The revolver came apart in his hands. He had begun his evening ritual of cleaning and oiling the weapon. Not that it needed it, hell it didn’t seem like it ever needed it, but it kept the illusion going in his mind that it was just bits of metal and ebony wood. Nothing more. That illusion was getting harder and harder to maintain. Each time he had sensed trouble, the urge to grab that grip was tremendous. Maybe it was just mental security, the way a child holds on to his favorite blanket. Maybe it was the gun reaching out to him to keep him safe like a mother holding that child, or maybe it was the revolver wanting to feed off the death that it brought. The latter seemed preposterous.

Still, he worked the rag into the chambers to clean what were already clean, to polish the bore that wasn’t dirty. The smell of the gun oil with its sweet metallic tang mixed with the smoke from the fire brought back images from the War. Campfires and soldiers cleaning weapons, those brief moments when no one was dying and the men could breathe. He’d thought that kind of peace would come back after the fighting ended. Seven years later, here he was cleaning a weapon by firelight, still preparing for the next fight.

He continued to work the rag around and began cleaning the inscription. Never any dirt lodged in the words. Words he couldn’t read. Words in a language he didn’t know. He suspected it was Latin, but wasn’t sure.

He grabbed the barrel and upturned the grips to begin cleaning them. Not a scratch, not a dent in the wood. Just black and gray grain running down the length of the ebony. He worked the rag and oil into them. The inscription seemed to glow a bit, as if the weapon liked the attention. He shoved that thought out of his mind. It’s just the reflection of the fire.

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Camp stories spread like prairie fire.

You hear stories like this whispered around campfires when the nights get long. Tales of a weapon that changes with the times. A sword in medieval chronicles that granted unnatural prowess to its bearer. A musket from the Revolution, spoken of for its impossible accuracy at distances that should have been beyond any man’s skill.

Now they say it’s a revolver.

They say the weapon reads the will of its wielder. It’s efficiency it craves. It takes life with surgical precision. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The revolver had passed through many hands before it found him.

Most men who held it felt the imbalance. The ebony grip sat wrong in the palm. The barrel, half an inch longer than factory standard, threw off the weight. Gunslingers and lawmen alike set it down with a grimace, reaching for something familiar.

But when he picked it up, everything changed.

The fog that had clouded his mind since that terrible morning lifted. His shoulder—the one the bullet had torn through—stopped throbbing. The nausea faded. In its place came clarity. Cold, absolute clarity.

The inscription along the barrel glowed a faint orange as he raised it. He didn’t speak Latin, didn’t understand the words. Didn’t need to.

It offered him clarity. Focus. The ability to right wrongs.

But the weapon wants something too. It always does.

Right now, somewhere on the Texas frontier, that man carries a weapon he doesn’t fully understand. He was lost in grief, and the revolver found him in his darkest hour.

What happens when a cursed gun finds the perfect wielder? What happens when a good man discovers he can’t put it down?

Perhaps that’s a story for another campfire.

What do you think? Have you heard similar stories in your travels? Share them below, but remember, some tales are best told when the fire burns low and the darkness presses close.

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Elias absorbed this, his pale eyes never leaving Rufus's face.

“How long was he in town before the trouble?”

“Two weeks. Maybe three.”

“And no one thought to mention a gunfighter was in their midst?”

Rufus's jaw worked. “Didn't look like a gunfighter. Looked like a man down on his luck.”

“Until he wasn't.”

“Well, yeah … until he wasn't.”

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In the dusty corners of frontier saloons, where men nurse their whiskey and their regrets, they speak of patterns. How certain families seem marked by steel and shadow. How a gun that tasted one man's blood might, years later, find its way to his son's hand.

The old-timers claim the weapons know. That iron forged in grief and tempered in violence carries memory in its metal. They say blood calls to blood across the years, across the miles, drawing the cursed steel to those whose veins run with familiar sins.

But which sins? That's where the stories split.

Some whisper it's the blood of killers that calls, that the weapons seek those already stained, already walking the path of violence. The steel recognizes its own kind, they say, drawn to hands that have taken life or will take life.

Others claim it's innocence the weapons hunt, pure souls to corrupt, clean hands to stain red. That the guns feed on the fall from grace, and bloodlines cursed with righteousness make the sweetest prey.

Still others believe it's simpler than sin or virtue. That the weapons seek those capable of bearing their weight, not the weight of steel, but the weight of choice. The terrible burden of deciding who lives and who dies, who deserves justice and who deserves mercy.

The Pattern in the Stories

If you listen long enough to the tales told in trading posts and church steps, you start to hear the echoes. How the Brennan boy took up his father's iron after that business in Yuma. How Sarah Delacroix found her grandfather's blade calling to her from beneath the convent stones. How certain names keep appearing in the ledgers of violence, generation after generation.

The weapons don't care about the color of your skin or the god you worship. They don't distinguish between outlaw and lawman, sinner and saint. But they do seem to care about something deeper. Something that runs in blood like a river runs to the sea.

