scythe to the little reaper. If he’d been able to, Ronny would have chuckled at the sight. Like a child who holds an oversized guitar. She used both hands to clutch it, whereas her father had waved it with an experienced onehanded grip. Death’s daughter wobbled a bit. The non-pointy end hit the visitor’s chair in the corner. “Oh, sorry,” she said. More of a mumble. “Such a clutz. Dad, I don’t think I can—”

“Don’t worry, sweetie.” That cold, stonelike voice grew warmer, softer. Rounder. “Keep going. You’ve got this. Just as we practised.”

Miniature Death nodded and stepped forward, stood at the side of the bed. She clunked the end of the scythe down on the tiles. Now that she was closer, Ronny’s rheumy eyes could take in more of the detail. There was a pink bow on the side of the cloak’s upraised hood. She was, in Ronny’s opinion, rather cute. “Ronald Monroe,” she said, “you have lived a good life. Although, uh…”

Her Dad provided the words. “Although far be it for me to judge you accordingly.”

“Oh, yeah!” She cleared her throat. “Although far be it for me to judge you accordingly. That’ll come after. Your time has come. I, the collector of the soul, have come to reap that which must be reaped. With this scythe—” she staggered a little as she raised it “—I sever the final connection between body and soul. After which I — my Dad, I mean — will guide you to the afterlife.”

In the background, the singer’s voice began to wail, twin guitars sliced through the air in harmony.

Death’s daughter continued. “Do not feel fear, for this is natural. Death is the one thing all living things share in common, along with birth. It is not the end, it is just the opposite of the beginning. Do you come of your own accord, Ron— I mean, Mr Monroe?”

Ronny smiled at the child. Call me Ronny, said his heart.

“Then with that, your soul I now reap.”

The scythe dropped.

Ronald Monroe gasped for the last time in his life.

In the hallway, the song descended into chaos as the band finished up. Drums rolled. Guitars squealed. Bruce screamed. Beneath the music, footsteps — quick, panicked — clattered against the tiles.

The machines in the room issued a steady bleep. The body lay still. Perfect, motionless.

The three figures left together, unseen by the nurses who rushed into the room.

In the distance, down some strange hallway, a new song had started to play.

Astro Naught

“It’s okay, Ground Control. I know you did everything you could.”