My Dead Girl

My Dead Girl

by Amy S Cutler

A poem of mine, My Dead Girl, that I wrote for this Tales to Terrify podcast contest aired today! Thank you Summer Brooks from Slice of SciFi for reading. 

495 | Flash Contest Winners – Tales to Terrify


Who is the dead girl

that follows me around?
Is she lost, now that
I am found?

I am found, because I am me – 
but if that is true,
then who is she?

There is a dead girl
I’m not sure of her name.
She whispers to me,
we sound the same.

She looks like me – 
only she is dead.
She’s there when I wake,
when I lie in bed.

Who is the dead girl
she sounds so sweet,
yet her eyes are dark,
her tone is meek.

This girl of mine – 
she won’t leave my side.
When I call to her,
her mouth opens wide.

And that is when I follow her through the dark.
We sit on a swing
in an empty park.

Who is this dead girl?
This girl is me.
Look in my eyes,
now do you see?

The girl is me.
The girl is you.

Just take our hand,
and you’ll see her too.

Clean Slate

Clean Slate

By Amy Sampson-Cutler

Published in Wow! Women on Writing. So honored to place second in this contest! Click here to read my story as well as the other amazing winners!!!!

My sister is the kind of person who, when she is mad at you—for even the slightest infraction—makes you feel like you don’t exist. Like you would do anything to make her like you again, because existing in a world where you are bending to please other people is still better than not existing at all.

My sister is the kind of person who could be taken in off the streets by strangers, and still find that their taste in decorating is terrible, and she would wash the stall before taking a shower, even if her own body was covered in filth.

My sister is the kind of person who refuses to go to church on Sundays, not because she doesn’t believe in God, but because she can’t stand someone else telling her how to believe.

My sister is selfish, and arrogant, and narcissistic, but if you tell her any of these things, you would have to throw yourself in front of a train because the thought of getting run over by a train—having your body ripped to shreds and your shoes found in a mangled mess in the woods somewhere—is somehow less frightening than telling someone what you think they most need to hear.

Because my sister thinks that she is kind and caring, if perhaps a bit smarter than some.

This is not how I think of my sister at all, but it is what she thought of me. Those words are the words she spoke to me, holding her head high as we walked through the city streets, having what was our last, and final, major fight.

After my sister spoke those words to me, she stepped out in front of a moving bus, the tiny silver elephant charm I got her for her 17th birthday torn from her ankle and crunched under squealing tires. While her pink converse shoes were not found in the woods, they were definitely missing when traffic was finally stopped, and I sank to my knees beside her body.

I wondered after if the bus was a fill-in for the train, if she stepped out into the street on purpose, or if she was just upset and not paying attention.

The converse, the bus, the blood on the sidewalk and in the street, and on my hands as I held her crumbled body, all meant one thing.

I was not a sister anymore.

I was none of the things that she thought I was, because something can’t exist if there is not someone to think it.

Fall 2020 edition of The Pitkin Review:

Fall 2020 edition of The Pitkin Review:

By Amy Sampson-Cutler


Is it that I come from the moon
that the ocean pulls me in
the sea calls my name
to wash my sins
restore me
give me faith

Where death is beautiful
and collected in the pockets of
small children
and the elderly

Pulling me toward them
pushing me away

yet so close

Published in The Pitkin Review, Fall 2020

My Dead Girl

How Can I Write

How can I write today?

I write scary stories, but nothing is more frightening than what is happening in our country right at this moment. We thought the COVID virus was scary – but at least with the virus, it attacks us equally. It attacks us equally, but we may not survive it equally.

How can I write today?

To sit down in the safety of my home with the intention of being entertaining, when people outside don’t want entertainment. They want to feel safe. They want to be able to drive in their cars or go for a jog or even yes, even make a mistake, without feeling afraid for their lives.

How can I write today?

I feel helpless. We can protest and riot and scream and cry, we can call officials and beg for justice, we can hold hands or point fingers, we can sit in a silent prayer. But the record just spins around and around, one segment must be scratched, because no matter how beautiful the music is, the skip, the screech, always comes back around. You can repair and you can rebuild, but damage is damage. You can throw it away and buy a new record but sooner or later, that one will be damaged as well. Nothing remains unscathed.

How can I write today?

Writing – my kind of writing – won’t keep anyone safe. It won’t feed the hungry or shelter the homeless. It won’t heal anyone who is hurting. It won’t solve a damn problem. But it is the only tool in my arsenal. It is the only way for me to say: I hear you. I hurt for you. I am sorry the record is broken, I am sorry the beautiful sounds continue to be interrupted with fear, with horror, with sadness.

How can I write today?

How can I not.