The question is: Are they drawn to what you are, or what you might become?

Or: If the steel remembers bloodlines, what happens when two weapons of the same making recognize each other? What happens when blood calls to blood, and both sides answer?

Some say that's when the real reckoning begins.

The Collector's Notes

Found carved into the wall of a burned-out church outside Comanche:

“The gun knows the hand before the hand knows the gun. — M.H.”

Recovery date: Spring 1871
Authenticity: Disputed

The Iron Gospel Archive collects the whispers, myths, and fragments that surround the weapons that shape history. Not all tales are true. Not all truths are told. But every story leaves its mark on those who hear it.

This one’s a quick note — more dust trail than dispatch. I’ve been pressed for time, but consistency matters, and this felt worth sharing.

K.M. Weiland (whose work I’ve followed and respected for years) recently posted a guest article by Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer:

📝 “How to Start Dictating Fiction (Even If You’ve Tried and Failed Before).”

→ Worth your time. You can read it here

Sarah’s take wasn’t hype or hustle. It was grounded — honest about how awkward, slow, and frustrating dictation can be at first… but also how _freeing_ it becomes when you stop trying to “write fast” and start trying to _speak true_.

Storytelling was originally oral.

That hit harder than it should’ve.

I’ve always typed. Scribbled. Pushed words across the page like freight.

Dictation never felt like real writing.

But maybe that’s the wrong question. Maybe it’s not about how the words get there, just that they show up.

Truth is, I’m on the road a lot. My desktop setup is miles away more often than not. If I waited for the perfect writing window, I’d never finish this book. That’s why I’m starting to take dictation more seriously. Starting with five minutes here, ten there.

Progress happens between gates and hotel rooms.

Here’s what stuck with me: you want to start with low-stakes scenes or backstory; nothing precious, just something to get your voice moving. Talk slow; this isn’t a race. Don’t expect rhythm right away, either — dictation is a new skill, not some instant shortcut. And maybe most importantly, five minutes a day is enough to begin.

The piece made me rethink my process.

Made me consider that maybe some parts of this story I’m writing, this myth I’m chasing, might only surface if I speak them. So I’ll leave it there.

If the page feels heavy this week, maybe give your voice a try.

Big thanks to K.M. Weiland for the platform and to Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer for the insight.

— Mark

Some stories don’t end in gunfire. Some just end, like hoof prints washed into mud.

After Cuero, the gunfighter rode west — not looking for trouble, just shelter. What he found was a warm meal, a woman proud of her son, and a barn to sleep off the storm.

What they found, hours later, was a hole carved straight through the center of their hearts.

Some say a man’s character is all he has. Who he is deep down stares back at him in the mirror unapologetically. That part of him cannot change. It’s like it is branded on his soul.

Do not mistake savagery for evil, or comforting for good, until you know the man delivering both. They say he never raised his voice. He never threatened, nor did he promise. The reputation was not something he particularly cared for, but it served its purpose.

He could play the Samaritan and carry a stranger on his back to a town he didn’t know for a doctor he wasn’t sure existed. He also left three brothers in a marked, but makeshift grave without a second thought. Or was it four? The story has been relayed many times throughout these parts and further North.

People have asked, at least those brave enough to approach, who are you: bounty hunter, outlaw, marshal? His reply is always the same, “Widow’s boy.”

***

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In answering that question, I know that I don’t want to just throw timelines, story arcs, and various characters at you the reader, just to get something in print. Or write something to shock you for shock’s sake. It's my goal for you to become immersed in this world; to have you emotionally invested in each of the main characters, both protagonists and antagonists, and several of the minor characters as well.

All that said, here's my goal, or promise if you will. If I ask you to care about a gunfighter, a grieving boy, a witch, a revolver, or even a book, I better care first. This isn’t a spectacle. I'm not writing violence for the sake of violence. I'm writing something I want to last and to endure. If this world deserves saving and expressing, it's worth building slow and right. Yes, I want this story to feel haunted and mystical, but I also want it embraced by you and kept.

Like I wrote earlier, you will see posts like this giving you a glimpse into my creative process. I'll also continue to drop snippets of the lore, both background and current, that shape this world and its characters.

So, let me peel back the curtain a bit and let you in. This story and world have been with me for almost 20 years. It came to me in bed one night, and no, I didn’t get much sleep. It’s a dark fantasy drama set in the old west. I spent most of the night running through each character. How did they react when things happened? How did they feel in different situations? What motivates them? How do they grow? Do they live or die, and does that further the mythos and story? But most importantly, what makes you want to know more about them and how much tension and drama can you process in each scene and chapter without feeling lost and overwhelmed? There have been many more such nights over the years. This just won't let me go.

The Iron Oath series, there I go again switching the name, is currently planned as a five book series. The series arc is blocked out, but it's not rigid. I let the story go where it wants to some degree, staying maybe not in its lane, but at least on the same road. More on that in a later post.

