Sylvia A. Winters

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

Posts Tagged ‘Writing

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 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