A stand-up pouch of sour gummies cut from paper, CLIFFHANGER in yellow on deep violet, a rainbow candy-belt rollercoaster printed on it with a car of four riders, arms up, held at the very top before the drop; it stands up out of a hole cut into the white page, the hole’s sides stepping down in sheets of yellow paper, on a hill of stacked white paper sheets, five sugared green apple rings spilled down the slope

For sour candy makers.

Your sour, felt before a word.

The pouch they grab, the wall they scan, the feed they scroll: one brand, one sour.

Cliffhanger’s ride sign: you must be this sour to ride

Cliffhanger · a sour candy brand · 2026

Both brands on this page are mine,
made to show you — nobody’s client.

On the wall.

Found before they look.

A buyer gives your pouch one or two seconds on a wall of a hundred loud packs. Your four ride as one, so the eye finds them first.

A candy wall cut in white paper: shelves across the whole screen packed with the loud packs of made-up sour makers, each made its own way -- tins, tubes, cartons, bags and a clear tub, each its own colours and letters; in the middle, at eye level, the four Cliffhanger pouches side by side, green apple, blue raspberry, watermelon and lemon, one rainbow ride running across them

In your feed.

Posts you never have to film.

Your drop, your new flavour, the count to the wall: your brand moving by itself, cut to the phone’s tall frame. Files you own, for the days you can’t be on camera.

Launch day: the blue raspberry Cliffhanger pouch new on the yellow paper, in a burst of cut paper confetti

The count: a big white 12 cut from card and DAYS TO THE WALL over the four pouches standing on a white paper shelf

Thunderegg: a grey stone cracked open on a blue star of sour sugar, its top behind it, its bag cut like a river stone, in one light in the dark

Nothing like it.

Your candy, its own icon.

Thunderegg is a sour candy that looks like a plain grey stone. Crack it open and there’s a star of sour crystals inside, in a colour you only see when it opens. Its name, its letters, its bag, its four rocks: all grown from that one candy. Yours would be too.

Four rocks, one a pack.

Grey river · Black lava · Red desert · White quartz

Thunderegg · a sour candy brand · 2026

Taken apart.

Down to the file your converter runs.

The green apple pouch from the top of this page, sheet by sheet, the way I made it.

The sour, in words

Before a single line, I wrote what this sour does: it’s the top of a rollercoaster, a fear you choose and love.

Yours starts from what your fans already say about your sour.

My note on lemon paper: Green apple. The top of a rollercoaster: a fear you choose, and love.

One second, kept

I weighed every second of one ride: the climb, the top, the fall, the loop. The top won, the second before the drop.

Your pouch holds the one moment that feels like your sour.

One whole rollercoaster drawn in cut paper, six cars of riders at the seconds I weighed, the top one ringed in yellow — drawn for this page: the seconds I weighed in words, before any finished picture

The rollercoaster's first half: the climb, the top ringed in yellow, the fall, floating — drawn for this page: the seconds I weighed in words, before any finished picture

Its second half: upside down in the loop, tipped over the edge — drawn for this page: the seconds I weighed in words, before any finished picture

Cut in paper

Every piece cut from coloured paper and lifted off the one under it. Cut flat, it looked like clip art.

A pouch that reads as made by hand, even at thumb size on a phone.

Two tries of the car of riders: cut flat, and lifted — cut flatlifted, kept

Its name

Twenty-one names, each read against the trademark register. Cliffhanger stayed, and I cut it letter by letter.

Your name, drawn for your candy alone. Never typed.

Two tries of the name: laid flat, and standing — laid flatstanding, kept

The front, sheet by sheet

The front as it was made: sky, sun, hills, trestle, track, car, riders and name, each its own sheet.

The same parts made all four flavours. Your next one starts here.

The pouch's front taken apart into its own paper sheets, fanned out one after another to the finished pouch — the pouch, bare · the sky · the hills · the trestle · the track · the car and its riders · the name · the front, as made

The pouch's front taken apart into its own paper sheets, one under another down to the finished pouch — the pouch, bare · the sky · the hills · the trestle · the track · the car and its riders · the name · the front, as made

The whole pouch opened flat on the converter’s white sheet: the front, the bottom fold, the back upside down, every cut, fold, seal and hole marked — the whole pouch flat for her converter, 6 x 8 in a side, the 4 in fold between; the back upside down, as a proof shows it

The back, as made as the front

Turn it over and the ride goes on to the next flavour. What’s in it, the facts and a barcode that scans sit in the paper too.

A back your fans read twice, every line the law asks for already in place.

Flat, for your converter

The whole pouch opened flat, front and back end to end, the bottom fold between them: every seal, zipper, notch, hole and eye mark where the line wants it.

Your converter checks it before the reveal. One file per flavour.

The back’s board: Nutrition Facts, the ingredients, the allergens, the maker and a barcode — the back’s board, the right way up

A sour candy brand from nothing.
Or the one you already sell.

1First I read your candy: your pouch, your shelf, your feed, your fans.
2Your pouch, ready to print on your converter’s own template, for every flavour you sell.
3Your sour, felt before a word, told your own way.
4Mark, type, colour and motion, one system from the pouch out. Your range reads as one family on the wall.
5Your brand’s motion as files you own, for your feed.
6All of it yours, with the few rules that keep it whole.

How it works

No price list. Every brand gets its own offer, with its exact price, before you pay anything.

Say yes, and you pay half. You see it once, finished, on the date in your offer. The other half only when you love it. I don’t stop until you do, and if I can’t get you there, every cent goes back.

Questions

Will my converter print it?: Yes. Before I draw anything, I ask your converter what their line can do on your film: white ink, a window, the smallest type, the zipper. Nothing is drawn that it can’t print.
Do my colours and flavours stay mine?: Yes. What your fans know you by stays unless you say otherwise. Your offer says what changes before you pay anything. The pouches you’ve printed sell through; the new files wait for your next run.
What if a store says it’s too loud?: Tell me which stores you want. How loud you go is your call, and your offer is made for those shelves.
Can it be on my wall before May?: About four weeks from the day I have your converter’s template. With a digital converter, say yes by February; with plates, by early January. The date is in your offer.
I make four flavours. Can I start with one?: Yes. One flavour’s pouch first, or your whole brand with its first pouch: you pick in your offer. The other three join when you’re ready.
Is printing included? What else will I pay?: Printing stays with your converter, at their price. From me, the price in your offer is all you pay.
How much of my time does it take?: Three facts about your candy, a yes to your offer, and your converter’s template. I never ask you to explain your brand.

Send me your candy.

If I love it, within a week you’ll see what I see in your candy, made, with your offer. It costs nothing and commits you to nothing.

Show me Hire

I build one brand at a time. Next opening: December.