The story is organic. The writing is my own. Full disclosure, I do bounce scene ideas and dialogue sections off my wife for her opinion, but for the most part it is me on these pages. You'll see influences from Cormac McCarthy, Stephen King, Brad Thor, Tom Clancy and even Longfellow and the Apostle Paul. Although Longfellow and Paul tend to get wordy for my taste, they're there nonetheless.

Even the lore cards are drawn by me. I did seek help for the font pairings (I didn’t know it mattered until recently). I do hope you enjoy them. If you noticed, the cards are not all alike. There will be a series for each book. Each series has its own color scheme, fonts, and sigil.

So, this is the promise to you, I'm pledging to keep. This world isn’t perfect, but I'm building it with care and my love for this story. I want it to mean something to you. So, if you are reading, watching, and listening, I thank you. You are also part of what makes this world worth saving.

Nobody could read it straight. The words seemed to slide sideways, letters bent like heat haze.

But she kept it. Studied it.

They say she didn’t sleep for three nights after.
And on the fourth, she found the revolver waiting on her porch.
No prints from man nor horse. Just the gun and a single gold coin, marked with a face no one could place.

Her mother threw it in the well.
Next day, the well was dry. The bucket rope shredded like it’d been gnawed through. The water never came back.

After that, the girl changed.
Not loud, not sudden. Just… thinner, somehow.
Like something was borrowing from her.

She stopped attending worship. Started writing in a tongue no one knew — loops and barbs and ink that soaked the paper too fast.
When folks asked her questions, she’d answer with verses that didn’t rhyme and names they hadn’t said aloud in years.

Some of those names were dead.
Some weren’t.

By the time the preacher came to see her, it was already too late.
She was in the bell tower. Not ringing the bell — just staring out toward the horizon, holding the gun in both hands like a book.

The preacher didn’t go up.
He said he heard his own voice from the rafters before he reached the ladder.

The very next morning, he packed up and left. Didn’t even take his collar.

No one sees her now. Not in daylight, anyhow.
But now and then, the birds vanish from their trees.
And if you stand still and silent near the old well, you might hear her muttering a name.

Might even be yours.

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This series will mix personal posts, like this, along with lore drops from the Iron Gospel universe (although you may hear Iron Oath throughout these posts). Some posts will feel like a journal. Others will be whispers or down-the-barrel glimpses of the revolver’s myth.

For years, the short story Revolver sat. I had lots of scenes and ideas about how this idea/world could evolve and expand. I just had a story that wouldn’t leave me alone. Now, it’s becoming real. The first book, title still undecided, is part of what I hope will be a five-book series. I’m aiming for a launch by the end of the year.

Some would call this a Western. I’d call it, if I had to classify it, a dark fantasy, maybe even horror—just set under a western sky.

If you’re reading this, thanks. It means a lot. Especially right now.

👉 Want to follow the curse from the beginning? Hit subscribe. I’ll have more posts and lore drops coming.

To doubt either may be a fool’s folly.

One night at Delilah’s Social Club, over whiskey and shadow, someone told this story. Quiet-like.

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Why this, why now?

There’s a world I’ve been writing for over 20 years: a myth-soaked frontier shaped by fire, steel, and the weight of human choice.

It began as a short story called The Revolver; a tale about a gun and the man it chose. But the world refused to stay quiet.

Characters aged. Towns changed. Guns remembered.

That world is the Iron Gospel, a series of novels set in a landscape where every weapon holds memory, every choice echoes, and everyone walking the line between justice and violence leaves something of themselves behind.

This space — Writ in Fire and Steel — exists because I can’t wait for the books to do all the talking. I want to bring you into the world before it’s bound and printed.

What kind of community is this?

You’re not just subscribing to updates, you’re riding into a mythic territory still being mapped.

This space is for readers who love:

• Story worlds with lore that matters

• Fiction that tests the soul as much as the trigger

• Explorations of myth, morality, and memory

• Gunslingers, sorcery, and the gray in between

• Behind-the-scenes insights into the story craft and world-building

Whether you’re a fellow writer, a lore junkie, or just someone drawn to cursed weapons and haunted pasts, you’re welcome here.

What to expect

• 1–2 posts per week to start.

• Lore Drops – world-building posts, mythic history, character dossiers

• Dispatches – short fiction, excerpts, narrative fragments

• Field Notes – personal commentary on the writing process and creative decisions

• Found Pages – in-world letters, journal entries, fragments

Coming soon:

• Audio readings of key lore or short stories

• Subscriber Q&As

• Occasional polls on what lore you’d like next

Free subscribers will receive:

• All major lore drops and fiction posts

• Commentary and updates on the series

Paid subscribers (coming later) will get:

• Exclusive short stories

• Deep lore files with possible spoilers

• First access to audio content

• Behind-the-scenes development notes

Final word

This space is a campfire. Some nights we’ll tell stories. Other nights we’ll sharpen blades. Either way, I’m glad you’re here. Let’s step into the myth together.

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