Myrica Cook

Myrica Cook on OffBeatInkBooks!
Looking happy at home in Little Berlin, Germany

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.

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.

Tears overspill to the dirt floor,
her home of no warmth.

Bodies push together,

sweat upon skin,

skin upon bones.

No sleep here.

No joy here.

Just tears.

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!


Her callused 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

A hand,

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!


Scream upon scream,
and louder.

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.

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