Myrica Cook grew up in the land of castles and vineyards in Wiesbaden, Germany, where you could find her writing in her Journal as an impressionable young woman. At the age of 17, she moved to the United States where after the culture shock, she went on to study English and Mass Communications. Following ten years in desktop publishing in Washington, D.C., Myrica shifted her career toward an arguably more glamorous position in a hospital as an MRI Technologist.
Now living in Dayton, Ohio, Myrica is writing, dreaming of her next trip to Germany (to see her fiery 96 year old Grandmother) and trying to love workouts at the gym. Currently she is writing a new series as a member of OffBeatInkBooks. She also enjoys reading, day trips, and too much Netflix.
Follow Myrica on Social Media:
Only Silence Remains
within a wall of endless pain
a life inside a barricade of twisted metal wire,
sharp knives cutting flesh in two
She tries to see beyond reality,
block out the horror around her.
to the dirt floor,
her home of no warmth.
Bodies push together,
sweat upon skin,
skin upon bones.
No sleep here.
No joy here.
No hope here.
No freedom here.
Just more tears.
No food here.
No sun here.
Just tears soaking the ground to dry for eternity
She tries to block out the screams,
“No! Not me! Don’t take me!
Scream upon scream
Wife, mother, woman
Husband, father, man
Innocent, pure, child
LOUDER it grows,
pounding away at her ears like drums
“Not me! Not me!”
Stop daydreaming! Get to work you good for nothing trash!
hands can feel the dirt
icy and hard beneath her fingertips,
bloody and raw from digging
Move away, move away! Here’s another load
One by one,
dropping into the pit of darkness,
skeletons being fed a new
batch of shaven tattoos.
Hey you! Come here! It’s your turn to die!
enclosing her soul,
her heart beating quickly as her
face grew paler in the light
rough from torture and murder
pushed her to her doom.
The screams were coming back,
she could smell the blackened flesh
burning inside the fiery ovens,
corpses of ash left on the floors.
Go on! There isn’t room for another Jew like you!
Where did it come from?
Whose voice could be so piercing?
He gagged her with his fist,
the screams were finally stopped.
The screams were hers…
*Written by Myrica after attending a speech by a Holocaust survivor at Emory & Henry College, 1991.