COMING SOON

• QUITE CONTRARY: BETA

• THE TRILOGY

NOTE

Want access to a third free story?You can unlock the section below by reading my free short story, The Last Target Run, subscribing to my newsletter (no spam—pinky promise), and then downloading my second free short story, The Skin We Shed.Each contains a piece of the puzzle you’ll need to access the third free story.But I get it—not everyone wants to jump through hoops, or maybe you’ve already done it and just want to support me. Either way, I’ve made Truth as Bitter as Silk available for purchase ($2) on Gumroad.You can find it by clicking the ‘SHOP’ button at the top of my homepage or by clicking hereThanks for reading, and for supporting indie storytelling!

A Story In Three Echoes

Some stories stand alone.
Others cast shadows across time.Each book in this trilogy unfolds on its own—separate lives, separate struggles, separate fates.A dreamer chasing the echoes of a vanished past.A fool grasping at the edges of freedom.A loner lost in a world that changes as rapidly as they do.Different journeys. Different choices.And yet, beneath the surface, a thread runs between them—thin as breath, strong as fate.A deal made. A debt owed.A cost unseen.Perhaps it’s just coincidence. A twist of fate. A shared motif.Or perhaps, it’s something more.These stories exist in their own spaces—untethered, yet bound.
By the time the last page turns, by the time the final choice is made, the pattern will be clear.But patterns do not begin. And they do not end.They only continue—shifting, repeating, unraveling.Nothing exists in isolation.
No deal is ever truly forgotten.This is not just a story.
It is a convergence.

On Timing & The Reality of Writing

- Jonas

- Jonas

Oh.You found this, huh?Did you find the others?If you’ve checked out the Musings section of my page, you already know why I use a pseudonym.But even people with pseudonyms show their faces sometimes, right?So maybe you’re wondering—why the reluctance?Honestly?I’m just too fucking gorgeous.It’s been a problem my whole life. A burden, really.I’m like if a fusion of Kaguya-hime, Cú Chulainn, Dorian Gray, Galatea, and Narcissus had a love child with the most beautiful person you know—and then they accidentally dropped the baby into a vat of highly-radioactive and highly-dangerous sexy.

The problem with beauty is that, often, it doesn’t like to get dirty.It doesn’t like when things get—ugly.When the emergency responders arrived, they hesitated.By the time they pulled the baby out of the vat, its skin was bubbling, blistering, peeling away in stomach-turning folds. One of the blisters grew. And grew. And grew.Until it burst.Inside? A single, impossibly smooth, pearlescent orb.The orb twitched, like a muscle testing itself for the first time. Then, with slow, deliberate intent, it burrowed—disappearing beneath the soil where the baby’s former body was now melting into the earth.From that very spot, moss sprouted.And from that moss, a strange, fleshy lichen.At first, no one noticed. It was just another unremarkable blot of growth in the dirt.But slowly—imperceptibly—it fed.Dust. Air. Water. The tiny, invisible things that pass through a space unnoticed.Then insects.Then small rodents.Then larger animals—cats, dogs, deer, wild boar.And still, the lichen grew.Once they noticed, they set up perimeters. Installed cameras. Took more samples. And although it was bigger than before, it was still harmless—just another curiosity in a world full of strange things.At first, they called it a phenomenon. Then a mystery. Then a threat.By the time the disappearances began, it was an opportunity.Because humans are humans. And while something might be dangerous, if there’s money to be made—who can turn down a dollar?So, of course, they commodified it.Come see the strange, living anomaly!A perimeter was built. The rule was simple: “It won’t grow as long as you don’t feed it.”For a while, it worked.Tourists came by the thousands, snapping photos from behind reinforced glass. Influencers took selfies in front of “The Thing That Shouldn’t Be.” Merch booths sold plushies shaped like its gelatinous, pulsing form.It was the attraction of the decade.Then came the fashion industry.“It’s otherworldly,” they said. “It’s perfect.”And so, they planned a show.Not just any show. The show.Alexander McQueen. Maison Margiela. Mugler. Vivienne Westwood. Iris Van Herpen. Comme des Garçons.The greatest fashion houses of the world. The greatest models to walk a runway.The lichen would be the stage.A circular platform, built around the perimeter—so close, the models’ heels would click against glass just inches from its surface.The industry’s finest came dressed in creations stitched from dreamstuff. Gossamer threads woven from liquid silver. Corsets carved from frozen lightning. Dresses made of sound, of shadow, of things that should never have held shape at all.It was the most ambitious showcase in history.And when things can go wrong, they do.And they did.The lichen had simply been lying in wait.The moment the show began, as the first model strutted the stage, something shifted.Something breathed.The roots emerged.They wrapped around ankles.They yanked them down.They dragged them under.Screams filled the air as bodies disappeared into the pulsing, undulating mass. The lichen swelled. Expanded. Shuddered.And then—Boom.It burst.And from the explosion, in the center of the devastation, there was a small, impossibly beautiful baby.

