S. R. Ulrich

Fire is fascinating. On a freezing winter day, when the snow is deep and the air burns with wind and chill, a fire can be a welcome respite, saving the weary soul lost in gripping cold. On a hot summer day, when the fields are dry and the sun threatens all whom stand before it with rays of death, the fire can turn even the most idyllic of lands into inferno, leaving desolation in its wake. In a oven freshly lit, its aromas strong and bright, a fire can provide a tasty delight. In a factory, old and gray, industrial and loud, a fire keeps it going, even through the night. Fire is a danger, its flames ravaging any who oppose. Fire is a savior, a comfort when alone. Fire is fascinating. A fire can be started with the simple clacking of stones; little sparks that fly and create its glow. A fire can be started with the simple rubbing of sticks; just a bit of friction that creates intense heat. A fire can be started with the simple mixing of chemicals; some kind of a reaction called exotherm...

Silence creeping in the night. Silence sleeping through the fight. Silence watching all the strife. Silence listening to the knife. Silence seeing lost desires. Silence wishing to be higher. Silence seething as it falls. Silence hearing when it calls.

I find myself wondering when I will see the real me when I gaze into a mirror.

 Biting off more than I can chew is something I've always been told to avoid. Yet I struggle, for how am I supposed to simply allow myself to go slowly when we merely have a spec of existence in time? How can I possibly allow myself to simply accept that if I savor it, I'll feel better about it, but at the cost of having spent the time? I'm not going to get more time, I'm only ever going to lose time.  But savoring is what makes life worth living, because a life full of only big moments leaves far too many gaps of emptiness. 

 A Broken feeling in my soul What is left of my role?  Living daily in phantom fright, Waking daily from tempestuous night.  I wonder why I even sleep, When darkness pierces in too deep.   I try to keep myself afloat, But all I do is false devote.  I wonder, is this truly destined?  Or am I simply undetermined.  What is hope if not showing a false glimpse of knowing that the future that I hold will not be so cold.  But stopping now would be conceding.  And I refuse to lose this reading of a fate I feel is uncontrolled.  And so, I will toil Until the day In which I can spitefully say, "I've won"  to the face of doubt.

It's honestly like banging your head against a wall you don't even notice. Trying over and over; expecting this time will be different than the last like an addict needing their fix. Knowing, that no matter how hard you try, you'll end up stopping from the force. Not because you want to, but because you do. Believing, in some messed up way, that the world will somehow bend itself over to let you through. But you know it won't. You know it never will. It's hard. Every day feels like it would be a good day to say the end. But you won't. Not for yourself, but for the few left around you. A sacrifice of the self to keep the peace. And they see that. But they stay silent and ignore it. Honestly? I think it's because I'm scared. The end means closing the book, setting it on the shelf to collect dust until someone remembers it and looks again, their experience no longer authentic but painted in memories of that first time. But there can only be a first time onc...

What am I supposed to say when the world is so grey that even waking from my bed is a chore? What do I even do to make it up to you when there's nothing left between us anymore? I failed to make amends, though I never really tried out of fear of rejection, pain, and being ostracized. I don't really miss you, nor do I care. I want to forget you so that I don't have to remember that even thinking I liked you was a God damned mistake.

In the valley of fairies, The fairy queen sleeps. In a bed made of roses, She makes not a sound. Her valley is hidden. A mystery to man, For her rest is sacred For all the nature around. She sleeps like a bear On a cold winters nights. She gives love to her pillow, For in her bed is she bound. But man is tenacious, And her home did they find. They lit it afire, Nothing left alive. Then the fairy woke up And found her home lost and dead. Everything ashes, She now was alone. She did all she could To restore her home, But no matter how much she tried Man would return. The fairy was lonely. The fairy was cold. A terrible queen Without a home. She wandered the valley In search of a friend, But no matter where she went There was always man. Her homes were destroyed To make way for bars, Her friends were killed To provide leather for clothes. The fairy had enough. She went to man; Demanded to speak to their leader To make a request. “O’ lead...

It was probably November since it was so cold that weekend. I was convinced by my friend to go camping with him in some random forest near by. We brought bikes, food, tents, the whole ordeal. We arrived at the campsite at the dead of night and had to set up our tents with crappy flashlights that couldn't illuminate more than two feet ahead. After putting the tent up inside out, we redid the tent, which took a solid thirty minutes, then finally finished. We got in and slept for the night. We woke up early the next day, and went biking. I, of course, brought the wrong kind of bike so I struggled and ended up a solid mile behind my friend. We then returned to camp just for me to get a migraine and call it quits early. We left the next day.

One foot off a cliff, I listen for a voice. The clouds above fly past, Leaving me no choice. Then in the wind I hear, The whir of peace. But it is too late. I careen to the bottom. In my last moments I see, A single dying blackberry.

I lied in my room, stared in the dark The closet door. I watched. I waited. Something was bound to come out. The closet had been closed. Unopened for months because of what was in there. The source of nightmares: The Stuffed Alligator. My 4 year old mind knew the true horror. It was in there, and it was hungry.

A concept Unknown. Blackness, Darkness, Silence, Sorrow. Yet a lack of emotion. Agonizing, Yet blissful. A sense of yearning for, Yet a strong fear; Love; Hate; Neither; Inevitable; The End. It comes Unbiased. When it comes, We face it: In beds; In arms; Alone. The rest mourns. Death.

Usually described as tall and mediocre. Likes red, blue, black, white. Recently can’t forget about other worlds; sees them at night. Is always depressed. Can be seen hiding behind hands yet presenting as if self-confident. Has no ambition. Described as a blue eyed, long brown-haired fool. Rarely seen without a button-up shirt. Always eating spaghetti. Very often saying dumb things. Everyone calls them the same. And they’re Not a liar, but not a truther.