Smoke & Bone

I don’t write to entertain. I write to provoke—to burn away the pretty fictions we cling to until only the raw, unflinching bones of truth remain.

I want you to explode. You, the reader—a fuse waiting to be lit. I want something inside you to detonate, to crack open and let my words raze the comfortable lies you tell yourself, leaving only the searing reality of what it means to be human. But this isn’t destruction for its own sake. It’s for something sharper, something deeper. I don’t write for applause. I write to set the room ablaze.

Storytelling is an act of bearing witness and it comes at a price—a steep one. It means walking into spaces most people avoid: the ghosts of words that never made it past the tongue, the weight of stories folded into silence. It means refusing to look away.

And for all its fire, my work is built on connection. Not the easy kind, but the kind that makes you sit in the mess—the contradictions, the unbearable truths.

It means stepping into the silence where truths have been buried, digging with bare hands until every last fragment has been unearthed and only the splintered, blood-slick bones of truth remain.

It is not catharsis; it’s confrontation. Every word demands I go deeper, cut sharper, strip away the layers of denial until all that’s left is truth.

Through my lens, storytelling is both rebellion and an act of creation—it’s a defiance of erasure, a challenge to a world that would rather move on.

I wish my words to be both seed and spark—igniting transformation and leaving you changed. I write because my pen is a scalpel, and if I can make you feel, maybe you’ll act.

This process isn’t neat, and it isn’t kind. It’s the labor of turning pain into prose, truth into transformation. I said I want you to explode—because change never comes from comfort. It comes from pressure, from friction, from the moment you realize you can’t go back to who you were before the story found you.

The truth is brutal, and sometimes it has to be taken by force. I write because silence has too many accomplices.

I don’t write to leave you comfortable. I write to make you complicit—to pull you in, to stain your hands with the bloody ink of knowing. The line was crossed in the reading. The evidence is smeared across your eyes, the weight of the words now pressing against your ribs. We did this together. Me, the writing. You, the witness.

No unknowing what we’ve set in motion. It’s inevitable.

I write so you see yourself in the story, whether you want to or not. My characters, my subjects—they don’t stay on the page. They climb off it. Into your mind, your conscience, your very sense of what’s right and what’s possible. My work doesn’t just provoke. It demands something of you.

And yet, there is hope. Not the soft kind, wrapped in tidy endings, but the hard kind—the kind that comes from knowing words can outlast walls, that stories can move mountains. If I can make you see, if I can make you feel, maybe you’ll act. And if you act, maybe the story becomes something more than just mine.

Storytelling is visceral—an almost supernatural invocation, where words don’t just describe reality but create it. Speaking something into being. Watching it rise from nothing. Watching truth shape itself in real time. There’s an immediacy to it, a kind of alchemy.

Storytelling isn’t a recounting. It’s a summoning. Speak, and the words take shape, pulling truth from the ether and making it solid—watching as meaning assembles itself, line by line, turning what was once invisible into something undeniable. It isn’t passive. It’s an incantation, a blueprint, a force that carves truth into the bones of the world, hacked from the carcass of delusion.

Storytelling isn’t just an art—it’s a demand, a reckoning, a promise. It reshapes how we see ourselves, our world, and each other. My stories don’t let you walk away unchanged. They linger like smoke, asking one simple question:

Now that you’ve seen the fire, what will you do with it?

My words give shape to the unspoken, breath to the silenced, light to the overlooked. And light is truth.

I write until there’s no shadow left to hide in. Until there’s nothing left to soften.

Nothing left to salvage.

Nothing left but smoke & bone