Author Jay Sturner

A rare ice storm hit East Tennessee this morning, shutting down schools and causing car wrecks. It was quite beautiful though: a landscape of silver-coated trees beneath a stretch of blue mountains. Countless icicles hung from telephone wires and the eaves of houses and shacks. Many folks were out taking photos . But the storm wasn’t much of an inconvenience for me — I’m a writer, I work at home. And in that respect the morning was just like any other. That is, until about 9:30. I was hunkered down in my writing room at the time, the location of all my books, movie posters, and monster toys — action figures, I mean — editing a short story. That’s when a series of small bangs arose from the kitchen area of my prefab house. “What the hell is that ?” I said, glancing at the Wolf Man. I walked out into the living room, mug of cold coffee in hand, eyes half shut beneath an uncombed head of hair. I made a right turn at the dining area — a spacious extension of the kitchen — and fac...

Faritook stood on a rotten old log in the woods, cleaning one of his antennae. Shanamook was about to come along at any moment, and he knew he had to look his absolute best if she were to stop and talk with him. When she finally emerged from the decaying bark, Faritook released his antenna and edged closer to where she would pass. But Shanamook shuddered when she saw him. She was creeped out by Faritook, uncomfortable with how he always stared at her, his mandibles moving as if eating something invisible. And though they had seen each other a few times in passing, nothing more had ever transpired between them. They were just two earwigs that passed on the log. Faritook became increasingly nervous as she got closer, his prepared compliment ready to be spoken. But Shanamook was desperate to make him understand that she just wasn’t interested. An idea suddenly came to her, one that was certain to scare him off completely: she plopped her abdomen against the bark and excreted explosive...

A skinny old man stands on the shore of the river Styx. He removes his tie and suit jacket. Next his dress shoes, slacks, and pressed shirt. He always hated being dressed like that, even as a funeral director. Why didn’t his wife bury him in his Hawaiian shirt like he’d asked? She never did listen, that woman. Charon emerges from the fog in his creaky wooden boat. Seeing the old man in nothing but black socks and tighty-whities causes him to snicker. This leads to heavy laughter, which in turn leads to a hoarse guffaw. In fact, he laughs so hard he loses his balance and tumbles forward off the boat and into the river. Seeing this, the old man scowls. That is not very professional, he thinks. I could do a much better job than that fool! Charon clambers back into the boat and reaches for his pole, still laughing. He squeezes the water from his shroud and pulls the hood up over his pale dome. As the boat nears the shore he motions for the nearly-naked man to step aboard. The old-time...