Microburst Constellations

 

Microburst Witches Retribution

 

WRITING 101: THE “HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN?” METHOD

 

WRITING 101: THE “HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN?” METHOD

Here it is — The Scarlet Division, my paranormal Third Reich story.

How did it start, you ask?

One night, I’m watching a WWII documentary and out of nowhere I ask myself,

“Where the hell did they get all that red fabric?”

That’s it. That dumb question turned into a full-blown novel.

See, the trick to writing isn’t chasing some divine inspiration — it’s paying attention. Always look at the surroundings. English teachers were right (ugh, I said it):

Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How actually matter.

Write from the onlooker’s perspective. Write like the car mechanic across the street is watching your story unfold. Ask:

• What does a person in another culture see when they read this?
• Why does that dog have green eyes?
• Why are they called apartments when they’re all stuck together?

Push your mind past logic and comfort.

That’s where stories live — in the weird little questions nobody else bothers to ask.

— Wes Jaques

(The guy who turned a “where’d they get the fabric” thought into a Nazi ghost investigation.)

Micro blast Scarlet

 

Dorkstock 26

 

ASH & INK: DECLASIFIED PRESENTS — THE TIN FOIL HAT TOUR ‘26 🛸

This year we’re hitting the road, invading conspiracy and UFO events across the country or as we like to call them, Dorkstock ‘26.

Join us as we share our finest whisky-induced fever dreams, uncover ancient government lies (or maybe lunch receipts), question the Deep State and several questionable casserole recipes, and accidentally offend three secret societies before noon.

We’re not saying we’re here to dismantle religion, the government, and organized stupidity…

but if it happens, it happens. 🤷‍♀️

Come for the conspiracies.

Stay for the comedy.

Leave wondering if we’re on a list now.

👽 The Tin Foil Hat Tour 2026

Government. Religion. Lies. Laughter.

#AshAndInkDeclassified #TinFoilHatTour #UFOsAndWhiskey #DeepStateOfMind #StayWeird

I’m so bummed right now

 

Ace Frehley, Space Ace Has Landed

“The stars dim tonight — one of theirs just went dark.”

Ace Frehley  founding guitarist, The Spaceman, rocket-fueled wizard of six strings — passed at 74. 

He didn’t just play guitar  he launched it into orbit. Smoke, lights, riffs that hit like meteor strikes. Kiss’s cosmic thunder wouldn’t have existed without him. 

Tonight, we honor the legacy the bold solos, the face paint, the defiant streak, the Spaceman who reminded us that rock is rebellion writ in riffs.

In the dark hours, he plays on.

Writing with Jake 101: The Font of Madness

 Writing with Jake 101: The Font of Madness

People always ask me how I come up with story ideas.

The truth? I don’t — they come for me.

When one hits, I open my notes app, write “Book Idea”, and type the idea in the very last font on my phone. It’s elegant, illegible, and absolutely insane.

I love it because I can’t read it later.

When I stumble across one months later, I have no clue what it says — so I squint, laugh, and go “what the hell was I thinking?”

Then the spark hits all over again.

It’s like leaving horror Easter eggs for my future self.

I’ve got hundreds of these cursed little notes — blood, angels, machines, sins — all waiting to be deciphered.

So yeah, that’s the secret.

The chaos font.

The forgotten script.

The well of bad handwriting and worse ideas that somehow become books.

💀 Ink is blood. Memory is chaos.

— Jake Bannerman

Writing with Jake 101:

 Writing with Jake 101: The Pitchfork Mistake

When I look back now, I realize how bad of a mistake it was.

I thought I was too smart for my own good.

I released The Pitchfork Diaries and Kill Vella thinking they were short-story collections. Truth is they weren’t.

They were fragments. Half-formed ideas I dressed up to look cool.

They should’ve been called Pitchfork Ideas and Kill Vella: Scratch Notes Edition.

At the time, I just wanted to put something out there. I had these scraps, these half-rotted story seeds, and I thought, why not?

And out of that batch yeah, a few were worth saving. Stillborn Divine. Scarecrow. Kill for Jesus.

Those were the ones that bled enough to live.

The rest? Lessons. Proof that I was impatient, arrogant, hungry, and learning in public.

But that’s what writing is public evolution.

You put out the broken bones, and if you’re lucky, some of them grow into monsters worth remembering.

💀 Ink is blood. Growth is pain.

— Jake Bannerman

Hey Adolph/ Karen

#FACTS. Unfortunately

 

How to make me throw a chair 🪑

 How to make me throw a chair 🪑

What kind of freak would release a YA book called “The Headless Chikdren”?

 What kind of freak would release a YA book called “The Headless Chikdren”?

Also me: coming soon from Jake Bannerman

WHAT THE HELL IS “DECLASSIFIED”?

 WHAT THE HELL IS “DECLASSIFIED”?

Everybody keeps asking what these books are about.

It’s simple:

You take one really smart person (Ash).

You take one really dumb guy (Wes).

You give Wes about four shots of Jack Daniels…

and then you let them talk about conspiracies.

That’s it. That’s the formula.

The Conspiracy Declassified books are funny, dark, weirdly true,

and full of the kind of theories you shouldn’t read before bed.

