Author Jay Sturner

I fell in love with Berella in a Parisian café, the nearby Eiffel Tower shrouded in gray and dripping with rain. She was attractive in the unconventional sense, with bulbous, milky blue eyes set wide apart and a hirsute, ebony face of the most hypnotic countenance. Exotic in every aspect of the word, her beauty surpassed that of any woman or wild thing I had ever seen. Her dialect, too, was as mysterious and hypnotic as the tone of her voice, unfamiliar despite my numerous travels outside England, to regions of the Carpathian Mountains even, where she claimed roots. In esoteric knowledge, beauty, and intelligence she was unparalleled, and these traits, among others, sealed the fate of my heart, which, despite having previously only desired adventure and material wealth, now longed for her attention, and her attention only. That evening, after the storm had passed, in a park bordered and threaded with wet roses, I bent to one knee and asked Berella for her hand in marriage: me, clad i...

I might be the only human being to have ever seen a living, breathing dinosaur. Unfortunately, I have no proof of this; but that isn’t my fault, it’s the fault of the aliens. Perhaps tonight they’ll finally put the evidence in my hands. God knows I’ve pleaded for it a dozen or more times. Their visits began when I was a teenager; who knows how long they were watching before that. They seemed to know things about me right from the start, mainly my fascination with dinosaurs. I have loved them ever since I was a little boy. I spent hours at the local library reading about them, displayed toys and models all over my bedroom, drew them, was hypnotized by the Charles R. Knight paintings at the Field Museum in Chicago (where they also have the bones of Sue, the Tyrannosaurus Rex) when we visited from the suburbs, and hushed my parents and younger brother whenever the prehistoric beasts appeared on TV in all their animated glory. Not only were dinosaurs my number one obsession, they were ...

 Inspired by the dream logic of Norse mythology. The lumberjack returned to his cabin atop the mountain and sat by the fire to smoke his pipe.      “How was your day, Balder?” asked the man’s companion while cutting carrots for stew.      “Well, Nanna, I chopped down another ten trees for the Company. Big ones, too. One had a bear in it.”      “I’m sorry, dear,” Nanna replied. “I know how much you hate to inconvenience the animals.”      Balder blew smoke from his pipe and stared into the fire. Guilt was heavy on his mind, layers deep, like river silt. If he didn’t need the money he’d quit the whole business.      A cool breeze blew in from under the door. Though spring was upon the mountain, the wind yet carried a chill. Balder scooted his rocker closer to the fire.      “I’ve just got to find another job,” he said to himself, smacking the armrest. Just then, a weasel peeked out from beneath...

To Shayne Keen (for introducing me to the band King Buffalo, from which an image in a song of theirs led to the creation of this story). Ynè-Kee froze at the sight of her own face peering down at her from the emerald flame of an aurora. This vision, the shaman said, was a sign that a journey must be taken, and that closure was its purpose.      Next day, after making preparations, Ynè-Kee spent extra time with her son. Part of her did not want to go, as the boy had just lost his father and sister in a recent battle. In her own grief she retreated to the hills every sunset. There she watched light dance across the boreal landscape to distant waters where it was lulled beneath the horizon. Often she wondered where all that light went, and if it was better there.      After saying her goodbyes, she climbed atop her mammoth and headed west through the snow.      Several days into her journey, under a setting sun, Ynè-Kee arrived at the sea. A pai...

Dear reader, how might the following story—or any of the thousands told the world over of inanimate objects coming to life—be explained? I believe, that with the passing of centuries, a significant buildup of residual magic, misspoken curses, incomplete incantations, and other dark emissions have encircled the earth to such an extent that, by some strange, mysterious law of attraction, a number of curious objects—such as Gothic statues—have become increasingly enchanted. This is, of course, just a theory. Perhaps you’ve one of your own. Rock should not walk in the evening. — from “The Gods of the Mountain” by Lord Dunsany      Rain slants heavy like a torrent of curses from an angry god. The twin dragons of Altgeld Hall at Northern Illinois University crouch on either side of the front archway, spewing water from stone grins. In the nearby garden plot, a human-sized statue stands dreaming and alone. This is Olivegoyle; not a true gargoyle, per se, but one of several grot...

