Clay Stoner crafts fiction where the surreal meets the raw–West, horror, and the unknown. Stories that linger. Worlds that unsettle.His stories haunt, provoke, and stay with you long after the last page.

Tales Without Boundaries

West of Oblivion

Where Time Betrays the Living

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Chapter 1

Running from the past is instinct—until it poisons every fleeting joy, drowning success in insignificance. Each day brought fresh horror, not just regret, but shame—shame for once being so naïve, so blind, for failing to face the consequences sooner.

Rocky Rolls lived with that torment, his nights swallowed by endless hurt, fueling violence, schemes, and whiskey. Nothing could erase the past. Not drinking. Not rage. Not time.

“Goddamn it—bartender!” Rocky slammed his empty shot glass against the counter, his fury heavier than the outburst itself. But the truth clawed at him—he felt empty every minute of the day. He was no better off now than the moment he walked away from it all.

“Be right there, mister,” Easy called from the tavern’s shadows—the only place to hide in this pit of lost souls.

Rocky’s bloodshot eyes carried more than alcohol. It was the weight of wasted years, failed attempts, relentless unrest. And somehow, this dingy hole-in-the-wall made it worse.

“I said, I want another drink—now!” Rocky’s words slurred as his head slumped against the bar. Frustration twisted into reckless fury—he swept the counter clean, sending bottles, cups, and shattered glass scattering.

Easy bolted from his only other customer, dodging flying beer mugs as loose bills whipped into the air. The floor glistened with spilled liquor—and Rocky’s shattered dreams of redemption.

“You’ve had enough, asshole—get the fuck out! I’m calling the cops!” Easy wiped scotch from his face, blood pooling at his temple from a broken bottle. He reached behind the bar for a wooden club.

Rocky didn’t flinch. He yanked a crumpled hundred from his worn gray flannel, hurling it at Easy’s face. “Get me the good shit. And clean the damn glass—last round tasted like garbage.”

“Keep your money. Get out,” Easy warned.

Rocky drew his revolver, firing once—knocking the club clean out of Easy’s hand before leveling the barrel at his head.

“Back off, motherfucker. And make it a double… from the blue-bottled scotch you keep stashed up top.”

“Easy—make it two,” a female voice cut in.

Rocky, too drunk to notice her before, wasn’t in the mood for cheap banter—or worse, a disease-ridden hooker in a filthy motel room. Her voice may have been syrupy sweet, but he wasn’t buying it.

“Forget her—just one glass. I drink alone.”

As Rocky downed his shot, the woman reached for hers—but before her fingers wrapped around it, he caught her wrist.

She puked on his hand.

“Jesus—what the fuck?”

“Sorry, mister… I’m not used to the hard stuff… I wanted to impress you.”

“You’re not fooling anyone.” Rocky snatched a bar towel from Easy’s shoulder, wiped himself clean, and tossed it at her.

“Here. Wipe your face.”

Only then did he notice the gown—tight, black, shimmering with gold sequins. It was odd, out of place.

And for reasons he couldn't explain… he didn't hate it.

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