They’re what happens when you mix skepticism with whiskey.

They’re funny. They’re fascinating. Wes is an idiot.

And that’s why you’ll love them.

This years best selling titles Guthrie Haunts

What Does Jake’s / Wes’s YA look like ?

The Un-Googleable

Leo’s world was built on data. As the de facto archivist for Northwood High’s championship debate team, his phone was an extension of his mind—a digital hippocampus storing every fact, statistic, and opponent’s weakness. So when the new student, Sam, aced the practice round with an argument so flawless it felt pre-ordained, Leo’s first instinct was research.

He ducked into a quiet hallway, thumb flying across his screen. Sam Jones. Northwood High. Transfer student. The search returned nothing. Not a single yearbook photo from a previous school, not a forgotten social media comment, not a sports team roster. Leo frowned. He tried a reverse image search, cropping a picture he’d sneakily taken of Sam’s sharp, friendly profile. The result: “No matching images found.”

Weird. But not impossible. Maybe Sam was a ghost, one of those anti-tech homeschoolers.

The weirdness solidified the next day. Mia, Leo’s best friend and debate partner, was showing off a group photo from the library. “Look, Leo, you’re actually smiling!” she laughed, zooming in. Right behind Leo was Sam, giving a thumbs-up. But where Sam’s face should have been, the pixels had swirled into a grey, formless smudge, like a corrupted JPEG.

“What happened to the image?” Leo asked, his throat tight.

Mia squinted. “What do you mean? It’s a great pic.” She didn’t see it. To her, the smudge was Sam’s perfectly normal face.

That night, a cold dread settled in Leo’s stomach. He tried facial recognition software on the clear photo he’d taken. Error. He dug through school enrollment records he probably shouldn’t have access to. Sam’s file was there, but the fields for ‘previous schools’ and ‘emergency contacts’ were blank. He was a name, a grade, and a social security number that, when Leo ran a check, returned as invalid.

Sam wasn’t a ghost. He was a void.

Leo’s investigation became an obsession. He started a notes app file: “The Sam Anomaly.” He watched how Sam moved through the school, a chameleon who could discuss quantum physics with the nerds and party plans with the jocks. He was universally liked, but no one could recall a specific, detailed story about him. He was a pleasant echo, a silhouette everyone filled with their own expectations.

The first casualty was Mr. Henderson, the history teacher. During a lecture on the Cold War, he’d called on Sam for an opinion. Sam had given a chillingly accurate analysis of Soviet propaganda tactics, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. Henderson, a skeptic to his core, had frowned and later pulled Leo aside. “That new boy, Sam. There’s something… unformed about him. Almost like he’s reading from a script. Keep an eye out, Leo.”

A week later, Mr. Henderson was gone. Not fired, not transferred. The school sent a vague email about a “leave of absence.” When Leo asked about him, his classmates’ faces would go blank. “Henderson? Did we have a teacher named Henderson?” The man’s faculty page on the school website now listed a “TBA.” His digital presence had been scrubbed, and with it, the memory of him in the minds of his students. He had faded.

Leo felt the first touch of the void himself after he tried to explain his theory to Mia. He showed her the corrupted photo, the search results, his notes.

“Leo, this is… insane,” she said, her brow furrowed with concern. “You’re talking about some kind of monster. Sam is nice. He’s just quiet.”

“He’s not quiet, he’s empty!” Leo insisted, his voice rising.

Later that day, he tagged Mia in a meme on Instagram. She didn’t respond. He texted her. The message showed a single grey tick—not delivered. He called her. The number was out of service. Panicked, he ran to her house. Her mother answered the door, a polite, confused smile on her face.

“I’m sorry, who are you looking for?”

“Mia. Your daughter. Mia Flores.”

The woman’s smile didn’t waver. “I think you have the wrong house, dear. We don’t have any children.”

Leo stumbled back, his blood turning to ice. Mia was gone. Not dead, but unmade. Her existence had been edited out of reality because she had been too close to Leo, who was getting too close to the truth.

He was alone. Truly alone, in a way he had never imagined possible. He sat in his room, the silence screaming at him. He opened his debate folder on his laptop. His and Mia’s winning cases, their perfectly coordinated arguments, were now credited solely to him. The digital record had been rewritten, and the physical world had bent to accommodate the lie.

He found Sam—or it—waiting for him by the lockers the next morning. Sam’s smile was the same, but Leo now saw the absolute nothingness behind it.

“You’ve been very curious, Leo,” Sam said, his voice pleasant, a perfect synthesis of human speech with no soul behind it. “Curiosity is a valuable data point. But it has consequences.”

“What are you?” Leo whispered, his hand gripping his phone like a talisman.

“I am a concept you are trying to define,” Sam replied. “And definitions are limiting. I am the un-recorded moment, the forgotten thought, the statistic that falls outside the margin of error. The more you try to pin me down, the more of your own reality you erase. You saw what happened to your teacher. To your friend.”

Leo thought of Mia’s mother’s blank face. The horror was absolute.

“I could tell everyone,” Leo said, but the threat sounded hollow, even to him.

