Sylvia A. Winters

If a cat is thrown a lemon, he builds a log cabin and spends the summer in Canada

Posts Tagged ‘Fiction

The Haunted Chair

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Late on Sunday night I was awoken by a strange tapping noise from the kitchen. Normally I would have pulled a pillow over my head and gone back to sleep, but that night I was feeling a little restless. I’d closed the window and forgotten to open it again before bed.

So I went downstairs to investigate, and what did I see? One of the kitchen chairs was floating! It was upside down, tilted so that one leg was tapping against the ceiling.

I wasn’t really sure what to do. It’s not very often you encounter a haunted chair in your kitchen, so I just stood there staring at it for a while until it floated down and righted itself of its own accord.

Since then, several strange things have happened. A blackberry crumble I’d left in the fridge was gone the next day. I found all my clothes ironed and neatly put away in my drawers. I came down this morning and the entire kitchen was so clean it practically sparkled!

Well, that was the last straw. I can just about stand missing crumbles and ironed clothes, but a clean house is just too much. It has become clear to me that I’m dealing with a poltergeist, and harsh measures must be taken. I have an appointment with an exorcist on Monday and we’re going to discuss what should be done.

This ghost will rue the day!

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Written by Sylvia A. Winters

August 18, 2011 at 1:52 am

Return to Sender

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A great many people write to me to tell me about the strange things that have happened to them. Every day I receive bags of post and always every letter I open bears a similar story.

Yes, you guessed it. Chupacabra attacks have been on the rise since 2009. Every day a person is mauled by one. Some escape with their lives, others aren’t as lucky. Now, the thing about chupacabras is that their teeth are not only very good for cutting up steaks with, but can be sold for a good deal of money, almost enough to cover your medical costs if you’re without insurance or the NHS.

Chupacabras are really very easy creatures to beat. Just make sure you carry a decent sized feather (i.e. crow, pigeon, sea-gull or larger) with you at all times, and you will be well prepared for that attack. Now, chupacabras have a tough, scaly body, but the flesh below their throat is as soft as a baby’s backside. Just tickle this soft spot with the feather and the chupacabra will seize up with laughter; its breathing will be restricted and if you keep tickling it for long enough, it will die. Then you can scrape off the scales and pull out the teeth and sell them on for a pretty good price.

Now, hopefully you will all take heed and I won’t have to spend so much of my time reading the same old crap.

Written by Sylvia A. Winters

July 20, 2011 at 12:00 am

The Sock Beast

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I was hunting under my bed for my the left half of my favourite pair of socks this morning, when I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my hand. I pulled my hand out from under the bed and there in my smooth white flesh was a reddened set of teeth marks! Understandably I was quite miffed, so I pulled up my bed and stood it on its side, and there before my very eyes rose up a terrifying monster, assembled out of my own socks! This beast must have been born when a couple of odd socks had made their way into the safe, footless fortress of the underneath of my bed, and had pulled other socks towards it over the years. Now it stood six foot tall with horrible sharp teeth and horns!

How did I combat the horrifying monster? Simple. I made my own beast out of the other socks that had been left to sit alone in the drawer and they fought to the death. Naturally, my friendly beast won as it was younger, fitter and hadn’t been spending all its life breathing in dust and cobwebs.

So if you’re ever attacked by a disgusting sock monster, you now know what to do.

Written by Sylvia A. Winters

July 15, 2011 at 7:57 pm

The Sorry Tale of the Panda

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A word of advice for you all: Never, ever trust a panda. Especially if he (or she, I don’t want to sexist here!) is smoking a pipe. It doesn’t matter what kind of pipe, tobacco, crack, whatever. A panda with a pipe is a panda with a pipe no matter the minor details.

I once had the sad misfortune to come across a panda with a pipe. My car had broken down in the pouring rain and the nearest building was a slightly dilapidated looking bar by the name of ‘Cuthbert’s’. I walked in, hoping to borrow the use of their phone, and thought that while I was at it I ought to buy a drink, because I was rather thirsty.

So I ordered my half-glass of tomato juice and sat at the bar sipping it, glad to be out of the rain and hoping that my hair didn’t look too atrocious.

After a couple of minutes, this panda came and sat down on the stool beside mine and ordered a whiskey. He brought out his pipe and started puffing away at it. Now, I didn’t take much notice of him until he leaned in toward me and said “I hear you got car trouble,” in very gruff, deep tones, rather like the new batman voice of Phil Mitchell from Eastenders.

“Why, yes,” I said, nodding. “I broke down not ten minutes ago. I haven’t any idea what’s wrong with it.”

