First Story is Thursday afternoons,
The gathering of students in our fantasy world,
The secure ambience of Room 102.
It’s the disfigured arrangement of chairs
The awkward gestures of welcome
The fatigue that evidences a hard day’s work.

First Story is a simple man,
The plain attire of blue jeans and white shirts,
The light Yorkshire accent.
The complete obsession with concrete and abstract,
The shy delight in his voice,
The satchel that occupies our 90 minutes.

First Story is a notebook,
The plastered pictures that layer its initial simplicity,
The journeying bookmark.
It is the forged expression of my passion;
The pages where my pen bled,
My heart wept and my soul felt.

First Story is a bag of food,
The absence of healthy options
And the abundance of calories.
It’s the rationing of the brownies,
The crunching and the chewing,
The remains of packets and crumbs left behind.

First Story is our retrospect,
The recalling of long forgotten memories,
The reminiscing of nostalgic events
And the epiphanies of life and its wonders.
It is the countdown to write,
The scribbling of pens,
The wandering of lost sentiments- found.

First Story is my confidence,
The reflex of my hesitant arm rising
Desperate to share, to be heard.
It’s the occasional stuttering,
The magnification of my voice when reading,
The brief pause of contentment.

First Story is a therapist,
The healing sensation of the applauses,
The pleasant remarks
The constructive feedback.
The release of pain,
The easing of burdens and the warm chorus of laughter.

First Story is inspiration,
When he speaks of his past trials-
The coin flip for success or failure- win or lose.
As we focus in his direction
Eager to find motivation- probable hope.
Understanding our significance in this world.

First Story is Our Shared Silence,
The war waged on title suggestions,
The beautifully crafted page cover.
It’s where everyone’s talents was conceived,
A winner’s portrait captured,
The rewarding feeling upon reading published work.

First Story has not yet ended.
Although Thursdays will be gone, along with the man,
My notebook will stay, even if a chapter closes.
My retrospect is scribed within the pages,
As blank ones wait patiently for me to write again.
My confidence will remain strong, because of my experiences-
Those therapeutic experiences,
That offered such inspiration.

First Story is my silence breaking.