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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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PREVIEW Stoner’s Novel:

“We’re all just //// on the road to a better place.”

Despite the fatigue, even Dusty’s company brought little comfort in a world quieted by solitude.

The silence out here didn’t soothe him like it used to. The heat haze dulled his taste for the sweeping plains he once loved, leaving him drifting in search of a life he’d somehow lost along the way. The bloody trail he’d left behind offered no peace either—just the cost of surviving day to day.

“Dusty, steady—damn it!” Cole shifted in the saddle. “I can’t get a fart out while you’re bouncing me around like a sack of beans. Now what’s got you so spooked?”

The night before, Cole had eaten his last tin of Pecos strawberries—beans tucked away in his saddlebag for months. Now every breath stirred up a storm in his gut.

He was drained, body and soul. No use dragging out old memories: lead tearing through flesh over scrub acres, cattle guarded from rustlers, or hell poured down on poor sodbusters all for the sake of the open range.

From a low ridge, he scanned the sprawling flatlands, but all he really needed was a thick bush to answer nature’s call.

Wary of the brush below, he held Dusty’s reins tight. Wild critters could lurk anywhere, ready to bolt and spook his mount. He slid his notched Springfield back into its scabbard, drew his Colt, and fired a couple of rounds into the air—a simple warning to scatter any hiding varmints or jackrabbits.

Copyright © 2026 Clay Stoner All Rights Reserved.

SAMPLE

Chapter 1

“If life’s worth a damn, why’s it always runnin’ out?”

Cole Gunne didn’t expect an answer. He set his jaw, held it tight, then let the words slip—like the wind might carry ’em off before they stuck in his throat. Regret ran deeper than trail dust or bruises, and he couldn't lie it away, no matter how much he blamed the beat-down from days on the trail. Maybe a man didn’t know what his life was worth until it was spent. That ache settled in slow, like dust on a casket.

He’d been crossing the high plains—the driest, sun-cursed stretch in western Kansas—for days. After a couple of swigs, he tucked away his canteen, still thirsty, and rummaged through his saddlebag for the whiskey flask.

Cole fought to survive a past that offered little joy and a future that promised less. Yet here he was, living a life some might envy—though at what cost?

“Now this is what I need. What do you think, Dusty? Not much left. Drink it now, or save it for camp?” Cole adjusted the horse’s gait, keeping him steady. “Easy, buddy… Not enough to offer you a slug either way. You’ll just have to push on without it.”