As a kid, I’d sit in front of the TV, waiting for my show to come back on. Commercials flashed in front of me.

Aerodynamic toothbrushes. Razors with five blades. Trash bags with advanced, flexible, odor absorbing fibers, capable of withstanding more trash than ever before.

Do these things really need improving?

The stretchy garbage bag almost feels like metaphor for life in 2026. How much trash can we pack into our lives? How much noise? How much content? How much crap?

Trash. Slop. Content. Whatever you want to call it, it’s coming at us from all sides. Pouring out from every app, every streaming service, every screen.

It’s easier than ever for people to make content these days, which is honestly part of the problem. We have incredible capabilities, basically an entire TV studio sitting in our pocket. But the things we decide to do with it are terminally lame.

Growth hacks. Morning routines. 5 steps to manifest the perfect life—all from your car, parked outside of a Wendy’s. Unless you’re about to manifest yourself some spicy nuggets and a Frosty, I don’t see it happenin’, Bub.1

^Channeling TLG on the reg.

Nope, these days I find myself yearning for a different time. The technology was simpler, but our imaginations were more grand. They could soar in pixelated visions. Manifest in the taps and clicks of beige, clunky mice and keyboards.

We have seen perfection.

Yes, as a society, we have already peaked. The social media apps of today are pale imitations of what was. In fact, we can simply stop innovating now, because the greatest piece of interactive media already exists.

It’s over 30 years old. And it came free with your Hewlett Packard PC.

I speak, of course, of the greatest innovation humanity has ever known: 1995’s Spider-Man Cartoon Maker.

Dear Reader. I have bore witness to a very different time. The rise of the personal computer.

It arrived at our house in a big blue-and-white box. And once unearthed, it was revealed as a massive, beige block that sat on the dining room table. And with it came a stack of free, mostly forgettable CD ROMs, including the mighty, the hallowed, the crème de la crème…

Spider-Man Cartoon Maker.

Oh, it was a marvel. A wonder. If you were a kid who fantasized about having your own cartoon or comic strip one day, Spider-Man Cartoon Maker was like a gift from heaven. Yes, it was basically a glorified Microsoft Paint. But it was so much more.

Yes, you could draw “Paint” style. But you could pick from a plethora of Spider-man related backgrounds, objects, and animated sprites—all of which had their own looping animations and sounds. Heroes, villains, citizens. Fire hydrants and road cones. Flaming pumpkins. Mayhem.

You could place it all in whatever nonsensical orientation you wanted, and create the chaos that only a kid, free from the confines of logic, sense or restraint, might muster.

But the thing that really set it apart, the thing that somehow elevated from a Paint clone or a Spider-Man answer to Kid Pix2, was one small, yet not insignificant factor: you could record sound.

Yes! If you were able to somehow get your hands on a crappy $15 microphone that plugged into the headphone jack, then, my friend, you could lend all the glorious, crackly, audio-clipping voice acting that an exuberant 10-year-old could muster.

And so, I spent hours playing with this thing. “Playing” wasn’t even the right word. Creating. Making worlds. Manifesting.

I distinctly remember bringing a friend home from school, a friend with a similarly creative spirit and flair for silly humor. We goofed around with this thing, piecing together slide after slide of nonsense, lending our voices to each scene and laughing all the while. After an hour or so, we had made it: a cartoon.

The story made absolutely no sense, and I have basically no recollection of what happened over the course of the animation, but I distinctly remember laughing my ass off, watching this thing over and over, certain that it was pretty much the greatest thing to ever exist.

Who knows. Maybe it was. It might actually be the most important piece of work of the late 20th century. But sadly, we’ll never know. That cartoon is lost to the annals of dead hard drive history. But to this day, it occupies a very special place in my heart. The spirit of mischief, mayhem, and unbridled silliness lives on.

As I work on my YA novel and other projects, I still carry that torch. As serious and borderline-spiritual my writing practice can be, built around ambition and discipline and all that crap, it’s all fundamentally a type of play.

None of this happens without play, an adventuring spirit, and a little bit (or a lot) of humor.

And you know what? Despite my earlier criticisms of the online world of 2026, I gotta say. A good many folks are doing some truly awesome things. Sure, there’s clickbait and slop and modern drudgery of all kinds. Ads for detox teas.

But there’s also brilliant writing, comedy, illustration, music, and expression of all kinds coming out of these channels. And when I see something that genuinely makes me laugh, and brings out the 10-year-old in me, I can’t help but smile.

Sure, building a creative career can feel like a grind sometimes. The world is stuffed with trash, and it’s only getting more and more packed. But, just as always, true imagination stands out from the pile.

So to everyone out there doing their thing, even if it’s silly or weird—even if it bucks trends and doesn’t promise much of a paycheck—to everyone doing it just for sake of it, all I can say is… keep slingin’ 🌌

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING.

So happy you’re here.
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Spoiler warning: This review contains some references to plot details in the book Holes by Louis Sachar.

You might not expect the act of digging a hole to be particularly gripping. Or for a book about summer camp to be a tour de force.

And yet, both are true.

You might not expect a book about middle school boys to be an emotionally resonant epic spanning multiple generations, nimbly tying together disparate threads into a uniquely American piece of mythology.

And yet, this is also true—through Louis Sachar’s terse yet elegant storytelling that brings it all to life.

When I picked up a used copy of Holes at my local bookstore, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I knew it would be a survival story about boys digging holes in the harsh desert.

I wasn’t expecting the jump back in time; I wasn’t expecting the cleverly converging story threads. I wasn’t expecting the colorful lore that turns dark, like blood in the water. Or the sudden turn into something much bigger, something mythical and grand, and yet somehow small and granular at the same time.

Holes is rare.

It’s one of those rare, perfect books, where everything is exactly where it’s meant to be. Nothing is out of place. It has everything that it needs—nothing more, nothing less.

Sachar does not mince words and he does not waste time. He can do in 277 pages what some writers can’t with several middling, long-winded volumes.

As one critic put it, “the genius of Sachar’s prose is that it’s so plain and unshowy you don’t notice the daredevil artistry of his storytelling until it’s too late.”

This critic was talking about a The Cardturner, another Sachar title, but it applies here. Holes is somehow both gloriously rich, and elegantly spare. It’s a master’s class in setup and payoff. It features one of the most insatiably wicked antagonists I’ve ever seen. The story is full of surprising twists and turns, and layered as the dark Texas dirt—or, you could say, an onion.

Indeed, the tale of young Stanley Yelnats—a kid forced to survive the inhospitable, and settle the score set by his no-good-dirty-rotten-pig-stealing great-great-grandfather—is truly one for the ages.

How did it elude me for almost three decades? Who knows. It was waiting, like something strange and beautiful hidden in the dirt.

I’m glad I found it when I did 🌌

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You are now entering the liminal void of The Facebook. Look around. You see an abandoned strip mall sitting in a nowhere-town. Empty store fronts. Windows boarded up. Signs are fading in the sun, jovial colors now bleached into eerie pastels.

Coupons flutter in the wind. You pick one up—”SPONSORED POST,” it reads.

How did we get here?

🌌🌌🌌

The year is 2026. I am a 41-year old man. I’ve been on social media for over 20 years.

I’ve seen empires rise and fall. I’ve seen computers go from beige desktop monsters to sleek touchscreens that fit in your palm. I’ve seen Zuckerburg go from unassuming nerd to Summer Camp Authoritarian Glow Up. I’ve seen social media go from this personal, somewhat intimate thing to a weirdly careerist dump of unending trash.

But this is not a post about “enshittification.” This is a personal reflection.

Because as much as we hate Zuckerberg, and as cringe as this whole thing is, there was a singular moment in time, believe it or not, when Facebook kind of made sense.

But I’m realizing, as I write this, that it’s not so much about a changing platform, or a changing world, but a changing self. And to understand that, we have to go back, unfortunately, to 2006.

Think of it! A time before smartphones! No Twitter! No Instagram! And definitely no TikTok!

YouTube was in its infancy. Facebook and MySpace were the biggest games in town. The very notion of being an “influencer” or “digital creator” simply did not exist.

And it was August of 2006 that Facebook would roll out it’s new feature: Notes.

No, not the Twitter-esque micro-blogs of Substack’s Notes. These were for long-form. Imagine! A really half-assed, built-in blog feature, just slightly off the main drag, where people could write long-winded diatribes if they so desired. (But not Substack. This had a white background! So it was different!)

It was here that you would find the diatribes of emboldened college-aged millennials, drunk on power, sleep deprivation, and maybe a Four Loko. Imagine, if you will, the most mind-bending content known to humanity! (And maybe some hot takes on the school quad.)

Notes, to put it bluntly, was my sh*t.

And this is about the most embarrassing thing I will ever say, but for a minute there, I was kind of a hit on Facebook Notes.

I mean, a hit with like the 15 people I knew. In real life.1

The barrier to entry was low—and so was the bar. There was literally no expectation that what you said on Notes was going to be coherent, let alone part of a “personal brand.” So I took it upon myself to write freely, often in a sleep-deprived stupor, often in a relentlessly long-winded, self-examining mode. (Which was the style at the time.)

I’m not sure what brought me to Notes. I had no expectations. But what I found was that, despite my probably embarrassing candor and tedious metaphors, it actually seemed to resonate with people. The 15 people I actually knew in real life.

Friends would see me around campus and say “hey, I really liked what you said on Facebook,” or “I really liked what you said about XYZ.” And, not unlike today, they would leave thoughtful responses in the comments.

I was surprised that anyone even read this stuff, let alone that they had any kind of emotional connection with it. And I guess, even more embarrassingly, that praise was something I really needed at the time.

Because it felt like, for the first time in my life, people were actually hearing me.

As weird as it sounds, this silly feature on Facebook was the thing that allowed me to express some really difficult emotions and thoughts that I couldn’t really express otherwise. Suddenly I had an outlet for all the things I needed to say that wouldn’t fit neatly in everyday conversation.

Prior to college, my life was so fraught that there was no space for reflection or deeper thinking. I was so mired in my own misery, and surrounded by so much chaos, that it was impossible to access this part of myself. I was just trying to get through a day without breaking down. And even if I could express these things, would anyone even hear it? Or understand it? Or would it just be lost in the noise?

But not in college. In college, my mental health was improving. For the first time, I had a community of sorts. Groups of friends, places where I belonged. Things that were so out of reach as a teen.

So, why am I thinking about all this now?

Well, I guess it’s because, 20 years later, I find myself at a similar inflection point.

A lot of things have changed for me in the last few years. I quit drinking. I decided to live alone. I started going to group therapy (in addition to one-on-one.) I got into meditation. I got really serious about writing—even more than before.

With all these things combined, something weird has happened: I’ve started really healing.

Some of the most difficult and transformative work of my life, in terms of healing from past trauma and discovering my true self, have been in the last year. Some might call this shadow work or integration. I can’t really overstate how difficult that process has been. I’ve cried a lot. Sometimes pretty violently. It’s been a lot. But it’s also been really fruitful. I feel like I released this really big, heavy, dark, difficult thing.

On some spiritual level, it feels like I’m starting over. Kind of like how I felt 20 years ago.

Now I get to live my life by my own set of rules and standards, my own moral code. Which is difficult to do, because nobody can really teach you how to do that.

I get to move through life as this more healed and integrated person, aligned with a higher purpose. It’s a beautiful thing to live in that. But sometimes it’s hard.

But sometimes I feel utterly, terribly alone.

Maybe I do it to myself. When I’m alone, at least I don’t have to sacrifice who I really am. And maybe that’s a story I’m trying to change. I’m now feeling this need for connection and community that I simply didn’t have space for when I was really deep in it.

It’s not that I want to go back to 2006. I very much do not. I love who I am now, and the life I’ve made for myself. And I love the wild creativity that exists in 2026, even if the horrors persist, as well.

But now there’s a need to find community again, and I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know where to go. It’s my mission now to experience more art, connect with more people around art, and do more in-real-life things—even when it’s hard.

I can only hope that by showing up for myself, and for others, that I’m somehow showing up for the world.

🌌🌌🌌

You are now leaving the liminal void of Facebook.

Ahead, there’s a frightening terrain. Skyscrapers are strange and half-made. Buildings are on fire. Roads lead to nowhere.

Breathe in.

Now, take your first step.⭐

THANK YOU FOR READING TONIGHT’S THRILLING INSTALLMENT!

We’re thrilled to have you.

Everything on C.K. Anomalies is free.
But your support is greatly appreciated. (The struggle is real.)

Help me pay my student loans…

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FLAGRANT SYSTEM ERROR! This post is really long and chock fulla gifs. It might not fit in your email (what-what?).

When you think “world building,” you might picture the expansive worlds of Tolkien’s Middle Earth, or the many planets of a galaxy far, far away.

But the musings of a snarky wrestlem’n answering his email? That might not be the first thing to come to mind.

In fact, if you were to map out the world of Homestar Runner’s “Free Country, USA,” you might find it comically spare. Landmarks like Strongbadia, Bubs’ Concession Stand, and “The Stick” populate an otherwise empty, tree-lined world of blue skies and rolling green.

And yet! It’s pretty undeniable that the world of Strong Bad, Homestar, Marzipan, The Cheat, and all their buddies, is a rich, layered, and colorful one to behold. How could this be?

Years before the Multiverse was a popular concept, Strong Bad and Co. were making some such thing of their own.

The world of Homestar Runner doesn’t expand outward, as in the twisting rivers and sprawling continents of a fantasy epic.

It expands inward, through the worlds of imagination, through the act of creation and re-creation. It expands through the media they consume, and the worlds that they create.

With every new toon, new Sbemail, or masterpiece by the Cheat, another dimension of the HR-Verse is formed. Through these stories, illustrations, songs, breakfast cereals and beyond, their world is reinvented and further expanded—not physically, but conceptually.

You could say they’ve turned world building inside-out.

So! Let’s explore the fangoriously idiosyncratic multi-verse of Homestar Runner.

In Which Strong Bad Creats an Alternate Reality.

Years before Miles Morales went swinging into the Spider-verse on the big screen, Strong Bad was creating a multi-verse of his own—by answering email.

What started as a way to fill out the schedule in between proper “Toons” would become a throughline for the entire Homestar Runner experience. It’s a perfect platform for Strong Bad to roast his fans, indulge his crazy fantasies, and even make unexpectedly on-point social commentaries. And it’s through his musing that we experience various alternate worlds of Strong Bad.

These emails answer burning questions, like: what if Strong Bad was a superhero? What if he was a polygonal arcade baddie? Or a Saturday morning cartoon? Or a weird guy with a comb-over?

In one episode, all these alternate-universe doppelgangers are connected by a portal—created, no less, by a Game Boy in a blender (don’t try at home). Of course, they come together to form a celebrity-style supergroup with a #1 Jam.

But Strong Bad clones are just the beginning.

It’s through Strong Bad Email that we discover many other facets of the HR-Verse—music acts like Limozeen, Tarantula, and Sloshy; or video games like Thy Dungeonman. It’s where we’re introduced to the visual stylings of the Cheat (more on this later). And, perhaps most importantly, Strong Bad’s own creations.

Which brings us to our next chapter.

In Which 4 Teen Girls Meet Their Untimely Demise

What started as Strong Bad’s attempt at roasting a young fan turned into an entire series in its own right. And the lore is unexpectedly deep.

In each episode, crude renderings of teen girls who speak “white girl gangsta” all meet their untimely end in increasingly bizarre ways—only to be inexplicably reanimated in subsequent episodes.

All drawn on binder paper and voiced by Strong Bad, Teen Girl Squad is a rich and layered world of its own, spanning 17 episodes, including a couple of spin-offs!

These teen girls live in a warped and strange world, where bottomless pits appear randomly, wizards zoom in on flying “dongle goblins,” and, curiously, every crush-worthy boy is named “Greg.”

Something I appreciate about Teen Girl is that the world continues to expand in each episode, and it keeps getting weirder. We meet the girls in kindergarten; they have a friend named Thompkins, whose mom is a robot prospector. The Ugly One has a dad who owns a “Used and Broken Electronics” store. There’s an in-world music video from a garage band called Brainkreig.

The amount of world building the Brothers Chaps accomplished in what could have been a mere footnote in the expansive HR-Verse is truly astounding.

The whole thing has the humor of a middle-school aged boy who hasn’t quite figured out how to handle his feelings about girls, which makes it oddly endearing, even though it’s fundamentally mean spirited.

Teen Girl Squad could almost stand as its own series, but the meta-connection to Strong Bad—who makes a couple of cameos—makes it even more fun.

In Which Consummate V’s Summon a Mighty Dragon

It started as an attempt to draw a dragon. It grew into a massive, ever-expanding lore.

Trogdor is, at this point, a rich mythology unto himself. He has a theme song, a music video, and even has TWO video games: Trogdor, a classic arcade-style game where you play as the burninator himself, and Peasant’s Quest, a classic-style adventure game, lovingly modeled after King’s Quest.

Trogdor is good fun. But Peasant’s Quest is where the world truly expands. In this game, you play as a peasant named Rather Dashing, on a quest to get revenge on Trogdor who burninated his cottage. You get pretty much total freedom to wander the countryside, collecting items and solving puzzles, all in a search to find, and hopefully defeat Trogdor.

As I have a deep love for all things old school and pixelated, I find Peansant’s Quest to be a very charming (and hilarious) adventure.

Side Bar: The Brothers Chaps even gave additional lore to Videlectrix, the company that “makes” Peasant’s Quest and other games. The company appears to be appears to be run by two dysfunctional Chicagoan business partners.

The Trogdor theme song eventually made it to Guitar Hero 2. And there’s also what looks like a really fun table top game (also by Videlectrix Boardalectrix), with even more characters unlocked!

Side-Side Bar: The table top game has MUSIC VIDEO INSTRUCTION GUIDES by the likes of Homestar and Puppet Strong Bad (!!!) This blows my mind.

And to think it all started with a silly drawing in a SBemail.

In Which the Cheat Makes a Ca-Raaaazy Cartoon

Through yet another email, we discover that the Cheat is Free Country, USA’s resident animator and music wiz, putting his own hilariously megalomaniacal spin on reality.

It’s one of my favorite entries in the Homestar Runner catalogue for one simple reason: crappy animation is inherently funny. (Don’t tell the Cheat I said that.)

But the deeper reason I love Powered by the Cheat is that’s made even funnier by knowing the bigger world from which it has emerged. This slightly mean-spirited iteration of the world, where Homestar is the eternal punching bag and the Cheat is a suave millionaire deserving of many trophies—is seen through the lens of the Cheat himself, adding yet another hilariously wonky layer to Homestar-Verse.

Powered by the Cheat is responsible for the many incredible music videos that have come out of Homestar Runner, like the classic #1 summer jam “Everybody to the Limit” and one of my favorites—a later-era nod to Beastie Boys’ love of the fish eye lens.

Coming from the Brothers Chaps, Powered by the Cheat almost feels like a flex: in an era when flash animation was usually kind of bad and “user-generated,” The Homestar Runner creators rolled onto the scene with damn-near professional looking animation, with voice acting to match.

The fact that they can also indulge in the simple pleasures of purposeful badness—and nail it in such a funny way—deserves a trophy. (Full of Steak-Umm’s.)

In Which the Homestar-Verse Continues to Expand

Alas! Homestar Runner is still quite active! And I think the later eras of Homestar deserve a spotlight.

Yes, Flash has become problematic, and the internet has fundamentally changed over 20+ years. (Can you believe there was no YouTube in 2000?) In response to all this change, Homestar Runner has had to pivot and expand. And that has lead to some pretty great results.

Their presence on Youtube is a joy, as Strong Bad has turned vlogger. In the series “Disc 4 of 12,” he plays the old floppy disc games on his desk. Notably, a text-based adventure called The Vampire’s Castle, in which Strong Bad stumbles and playfully roasts the bad game mechanics—with music and illustrations by the Cheat!

In classic “easter egg” fashion, their YouTube videos also feature fake-out “loading screens” for (mostly) made-up videos.

Homestar and Co. have entered the physical world, as the aforementioned tabletop Trogdor game was released in the 2020s, and there’s even Homestar Runner playing cards (and other fun toys).

Meanwhile, they released the excellent Dangeresque: The Roomisode Triungulate, a “click ‘em up” adventure game in 2023. It’s an absolute blast, brimming with cinematic cutscenes, fun gameplay, and Strongbadesque humor and silliness all throughout.

Most recently, they partnered with Walkabout Virtual Mini Golf to create the Homestar Runner Distraction pack. I’m particularly excited to try to the “Bubs’ Many Golfs” course.

I don’t just see Homestar Runner as a nostalgia trip. Even if we’d love to take it “back to a website” like good ol’ aughts, Homestar Runner still works miraculously well right now, in the year of our Lord, 2026.

In fact, I daresay we need their whimsical antics more than ever.

In Which This Writer’s Life is Forever Changed by Bunch of Silly Cartoons on the Internet

I first found out about Homestar Runner when I was 17. I read about it in the local newspaper. (Yes, I’m old. But that was weird, even then.)

It was the exact thing I needed. Homestar’s inventive blend of whimsy, cleverness, and goofball humor was the exact thing 17-year-old me needed during some tough times.

It’s been a source of unadulterated joy ever since.

As I revisit it now, I’m reminded of all the reasons Homestar Runner is great. But there’s an even bigger thing that I’m left with.

Through its unconventional, decidedly nonlinear, media-spanning approach to world building, The Brothers Chaps almost seem to write a love letter to creativity itself.

This is what it looks like when creativity is truly unbound, when we embrace the things we love with the sheer abandon, with the enthusiasm of a kid who just discovered the greatest thing ever.

Creativity—unbound, ever-expending, ever-playing by its own rules—is perhaps the greatest, most infinite gift in the known universe.

And Homestar Runner is a reminder of just that ⭐

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Hey! This retrospective is hardly exhaustive. What realms of the HR-Verse did I miss? Let me know in the comments.

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Back by unpopular demand--more Malcolm in the Middle content. Look, I just needed to talk about it okay? (Besides, you’re not the boss of me.)

We need to be able to talk about these things. The ISSUES.

If you’ve already read my write-up on the subject, you won’t be shocked by any of this. But you might be enchanted by my soothing voice, and charmed by my awkward, off-the-cuff jokes and asides.

Malcolm in the Middle was a great show that really left an impression. Hope you enjoy my stream-of-consciousness take!

Hey, did you like this video?
If so I’ll make more!

Until next time...

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Previously on Malcolm in the Middle…

The last time I watched Malcolm was in the late aughts. I experienced it in the sporadic, catch-it-when-you-can cadence of network and cable TV. Which was the style at the time.

Now that we can binge the whole thing in days, it’s bittersweet. On one hand, six years of TV (of life) goes by in a flash. But at the same time, we get to experience a show’s subtle evolution, as the bigger themes, big narrative arcs, unfold before our eyes.

The fact I remembered many of these episodes is a testament to how important it was to me. I was fifteen when it started, and by it’s finale I was in a dorm.

Re-watching hit that special mix of nostalgia and newfound appreciation. and when it comes to revisiting old things, that’s right where you wanna be.

So! Here’s what I learned on my Malcolm re-watch.

(Spoiler alert: it’s still great.)

Gotta say, it aged pretty damn well.

Is it a little dated? Sure. But the sheer chemistry between these actors, and the fusion of great writing, acting, and cinematography age better than anything.

The look and feel of the show is still, years later, so unique and singular, that you don’t go it’s the early 2000s as much as you go, it’s Malcolm. The little world they created still feels like its own thing

And most importantly, the stories still work, and the jokes still hit.

It is just so freaking funny. The humor is clever, but hits with this unrelenting brute force that still resonates now.

Malcolm is not the voice of reason I thought he was.

A lot of fans might find Malcolm relatable. I do. He’s the voice of reason in a crazy family, in world of madness. Right?

Well, yes and no.

Malcolm is an impossibly smart kid, and incredibly perceptive. But he’s also neurotic, self-obsessed, and a catastrophic over-thinker (I wouldn’t know anything about that).

So while he’s incredibly smart, he’s also constantly getting in his own way—and definitely not immune to selfishness or just plain bad judgement. We can’t help but cringe when Malcolm just can’t let something go, to the extent that he sabotages himself out of his own stubbornness. Almost like Curb, It’s really fun to cringe at the impending train wreck.

After all, it would be pretty boring if he was a genius and good at life, too.

(Note: The revival leans into this hilariously. But that’s another post.)

Reese is a dog. Like, literally.

In season 6, Reese befriends a pack of stray dogs. In a play-by-play retelling to Malcolm, we discover that Reese is not just playing with the dogs—he is a dog. Running wild through the night, chasing squirrels, digging through trash… living the life.

According to actor Justin Berfield, Reese has a 3-second memory, living in a constant state of “now,” with zero understanding of consequences. So characterizing him as a dog is one of those “duh, why didn’t I think of that” moments. In one scene, Reese eats scrambled eggs directly from the plate with his mouth. It’s glorious.

In a later episode, baby Jamie makes Reese “fetch” in a pitch-perfect callback.

The series evolved, but never lost its touch.

It’s gotta be tough to keep a live action show going. Kids get older, actors come and go; things change. I admire how Malcolm took risks and stayed fresh over the six seasons rather than playing it safe.

All kinds of changes happen over those seasons. Malcolm and Reese go to high school; Dewey goes to a “remedial” class full of oddball kids; Francis goes from military school to all sorts of wild places and gets married to Piama. Lois and Hal have a baby, and then there’s another kid in the mix.

Changes like this could feel hackneyed or desperate, but in Malcolm, it all feels really organic.

Dewey is a quiet menace.

Dewey somehow got Malcolm’s intelligence and Frances’ sense of mischief. That’s a dangerous combo.

Dewey doesn’t always go for the fireworks like Reese or Francis. Instead, he will chip away at your sanity with the patience and discipline of a concert pianist.

In one episode, as a form of retaliation against Lois, Dewey slowly gaslights her. He moves things around, and puts her clothes in the dryer until they’re a few sizes too small, until she finally breaks down.

Don’t mess with Dewey.

Everything is on the verge of collapse.

This is probably one of my favorite takeaways from the show. Everything in this world is like a precarious game of Jenga—it may look a mess, but if one piece is out of place, the “whole system breaks down.” (A common refrain from Lois and Hal.)

If Reese isn’t a bully, the schoolyard descends into barbarism. If Lois isn’t a total authoritarian, for even a second, the boys turn into rabid animals. The show stayed true to this philosophy to the very end.

