You’ve probably heard of Wintersville, the small coastal town on the edges of Cornwall. You’ve heard of the gentle lapping waves and the small independent shops and the windy uneven pathways in the summer. Where you can dance in the sand and get ice cream every day without a single odd glance. You can go to shop and be just a generally nice person and get a discount and you can get water wrinkles from the sea and nobody would care or laugh because they have them too. Well, that’s what you’ve heard of the summer, but in the winter is a whole different story.
In Winter, you can feel every nip on the cheek from the rough sea breeze and you take a single lick of your ice cream and it’ll fall off the cone and you can open a window for fresh air for a few seconds and then you have a whole blizzard in your house. In the Winter everything changes. You can’t sleep a wink from the wind moaning and howling but not because it’s noisy. Because of the Legend. The legend of the Lepoardamander.
Hello whoever is reading this. I’m Clover Springs and I work in a miniature town called Wintersville. I work as an apprenticeship in a small coffee shop on the outskirts of town with my mum. I was employed at the age of sixteen and ever since I’ve been doing small jobs at the coffee shop. Some people say that my job sucks because I have to clean dishes and give out little baskets of bread but I quite enjoy it. I get to talk to the locals like Mrs Pine and Mr Norris and hear all the juicy rumours spreading around the town like melted butter on hot toast. My mum says that I shouldn’t get too friendly because when I find a proper job, I’ll have to leave it all behind. But, isn’t working here a proper job? I mean, that’s always my excuse but it’s a job so it ought to be proper?
I wake up the next morning and begin to get into my uniform: a black two piece shirt and skirt and mini pink apron. Once I’m ready, I head down the twisted paths, behind the overgrown bushes and into our tucked away coffee shop. Once inside, I set off to the kitchen and begin to get all the plates ready until I hear a knock on the window. I swiftly turn around to see a boy my age staring at me from the window. He looks petrified and is banging on the window for his life.
“LET ME IN!” he practically screams as I open the window.
“What, who are you?” I ask, distressed.
Before I carry on, I have to explain something. This legend was made long ago and no one knows when it happened: the day, the time, the week, the month, not even the year! It was the legend of the Lepoardamander. It has dark and yet glossy plump paws and fangs as sharp as a killer’s dagger.The Leapoardamander is known to live in the ancient basement of the convenience store and apparently stalks the streets at the strike of midnight. People even go far enough by locking every door in their house, including their basement just in case the Lepoardamander finds a new home. Some say it was enchanted by a trance of the old shop owner millenniums ago and others say it used to be a little girl but she was kidnapped and created chaos.
“Just hide me!” the boy says and I do so. I open up one of our largest cupboards and I beckon the boy in. He nods and grins.
“Thanks, it won’t find me here.”