It tastes of decay, but also of memory. It feels intimate, almost confessional. There’s violence in it, but it’s quiet, like something swallowed instead of screamed. The dust suggests time, ruin, mortality, but also creation, the ash from which something rises. It echoes both the Gothic and the cinematic, as if each story you tell is the residue of something burned, something buried, something that once breathed.
It also feels personal, like an aftermath. The dust lingers in the mouth, like words unsaid or stories half-told. It invites the reader into a space of remnants and reveries, where nothing is clean, nothing is whole, and yet everything aches with meaning.
I am a novice writer, learning to speak through silence, through ruin, through the flicker between frames. My stories are bones still wrapped in skin, unfinished, imperfect, but pulsing with need. I draw breath from the obsessions that shaped me, the dread-soaked elegance of Edgar Allan Poe, the raw disquiet of Chuck Palahniuk, the fevered, decadent beauty of Charles Baudelaire. Their ghosts do not whisper, they claw.
This space is my beginning.
My ambition is to write screenplays that bruise gently, then deeply. Stories that don’t flinch. Scenes that hold you beneath the surface just a little too long. I believe in the slow burn, the velvet edge, the beauty of what festers.
This is not a polished place. It is raw and unfinished. But it is mine. If you’ve ever been haunted by a story that refused to settle, I think you’ll feel at home here.
If you feel like, drop me a message: