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By Syriah Marque

When I first started here at Cowley, I wasn’t sure that writing would go well for me. I mean, I wasn’t ever good with my words; I can’t spell that well, and I hated to write… Sometimes I still feel those ways. But as a whole, I can see that my work is improving. In high school, I first started to write poetry in my theater class. The first prompt given to us was to write a monologue and present it to the class. The monologue I wrote was about me writing a letter to my younger sister. In the letter, I talked about how much I missed her and couldn’t wait to hear back from her. But each letter I wrote, I would just crumple it up and throw it away. One of the reasons this monologue stood out to me in my writing journey is because of the audience’s reaction. Before this, I didn’t know that my writing could have so much meaning and impact on the audience. Whenever I looked up many of my classmates had tears in their eyes. One of the seniors even had to have a tissue box handed to her. I can still feel the stillness in the room before they started to clap. It wasn’t just the reaction that I liked about my monologue, but the feeling I got after. Having shared my story, it felt like I could breathe a little bit better. After this, I started to notice a shift in my writing. Everything was flowery and had bits and pieces of my life and how I was overcoming things while in high school. Writing is still an outlet for my emotions and a chance for me to reflect on the things I go through. Even though I still can’t spell and I use word check a lot, I have been doing a better job of appreciating my writing and what it took to get here. I would like to give thanks to my best supporters, my family. (Everyone cringe regretfully.)

One of my earliest Memories …………………..……….…… 4 My grandmas rings …………………………………………….….. 5 Coyotes wolves and bears oh my …………………………… 6 Thinking out loud …………………………………………………… 7 Thinking out loud Part two…….……………………………….. 8 Collage of hope……………………..……………………………….. 9 Not my people……………………………………………………….. 10 Eureka springs……………………….……………………………….. 12 My Nocturnal Journal…………………………………………….. 13 My Last Injury…………………………………………………………. 14 Table of contents

One of my earliest memories One of my earliest memories that I can recall happened on the fourth Thursday in November. The beauful trees once lled with reds, yellows, and dierent shades of brown were now bare and naked. Some danced with the wind, and others stood tall, watching as people went about their lives, enjoying company with distant family. One tree stood next to a green swing set where a lile girl and her grandmother sat reading a book. A book the lile girl had probably listened to many mes before but sll insisted on her grandmother reading. Her grandmother’s voice, a sweet but strong voice, read loud enough so the lile girl’s squirrel friends could hear. As the squirrels ran up and down the tree's bare bark, the lile girl would watch. Watch and pretend she too could climb and hide in the tree like her fur friends. The lile girl’s daydreaming was cut short when she heard her mother’s voice calling her inside to help prepare Thanksgiving dinner. This was her favorite part. Running inside, the sound of the lile girl’s feet stomping over twigs and freshly fallen leaves was heard. The smell of fresh food welcomed the eager child inside. Her grandfather stood at the dining room table with a loaf of bread. Stepping onto the stool, the lile girl helped rip the so and uy bread into small pieces for the stung they were making. The only problem is that the lile girl couldn’t stop eang the bread. Page 4

