Sammie Wilson

 'A professional writer is an amatuer who didn't quit' - Richard Bach
I didn't quit. 

My Journey - Free Fiction

Bloodied Memories

Posted by Sammie on August 30, 2017 at 7:30 AM Comments comments (0)

Maybe I shouldn’t have come back?

The atmosphere carried the stain of violence forcing my mind into a past I would soon like to forget. The house itself was as decrepit as him - falling apart with age and no one willing to fill the void of loneliness. With every creak of the floorboards, a memory surfaced. I had all these same creaks memorized as a child, it was the only way to tell where he might come from next. Full of booze and smelling like death, I swear the remnants of his stench lingered. It’s the kind of smell that lines your nostrils as the fear sticks in the back of your throat.

Everything looked the same. Fist-sized holes remained in the walls, cupboards hung from their hinges and blood appeared to be absorbed into the wooden surfaces. Right down to his lime green recliner in front of the fireplace. I can picture him sitting there, his head rolled to the side, deep snores starting through his nose and ending through his open mouth. Sometimes, I would hear him stop breathing and hoped to God that this was going to be the moment he stopped for good but it never was.

I always thought she was weak for sticking around. After all, what kind of mother allows her child to be brought up watching her be used as a punching bag? But, as an adult, I recognize how incredibly strong she had to be. She endured such vicious savagery for my safety. I often wondered if she had a support system to turn to, a place to hide, money given to her, would things have turned out differently? I also now know, the lack of such things, was not her fault.

My boots echoed around the house as I walked toward the last room in the house and a regular feature in my nightmares – their bedroom. She was wearing a beautiful sunflower halter dress with pleats through the bottom. Most of the dress was white minus the bold, yellow sunflowers pictured all over. By that afternoon, that white dress would look like someone had dipped it into a can of red paint.

I, of course, found her.

At first, I thought she was sleeping. It never seemed odd she’d have the doona pulled up over her head in the middle of summer. I barked out a laugh, threw myself on the bed and yanked the blanket from her face. I wake up screaming every night as my mind replays the horror of that moment. Her once vibrant blue eyes fixed and soulless. He didn’t beat her to death like I always stressed about. No. He used a knife to crudely open up her throat. The thought of such a death even now almost brings me to my knees.

Why is that the good die young while monsters continue to live?

Picking up the can, I looked around the house one last time hopeful that by doing this I would somehow purge the past. I don’t even try and remember any of the good times… I don’t think they exist. The echoes of my mother’s screams, the roar of his hateful words, the sound a fist makes as it connects with bone, is all this house represents. The smell of petrol gets stronger as I douse the wood. I make a trail out the front door, down the broken steps, and onto the dead grass. One match is all it took. With smoke billowing and flames shooting through every crevice of my horrible childhood, I turned my back and walked away.


In Death

Posted by Sammie on August 26, 2017 at 1:15 AM Comments comments (0)

"I can't believe we're doing this."

Alice shook her head as she turned the knob of the front door.

"This is what everyone does. Trust me, it's been an open house now for three hours, I doubt anything good is left anyway."

Peta stepped over the threshold hoping that wasn't true. She'd been to five open houses of dead, rich people in the last two weeks and scored so many expensive things for next to nothing, this house was better than all those combined. After all, the lady who died here was one of America’s true treasures, in her opinion anyway.

"Who was this lady?" Alice's eyes searched the expanse of the foyer, her mouth almost dropping at the sight of glistening marble floors, high chapel-like ceilings and the biggest crystal chandelier she'd ever seen.

"Tabatha Wainwright. Only the most famous author of her time." A woman with an ID badge popped in from the adjoining room. "Sadly, she was survived by no one and since there are some bills left to pay, everything is up for grabs." Her hands tightened around the clipboard she was carrying. "Shall we start in the bedroom?"

Alice and Peta both nodded and followed the woman up the large curving staircase and into a bright-lit room with a four-poster king bed. There were still items on her bedside table which disturbed Alice even further. The glass stood tall with left over water. A pill bottle with the lid off sat next to it. A tattered, old book she was reading with a feather bookmark sticking out of it... she was almost finished. A to-do list with the most mundane things - ask Pierre to pick up laundry, pay the cleaner, and a black and white photograph of her younger self with a man in a military uniform.