Francis’ story has many twists.

Frances goes through more transformations than any of the other kids.

Another show might’ve found some hackneyed way to keep Francis in military school for all six seasons. Malcolm in the Middle isn’t that show.

Instead, they shake things up. Frances hitchhikes to Alaska, marries Piama, takes a job at a goofy German-owned dude ranch, goes to AA… and where he lands is pretty perfect: a crappy cubicle job that he somehow deeply loves.

Lois and Hal are actually pretty good parents.

It’s easy to point to this fictional family and call them “dysfunctional.” I have. But under the surface, you can see that the Wilkersons actually have a few points in their favor.

When Lois and Hal screw up—and they do—they actually own up to it and apologize to their kids. That’s big.

Plus, they actually communicate. Their relationship is super equitable and built on mutual respect. They take equal ownership of parenting, even if their styles and personalities are very different.

It’s not the typical “idiot dad and overwhelmed, underappreciated mom” scenario.

They really changed the narrative there. In the early 2000s, that’s pretty impressive.

Stevie kicks ass.

Stevie is Malcolm’s best friend. He’s an incredibly smart academic rival to Malcolm. He’s also black and disabled, and has overprotective helicopter parents. Life can’t be easy for this kid.

But we’re not made to feel sorry for him. And his disabilities are not his whole story. He’s living a full life, enjoying the spoils of life, sometimes even at the expense of Malcolm getting his comeuppance. In a later season, we find out that Stevie is especially good at a particular extreme sport, in which he totally owns Malcom’s ass.

All glory to Stevie.

The show has an anti-establishment bent that I love.

For all the sympathy the show gives Lois for her tough-love ways, the larger systems in Malcolm are irreversibly corrupt. Hospitals are inefficient; institutions are full of incompetent morons who look the other way in crisis; the Mayor cares more about a stupid photo op more than making real change–and the inept cops are in the pocket of said mayor.

Malcolm’s family is constantly on the edge of financial ruin. Lois works a dead end job to put food on the table; Hal works a mind-numbing corporate job, and it’s still not enough. In one episode, Hal needs surgery, and it’s enough to send the whole family into a financial crisis.

It could be said that the show’s angle is not just highly cynical, but also an indictment of these systems that have failed us.

The show was pretty damn progressive.

Some folks are still getting mad about people of color, people with disabilities, and LGBTQ people being shown in TV and movies. Yikes.

Maybe they should check out this show from 20 freaking years ago called Malcolm in the Middle. Then maybe try getting a life.

I’m not going to say the show is 100% perfect, and it definitely focuses on a white family. But being over two decades old and pushing clearly anti-bigoted narratives was a happy surprise. Malcolm manages to a show a fairly wide range of people without defaulting at lazy stereotypes.

There’s an unexpectedly diverse cast, with the iconic Stevie Kenarban and his family. Then there’s the hilarious Piama, who became a beloved addition to the cast in season 3.

Hal’s poker buddies (and barber shop quartet compatriots) are brilliant, funny characters. I enjoyed how the show took an opportunity to subvert some narratives around race and class. In one episode, we find out Hal is a little nervous around these guys—because Abe, Trey, Steve, Malik, and Brian all have more impressive jobs than he does.

Racial tensions and inequality do exist in this world, but the show runs right at them instead of sweeping them under the rug. And I think there’s something to be said for that.

Lastly, I’d forgotten about a scene where Lois calls out her racist neighbor.

In the scene, she points out that the neighbor’s landscaper, who is Latino, is a professional doing skilled labor.

This might still be a radical statement in 2026 to some, that “skilled” vs. “unskilled” labor is a classist construct. Whether you’re using a leaf blower or a cash register (Like Lois), there’s no such thing as “unskilled” labor.

Life is indeed unfair.

While it sounds like the refrain of a whiny kid, it seems to be the philosophy of the grownups as well. It’s expressed multiple times by Lois and Hal that life is a grind, a grueling, slog of work for a bunch of ungrateful idiots (sometimes, including your kids). And then you die.

In one episode, Hal makes Dewey play a life-themed board game all night long to prove to Dewey—and perhaps to himself—that life isn’t easy, and there’s no free rides (even though Dewey is kicking his ass). A more complete mantra for the show might be:

Life is unfair… so suck it up.

… Can you repeat the question?

When something’s really good, it’s worth hitting rewind. So when I saw the revival miniseries hit Hulu, I had to go back and watch the original. Honestly, it’s rare when a show (or anything) is this good.

I guess at the end of the day, because Malcolm in the Middle is relentlessly itself—unforgiving, chaotic, and cynical (but not without love), it hones its point of view to perfection. It becomes something timeless and universal.

Even if it hurts to watch.

[DOOR SLAM sound effect]

Can’t get enough Malcolm? Check out the VIDEO EDITION!

So, what do you think?
Are you a Malcolm fan?
Did you watch the revival?
Let me know!

Until next time, on…

GIVE ME MONEY

Hey! You might also like…

Five AM. Nobody sees me perched atop the Home Goods.

I sip my dirty chai.

Steam rises into the ether.

It’s quiet out here, above the parking lot. The roof peaks like a coffee pot. I watch the bleary eyed neighborhood wake under purple dawn. Rows of homes. Round lollipops of cul de sacs. Everything so clean, so perfect, every little house exactly the same.

But don’t be fooled.

The streets of Applewood Creek need protecting, too.

Anyway.

Look, uh—something happened to me when I was a kid.

I died. Then I came back.

Now I can do this thing. I can disappear. And then reappear. Ever since that day, it’s been like that.

So I’m up here. Dark cape waving in the wind.

Thinking everything seems alright. Might change my post. But that’s when I hear it. An old, beaten Toyota pulls up. I sip suspiciously as it comes to a stop.

The car just sits. Nobody gets out. I have a feeling they’re not here for a caramel macchiato.

So. I wait a moment. Then I do my thing. Now you see me, now you don’t.

And I’m down at the parking lot, walking over concrete. Back from nowhere. Walking toward the white ‘96 Tercel. 90s style. Black bumper. Lights flicker out. I can hear the hot engine ticking as it cools. Through the windshield, I can see her.

There’s a girl inside, just sitting with her eyes closed.

I knock on her window. Startled awake. She looks at me, rolls her window down. Old hand-crank style.

“Shadow?” She says, eyes wide. There’s strands of greasy blonde hair streaming down from her white beanie. “Am I in trouble?”

“Just making sure everything’s alright.”

I know it’s not. Don’t ask me how I know.

She stares at her steering wheel. There’s a hollow look in her eyes as she stares down.

Funny thing—My eyes glow blue-white whenever I come back from nowhere. It catches people off guard sometimes. But I can tell that’s not what’s scaring her.

“I can’t go home,” she says, finally.

“Parents?”

Another long pause. She looks a the steering wheel.

“Drugs?” I continue.

She turns to me, this shocked expression on her face. I sense things a little more ever since I’ve come back.

“Yeah,” she says, as if to say, how did you know?

“You using?”

“No.” Of course she’s not.

I look over the parking lot. A leaf skitters over concrete, caught in the wind.

Sometimes I still see the bolt of lightning that struck me down. Big, white light.

I was ten.

“You’re hungry,” I say. She gives me a raw look. “You want a breakfast sandwich?”

“I would literally murder someone for a breakfast sandwich,” she says.

“Bacon? Sausage?”

“Just egg and cheese? If they got it.”

I nod. I lean down a bit and look at her intently. My eyes are probably back to my regular brown now.

“You want me to go check out your parents?”

She shrugs.

“I ‘unno. What can you do?”

“Well, here’s the deal. I go there, and I find what I think I’m gonna find, I’m gonna have to–”

“Cops,” she interjects.

“Yup. And that could mean–”

“Jail,” she replies, letting out a breath.

“It’s possible,” I say.

“And then they just end up back out here, doing the same shit all over again.”

“Unfortunately, it happens.”

She rubs her fingers against the steering wheel.

“Yeah,” she replies.

Her apprehension fills the air. I sip my chai.

Being like me isn’t like the movies. I can’t just go and beat the crap out of her parents. Even if I want to. Things like this are sensitive. I can’t be reckless.

“Hey,” she says, “can I also have an iced vanilla latte? With whole milk and an extra pump?”

“You got it.”

She looks down. I can tell she needs someone to give her something to eat just as much as she need to eat.

“Take a minute and think about what you wanna do,” I tell her.

“I hate that I still love them,” she blurts out. I look at her. Then I nod. Just long enough that she knows that I know.

“Let’s get some food in you,” I reply. “Easier to make tough decisions when you’re fed.”

She nods. I bump my fist gently her door a couple of times, and set off toward the cafe. They know me in there.

I used to question why I went through what I did. When I came back—back from the shadows—things weren’t quite right. My body wasn’t mine anymore. I was always just drifting outside of time. I could sense things other people couldn’t. Like time was slowing down and I could see and hear beyond the human eye. Beyond the human ear.