Grandmas rings This day, I remember it being bright outside. The kind of bright you only get on a Sunday morning. And this Sunday morning, I was going to my grandparents’ house. I loved seeing my grandparents. But I remember this cloud of sadness that always loomed above. My grandparents, Kenny and Martha Elston lived in a small two-bedroom house. The front yard was uncared for. It had lost its beauful green grass over the years. All that remained was piles of dirt and rocks. My ny shoes kicked them over geng out of the car and stepping onto a rock lled driveway. Amongst the dirt and rocks, toys were scaered. Some broken. Some could’ve been new, but already had a fresh coat of dirt covering the once shinny exterior. Then there was the trash. Lile pieces of God know what laid next to the toys and hills of dirt and rocks. Walking inside wasn’t much beer either. There was always this odor that crept up your nose as soon as you stepped a foot inside the house. It smelled of dogs and something old. Like forgoen food. The dog smell belonged to Lile Man. Lile Man was a boxer mix. Believe it or not, he could talk. My grandfather told me this was true. I didn’t believe it either—at rst, that is. As a young girl, I can sll feel myself forcing my face to stay relaxed. I relaxed so I wouldn’t hurt my dad’s or my grandparents’ feelings. I would ignore the mess of dirty clothes and bags of trash that were le around their living room. Walking inside my grandparents’ room, I can sll feel the safety that would wash over me. I had this feeling that if I didn’t leave this room, everything would be okay. Once in the room, I would always say hello to my grandfather, then go to the other side of the bed to stand next to her. Separated from the men, we would be in our own world. In this world, we talk about many dierent things. We talked about how my lile cousins that my grandparents cared for were being lile troublemakers at school. Then she would whisper how I would always be her favorite. Somemes my mind oats back to the mes she would call me these things. like being beauful and perfect. Things I don’t hear much of anymore Near the end of our conversaons, they would always turn sad. This is the part when I wished my ears would fall o, but they never did. She would tell me about the things that would be mine when it was her me to go back home. Back home to God. I can sll hear my lile 11-year-old voice telling her not to talk like that. That she would be here forever. But nothing lasts forever. Out of everything she said I would get, the only thing I ever received was her last name and a box of rings. The box was small and black with white lines that turned into bueries. When you opened the box, you were met with your own reecon and around 30 rings. Some are big, some are small. Somewhere shiny, and some sll need to be properly cleaned. A few of the rings had gems, and others had dierent small animal pins. My favorite was this mood ring with a glass dome. Under the dome, the colors would change into the most beauful dierent shades of blue, like the night sky, and black, like an endless void. I don’t really know if the rings are worth anything, and I don’t really care. I plan to pass down the box of rings to whoever I leave when my life ends. Page 5

“Coyotes, Wolves, and Bears, oh my.” Well, I have many stories of my birth; one of my favorites is a conal one that I like to believe really happened. It was December 18th, and a cold chill seled over Oklahoma City. It was a nice chill. The kind that makes you feel alive. In a small diner, a man and woman clocked in for their night shi. Customers came and went as the night carried on. The women Deanndra went outside for a break. Just like other nights, she waited for the man. Whenever the last customer le, Erin would slip outside and take a break with the woman. Here, they would talk about life and their future like they did the night before. As the minutes ew by, Deanndra headed back inside. As she passed the trash can, she heard a faint noise. Something she wasn’t sure she heard, but nonetheless she found herself calling over the man. Looking together through the garbage, they found something odd, something dierent. Within the pile of trash were two lile babies. One was a small girl, and the other was a boy. Twins. Surprised by this nding, Erin stood sll. The woman, however, acts quickly and grabs the small baby girl. She asks the man to grab the boy, but he says to leave him. "He seems perfectly ne eang that BLT and hashbrowns." Leaving the lile boy, the couple walks away with the baby girl. Later, the women would tell the baby girl that her brother was raised by "coyotes, wolves, and bears, oh my." I know this story is fake, but I nd it funny that both my mom and dad agreed that it was true. In reality, my mother and father worked at Ihop. And even though a long-lost brother sounds interesng, I was the only child they ever had together. But I was surprised since I was born six weeks early. My parents were handed a baby weighing only 4 pounds and 12 ounces with feet smaller than half a dollar. The baby was placed in a small Christmas stocking and given a Christmas ornament with her hand and foot prints signed on the sides. The delivery itself was a dierent type of story. Erin, not knowing that the process could take only two hours, came close to passing out when he saw the baby girl being delivered. The doctor, seeing this, yells at the man, "Sit down! This baby is coming, and it's coming now!" The man, not wanng to miss out, tries to stay standing. The doctor, overwhelmed, yells again. "No, sit down; you're too heavy to catch!" All while the two argue, my godfather Boo Boo and my godmother Amanda are standing at the end of my mother's feet, yelling things like "Shesssss coming omg. Looook I can see her. OMG Page 6

Collage of Hope If I were to make a book or collage of hope, it would be lled with things like this: Notes stretched on the page in dierent colored pens would read: Summer days at the lake Sand between our toes, in our hair, and places we’d rather not say. Springme at the lake Cold water bites our small noses, leaving them red and our hearts racing. Rainy days spent inside and occasionally outside. Playing Minecra and hide and seek. Glass bursng into lile, not so funny at the me but hilarious now memories. Kids screaming as they ran from their father, holding a very alive and talkave mouse on the end of a scky trap. Blankets covered their heads as they giggled and pleaded for mercy. Watermelon rinds being carried down the street as the sky connues to rain. Water splashed onto the now-soaked clothes as cars drove by. The pictures would be of silly faces and red tans. exhausted-looking teens as their heads surfaced from under the dark-looking water. pallets lled with kids, brothers, sisters, cousins, and family friends. Makeup and permanent markers on the sleeping faces Puddles just below the children’s knees. Bare feet with hands raised towards the clouds. Stories of good and bad days. Tales of children being silly Page 7

Not my people Some may have problems sleeping on the oor or in a bed with six other kids. All squashed, feet in your back, arms overlapping yours, constant rolling, and loud snoring. But for me, this is a feeling I have come to love. Growing up in a house always lled with people makes it hard to ever want to be alone. The comfort that the vase number gives shis into a need over a want. This is something I struggled with in college. Now some may argue that I’m not alone and that the whole dorm is lled with others. And they are right, but not completely. The dorm is lled with people. But not my people. They walk past me in the hallways, looking down. If you drop something, they don’t even tell you. Instead, they pick it up and place it somewhere in hopes you’ll see it. It’s like being in a room full of people who don’t speak the same language. All nodding and rushing. Not really talking or caring enough to even try to break the language barrier. But I’ve heard them talking, heard them laughing with each other. I try to not let it bother me, but it does. I feel most welcomed, most wanted, and most sased when I’m surrounded by family or people who love me. When I’m not alone.

Thinking out loud So, I’m sing in class doing nothing. My teachers talk, but it sounds like they’re mumbling. Which doesn’t make sense because the other students are typing… But no worries; as the me slips by, so does my mind. Soon enough, I couldn't hear anything. Sent back into my winter wonderland. Where all my problems freeze beneath a nice layer of snow I know it’s under the surface waing; oh, it’s thriving…. But in this land, I think about what I want. Want to know something silly? When I was lile, I tried to teach my dog how to talk. It didn’t maer how hard he tried. Or how much he wanted his chew toy. He was always going to be just like me—dierent! Born with vocal cords but not given the capacity to understand. We both lost the race before it ever began. Put at that starng line with standards we would never meet. Our potenal just out of reach… My teacher, with kind eyes, makes her way around the room. and I want to raise my hand. I want to Scream- … I meant Ask for help. But as she glances at my table, I can see she has already assumed... Like the smile on my face and the fact that the page isn’t blank means that I’m okay. If they just looked a lile closer, they would see the clear tape on the edge of my face. They would see that my paper is lled with mistakes… But my mama once told me to "fake it unl you make it." So we forced lile sounds to come out. Page 9

Thinking out loud, part two I’m sing outside, reading my last poem. And it got me thinking. Thinking about what dog I should use. Knowing good darn well, I took the me to try to teach all the ones I ever had. Like the next one would somehow magically be the smartest dog alive. Then it made me remember that I had a dog named Able. Named him from the Bible. Aer that, one brother that was killed by the other. It got me thinking about how I’ll never see that dog again. or how his lile sister Athena died, and I didn’t cry. Like how it took me mulple weeks to actually break down aer my uncle’s passing Or how I no longer really cry, Not when my grandma Gee le me, nor Grandma Corky Not Uncle Travis, or Uncle Mark. I remember when somebody told me my uncle lost his newborn baby… all I could muster was that sucks with almost no empathy. But it’s odd because I sll cry at the end of Peter Pan 2003 version… not confused with the cartoon. And I sll get teary eyed when I see my friends and family in pain. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but something is missing. Trust me, this lile girl sll sees the light in the world. She sll slows her pace when that breeze hits her face. She sll whispers a prayer to the sh before she kills it. She waves back to the trees. She sll laughs at her papa's stories. She sll gets all giddy when she sees her bese, Kaci And I can see she’s sll smiling. Which is weird because nothing feels funny. Maybe death no longer fazes her. Or maybe this is just her way of coping. Page 10

Eureka Springs A car hovered just above her smooth, paved roads. On both sides stood her tall rocks and ridges. Down her vast sides were water-stained stretch marks. Showcasing the envy that me and weather placed upon her. Just past these blessings, her valleys are green and luscious. Here her children frolicked. Drummers soared, squirrels foraged, fawns bounded, and gray foxes hunted. The car glided its way up and down her elegant curves and dips. Along her roads, trees climbed towards the heavens, and the sun peaked between her leaves. As the car neared a bridge, everything seemed to slow. Below the bridge, water owed. Her river shimmered and sparkled. And if you listened closely, you could hear almost everything. Birds singing their sweet melodies. The bark falling as a small fox leaped from branch to branch. The leaves crunching as a squirrel looked for food. the laughter of a grandmother and her granddaughter. The singing of an aunt and her niece. The rst me I visited Grandma Corky in Eureka Springs, I knew. I knew that this place was special. The way my body calmed and seled. The way my breath matched the wind. The way that the sun hugged me. Things that are probably taken for granted by locals. Things I could never see as less than perfect. Page 11

My Nocturnal Journal. It’s 7:20 p.m. something, and I can see and feel the sun going down like a blanket a child holds over their head when scared. It feels like the world is going dark, bare, naked, and vulnerable. The blanket is gone, and the monster you were hiding from is looking you straight in the face. You are now equal. This is the me when I feel most alone. Most stressed. Night is when my thoughts won’t stop. It’s 8:54 p.m., and instead of resng, my mind welcomes the monster in bed. Allows it to lay next to me while it tells nightmares like bedme stories. And the whole me he’s talking, I try to distract myself, but his stench is overwhelming. The waves of fear that ll my nose make it impossible to breathe. It’s 10:15 p.m., and I’m sick of listening to his raspy voice drag on. Trying to drown out the noise, I turn on some music, but this only makes the monster happier. He now knows he’s in control. It’s 12:39 p.m., and my favorite song isn’t helping. Instead of feeling safe, it only reminds me of how alone me and my monsters really are. It’s 2 in the morning, and I reach for my phone I am praying and hoping someone has messaged me, but of course the world is asleep. I can feel my eyes geng heavy, but I know if I fall asleep, he will just follow me to my dreams. Grabbing my book, I try to read, but I can feel him looking over my shoulder. I can feel his hot breath creeping down my neck. It’s 3:46 a.m. and I have read the same page over and over again, and honestly, it’s exhausng. The words won’t stop twisng, it’s almost like they're running. Before I know it, the page is blank, and I’ve nally fallen asleep. It’s 6:30 a.m., and the alarm clock is blaring. Startled, I sit up in bed. Looking around the room, I see nothing. but the sun is out, which means he’s gone hiding. As the day carries on, I will slowly forget… unl the sun goes down again. Page 12

My last Injury I remember being in class and wring about my last injury. I said it was my rings; that my rings kept leaving marks on my body. But my rings aren’t my only injuries. Lately, I’ve been feeling red and empty. Like this school is draining the life out of me. Its assignment aer assignment, and I feel like I’ve lost too much blood, and my head won’t stop spinning. I’m trying to get my work down, but it’s hard to work when your classes start morphing. turning into a blob of things you used to care about. And the injuries keep coming. The fatalies keep adding up. I feel like I’m at war, but the enemy is unclear. I feel like I’m ghng this bale by myself, and I’m not sure how long I can keep pushing. Then I remembered my ring. Remember how that class ring keeps leaving lile marks on my body. Lile marks that remind me of the things I’ve been through to get here. It reminds me of all my lile injuries and that I must keep going. Page 13