Must Love Cats

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R Hunt

//Source.

It all started out as a dating aid. Helping people to find their perfect match, y’know?

I mean, there were already dating websites, and they did pretty much the same job; listed your preferences, your interests, likes and dislikes. They made your true inner-self available at a single click, laid open and bare and optimised for key search terms. And they were great, for a while. Match-making was quicker and more accurate than ever before, but… well, you’ve got to admit, they were a bit impersonal. Sort of cold and robotic. It seemed to me that the next obvious step in dating technology was to bring back the missing element.

Bring back the human touch.  Continue reading “Must Love Cats”

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The Schoolhouse in the Forest

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R Hunt

//Source.

//This is part of a series. Click here for part one.

I’m writing this because I need to make sense of what’s going through my head. I’ll admit it; I’m scared. And I know that if I close my eyes and try to sleep, my mind will be making monsters out of every creak of the house and every howl of the wind. I’m in that state where I don’t even want to make a noise, because part of me is worried that, if I do, I’ll hear a reply.

I know I’m being irrational. If I just get all of this written down I’ll see how ridiculous it is and I’ll be able to move past it. It will become impossible to deny that my fear is based on something absurd.

Ockham’s Razor. The true explanation is often the simplest.

That puppet is not watching me.

It started yesterday morning.  Continue reading “The Schoolhouse in the Forest”

The First Parents

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R Hunt

//Source.

//This is the first of a series. Click here for part two.

“Mum, don’t worry about it. It’s just a splash, she won’t care.”

Mum doesn’t listen, already whipping the cloth off of the table and folding it over her arm.

“No, no, I want everything to be perfect,” she says, running a finger over the table to make sure the stain hasn’t gone down to the wood, “She deserves a real family meal, something nice. She doesn’t want to come home to a… a… warzone!”

“Good choice of words,” mutters my brother with a smirk. Mum shoots him a look, then turns to me.

“Fetch the fresh tablecloth, would you? It’s in the linen closet.”  Continue reading “The First Parents”