Her life was all around the room yet a heavy melancholy filled the air. Goosebumps spread across Alice's skin.

"How long has she been deceased?" She rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

The woman stood off to the side to allow them room to look around. "Three days."

Alice's eyes widened. "This feels so wrong."

Peta snorted. "Seriously? It's not like Tabatha can take it all with her."

Alice shook her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about who this old woman was and now what her life has been reduced too – people scavenging in her home for her belongings. For some reason, she had a picture of a small, petite woman, someone’s grandmother, with age spots and white, perfectly permed hair. She obviously had impeccable taste. A Leonardo da Vinci hung opposite her bed. Alice imagined this being the last thing the woman saw before she died. She shivered. Was she lonely? Did anyone bother to be in her life? She was a woman who, given her career choice, would be forever immortalized in the eyes of those who loved reading her lasting words but never had any family left to leave her belongings to let alone say goodbye.

How incredibly sad.

It made Alice so much more grateful for the people in her life, after all, the material things mean nothing if you have no one to hand them down too.

Looking into the Abyss

Posted by Sammie on August 23, 2017 at 8:45 AM Comments comments (0)

Fog crept over the lake like an ominous reminder of the ghost he'd just created. The shimmering reflection of the sparse trees caused a deeper darkness across the shiny surface while the ripples slowly made their way toward his feet. He didn't admire it's beauty rather felt as if the lake was an abyss of never ending suffering - his own personal hell.

#writer #freefiction #mystery #creativesnack

The Woman Who Called Herself 'A Fate'

Posted by Sammie on October 29, 2011 at 11:40 PM Comments comments (0)


She was an older woman, with humble eyes and white hair clipped short. The lines etched onto her face told a story of great knowledge and experience and the way she carried herself was full of purpose and grace. The expression she held was peaceful but all-knowing and I could just feel within myself that her soul was pure.

I walked with her from one of the classrooms at my daughter's school. Her hands were clasped in front of her as we stopped and stood for a moment behind the building that has the mural - the 'under the sea' mural I had contributed to when I was in grade seven. It was behind there that I witnessed a miracle. This woman bent down in front of a lifeless white pigeon and before my very eyes brought it back to life. She then turned her attentions to two baby birds in which she proceeded to turn them into adults so they could fly off and not become prey to others stronger than them.

 Afterwards, she turned to me and began telling me things about my life - important things - that now that I'm awake I can't remember. Throughout the dream I had an overwhelming feeling of rightness, like everything in my life was going to turn out just the way I plan, but, when I woke up I couldn't help but feel I'd forgotten something significant and ever since then I haven't been able to stop thinking about it...And I especially haven't been able to stop thinking about the woman that called herself 'a fate'.


Wrong Kind of Love

Posted by Sammie on September 2, 2011 at 10:20 AM Comments comments (0)

She dropped her eyes from his as a sign of her compliance. The backhand across her face stung as the force damn near snapped her neck. The blood that regularly spills trickled from her growing lip and the feeling of panic closed her throat as his hands wrapped around her small neck. Escalation. She knew for many years it was going to come to this. She'd packed her bags. She was finally leaving. Ten years. Now too late.


Posted by Sammie on March 8, 2011 at 6:12 AM Comments comments (4)
My first workshop piece for my second creative writing unit. We had to look at a picture and write whatever came to mind….Below is my image.

I watched as my girls jumped, laughed and played on their trampoline. I was relaxed the sun beating on my face and the smell of spring in the air relieved any tightness I may have been holding. I mentally shook my head as the images of my past came floating in. The sound of guns going off, the feel of bullets pressing into my flesh. The awful smell of death everywhere. No. I have to focus on my girls, on their innocence that doesn’t yet know about our world; how cruel and violent this place can be.


The death and destruction not only happening in the war but spilling on our streets like an infestation. How I wish I could turn back time. I want to hold and touch my children again but now I can’t. All I can do is sit here and watch, and when there are times when I can’t even do that all I can do is relive the day when everything went black. Remembering the sound echoing around me like a clap of thunder, feeling the searing pain through my chest, watching the red soak into my shirt and finally falling to the ground knowing at that very moment I’d made the wrong choice.

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