It took time. But I found myself again.

And now I know—what I went through—it was the hand of God showing me the path. The path I was meant to follow. I thank God every day for that message. People get messages every day. They don’t listen.

I’m almost to the cafe when a voice calls.

“Hey, Shadow?”

I look back. She’s looking at me intently, eyeing me through the open passenger window.

“Just do whatever you gotta do,” she says. “With my parents. Just—do what you gotta do.”

I look for a moment. I nod.

Then I turn, and continue on my path.

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Anomalies Unlocked!

Two new anomalies have dropped! Which one are you?
And if I made stickers of these would you like them?

Poetry + Impossible Things

This was a big month for poetry.

While I’m not the most prolific poet—and I’m actually a bit insecure about my attempts at poetry—I’ve found it to be a really great outlet for thoughts and ideas that don’t seem to have a home anywhere else, but are nonetheless really potent and feel like they need to be out in the world.

I was worried that the weird formatting would feel gimmicky, or like I was trying to hide weak ideas under the rug of artsy experimentalism. But I truly felt that the indenting was a way to show the various thoughts whirling through my head.

I ultimately wrote three poems this month, and they feel like a trilogy of sorts. The first came from a really distraught and emotional place; the second is a meditation on growth and healing; the third is more grounded and filled with deep gratitude for the complexities of being alive. I’m so grateful for every moment that my feet are planted on this earth.

You can read the poems here.

Outlier Radio: The Lost Draft

I’m dragging my feet on the 8th chapter of Outlier Radio, because it’s sort of a complex and really emotional one. Nevertheless, I have made progress! In the meantime, here’s the original flash fiction that inspired the story.

It came to me in this weird, emotional whirlwind. I don’t understand what happens to me when I get ideas like this. I feel sort of out-of-body when it happens, like I’m tapping into something bigger than me, that maybe I wasn’t meant to understand.

A Guest at Mustard’s Diner

I also had the privilege of being a guest at Mustard’s Diner this month. I’m super fascinated by all of Mustard’s recommendations, and diving into the works of other guests! You can read Mustard’s latest here.

Mustard's Diner

The Doors Have Reopened at Mustard's Diner

Disclaimer: this post is too long for email. In order to view the full newsletter you will need to view it in your web browser or on the Substack app…

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3 months ago · 25 likes · 20 comments · JustSomeMustard

I hope you’ve enjoyed these entries in the ongoing investigation of C.K. Anomalies.

Keep watching the skies!

Some thoughts I had while exploring the city turned into an experimental poem.

Hope you enjoy!

⭐⭐⭐

I love paradoxes 
and impossible things

	It’s just a beautiful world, 
	it’s just a beautiful life,

Matter can’t be created or destroyed, 
but when you write a story 
or paint a picture
or write a song 

you make something 
that wasn’t in the world 
before 
even if that thing 
is just in our minds. 

	Let the noise fade away 
	and sit on the steps 
        and the city unfolds 
        like a pop-up book 
	
And we are always moving,
and we are still 

         And just maybe you feel the world moving 
	 beneath you 

I find beauty in old fading paint 
on the sidewalk
bleached by sun 

          And maybe now 
          it’s just you and the hum.

I love paradoxes 
And impossible things 

	  We are moving, 
	  always moving, 

          And we are still, 
	  somehow still.

Another one?

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Back to the Observatory

No one prepares you for the quiet.

When that heavy thing finally leaves you,
finally gets to go home.

It hurt as much leaving you
as it did when it overtook you.

You’ve cried and cried.
Catastrophic collapse.
Tectonic shifts, volcanic ash, hellfire, dust in the air.
Dust clouds blocking the sun.

Streams of tears.
Devastated wasteland.

But then, the dust clears, and now it’s just quiet.

And no one prepared you for the quiet.

After the rapture,
tears are ebbing away,
and now you open your eyes.

And now you’re sitting in this strange new world
of open planes
and golden grasses,
waving and glittering
for miles and miles.

This beautiful land of After
is also wide and massive and ever-expanding.

But you don’t know where to go.
And you don’t know who you are
when you’re here.

The land of Before was strange and dark,
shifts at every turn,
but at least you knew your place.

Now there’s fossils in the dirt
of things that used to tower
over you.

They’re just old and dormant things
you can hold in your hand.

There’s a quiet solemnity to holding that fossil swirl,
admiring its dark intricacy,
and then, leaving it to rest,
and carrying on.

But a question lingers in the air—
who am I if not damaged?

Because now you have to do something
no one taught you to do.

You have to move forward now, and live each day
as the person who healed.

The quiet, diligent work
of small steps,
on a new path.

As you walk this path,
you trip on wreckage,
more fossils
of who you were.

It leaves you with a phantom pain,
an ache of absence.

But once again, it leaves you.
And once again, relief.
And once again, quiet.

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⭐☕⭐

Back to the Observatory

So, as I’m still working on Part 8, I thought I’d post the original flash fiction, in it’s rough-draft form, for funzies. (I also added some footnotes about the world.)

It’s basically a bunch of disconnected dialogue that hit me like lightning one day. I pictured these boys at a campfire—made in the backyard of an abandoned house—and that they’d scatter at the sound of a siren.

Originally it was going to just be flash fiction called Lite Soda. Here we are, some 8,000 words later.

There are some mild spoilers here, so if you haven’t read the story thus far, you can jump to the beginning here.

READ PART ONE

Lite Soda

“I just got like a really weird feeling, you know? Standing there.”

“Well, yeah, it’s a vortex, don’t you know?”

“The bridge to the soda cup factory.¹ It passes over a ravine. It goes down, down. You can see through the grate to the cement down below.

“You’re not supposed to stand there, dipshit. They have signs everywhere. That’s what you were feeling.”

“No no, it wasn’t that. It was something else. A security guard after me and was waving his flashlight around in dark. He asked me if I was okay.”

“Were you okay?”

“I dunno. I dunno if I was okay. There was something weird. Something weird there.”

“I told you! It’s a vortex!”

“I mean, what is that guy even guarding? That factory’s been closed since like, the 80s.”2

“I dunno. I don’t think he knows.”

“Vortex–what are you talking about?”

“I dunno. I’m not a scientist, but like, my Dad told me and it’s like, right where the bridge crosses over. Right in the middle. It creates a vortex. Like, to another dimension or something.”

“Your Dad’s smoked too much weed.”

“Not anymore! He quit! Court ordered!”

“Well, whatever. There’s still THC left swirling around in his brain. He’s nuts.”

“He’s not nuts, you asshole!”

“Yeah, he just crashed his car into the drug store. Totally normal.”3

“That was unrelated! He had… a seizure, or something. He like, blanked out. It was really scary.”4

Then, the wiry-haired kid leaned forward, pushed his glasses up his nose.

“What did you feel, Garrett?”

‘Uh–I dunno–it was like, I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or awake?”

The kid nodded.

You wanna know what I think?” He said. The other kids rolled their eyes. He paid no attention.

“I think the same thing that happened to your Dad is what happened to you.”

4

The seizure thing changed a bit—now he has “migraines.” But the migraines are a little suspicious.

BACK TO THE OBSERVATORY

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It’s starting to get redundant.

I feel disconnected from everything.
The train station feels like an echo from a dream.

Above ground, I was sitting in a band hoodie.
          Faded black, black coffee, black headphones—

Am I this guy? (I like this guy.)
         He stands taller. 
         He feels bigger.
         He’s grayer, but he’s carrying less.  

Maybe I should start smoking.
An old guy near me is lighting up. I smell it.
          I never smoked, but I like how it smells.

(Now I’m on the train. It shakes.)

It breaks above ground. (Industrial wasteland.)
          Not every square inch of this place is scenic.

Do I really have to keep feeding the machine?

It’s starting to get redundant.
          Cannot speak, lost my voice, speechless and redundant, I—
          (so heavy, I fell through the Earth.)

It’s starting to get reduundant.

Am I someone else?
I didn’t survive all this shit just to be someone else.
          What is all this molding me into?

(I feel disconnected from everything.)
           I am just a shadow of a shadow of a shadow.

It’s starting to get redundant.
           Where is this train taking me?

A guy in a video said,
          People who’ve survived 
          things
          have had to be more 
          aligned
          with their 
          values 
          and 
          purpose.

I didn’t survive you
just so I could be someone else.

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Welcome to the C.K. Anomalies Observatory! This is where we tell spooky stories and ponder the mind-bending mysteries of the universe.

I’m C.K. (short for Chris Keilman). I’ll be your guide through all things Anomalies-verse.

Have a look around!

FICTION

Read here 🔍

• Prologue: The Cemetery

• Chapter One: The Treehouse

• World Building: Explore Thistlewood… WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY C.K.!
  