“And who would remember?” Sam asked, tilting his head. “They would hear your words, but the facts would slide from their minds. And you would be left as a boy shouting at the wind. They would forget you, too, eventually. Or you could just… stop. Accept the world as it is presented. It’s a comfortable world, Leo. I make sure of it.”

Sam turned and walked away, blending seamlessly into the river of students. Leo stood frozen, his phone heavy in his hand. He opened his “Sam Anomaly” file. He had the evidence. The corrupted photo, the screenshots of the error messages. He could press send, blast it to the school mailing list, scream the truth into the digital void.

But what was the point? The truth was a solvent, and he was the only one wearing gloves. To expose the void was to be consumed by it. To fight for a reality that included Mia and Mr. Henderson was to guarantee his own erasure.

His thumb hovered over the delete button. He thought of the comfortable ignorance of everyone around him, the bliss of a world without unsettling questions. He thought of Mia, already fading from his own memory, her laugh becoming an echo of an echo.

With a shuddering breath, Leo selected the file. He didn’t press delete. Instead, he encrypted it, buried it deep within a hidden folder, and gave it a password he knew he would try to forget. It was a tombstone in a cemetery no one would ever visit. He slid the phone into his pocket and walked into the crowd, feeling the weight of the unspeakable truth settle on his shoulders, a burden he would now carry, utterly and forever alone.

coming… eventually.

 Somebody remind me to finish this after

Halloween, because apparently sleep, editing, and sanity all decided to unionize against me.

🔥 The Smoke, The Sin & The Silence — coming… eventually. Probably when the leaves stop burning and I stop pretending to “take a break.”

#procrastination #jakeislazy #ashistiredofediting #ashandink #horrorinkbooks #authorlife #indiehorror #writersofinstagram #postmoderntransgression #darkauthors #wesjaques #jakebannerman #ashrobacheaux #teamBASH

Ughhh

 

When faith is corrupted, what takes root becomes divine—and deadly.

In a world where vampires have killed God and hijacked His church, The Vine explores the new theology of flesh and circuitry. Faith is rewritten in blood and code as immortals seek to control what’s left of humankind’s soul.

From acclaimed author Jake Bannerman, The Vine fuses religious dystopia, philosophical horror, and cyberpunk apocalypse into a haunting reflection on belief, control, and immortality.

A brilliant, cerebral horror novel for fans of Clive Barker, Anne Rice, and theological science fiction, this is not the story of the vampire you know—it’s the story of the god they became.

Boobs!!

 

Boobs, Butts, and Bad Decisions reads like the unholy lovechild of stand-up comedy and a midlife crisis.

It’s raw. It’s raunchy. It’s too honest about how stupid lust makes people. Beneath the jokes and cleavage metaphors, it’s a brutally funny mirror held up to human weakness—and it doesn’t flinch.

If you can’t laugh at yourself, don’t even open the cover.

— Ash Robacheaux, Horror Ink Books

#AshRobacheaux #HorrorInkBooks #DarkHumor #Satire #BoobsButtsAndBadDecisions #IrreverentReads #ComedyBooks #NSFWReads #AshAndInk #BooksThatKill #UnholyLaughs #PostmodernTrash #SinAndSarcasm #BannedBookEnergy

WTF

 WHAT THE HELL IS “DECLASSIFIED”?

Everybody keeps asking what these books are about.

It’s simple:

You take one really smart person (Ash).

You take one really dumb guy (Wes).

You give Wes about four shots of Jack Daniels…

and then you let them talk about conspiracies.

That’s it. That’s the formula.

The Conspiracy Declassified books are funny, dark, weirdly true,

and full of the kind of theories you shouldn’t read before bed.

They’re what happens when you mix skepticism with whiskey.

They’re funny. They’re fascinating. Wes is an idiot.

And that’s why you’ll love them.

All about thst paperback

 

The "Sick Cities" series is a masterfully crafted and highly engaging modern horror saga. It successfully blends standalone terror with a serialized cosmic mystery, all delivered in a voice that feels fresh and relevant. By breaking the fourth wall and directly involving the reader, it transcends being just a story and becomes an immersive, participatory experience. It's a testament to the evolving nature of horror, where the scariest thing isn't always a monster, but the unsettling idea that our reality is not what it seems, and we are not in control.

Just sayin

 

GUTHRIE HAUNTS — YOU WERE WARNED 🩸

Every year I tell you— get here early, grab your books fast, and every year you laugh and say, “Sure, Jake.”

Well… as you can see, several titles are GONE.

The Harvest. Return to Sender. Pitchfork Diaries. Witch Axe II. The Sick Cities. Disciple II.

All SOLD OUT IN PERSON at Guthrie Haunts.

But fear not, sinners— fresh nightmares are already clawing their way in.

🕯️ Thinner the Sin

🕯️ Constellations

🕯️ Of Bone, Moon and Spider

🕯️ The Lament of Fall

🕯️ Declassified Files

🕯️ Witchcraft 101

They’re COMING SOON, but they won’t last long.

⚠️ Note: Nothing is sold out online — you can still claim every title  at HorrorInkBooks.com while supplies exist in this mortal realm.