Welcome to the threshold—where ink spills like blood, memory etches itself into the marrow, and every breath is a quiet war between the man I was and the one I’m still becoming.

I am Gregory Scott Gentry II. 39 years old. Writer. Poet. Wanderer. Born under the brutal summers and bone-deep winters of Oregon, reforged in the pulse of Minneapolis. My path has been paved with broken glass and second chances, a road walked by both monsters and miracles.

I have lived in the space between darkness and light, carving poetry from both. My words are shaped by the unforgiving beauty of Cormac McCarthy, the psychological weight of Stephen King and Dean Koontz, and the feral spirituality of Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker. I carry the unapologetic rebellion of Chuck Palahniuk, the riotous hallucination of Hunter S. Thompson, and the wandering soul of Jack Kerouac and Walt Whitman. I chase the sharp wit and immersive journalism of Tom Wolfe, and I feel the tragedy of F. Scott Fitzgerald bleeding through the cracks of my own stories.

I live for epic storytelling—the prophecy, the fate, the war between shadow and fire—the kind that Robert Jordan mastered. And I find myself reflected in Frank F. Hamilton, in the weight of his precision, in the way his words strip existence down to the bone.

They have all shaped me. But I do not follow—I forge.

This space is not just mine—it is ours. A place for the restless, the seekers, the ones who refuse to settle for the life they were given.

If you have ever stood on the edge of who you were and who you are meant to be—then welcome.

We walk forward. Together.

In dust and ink,
Gregory Scott