Sybil's Monologue

The calm breeze danced its way through the wavy brown locks of Sybil Erickson. Sitting on her house steps, she chipped the white paint away from the old oak planks, while the sweet smell of pumpkin pie reached her nose. Her mother’s humming in the kitchen echoed through the window of the one story house that has been home to Sybil and her mother, Clarice, for her entire sixteen years of living. As she persistently chipped away the paint, a faint drop of blood was exposed on the old wood. The blood of her father, Charles. Tuberculosis took over their town like wildflowers a decade ago, and the effects still linger. Sybil stared at the brown blood, and the scarring memories flashed into her mind—her father stumbling down the steps, spitting up

So for hours, little Sybil tried to decipher the chirps of these small insects, but she would always ultimately surrender to them due to pure exhaustion. Her mind was racing with all of the possible diversions in her route tomorrow: would it be visiting Mr. McNeal’s tranquil farm and sneaking a few butterscotch into her worn leather pouch, or would it be tip-toeing into the busy streets of town, getting lost in the latest gossip spewing from all of the maidens’ mouths. Sybil tried to find some excitement in her life, since her school life was short lived, and her social life was

It was about a mile walk into town, but with the rapid pace of Sybil’s long slender legs, she would be able to make it there in quick step. The smell of the fresh summer air filled her lungs with joy, as the sun kissed her up-turned nose. The vivid green grass tickled her ankles as she dashed closer and closer to the city—it was almost within sight. The clinking of horse shoes against the uneven gravel road grew louder and louder until Sybil finally reached her destination. To her dismay, there was an awfully large crowd gathered around the front of the printing office—blocking the apparent main attraction. Sybil tried to keep her head down, for even the smallest troublesome act would perhaps be detrimental to her mother’s job. However, Sybil never understood the phrase “care killed the cat.” She poked and prodded her way through the crowd—her tiny frame went through the horde with ease. What she saw was foreign to her: a woman with a sizable white piece of paper clenched in her fists, clamoring at a handful of men. Though Sybil’s reading wasn’t particularly great, the bold black lettering on this unhinged woman’s sign was crystal clear: VOTES FOR WOMEN. Sybil was amused by the determination that this woman possessed, it wasn’t every day you saw an outspoken woman in the small town of Seneca