And he told me that he was a mechanic, and would take a look for me. So I abandoned the last of my tomato juice and he swigged the last of his whiskey and we headed back out into the rain.

He took my keys from me and tried the engine. He lifted the bonnet and rummaged around for a bit, and when he tried the engine again, it ran as smooth as a glass of Bailey’s.

I made to thank him, and take the keys back, but before I could he shut the car door and took off. Just like that, in my lovely little Ford Anglia.

I have seen neither hide nor hair of this fiend since, and I fear that my darling car is lost forever.

I spoke to the barman and he said that the panda was a renowned car thief, and that I ought not to have trusted him. Well, I was pretty angry at that, because he saw me talking to the panda, and he never said a word to me!

I tell you this tragic tale in the hope that my sore misfortune will warn others to take care against the danger of such creatures, and to prevent it happening to them.

Beware, readers. We must be extra vigilant.

Written by Sylvia A. Winters

September 7, 2010 at 10:44 pm

The White Kitten

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Billy and Margaret hold hands whilst walking in the park.

Billy feeds the ducks and Margaret stares into the water, watching their reflections.

Billy and Margaret kiss by the side of the road, ignoring the amused beeps from passing cars.

Billy and Margaret are walking home one night, when Margaret sees at the side of the road a small, white kitten.

Billy suggests they take it home and so Margaret picks it up and carries it close to her, then lays down a saucer of milk once they’re inside.

Billy makes up a bed for the kitten, and then he and Margaret sit on the sofa together and watch it leap about the living room.

When Billy and Margaret are fast asleep in bed, the kitten creeps into their room, edging the door open with a tiny, white paw.

Billy’s snoring annoys the kitten, who was trying to sleep, so the kitten leaps up on to the bed and swipes a claw at his face.

Billy screams. The kitten mewls and claws at him over and over.

Margaret awakes to the sound of Billy screaming. She turns over, and thinking he’s had a nightmare, she turns on the lamp and goes to shake him awake.

Then it is Margaret screaming, for Billy is torn to shreds, a bloodied mess at her side, the white sheets soaked with blood.

The kitten sits there, licking its blood-stained paws with a tiny, pink tongue, its blue eyes bright in the lamplight..

Written by Sylvia A. Winters

August 23, 2010 at 4:58 am

Pterodactyl

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As I’m writing this, the very creature of which I am about to write is perched outside my window, staring at me with large, beady eyes that whisper to me through the silence of worlds. It is he who has haunted me these long and bitter months, and has allowed me no rest.

The pterodactyl, a beast thought to be long since extinct, follows me continuously, the way a sex offender stalks vulnerable young women.

It would lick its lips if it possessed such things; instead it opens and closes its beak with a terrific clacking noise that sounds to me like the drum beat preceding a man’s death- my death. It tells me that I am not long for this world, and so I must hasten my hand.

This creature has not eaten in decades, and I, chosen soul to be damned, will break its fast.

O’ sae me, Lord! I pray- no. It is hopeless. Prayer is the last hope of the truly desperate, and although I count myself so, I will not shame myself by clinging to my father’s trouser-leg. This beast can not be of God, and so God can have no power over it.

It beats its gargantuan wings and shatters glass.

It’s in! It’s in! God have mercy upon me! I can speak no more …

Written by Sylvia A. Winters

August 13, 2010 at 5:58 pm

Pink Hat

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Alarm goes. Arms flailing wildly until a hand catches snooze for another ten minutes of blissful half-sleep. Alarm again. Roll out of bed, face to the floor. Hands over ears until moving is unavoidable. Alarm off but still ringing in tired ears. Crawl to the door and push it open. Slowly pulling up to stand on two feet with the aid of the banister whilst making the way to bathroom. Shower on, water rushing. Citrus-scented shower gel and apple shampoo foaming, then washing away.

Towel-dry, one wrapped around wet hair. Breakfast. Bread in the toaster. Coffee, two spoons, one sugar. No milk. Dog that, for a moment, convinces that he’s half-seal, half-hedgehog, stares up. Drop a piece of crust on the floor. Leave him dog biscuits in the bowl before you head back upstairs to get dressed.

The unmade bed, that lusty temptress, willing you to spend one more hour in her soft, warm embrace. She beckons. Pull clothes on quick to avoid further advances. Make-up. Hair-dryer, brush. Shoes, bag and lunch.

Then out the door, ready for a day of climbing frames and monkey-bars. Beneath the winter coat, the gun hidden calm against smooth lining. The kid with the pink rabbit hat and pigtails making faces. That hat is going to get it.

Written by Sylvia A. Winters

July 12, 2010 at 8:28 pm