Read here 📻

• Part 1

• Part 2

• Part 3

• Part 4

• Part 5

• Part 6

• Part 7

• COMING SOON: PART 8⚡

NON-FICTION

From my journal

• Welcome to my world

• Toronto is strange, gritty and beautiful

• Strange Freeways: a Memoir

• A Gentle Hum of Solitude (A memoir-ish poem)

• 2025 Warped

• 2024 Warped

On writing

• Writing Guide: Discover Your Character

• Into the Dark Woods: How Self Love Guides Your Creativity

• Creativity is a doorway

• Thoughts at the Climax of KB

GALLERY

Welcome to the cafe at the end of the lane, where sun shines, and mist tickles your face with glittering cold.

Coffee is served icy-cold here. And that’s the crustaceans’ favorite. They drink it down, big long communal tables of them, tables made of old warbly wood, scraped and grainy.

The coffee is black and foamy, like a porter or stout, and just as rich. King crabs talk in strange, low grumbles I can’t understand, and the grunts fade into the wash of ocean sounds.

I’m the only human here at the Seaside Cafe, and no one seems to mind.

And so, I decide to enter the shop.

Inside, a squid takes orders and whips up drinks, all at the same time. Her many arms do the work—fast, wavy, and willowy—she wedges the cash register open, shuffles through cash, scoops espresso; she twist and grinds the beans, all in one strange dance, like a kelp forest swept in a furious current.

I order my Seafoam (that’s nitro cold brew). My cup comes sliding at the counter, tentacle-flung—so smooth, not losing a single splash or drop. I catch it, and grab a seat by the window. The coffee is cold and bitter like sea salt, and just a little bit sweet.

Serene music plays over chatters of sea stars and octopi, and clanging of cups.

Looking out over the ocean, I let the sea of sound take me away.

Chris Keilman (C.K.) is a fiction writer, humor writer, and copywriter based in the Bay Area. When he’s not slingin’ ad copy, he’s busy at work on a middle grade novel about 7th grade paranormal detectives, or a serialized YA supernatural thriller, and other divergences. He loves walks in the park, black coffee, and solving mysteries.

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C.K. Anomalies is more than a newsletter. It’s a space to explore the mysteries of the self, the mind, and the universe—a place where the stars are out, stories drift on the wind, and where we ponder the possibilities of the infinite ⭐

Like, that would be weird, right???

I don’t like the thought of that!

It’s not good! I don’t like it! Stop making me think about that!

I gotta have something prepared to say just in case! Maybe like five things? He’s going to expect me to have wisdom or something, and I don’t know shit!

Like I haven’t even figured out time travel or low-carb hacks or anything.

I guess these are like five things I would say!

AAHHHH!!!

1. Don’t worry. You’re definitely going to figure out this time travel thing. But the side effect is plaque psoriasis.

Yup. Can’t say I saw it coming, but life is strange sometimes.
Treatments are available!

2.You can reframe all your mistakes as valuable life lessons. Idiots do it all the time.

I guess idiots must have to do this a lot because they screw up so much. And then they start a podcast.

3. An owl stole my oatmeal and now my oatmeal is stuck in a tree, and I tried singing to it but I don’t think it’s coming back.

Boy, I’ve really done it this time. I’ve been wandering in the forest for hours. This goddamned owl just deadass flew into my home and absconded with my Dixie Cup of oatmeal. It just lives up there with the owls now, I guess? Maybe I’ll try some Sinatra.

4. Poo-poo Pee-Pee Poo-Poo Pee-Pee Buttface Poopy-Pants McGilicutty.

Yup. Hindsight is 20-20. But this is the wisdom you can only gain from lived experience.

5. There’s a giant hot dog that lives behind the moon and the hot dog looked at me once and I was not interested in his mixtape.

Not personal, I’m just not a huge fan of grime music! And I did not care for how he was looking at me. He’s still giving me the stink eye and I don’t love it. I am not amused. Stop it!!

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As I write this now, I’m a mere two or three scenes away from (gulp…) a finished rough draft.

Here are the stats.

⭐ 45,000 words typed
⭐ 15,000 (ish) words in my notebooks (waiting to be typed)
⭐ 3-5 scenes left to be written from scratch

As I’m now deep into the final scenes, I’m finding that progress has slowed. It’s not just flowing out of me. I’m overthinking. I’m hesitating at every turn.

There’s a part of me that could be really self-critical about this. But that’s when I have to remember the patience and self-love that’s so important to this process, which is so full of twists and turns, darkness and uncertainty.

Progress is slow because I really want this thing to be good.

Not just good, but special. I want it to be that that perfectly strange, beautiful thing that dropped from the sky, something that only this story could be.

And what I’m finding is that, no, it’s not just me. It really is getting harder.

Which brings me to my first point.

It has gotten harder.

When you first start writing a novel, you’re kind of frolicking in possibility. It’s like a big, sunny, open field. But then you pass a few milestones. You pass a breaking point, the point of no return, and the pathway narrows.

You get into the dark woods of the second act, into the winding path of the third, and then, by the final scenes, it’s like walking across a shaky rope bridge. Every step is a creaky, cautious, wobbly affair. You release a breath with each step, just for not falling through and plummeting to your death.

You have to commit to your choices.
And pay them off.

At this stage of the game, you’re no longer introducing new elements. You’re paying off the ones you’ve already set up. And that’s a lot harder to do. You could call it putting your money where your mouth is.

And it’s a lot of pressure. We’re talking about some 60,000 words, many chapters, characters that have evolved and grown and opened up before your very eyes. You’ve watched a world unfold, vibrant and populated, a storyline that has woven and wound its way around all these many obstacles. This is a a story that you’ve given space and time–over 3 years of work–to grow into the strange, beautiful living thing that it is.

You’ve had to be 1000% committed to this thing—believe in it, do the hard work that nobody else sees, exist in the weird haze of uncertainty that accompanies a work in progress.

This cannot suck.

Your story has evolved.
And you’ve had to accept it.

There’s a subtle art to raising the stakes while still keeping the soul of your characters—the soul of your novel—intact. This is really hard.

A lot of writers drop off in the second act because they don’t know where to go or where to take things. They might get lost in side quests and lose focus. They might lose steam when they realize they have to accept the story for what it is, in the here and now. In a way, they might struggle to carry the weight of their own ambition.

The story must take on a life of its own, and even become something different from what you originally conceived. Some writers are not willing to confront the reality of their work, and reckon with the dissonance between their idealized fantasy and the reality of the words on the page.

But that was never going to be you, was it?

⭐⭐⭐

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Outlier Radio

Serialized YA Paranormal Thriller

Friends. Outlier Radio wasn’t planned. It isn’t some story I’ve been sitting on for ages. It kind of just happened. Some strange combination of unexpected experiences and weird memories brought this thing into light.

What started out as potentially flash fiction has now turned into this behemoth—and unexpectedly emotional—8,000 word experiment in serialized fiction, something I haven’t really done before in this off-the-cuff way. It even got a little mention in Nocturnal Narrator’s Baked Takes (go check out her work!).

The story will likely conclude in another 2 or 3 chapters (on the agenda for this year).

⭐One thing I learned: writing from the perspective of a typical 12 year old is surprisingly hard to get right. I often found myself going back and making the language a simpler and simpler until it hit just right. There’s something really emotionally potent about this approach as well—writing very earnestly, in a confessional first-person narrative, with a kid who wears his heart on his sleeve.

⭐Read the first 1-7 chapters here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Oh, and while you’re at it, play the Outlier Radio word search!

Knuckles & Braeburn

Middle Grade Paranormal Detective Fiction — Novel in Progress

The titular Knuckles and Braeburn, 7th grade detectives, hail from the quaint, coastal town of Thistlewood, USA. While sleepy and quiet, Thistlewood also has a vibrant community—and some rather strange secrets.

This post in was the culmination of many aspirations I’ve had over the last year: namely, bringing my illustrations and world-building ideas into fruition.

It felt good to bring my love of drawing into the mix.

I’m not a professional illustrator—and I haven’t gotten the hang of drawing digitally yet, so these illustrations are drawn old school-style, with pen on paper. And this is going to sound silly, but the fact that I actually managed to blend my hand-drawn stuff with a little sprinkling of C.K. Anomalies magic (the little blue and pink numbers) feels like a huge victory.

⭐ Something I learned: It’s surprisingly hard to get drawings to look good with a cell phone camera. I managed to get mine looking decent with a combination of lighting (moving lamps around) and settings on my phone.

⭐Oh, also: Drawing a topographical image of a town, in a scale that’s somewhat believable, is also kind of hard. I leaned into the wonkiness and charm of a cartoony style in hopes that it would hide the fact that the scale isn’t totally right. Hopefully gives the feeling of being in this place.

Explore Thistlewood, USA

Memoir-ish Things

I don’t always write memoir, but when I do, it tends to have a little touch of otherworldliness. I guess that’s just part of who I am as a writer. I think the world is very strange sometimes.

These two pieces feel like the inverse of each other: going far away to a strangely familiar place, and going back home to feel strangely out of place.

Explore Toronto

Explore Strange Freeways

Hey! Still here?

