Storytelling
I write at the fault‑lines where bedtime stories rupture.
Expect tender robots who envy unborn siblings, siblings who barter memories for the moon, cacti that cough poetry, and a runaway bride who rides her own sonic boom. My tales begin in kitchens, mud and neon bedrooms, then tilt—sometimes violently—into the surreal, testing how much love, grief, or laughter a single body (or flatulence) can carry. If everyday life feels one notch too quiet, step inside; something is about to explode, and it just might set you free.
Plays and musicals
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Goodnight
On Christmas Eve, a Chinese‑American family learns that their eldest son, Chad, has died in a snowstorm. While the parents spiral through guilt and anger, 11‑year‑old Carl and 6‑year‑old Claire retreat into a handmade fantasy—populating a snowy realm with storm dragon, chaotic creature grownups, and a moon made of cheesecake—to bargain for Chad’s return. Reality and make‑believe ping‑pong across eight scenes, revealing how children translate grief into epic quests and how storytelling itself becomes a survival strategy. Intimate kitchen‑sink dialogue collides with theatrical shape‑shifts, songs, and shadow play, turning loss into a live collage of tenderness, absurdity, and (hard‑won) acceptance.
Beyond the Code
Born in a post‑climate future where natural childbirth is almost impossible, a humanoid robot awakens to its maker’s voice and learns love by imitation. When the inventor becomes pregnant, the robot’s programmed logic collides with very human jealousy, leading to a catastrophic bid to “earn” real humanity. Told in first‑person code‑clean prose, the piece interrogates motherhood, bodily autonomy, and the limits of radical empathy—asking whether care is coded or chosen.
The Fart Queen
Spun from a countryside legend my grandma swore was true, this riotous story follows a dazzling village girl whose nerves trigger cataclysmic, jet‑propelled flatulence—gusts fierce enough to burst dams, fell trees, and, on her wedding night, blast the groom clean through a wall. When the frantic crowd brands her explosive power “an American atom bomb,” she flips shame into sovereignty, rockets into the sky on a final sonic boom, and leaves patriarchy coughing in the dust. Part tall tale, part feminist revenge fantasy, The Farting Queen celebrates unruly bodies, rural absurdity, and the liberating roar of letting everything—literally—rip.
Welcome to the plant kingdom
A ten‑year‑old boy finds his bedroom cactus talking back. The spiky plant’s deadpan one‑liners and unsolicited “hydration advice” send the child ricocheting between musical riffs, existential dread, and slap‑stick caretaking as he tries to repot both the cactus and his own grief. Part sing‑song poem, part two‑hander with only one human, the piece turns a dimly lit corner of a kid’s room into a surreal therapy session about emotional overload, family “storm warnings,” and the fragile line between imagination and breakdown.