inkstainsdaydreams

Jump, Motherfucker: A Sermon Delivered from the Wrong Side of the Bar at Closing Time
          	
          	I was hunched over a half-dead bourbon in a roadhouse that smelled like regret and fried bologna
          	when the jukebox coughed up a song older than my sins
          	and the bartender—missing two teeth and all mercy—slides me a napkin
          	with three words scrawled in grease pencil:
          	
          	
          	https://www.wattpad.com/1591180424?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create_writer&wp_uname=inkstainsdaydreams

inkstainsdaydreams

Jump, Motherfucker: A Sermon Delivered from the Wrong Side of the Bar at Closing Time
          
          I was hunched over a half-dead bourbon in a roadhouse that smelled like regret and fried bologna
          when the jukebox coughed up a song older than my sins
          and the bartender—missing two teeth and all mercy—slides me a napkin
          with three words scrawled in grease pencil:
          
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/1591180424?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create_writer&wp_uname=inkstainsdaydreams

inkstainsdaydreams

Feedin’ the Bears
          
          Cedar sign’s shot full of holes and still standin’,
          big black letters screamin’:
          “DO NOT FEED THE WILDLIFE.”
          Reason’s carved underneath in smaller print:
          they lose the language of the ground,
          start waitin’ on the next fool with a ham sandwich.
          Sounds familiar, don’t it?
          
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/1590905201?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create_writer&wp_uname=inkstainsdaydreams

inkstainsdaydreams

The Covenant of the Hollow Womb
          (A three-part Ozark folk-horror novella)
          
          In the iron-dark hollers of Caldwell Ridge, the mountain keeps its own scripture.
          
          1888.  Mercy Caldwell makes a bargain with something older than sin: one child every generation, measured exact, paid in blood and breath. The cradle never burns. The handprint never fades. The psalm is always sung backward.
          
          A century later, the tithe comes due again.
          Three women, three lifetimes, one cradle.
          Mercy, who spoke the covenant.
          Temperance, who tried to break it.
          Clara, who was born to finish it.
          They all thought they could outrun the mountain.
          They all learned the mountain doesn’t chase.
          It waits.
          It rocks.
          It hungers.
          Some debts are measured in inches.
          Some debts are measured in souls.
          The Hollow Womb is full…
          …but never satisfied.
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/story/404374615?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=inkstainsdaydreams

inkstainsdaydreams

THE DEVIL’S COOKBOOK (or How They Tried to Feed Me the Moon and Call It Cheese)
          
          The moon’s red tonight and the skillet’s laughing.
          
          Somewhere past the last streetlight, an old outlaw in a grease-stained undershirt is raising raw milk to the sky and letting ribeye blood run down his wrist like holy communion. The FDA sign behind him is full of righteous bullet holes, seed-oil bottles lie busted like bad commandments, and a ’57 Chevy keeps watch with a cow skull grin.
          
          This ain’t a diet.
          
          This is a declaration of war with butter as the battle cry.
          
          Read it out loud, preferably barefoot, preferably drunk, preferably with meat on your breath.
          
          THE DEVIL’S COOKBOOK
          
          Unpasteurized, unapologetic, and dripping down your chin since the first lie they told us about what’s “healthy.”
          
          Grab a fork or get out of the kitchen.
          
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/1590009634?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create_writer&wp_uname=inkstainsdaydreams

inkstainsdaydreams

New book drop. VANTA — The Titanium Gospel 
          
          A grindhouse gospel of broken mothers, bad men, and chrome salvation.
          Justice is on the house. Tips optional.
          
          “Every verse begins in blood.
          Hers ends in mercy.
          And the city will never forget her name.”
          — VANTA
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/story/404102445?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=inkstainsdaydreams

inkstainsdaydreams

A new story:
          
          In the shadowed depths of the Elderwood, drifter Harlan Crowe stumbles through a glowing stone arch, igniting a journey beyond time. Armed with a harmonica that hums with ethereal sparks, he witnesses the Eternal Weaver’s grand design: a cosmos birthed from chaos, life evolving through eons, and humanity rising with souls kindled by divine breath. As Harlan navigates visions of creation’s slow symphony, he encounters a rowdy cast of scarred pilgrims—each debating faith, science, and purpose in a smoky barroom clash of ideas. From the garden’s enigma to caverns of doubt, he grapples with suffering, freedom, and redemption, his restless spirit mirroring the Weaver’s subtle thread. Facing illness and unrest, Harlan’s bluesy tale weaves a gritty yet mystical tapestry—where pulp-noir grit meets mythic grandeur, and the eternal search for meaning burns brighter than the flask that once defined him. “The Weaver’s Thread” is a poetic odyssey of evolution, faith, and the human soul.