If you’re still reading this, I just want to give a hearty THANK YOU for being on this wild ride with me.

For everyone who read, commented, shared, or just lurked, it means a ton!

What what was your favorite moment from 2025?
And what would you like to see this year?
I have tons more planned–but until then…

Poems hit different.
When characters and plots can’t say it, poetry will.
This is for those strange moments of in-between.
Hope you enjoy.

-C.K.

Hovering between things,
a cycle comes to end.

Melting down like glowing wax,
a new one to begin.

So I enjoy a quiet hum
of solitude,
this living room,
where out the window, sky grows pale
slowly, gently.

And out the window, day grows longer,
slowly, gently.

And out the window, darkness fading,
slowly, gently.

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This is my first writing guide ever! If you’ve got a character waiting in the wings, hopefully this little exercise will help you get to know them and understand how they tick.

I don’t usually go in for “character charts” and the like. I prefer to observe my characters, sit with them, and see what unfolds. With time, they show me who they are.

This guide is meant to do just that: give you space to sit down with your character, chat over coffee or tea, and listen, observe, and discover their intricacies.

Directions:

⭐ Write your answers however you want. (Typed, written, doesn’t matter.)

⭐ Write as little or as much as you want.

⭐ Be as descriptive or as cryptic as you want. (It’s your world! It’s all up to you!)

Ready? Off we go!

1. You’re sitting in your favorite coffee shop or restaurant, waiting for your character to come. What’s it like in there? What’s it look, smell, and sound like? Is it busy or quiet? What are you thinking about as you wait for them to arrive?

2. In comes your character! What’s the first thing you notice about them? How do they enter the room? Describe their actions, and the energy they bring with them as they walk through the door.

3. Now your character gets their drink and meets you at the table. How do they greet you? What beverage did they get? What do you think that says about them?

4. They sit down, and now you get a closer look. How do they greet you as they sit? What does their face look like? What kinds of facial expressions are they making as they talk to you?

5. You ask them how they’re doing, and they mention something important to them–something about the world they’re from, or the story they’re involved in. What do they tell you?

6. As they talk about their situation, what kinds of mannerisms are you noticing? Where are they looking? What are they doing with their hands? What kinds of emotions do they seem to be expressing?

7. After they tell you about their situation, you offer a word of advice. What do you say? How is your advice received? Are they grateful? Annoyed? Self-righteous? Are they quiet?

8. What do they say in response? What are they planning to do? Are they forthcoming, or a little cryptic? Do you think what they’re planning to do is a good idea?

9. At some point they pull out something from their world that they want to show you. It could be a physical object, or maybe they just share a thought or idea that seems important to them. What do they share?

10. Some time has gone by, and the conversation feels like its winding down. It’s time to leave. How do they say goodbye? And how do they leave?

11. After they’ve left, sit with your feelings. How do you feel about this person? Did you enjoy meeting them or was it kind of a drag? Did you like what they had to say, or did it seem a little suspicious? Do you admire them? Are you impressed by them? Do you think they have the same moral code as you?

12. Any final thoughts about them? Any hopes you have for them? Things you’re concerned or worried about? Things you’re impressed by?

Thanks for giving that a go! How was that for you?
Did you discover anything new about your character or story?
If you feel like sharing, let me know in the comments.

Buy me a coffee ☕

Explore the strange world of C.K. Anomalies.

🍩Knuckles & Braeburn: The Case of the Cursed Bonanza
(My middle grade paranormal detective novel — curses, donuts, shenanigans)

• Prologue

• Chapter One

• Explore Thistlewood, USA (with hand-drawn illustrations)

• Brought to you by Spookypuff^® Cereal

📻Outlier Radio
(YA supernatural thriller — confessional, suspenseful, emotionally raw)

• Part 1

• Part 2: Ghost Roads

• Part 3: No Signal

• Part 4: Neutrino

• Part 5: LiTe SoDa

• Part 6: God Knows Where

• Part 7: Hum

Memoir-ish Things

• Strange Freeways

Read Part 6

Start over

When the toast pops up, it’s black as coal. It fills the kitchen with this ashy smell, like a fireplace. The toaster is surrounded by teetering eggshells, all broken, like little wrecked cars on the highway—but it’s just the funky yellow countertop. A drippy line of egg goo trails off the edge.

Me and Olivia sit at the green table, staring as Dad does his thing. He’s like a tornado, holding a big yellow bowl, and beating the crap out of some eggs with a fork. He looks sternly at the yellow swamp of egg in the bowl as he whisks like hell. It makes this gross, sloshy sound.

Dad looks at the eggs. Then toward the egg carton on the table–it’s the kind with three rows. He narrows his eyes, rubs his chin. He goes to the bowl. Back to the crate again. Back, forth, back, forth. Then, like some big thing is decided, he pulls out an egg, cracks it with one hand, tosses the shell with the others. It rolls and clatters.

Olivia speaks up.

“Are you sure I can’t–”

“Nope! Don’t even think about it!” He holds up a hand. “You are a guest in our home!”

I shrug as I look to Olivia. Like, this is just how it is.

“I’m gonna make you a scramble, and it’s gonna change your life.” Dad says.

Then, he opens the fridge, pulls out a plastic pack of lunch meat. He opens up the zip top and gives it a sniff. Then he looks intently at Olivia.

“You eat ham?”

“Uh–yeah, sure,” Olivia says.

“Ok, good.”

He pulls the pack of shiny, somewhat bent ham from the package, slaps it on a cutting board. Then, he grabs a big chef’s knife, and starts chopping it up frantically. He scoops it up with his hand, using the knife blade like a big shovel, and throws it all into the giant cast iron pan on the stove. It bursts into sizzles and hisses. Smoke goes everywhere. Looking around, he flips the switch on the stove hood, and it starts to make this horrible screeching sound. He bangs the hood with his fist until the screech pivots into into a heavy hum. Then, he turns back to us.

“So!” he says to Olivia, “you go to school?” He wipes his hands on apron.

“Uh, yeah.” she says. “Lost Gem High.”

“Great.” he says. “I went there.”

He then reaches for a rubber spatula, the one that’s kinda melted on the end, and starts stirring up the frying ham, and now it’s filling up the kitchen with a sweet, smoky smell. He slaps the spatula on the counter and scratches his head. Then, as if struck by lightning, he looks toward us again, startled. He points to Olivia.

“Oh, uh—you got parents?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Yup.”

“They know where you are?”

“Nope.”

Dad turns his head back and forth between us and the stove.

“Uh–that a problem?” He scratches his head.

“Nope.”

Dad nods for a second, adjusting his glasses, which are a little splattered with egg.

“Alright then,” he says, and returns to the stove.

Now he grabs the big yellow bowl, and in a daring move, pours the egg glop into the pan. It sizzles and steams like a volcano about to erupt. Then he returns to the fridge, opens it up.

“So, you met at school?” he says, peeking over the open door. There’s sounds of clanking around as he digs in there.

“No,” I reply. “We don’t go to the same school.”

“Oh, right, right.” he says, pulling out a big bag of shredded cheddar cheese.

“We just kinda bumped into each other around town,” she replies.

“Cool!” Dad replies. He reaches into the shredded cheese bag, grabs a big clump, and throws a fistful of cheese into the pan.

Back to the spatula. Stir-stir-stir.

I’m a little quiet, I guess. Still a little rattled. I’m not sure if I should mention anything about what happened earlier. It’s just nice to have company.

“We were out by the old Lite Soda factory,” Olivia continues. I squirm a little. I’m not sure I’m even supposed to be out there.

Dad looks at us intently.

“Oh yeah?” he says, folding the eggs, “anything interesting going out there?”

I look down at my hands.

“No, not much,” Olivia says. “Just good to get away from the cell reception. You can just vibe out and look at the stars.”

Dad nods, and keeps folding the eggs in the pan. But I can see something behind his blank expression. Little gears turning in his head.

The eggs sizzle away. Dad grabs the toast, black as coal, then a butter knife, and scrapes like crazy over the sink. I always thought burnt toast was the end of the road. Like, once it turns charcoal-black, it’s done, right? You’re never gonna get the burnt taste out, no matter how much you scrape.

But Dad’s going for it. crazy-fast scrapes over the sink, leaving a blast of ash, like a volcano erupted. He throws the two hard toasts on the cutting board, which still has little bits of ham on it. It’s sitting there on the table, thick orange plastic that’s covered in scratches.

The toast makes a clack sound when he throws it down. Dad looks at the toast, then at us, realizing there’s three of us and two of them–the toasts, I mean–so he cuts each slice in half. Then he takes the fourth toast-half and cuts it into three little thirds. He throws each bit of toast on a different plates sitting there. So we each get like a half-toast and then a weird little third-of-a-half toast. If that makes sense.

Anyway. He goes back to the pan, and gives the eggs one last stir with the rubber spatula. He shakes the pan and jumbles it up. He grabs each of our plates and slops on the egg, slams each one down for each of us. Again, not like in an angry way, but like he wasn’t sure how force it takes to put something down. He’s so fast, like a line cook.