Author’s Note: The following message was transcribed on 29 April 2022 during what I believe to have been a psychic transmission. Although I cannot validate any of its content—nor the bizarre source of the transmission itself—I feel it is in our best interest to take it seriously.  Will we ever receive the evidence promised within? Or further instructions? I do not know. What I do know is that the message, true or not, gives me an uncanny sense of doom. I pray it never comes to pass. Transmission #1 (unedited): To all members of the human race: What follows is an introductory message, a warning, and a call to action. Please keep an open mind when reading. First, I am a communications officer. I am stationed deep within the Pacific Ocean and come from the cephalopod tribe. More specifically, I am a giant squid. If you’re wondering how this communication is possible, know that my species has, for millions of years, possessed the ability to telepathically reach sensitive minds such as ...

My toes squish along the path. I chant. I sing. I fling bird hearts and lamprey livers. Scatter bits of pig intestine, salamander bladders, an ape spleen. Then out I leap into the jungle-humid glade, where a gathering of lethargic, grub-shaped gods sweat beneath a continuous summer sun. And of these, it is the shadow of Slishra-Ew—God of Troubled and Ailing Viscera—I so gleefully enter. Falling to my knees, I retrieve a dagger and cut out my own kidney. Ow, shit , that hurt. I present the organ in my proffered palms. “O unsightly one—please accept this offering as gratitude for all the disposable poetry you’ve inspired in me; for the success I’ve had in ephemeral, lowbrow publications. Through fevered dreams, a nervous stomach, and other chronic ills, you, sir, have smeared your poetic influence across my shivering mind!” “Hmph mlughh.” “How did I find you? Well, first I altered my reality by self food poisoning with rotten meat and questionable mushrooms. Next I vomit-grunted a short ...

STORIES AND POEMS OF THE DARKLY FANTASTIC [All titles previously published in various magazines prior to 2015] CONTENTS Sketch by Sketch Faerystruck Down What We Know of Goddesses Strings The Girl with the Crooked Spine Misery of He Who is Outside the Realm of Man Time to Grow Up Where There's No Time at All Belch Charon Falls into the Styx The Hunchback's Captive The Politician's New Heart Post-Funeral Mission to Mars Intimate Universes Penumbra The Unfortunate Heartbreak of Faritook the Earwig Red Icicles Ghoul of the Enamel Deal Down at the Hospital The Tramp Clown's Secret Not for Mortal Eyes The Blackout Killer Making Amends Spiral of Flies The Dark Island Publication History Acknowledgments About the Author/About the Cover Artist

The sky was clear, the moon nearly full. Fireflies rose from the gardens and drifted over manicured lawns where old timers, arm in arm with nurses or slumped forward in wheelchairs, returned from late afternoon strolls. Two male residents sat on the porch of the nursing home in flannel shirts and overalls, sipping chamomile tea in their rockers. They had spent the last few hours catching up, as they had not seen each other in sixty years. “I really do miss her,” Sam muttered, eyes moist and red beneath his flat cap. Virgil stopped rocking and leaned sideways over the small wicker table between them. “What’s that you say?” Sam raised his mucus-lined voice. “ Ruthie . I miss Ruthie.” “Oh.” Sam stared into his mug as if hypnotized by a vision there, the lines of his face deep enough to hold thin shadows. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought the better of it. Finally he put his tea down and said, “Virgil, there’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to ask you for sixty years now.” ...

Thane arrived at the Wisconsin Indian Reservation around noon, having just bounced along ten miles of dirt road plagued with pot holes and tree limbs. Lake Michigan, sunlit blue and specked with gulls, sat low in the east behind an autumnal stretch of maple and birch. His pickup came to a skid at the general store and launched a dust cloud at a waiting tribal officer. The officer, whose black hair hung past his shoulders, lifted an eyebrow and watched the cloud pass through his legs. Thane dropped from the truck and tore off his sunglasses. “Sheriff Stalking Bear?” “Ike,” the man said, gripping Thane’s hand. “You must be Mr. Swink, from the Field Museum. Nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you, too. Call me Thane.” The pickup coughed and pissed some fluid, then fell silent. Thane withheld eye contact just long enough to suppress his embarrassment. “Might wanna get that checked out.” The sheriff’s tone had a laugh pushed up against it. Thane slid the sunglasses into the v of hi...