And that is the story of my birth.So you see, I just don’t want my sheer, devastating beauty distracting you from my work. My words.My art.Imagine if you fell in love with my writing and my face. It would be too much.For you.
For society.
For the fragile balance of the universe.So please, respect my privacy.Not for me. For you.For the greater good of humanity.You’re welcome.

- Jonas

Wow.I’ll admit it—I’m impressed. You actually made it this far.Surely, if you found this page, that means you also stumbled upon the list. And I’m sure you noticed the outlier.The name that doesn’t quite sound like a real name.That’s the password.Copy. Paste. Submit.But fair warning: what’s behind this door isn’t just another side of me—it’s an archive.A secured repository of things I’ve chosen to preserve. Some of it is mine. A lot of it, I’ve gathered over the years—media worth holding onto, things that might not always have a place anywhere else.Not everything on the internet lasts forever, despite what people say.Things disappear. Get buried. Get rewritten. Sites shut down. Content vanishes. What isn’t physically preserved gets scrubbed, lost to time, or forcibly erased.I didn’t want that to happen here. So I didn’t just save these things—I stored them. Kept them separate. Off the grid. Not reliant on the shifting sands of the wider web.This? This is my little act of digital defiance.Some of what’s behind this door is artful. Some of it is not. Some of it is polished, intentional, deliberate.A lot of it? Messy. Raw. Homemade.You don’t have to type in the password.You don’t have to look.But if you do—well. Some things, once seen, can’t be unseen.Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

- Jonas

• SUBMIT

INCORRECT PASSWORD

Okay, SERIOUSLY.Chill out.Didn’t your parents ever teach you to mind your business?This is embarrassing.Did you find the love letter?My list of crushes & confessions?The password protected page with the…Never mind.Fine. Here’s a reward.In Chapter One of Quite Contrary, the protagonist—Wairy—hears a song while lying on an exam table.It’s called ‘Canticle of The Five Kings’This is the melody I created for it.But after this? You’re done.Don’t go hunting for the other hidden links.

- Jonas

How many of these hidden links have you found so far?Surely not all eight.No way.But if you have—well, I suppose I should apologize for that list of links. I couldn’t help myself. It was too well hidden.And hey, we’re all adults here.At least I put a disclaimer. And a password. So whatever you saw, you wanted to see.Since you made it this far, consider this your reward: the beta cover and Part One of the two-part prologue for Quite Contrary.

- Jonas

PROLOGUE
Louisiana, 2005

Electric tension. Expectations—realized, then shattered.The stench of sewage.Moisture. Misery. Memory.The air hung thick after Hurricane Katrina ripped through New Orleans, leaving a fractured wasteland of shattered homes, uprooted trees, and lives buried in mud and grief. The sky hung low and heavy, gray as the weight pressing on the city’s broken heart.Chris Gilbert moved through the devastation with methodical purpose, his sandy blond hair damp with sweat, sharp features set in a mask of calm vigilance. As a Secret Service agent, his world was one of action, vigilance, and unwavering control. He had one job: ensure President George W. Bush’s safety as he toured the wreckage.The president walked ahead, flanked by aides and local officials. Chris’s boots crunched on gravel as his sharp eyes swept the surroundings, his hand instinctively near the firearm at his hip. The world around him felt real. Certain. Until it wasn’t.Everything stopped.The president froze mid-step. Torn scraps of paper hung motionless in midair. Even the wind stilled. Time had fractured, and Chris was the only one left moving.His breath hitched. “What the…” His voice cracked in the unnatural quiet as his hand went to his gun, instinct clashing with rising panic.Then he saw it.A shimmer of light on the horizon, growing impossibly bright. It swelled into a cascade of shifting hues—colors he couldn’t name, then condensed into a form—humanlike but otherworldly.Its body radiated iridescent brilliance, a golden skeleton glowing at its core. Shadows stretched across the ruins, bending in its presence. It hovered above the wreckage, its gaze sweeping the devastation like a cosmic judge.Chris’s breath caught. His fingers wrapped around his gun. “What the fuck are you?”The figure didn’t react.Chris fired.The shot never landed—it never even existed. The gun in his hand vanished, as though it had never been.The being turned. Its golden core flared, and Chris froze in place. A voice rumbled in his mind—a deep, ancient resonance. “I am Arran. This device is for your fourth-born. Ensure he receives it.”Chris’s pulse spiked. His mind snagged on one word: fourth-born. “Fourth-born? I can’t even have one—”The being raised its hand. A point of golden light appeared, expanding into a small, intricately detailed golden fist no larger than a small ball. It pulsed with faint warmth, alive in a way no object should be.Chris hesitated, instincts screaming at him to run. But the object hovered toward him, magnetic in its pull. His hand trembled as he reached out. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, heat surged through him—electric and overwhelming.“What… what am I supposed to do with this?” His voice wavered as he clutched the golden fist, its rhythmic pulse echoing his heartbeat.The being unraveled into threads of light. Its golden core flared brilliantly one last time before vanishing, leaving him alone in the wreckage.Sound rushed back in—gravel crunching, voices murmuring, the hum of Air Force One. The president walked on, unbothered, as though nothing had happened.Chris stood rooted, his fingers brushing against the object in his pocket. Fourth-born. The words echoed relentlessly.He thought of the diagnosis. The finality of it. The years spent burying the dream of fatherhood. And now this—a demand for not just one child, but four. Four who could never exist.His mind raced: What the fuck was that thing? Arran? A god? An alien? Why me?None of it made sense.But the object’s warmth against his thigh carried a certainty he couldn’t shake: his life—and maybe the world—had just shifted in ways he wasn’t ready to face.

