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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Despite the fatigue, even Dusty’s company no longer brought much comfort in a world gone quiet with solitude.

The silence out here didn’t soothe him like it used to. Even the desert haze dulled his taste for the panoramic plains he once loved, as he drifted in search of a life he’d somehow lost along the way.

The trail of death he’d left behind helped little, either. A lot of hard times came living as he had—just surviving day to day.

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

The previous night, Cole had devoured his last can of potent Pecos Strawberries, tucked away in his saddlebag for months. Now every breath he took seemed to stir up a storm in his gut.

He was physically and emotionally drained. No use dragging out old memories—bullets that pierced flesh for scrub acres, cattle guarded from rustlers and raiders, or worse, hell poured down on poor sodbusters all in the name of the so-called free range.

From a nearby hilltop, he glanced down at the sprawling flatland of the Great Plains—prairies and grasslands stretching wide—but all he really needed was a good bush to answer nature’s call.

Concerned about the slope below, he held Dusty’s reins tighter. Wild critters could lurk, ready to spook his already jittery mount. After returning his notched Springfield musket rifle to its scabbard, he drew his Colt and fired several shots into the air—not for threat, but to scatter any varmints or jackrabbits that might bolt from the brush.

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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 for a moment—then let the words slip out quietly, like maybe the wind would carry ’em off before they stuck too long in his throat. This cowpoke couldn’t escape the weight of his regret. He lied to himself.

Told himself it was the beat-down he’d taken after days on the trail. But that wasn’t all of it—regret ran deeper than trail dust or bruises. Maybe a man didn’t know what his life was worth ‘til it’s spent. That kind of ache wasn’t new, and it wasn’t going away. Didn’t hit all at once, either; it settled in slow, like dust on a casket.

He’d been crossing the high plains—likely the driest, hottest, most sun-cursed stretch in western Kansas—for what felt like days. He tucked away his canteen after a couple of swigs, still thirsty, and rummaged in his saddlebag for the whiskey flask.

Without a doubt, Cole fought to survive a past that offered little joy and a future that promised even less. Yet, here he was, living a life some might envy—though Lord knew at what cost?

“Ahh… now this is just what I need. Hey, Dusty. What do you think, old fellow? Not much left in the flask. Drink it now, or save it ‘til I hit the sack?” Cole adjusted Dusty’s gait, keeping the horse steady.

“Easy, buddy… There ain’t enough left to offer you a slug now or later. Sorry, you’ll just have to calm down without it.”