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BHEA Creative Writing Student Workshop

Students worked with an Impressions intern to create content for their own online literary magazine named Room 204. 

Full website content can be found here

I am falling by Alivia

I am falling

and i hit the ground, flying back up

I'm falling again

This torture for me amuses you

you laugh

yes, play with your "bouncy ball"

My destruction is merely your gain.

Clock by Tysen

On the wall I do sit

all to be heard is a tick.

Inside I spin and turn.

The batteries that fuel me

do slowly burn.

When they do

I shall not tick

nor even turn.

Books, so many books
by Rosie

Books, so many books.

I am a bag to carry these

heavy books so my mistress doesn't have to.

She is a delicate thing, I am glad to serve her,

and carry these oh so heavy books.

Message Received by Annie

I eat time and control the mind of whoever is to obtain me.

You speak and show your emotions through me.

You put all your trust in me even though I continuously shut down and break.

I am a phone, a phone I am and I eat your time and control your mind.

She Wipes Her Eyes by Ella

From the cabinet I came, primly starched with crisp creases, without a blemish or tear to speak of. The warm Southern sun shone through the window panes, brightening my already snow-white threads. The maid carried me to a room lined with frills and laces. A small cradle sat nestled in the corner, much like the letter ‘E’ embroidered on one edge of my square cloth surface.

Here I was to stay for many years to come.

To a babe I was given, a small spot of joy in this bright, playful world. She had blue eyes and brown curls, and her people called her Edelia. I watched with delight as she giggled and cooed, but never once did I grace her grasp. A babe such as she could not hold me with the delicate respect due to a handkerchief.

Through the years I watched from the shelf, quietly waiting for her steps to become confident and her hands to be graceful.

I watched her grow into dresses of pink and yellow, with blue and white ribbons taming her bouncing hair. She could run and play now, but she was not the caring lady she must be to earn me. I waited contentedly for that day when I might be her ever-present companion, there to catch her tears and be a comforting embrace.

Soon those dresses of pink and yellow were discarded for gowns of deep greens and complementing blues.

I remember the first day she held me, as gentle and awed as I had imagined, without ripping my delicate threads. My Edelia placed me next her brush on the oaken desk, and there I stayed for many more years.

Until maids came all bustling and hurrying, fixing my lady in a gown of gorgeous white. A veil of material more fragile than I was placed over her striking face.

That day I lay in her hands as something old. I was by her side as she walked down an aisle to a man of handsome features and gentle heart. Many tears of joy she shed that day, and I was there to catch every one.

How wonderful that day when all trials seem to disappear, and only a bright and promising future one can see! A day I remember with pride as the handkerchief of the bride.

Edelia never once crossed her husband with a bitter word, though she did weep at times over troubles that accompany life so faithfully.

I was there to witness them all.

Three children this couple brought to the world, and all of them just as beautiful as their mother. She needed me less often now, for her children needed scolding and her house needed cleaning and her guests needed feeding. She took it all with the expected grace of any prestigious Southern wife.

And there I was, the ever-waiting handkerchief, sitting quietly in the bedroom to be used when all else seemed for nought.

Years passed and left their footprint on my lady’s features, though it never took away her grace. Then a day came as quick and furious as a summer storm upon my lady’s household.

By then I had lost my once crisp edges, my color no longer white like the days when Edelia was just a babe. My threads had stretched and wrinkled, but now I slept in my lady’s pocket as a comforting trinket.

The day was bright like many others I had seen, though it was deceptively so. Edelia sat in a chair by the window, watching the spring birds dash through the tree limbs. I lay comfortably on her velvet lap.

Suddenly, men rushed in yelling words of terrible meaning. My lady stood quickly and I fluttered to the floor as she ran from the room. Many hours later when the outside world had darkened, a maid came and retrieved me from the dark wood floor. I was brought to my lady, who now sat weeping at the bedside.

Those tears were the heaviest I ever did bear.

Tears that held anguish and grief over the taking of her life’s true love. Her wrinkled hands gripped me with trembling strength. I was held this way for many days, and I feared the tragedy was too much for Edelia to bear. Her husband’s heart had failed him so quickly, and there had been no goodbyes.

Just a sudden, wrenching message that her husband was gone.

During those days I would think back to her day as a bride, and with sorrow I would recall her carefree ways as a child.

No grace or care could prepare her for this. I realized my lady was no longer a babe to be cherished by sun’s first light, or a bride to be blessed with joy in abundance.

She was broken beyond repair, and I knew better than any other the whispered words certain cries bring. After decades of receiving and reading the tears of man, one becomes quite adept at interpreting their meaning. These tears were of a new species, the drops of soul that do not sparkle with emotion.

No, these tears were lifeless.

My fears came true, for my lady did not live long after the death of her husband.

What lonely days those were, spent in the grasp of an old widow roaming the house without love or companionship. Lonelier were the days after that, when her hand lost the strength of life and she was placed in the ground.

Black clouds roiled in the sky as Edelia’s only daughter took me from her late mother’s home and placed me in a box. Like my lady who lay buried in a coffin, I was placed in the attic to be forgotten.

And so here I am, an old wrinkled cloth with no purpose but to wipe away tears. Every person’s story is told in the pattern of each emotion-filled drop, but only those who catch them can ever tell it.

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