Oh wow.Look at you.Behold, the Patron Saint of Proboscides.
All hail the Sultan of Schnozz
The Maharaja of Muzzles.
The Archduke of Air Passageways.
The Supreme Shogun of Snouts.Just nosy as hell.You just had to click, didn’t you?Couldn’t resist. Couldn’t leave well enough alone.Congratulations, you absolute genius, you found the hidden button.And now what?You’ve stumbled into my personal art crypt, a collection of works I definitely didn’t want anyone to see. (Except, clearly, I did. Because I put them here. But don’t think too hard about that. That’s my job, not yours.)So yeah. Enjoy.Or don’t.Now go. Be free.And maybe, just maybe, question why you’re the type of person who clicks mysterious hidden buttons on random websites.And don’t go clicking around looking for more.

- Jonas

Why I Use a Pseudonym

I ask myself this question a lot. Why not just publish under my real name? Why not fully merge myself with my work, attach my face to my books, be more front-facing with my audience?The answer, I think, comes down to control.I have a natural tendency to compartmentalize.
I always have.And while I’d love to trace it back to one definitive moment—some formative experience that turned me into the kind of person who keeps things separate—I can’t. I just know that it’s part of who I am. I like my privacy. I like my quiet life. I like having a space that feels entirely my own, untouched by outside expectations.So when I write, I do so under a name that isn’t quite me, but is still mine.Part of it is probably rooted in something a tad unhealthy.A voice in my head insists that by keeping my personal self and my writer self apart, I can prevent any potential fallout from spilling over. If things go well, if my books find success, I can protect my personal life from the weight of that attention. If things go terribly, I can walk away without dragging my real name through the mud. It’s a defense mechanism, plain and simple.But another part of it?It’s just me.I like the idea of keeping writing as something distinct, something sacred. A world where I get to step into the name I chose, not the one given to me. A space where, if my personal life is chaotic, I can still be Jonas—someone focused, steady, in control of the narrative. A persona that exists purely for the sake of storytelling.That said, I’m not completely opposed to showing up as myself. I know that readers connect with writers as much as they connect with books, and I do want that connection. I want my voice to be heard. I want my work to reach people. And I think—no, I hope—it will.In fact, it’s strange.I’ve never been the most optimistic person, but when it comes to my writing, I feel something close to optimism. I believe in my work. I believe an audience will find it.I believe this will lead somewhere.And maybe, years from now, I’ll look back at this and laugh at how naïve I was. Or maybe I’ll realize I had no idea just how far this would take me. Either way, I’ll be glad I wrote this. Because if nothing else, writing—even these musings—is teaching me more about myself.And that, in turn, is helping me make better art.I think maybe that’s the real lesson here.You can’t grow into a better version of yourself if you don’t recognize the version you are now. You have to do the work—the real, sometimes ugly work—of noticing your patterns, your instincts, the things you do automatically just because that’s how you’ve always done them. You have to watch yourself in real time and think, I was just about to react like this. But what if I didn’t? What if I tried something else?Self-awareness is the first step.Then comes the belief that if you don’t have the skills to change, you can learn them. And if you don’t believe you can learn them, then you start by building the foundations that will allow you to get to that point.Step by step, skill by skill, piece by piece.All that aside, that’s why I use a pseudonym.But more importantly, that’s why I know why I use a pseudonym.Because I’m doing the work. Because I want to live my own life—not on autopilot, not ruled by fear, not dictated by expectations I never had any control over.And yet—because humans are nothing if not walking contradictions—I can’t pretend that fear doesn’t play a role.I don’t want to live a life dictated by fear, but still, part of the pseudonym is rooted in it. The fear of failure, of public scrutiny, of watching my real name get dragged through the mud if this doesn’t go the way I want it to. That fear exists.It’s real.But so is the other part—the optimism.The hope that ‘Jonas’ will become something bigger than I ever could.That the name I chose will outgrow me, carry my words farther than my real self ever could.That one day, I’ll have a platform, a voice that matters, a space where I can share stories that change something for someone.That’s the future I’m planning for.And maybe that’s what I’m really doing here—not just protecting myself from the possibility of failure, but preparing for the possibility of success.

