“Think Douglas Adams distracted by Kafka (inside a simulator built by Charlie Kaufman), before wandering into a Terry Pratchett footnote and leaving a phone number on a napkin for Kurt Vonnegut.
Written for anyone who’s ever made eye contact with the void and awkwardly waved.”— Possibly someone’s slightly confused uncle on Goodreads
About the Author (Or, A Brief Guide to the Soft-Spoken Biped Responsible for Turning Strange Thoughts into Sentences)
(Note to Self: Be Brief. Be Poetic. Try Not to Spiral.)
I write for the existentially exhausted—for the emotionally crispy, the cosmically confused, and anyone who’s ever looked at reality’s user manual and thought: This could use a plot twist.
I’m Kailum Graves (Hello, Guten Tag, Goeie dag, Hola, 01001000 01101001, Ni hao): speculative fiction writer, time-travel tragic, and part-time philosopher of the soft and absurd. My stories live somewhere between grief and quantum hiccups—metaphysical little worlds where crying and laughing happen at once—like a glitch in the soul’s emotional firmware.
Before fiction, I worked in the art world, where my creations were framed, projected, and occasionally misinterpreted in very expensive lighting. But words have always been my happy medium—a place where paradoxes stretch their legs, jokes wear trench coats over heartbreak, and metaphors refuse to go quietly.
I’m represented by Liv Ivanov at Creative Media Agency, and my debut novel, Mukail’s Time, is currently seeking a publishing home with good coffee and a high tolerance for metaphysical mischief.
Mukail’s Time (The First Book, Unless You’re Reading This in the Wrong Timeline)
(Remember to Insert an Obligatory Grand Statement Here)
Mukail’s Time is a speculative fiction novel that blends satirical sci-fi with literary depth and emotional resonance. Set against a collapsing timeline and an interdimensional bureaucracy, the story centres on a traumatised child whose survival—not heroism—becomes the key to everything.
With a tone that leans whimsical, philosophical, and quietly gutting, it explores themes of found family, soft rebellion, the quiet magic of being seen, and the cost of rewriting fate. If you’ve ever felt too strange, too sad, or too hopeful for this world—this book was written for you.
- — Time travel meets chosen family (by accident, mostly)
- — Soft survival: trauma, paradox, and well-timed punchlines
- — Bureaucratic sci-fi with an actual pulse
- — What grief remembers (and the metaphors that follow)—plus the occasional paper cut
“My dream cover idea (if a publisher would ever allow this),” said Kailum, adopting the hopeful tone of someone requesting a jetpack for Christmas and fully expecting socks.
Work in Progress (Like Me, But With Better Dialogue)
✦ Mukail’s Time, Twice Removed (Or, How to Reboot the Universe Without Breaking Your Favourite Mug)
The sequel is happening. Probably. Unless time folds in on itself again. Twice Removed picks up where Mukail’s Time left off—except it also picks up in the past, and sideways, and in a reality that may or may not have been accidentally left behind in a bureaucratic drawer labelled “Oops.”
This follow-up dives deeper into timelines discarded, forgotten, and grieving. It’s part interdimensional scavenger hunt, part philosophical love letter to memory, meaning, and mug-ownership. Expect more paradoxes, more metaphorical shrapnel, and more strange children asking uncomfortable questions about causality. Also, tea.
✦ How to Survive Being a Human (While Gently Avoiding Implosion, Crying in Public, or Accidentally Joining a Cult, Again)
This is not your typical self-help book. In fact, it’s barely helping—but it’s trying very hard, and that counts for something. How to Survive Being a Human is a fictional, cosmic pep talk disguised as a parody self-help manual. Narrated by a 17-year-old with anxiety, a tendency to spiral, and a strong suspicion that the Universe might be gaslighting them, it’s packed with sarcastic affirmations, unsolicited life advice, and intergalactic emotional support.
Equal parts absurdist philosophy, heartfelt coming-of-age, and existential comedy, it’s written for anyone who’s ever had a panic attack in a stationery aisle or considered faking their own death just to avoid small talk. Ideal for teens, young adults, and grown-ups who don’t trust motivational posters but still want to feel a little less alone.
They’re our way of saying: I see you across the void (or the dinner table), and I’m waving with syllables.
They fail, mostly.
They slip, distort, fracture mid-air.
But still—we build them like bridges made of breath.
Because somewhere in the great, trembling dark, we want to feel a connection.
Even if all we have are metaphors—and a slightly trembling voice.