read on

She didn’t really rememberfalling under the sleeping curse; just that when it struck, she felt the world go dark.

It was strange for Emma to think about, seeing that she’s pretty much done every other fairy tale cliché from climbing up beanstalks, fighting dragons, going on quests for family, saving the village, and possibly finding True Love (despite how much it still scared her).

So the fact that she herself hadn’t endured a sleeping curse said quite a bit.

The world she entered into was dark, but it didn’t resemble the netherworlds in the form of a fire room that Henry and Aurora had visited all those months ago.

It didn’t really resemble anything.

She wondered if that was what her netherworld was supposed to be; being alone in the vast expanse of nothingness. It was certainly a tragic way to spend an eternity, going mad from the lack of contact with other souls.

Keep reading

coldinhumanity asked:

Do you truly have no telepathic skill? How strange, with all your strength.

I…I’m not sure. I can hear sent messages. But from others…nothing. I can tell when people are angry or upset or whatever if that counts for something. And more than just reading it on their face. I can sense what they’re feeling. Like a palpable energy. I’m trying to be patient with the other things, hoping they just evolve over times. It’s hard for me though. I’m not really patient with anything.

April 3, 2008: Visible World, Richard Siken

Visible World
Richard Siken

    Sunlight pouring across your skin, your shadow
                                                            flat on the wall.
        The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.

You had not expected this,
               the bedroom gone white, the astronomical light
                                               pummeling you in a stream of fists.
    You raised your hand to your face as if

               to hide it, the pink fingers gone gold as the light
streamed straight to the bone,
    as if you were the small room closed in glass
                                         with every speck of dust illuminated.

    The light is no mystery,
the mystery is that there is something to keep the light
                                                           from passing through.


[Richard Siken won the Yale Series of Younger Poets award in 2004 for his fantastic book Crush, which I highly recommend.  It’s a book that tends to the cinematic, desperate and obsessive and powerful, but there are these tiny moments of grace, of calm, like this poem, or Meanwhile.  I like the simplicity of this, how he takes the most basic concept (“how strange it is to be anything at all,” to quote Neutral Milk Hotel) and makes it so tangible. Plus that third line just kills me.]

More like this:
Scheherezade, Richard Siken
Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken
Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

A year ago today:Anywhere Else, Maggie Dietz
Two years ago: After Work, Richard Jones
Three years ago: The Sheep-Child, James Dickey