- Jonas

On Sex & Intimacy

Let’s get one thing out of the way upfront: I don’t consider myself a romance writer.That’s not to say my stories won’t contain elements of romance, connection, or intimacy—because, well, those things are part of human life, and I write about human experiences. But if you’re looking for an author who specializes in romance or “romantasy,” I’m not that writer. At least, not right now. I won’t speak in absolutes because I’ve learned that creative interests evolve, and maybe one day I’ll find myself drawn to writing a romance-focused story. But at this moment, that’s not where my focus lies.That being said, because I aim to depict the full range of human emotions and interactions, moments of intimacy—including sex—do sometimes appear in my work. However, how much of it makes it into the final story depends largely on the scope of the project.Where You’ll Find It (and Where You Won’t)In my larger works, where there are a hundred different plot points to develop and explore, sex scenes tend to be the first thing to get cut. Not because I find them unimportant, but because, in the grand scheme of the narrative, they often aren’t the priority. So if you’re reading one of my larger stories, you’re unlikely to find much beyond a chapter or two that delves into those moments.However, in my shorter stories, I find myself more inclined to spend time examining intimacy—not just sex for the sake of sex, but the role physical connection plays in human relationships. Because, at its core, sex and intimacy aren’t just about the physical act; they’re about communication, vulnerability, and the ways people express (or avoid) emotion.The Many Roles of IntimacyIntimacy—whether physical, emotional, or both—has always been a layered and complex part of human relationships. It’s not just about love or passion; it can serve a wide range of purposes depending on the person, the moment, and the circumstances.Sometimes, intimacy is about connection—building trust, fostering closeness, or strengthening a bond between people. Other times, it’s about something entirely different: a means of distraction, a way to relieve tension, or even an act of self-sabotage. Some use it to escape, some use it to reclaim power, and others use it as a way to heal.Throughout history, across different cultures and societies, intimacy has always carried these dualities. While the social rules and legal protections around it have changed over time, the core motivations—the emotional push and pull—have remained the same. It can be an expression of love or a tool for manipulation, a moment of vulnerability or a calculated move.That’s what I find interesting to explore in my writing. Not just intimacy for its own sake, but what it reveals about the people involved—their desires, their wounds, their unspoken truths.For Readers Who Prefer to Skip ItI recognize that not everyone is comfortable reading scenes involving physical intimacy, whether due to personal preference, trauma, or other reasons. If that’s you, that’s completely valid. I respect your choice, and I won’t take it away from you.To make things easier, I’ll do my best to include disclaimers at the beginning of any work that features those kinds of scenes. That way, if you’d rather skip them, you’ll know ahead of time and can still enjoy the story without that content.At the end of the day, my writing isn’t about following a formula or fitting into a particular genre—it’s about exploring human experiences in all their messy, complicated, and sometimes beautiful forms. And sometimes, that includes intimacy.

- Jonas

Jonas writes at the crossroads of speculative fiction and human behavior, crafting stories that blur the line between the real and the surreal. With a background in psychology, his work delves into the complexities of identity, society, and the ever-shifting nature of reality.Drawing from science fiction, fantasy, dystopian futures, and magical realism, Jonas weaves narratives that challenge conventions and linger in the mind long after the final page. His writing isn’t just about telling stories—it’s about reshaping the way we see the world.If you enjoy intricate worlds, impossible choices, and stories that refuse to follow the rules, you’re in the right place!

*If you care to know a little more about my lore, click the logo at the top of the ‘coming soon’ section

BACK COVER BLURB