I Got a Phone Call Threatening my Kid – Except I Don’t Have a Kid…

By Chef Bastard_Wing

//Source.

I got the call about 11am yesterday. Fortunately, or not, my office is one of those that’s chilled about people taking personal calls during the day. Sometimes you just need to talk to a plumber, a venue manager, or… this guy.

Thing is, if it hadn’t been a withheld number, I wouldn’t have answered. If a number displays you can just google it later, and a few of my friends withhold theirs out of habit. I’m already answering as I walk out onto the landing, expecting an opportunity to troll an insurance agent asking about an accident I’d never had.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello mister/’

‘Sorry, it’s a bit echo-y…’

the landing genuinely is echo-y, there’s usually someone coming or going from one of the other offices.

‘…what name was that?’

‘Just shut up and listen.’

‘Um. Right, who is th/’

‘Right now I’m outside/”  Continue reading “I Got a Phone Call Threatening my Kid – Except I Don’t Have a Kid…”

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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”