“Order up,” he says.

The plates are medium-sized, different colors. Dad’s is banana yellow, mine is avocado green, like the table, and Olivia’s is orange, like one of those fruits–a persimmon, I think.

I’m just sitting here. I’m a little nervous,I guess. Not a lot of people see my Dad in action. Not even my friends, really. And when I think about it, I don’t think a girl has set foot in this house. At least, not in my lifetime.

Olivia looks down her plate, eyeing it kinda weird. But then she looks across the table at dad as he finally sits down. She watches him as he tears off a piece of bread with his fingers, and then slices off a chunk of egg of cheesy ham-egg with his fork—it’s kind of orange from all the melted cheese—and spreads it on his burnt toast shard. He takes a bite. But then, like a spring, he bounces up again.

“Oh, I forgot. How do you take your coffee?” he says, squinting at Olivia. “Uh, wait--how old are you again?”

He scratches his head, probably realizing this is a weird combination of things to ask someone. Maybe.

It’s 1:33 in the morning.

Olivia raises an eyebrow, and tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear. She has three silver earrings going up the side of her ear, like rungs of a ladder.

“Uh, black, two sugars? I’m old enough for coffee.”

“Okay,” Dad says. He grabs a little thing from the counter that looks like a blocky toy robot. He sets in on the table in front of Olivia, and pulls the head off. Inside is a bunch of clumpy white sugar. He then pulls open a drawer, grabs a soup spoon, and slides it across the table to her.

“Knock yourself out,” he says. “No contraband on sugar in this house, that’s for sure.”

She gives a flicker of a smile as she picks up the spoon. Her nails are a little long, and a little glossy. She squints as she scoops up some sugar, and dumps a heaping spoonful into her solid orange cup, and stirs carefully. It smells really good.

She takes a sip. Then, she sets the cup down, and follows Dad’s lead with the egg and toast–tearing off a corner, scooping some cheesy ham-egg, taking a bite. I just fiddle with my thumbs. But the eggs actually smell pretty good.

Dad sits down again, this time slamming down a bottle. It’s his favorite hot sauce.

“Almost forgot,” he says. “Gotta try this stuff. It’s local.”

The label is white with sort of a deep orange lettering. It says “Lost Gem Fire.” It’s made to look like a fire department logo, with little rolling hills at the bottom, and coming out of he sky is a grinning skull wearing a fire fighter’s hat. And it’s like, breathing fire. It’s kinda cool, actually.

Olivia grabs the bottle, unscrews the cap, and gives it a dab. She takes another bite.

“Is it okay?” Dad says.

She chews, and for a second she squints, like she’s thinking, but then her eyebrows raise up, and she smiles at bit as she goes for another sip of coffee.

“It’s wonderful,” she says, grinning. “It reminds me of a diner. I love diners.”

There’s little dimples in her cheeks when she smiles.

“High praise,” Dad says. “My Dad worked a diner. The one just outside of town. Until it closed, sadly. I got real good at cracking eggs.”

“We don’t eat like this at home,” Olivia says, taking another big bite. “My parents are always trying to get me eat weird fancy stuff. Like, crazy cheese with mold in it, and like, arugula and shit. It’s like they’re trying to pretend they’re richer than they actually are, or something.”

Dad glares at her. “Arugula?“

“Yeah. It’s rough.”

“Jesus,” he replies. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s chill,” she says. “It’s like, whatever.”

He tears off another edge of toast before dumping more cheesy egg on it, dousing it in hot sauce, and shoving it into his mouth. It’s right here that I notice Olivia is wearing some cupcake-scented perfume, or something—or maybe it’s her shampoo—and it’s getting all mixed up with the little bit of that candy-grape vape smell, and that’s all mixing with the ham-egg and toast and coffee smell and it’s all filling up my head and making me feel crazy.

Does that ever happen to you? Like there’s too many smells or something and like your head is about to explode from it all?

Anyway. I finally get my shit together after a minute I follow suit, tearing toast, scooping some egg, shaking on the sauce.

I take a bite, and—damn it. Dad has done his crazy magic once again.

The burnt toast, the greasy ham-eggs, the spicy sauce that’s also a little sour? It all just kind of... makes sense?

All of a sudden, I realize I’m starving. So I dig in.

Dad takes a sip of coffee. I sip my usual flat cola.

“So,” he says, “you went for a walk down by the old soda factory, huh?”

“Uh... yeah,” I reply.

“At midnight?” he says. He looks down at his plate for a second. The harsh light of the hanging bulb over makes the circles under his eyes look deep and dark.

“I guess so, yeah.” I say.

He digs around in his eggs.

“Everything, uh… everything okay?”

I’m not sure what to say. But Olivia speaks up.

“We ran into each other kind of randomly,” she says, picking up her coffee cup. “I guess we both needed some air. It’s kinda nice out there, you know? Kinda peaceful.”

“Sure,” Dad says, but he’s still kind of squinting has he looks down, it’s making a line shoot up in the middle of his forehead. I gulp down more cola.

“Hey, uh—” I pipe up. “I have a weird question. Um. Did we, uh, go there once? When I was little?” I roll some egg clumps around with my fork. Dad massages his forehead with his free hand.

“Oof. Yeah. We sure did. That was a day I’ll never forget.”

There’s a weird sound in his voice, and a weird, tight feeling in my chest. My voice shakes a little as I ask the next question.

“How, uh... how come I sort of… don’t remember?”

Dad makes this weird face, like he’s in pain. Like something hit him in the stomach. Squinching his lips together. Then, he looks off toward the wall for a second, and blinks a weird number of times.

“Uh, well… “ he starts, slowly. “We went that day, when you were five, and you know–we saw the fountain, walked upstairs to the biosphere and saw all the crazy plants, and then down, down to the lab, you know, where the scientists are growing algae, and making the C02-sucking sculptures. Beautiful sculptures. And, you know, having a great day together… and uh–on the way out...”

He rubs his forehead again

“On the way out, you, uh–collapsed. Like, on the bridge thing over the moat. People gathered around, all concerned, you know, kids and grownups and everybody, and you were just... out. For like a solid minute.”

He lets out a long breath. But I can tell he’s kinda lost in the memory now.

“I try to wake you up, feel your pulse, and then shout for help, and then your eyes just... pop open again. Pop! I actually carried you to the car. Guess it makes sense you don’t remember. You were sort of not all there, just out of it. Some really nice lady opened the back door of the car, same car we got now, and uh, I laid you down, drove you to the hospital. You sat yourself up at a stop light. You were awake, but it, like–it wasn’t right. You were just kinda staring. Like, lights on nobody’s home. Eyes open, too wide, like an owl. I still remember seeing you like that in my rear view. Kinda gives me chills thinking about it. But then you blink, and you’re like, back to normal. I… I think.

“I drive faster. Get to the emergency. Rush-rush. We go in. Hands waving. CT-scan, blood work. All that crap. I wait and wait.

“All of it comes back. Normal. All of it, normal. You could count to ten. Follow the doctor’s finger with your eyes. You knew who the president was. All that. I look in your eyes, and… I see you. You’re there. That weird, wide stare is gone. So. We go home. We have dinner. You eat just fine. Everything seems okay. Doctor said, maybe heat stroke, fatigue, dehydration, and I dunno—people just ‘faint sometimes,’ he said. Whatever the hell that means. That idiot.”

Dad lets out another big breath and gets back to his eggs. There’s a sigh of relief around the table. Dad leans back into his chair.

“One of the scariest days of my life,” he continues. “But you’re here, and I’m just eternally grateful for that.”

He smiles. But the way he says it, it’s like it all just happened. The pain is still there. “I don’t love thinking about that day,” he continues. “But, you know, I’ll answer any question you have about it, any time. Even in the middle of the night.”

He smiles, a big grin, with a little sadness hiding behind it. After a moment, he digs into his food again, takes a big bite.

“Thanks, Dad,” I reply. I’m scraping the remains of my eggs into a little pile on the edge of my plate. “But—yeah, I might have another question for you.”

Olivia flickers her eyes at me for a second, but then gets back to her coffee cup. Dad leans in toward me.

“Anything, Kiddo.”

“Uh, so—when you get your…uh, migraines, or whatever…”

Dad’s eyes get weird. But it’s too late. I have to keep going.

“Do you also like, hear stuff? Like… screeching, uh, violins, or something?”

And it’s like there’s no air. My hand shakes. Something heavy fills the kitchen. And it’s not just the greasy smoke. The sound of the fan hums away, but now it’s filling everything up. Filling up my ears. It’s like it’s coming from inside me.

Olivia turns her head.
Dad stares. Egg falls from his fork.

And for a second, it’s almost like I can hear that screeching sound once again.

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Keep exploring the strange world of C.K. Anomalies.

Cozy Paranormal Mystery:
Knuckles & Braeburn: the Case of the Cursed Bonanza (Prologue)

Just Me being weird:
Strange Freeways