{ IN MEDIA RES }

A night image

Posted in Original, Prose, Writing by netscheri on August 18, 2008

He lies awake, spread flat by the sore, gnawing pain. If he had to describe it, he would say that it felt like his bones and muscles and marrow were all twisting, stretching and yearning- They feel like the growing pains the doctor diagnosed him with when he was 13 or 14. But he knows, in the core of his beating, beating heart, that this is something that is beyond a doctor’s white office. How do you describe the sensation of a body become an anachronism out of time? Or is it the mind that is the anachronism? He doesn’t know.

I asked for a prompt

Posted in Original, Prose, Writing by netscheri on July 18, 2008

And was given this: “well today as i was running there was a man who was kinda creepy standing and waiting to cross with an umbrella and i imagined him throwing it and it puncturing me through my back and through my stomach…but thats all i got. sorry”

(more…)

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A little prose

Posted in Original, Prose, Writing by netscheri on April 10, 2008

The idea came from Hector and Paris from Troy, but I really just wanted to explore what it would be like to be reunited with a family member, or someone similar, after a long separation. (more…)

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My Uncle Alfred

Posted in Original, Prose, Writing by netscheri on September 23, 2007

First post in a long time. Although this isn’t the Serious Web Journalism that I had promised earlier and intended to write (starting from Blogging as a Political Review, that overdue PMK review through to That-Sense-of-Escapism-I’m-Looking-For), it is something for my 0.7 readers to know that I’m still active. Or semi-active. Or semi-demi-active. Or at least not non-active.

Well, I suppose it is rather apt, since (truly, madly, deeply) a large part of me is a writer at heart.

Untitled (I originally called it something like ‘Mad Scientists Elsewhere’, but that sounds awkward)

During my childhood, it was my uncle Alfred who carried me on his shoulders and taught me the wonder of mysteries. Three weeks ago, my uncle Alfred led me to safety through a frozen particle accelerator, beneath a city that turned white and crumbled to the touch.

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Désirée

Posted in Original, Prose, Writing by netscheri on July 28, 2007

“…You will come to the Sirens who enchant all who come near them. If any one unwarily draws in too close and hears the singing of the Sirens…” – The Odyssey.

I remember there were three of them. It was the same, yet different every time; the same words and utterances of predefined ritual and ceremony, the same process, and every time my heart was ice. One of them I even knew as a friend, but even that did not stay my hand.He was the first. I heard the knock on the door of my apartment and thought nothing of it as I went to open it. But as soon as I did, I understood. I held the door open, wide open, to allow him passage. We didn’t speak, I’m don’t know if we would have been able to. His skin, when our hands briefly touched, was as cold as ice, as cold as my executioner’s mask. I can’t remember what we did before the water, shapes had started blurring into each other; I was too frozen to realize anything, but instinct must have guided my movements, my words or un-words. These are our laws, this is how we survive. At some point, both of us stood up, a kind of synchronization, a step in a dance.He walked. I followed.Water, water. For birth, for the ocean that we all come from. I remember that at that time I could see our reflections in the piano. The ritual, if it could be called that, began. It is nameless, it is timeless, a relentless machine that consumed me, consumed him. We became the queen and the pawn. The pawn standing before his queen while the enemy scuttles, besieging. The pawn standing before the queen, prepared to bow, willing to fall.

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Un petit cadeau

Posted in Original, Prose, Writing by netscheri on July 14, 2007

The Sea of Quietude: A Study of Distance

1:46 am (a moth)

The impersonality of the room is like that of a hotel suite. There is something else as well. The space in the middle of the room seems too empty, the tabletop too tidy, the angles made by crisp books too sharp. There is something missing. The colour of the walls is indistinguishable in the dark, but they too feel white. No curtain is drawn across the glass doors leading onto the balcony. Only light from the city, subdued by distance, enters. Unlike the whiteness of the room, this murky, rounded darkness speaks.

The bulge created by a body near the left and right edges of the bed however, are anomalies, belonging to neither the inside room, or the outside night. The rise and fall of their chests interrupts the stillness of the dark, the composure of absence; creating wrinkles, indentations in the perfectly pressed linen. The narrow strip of bed between them is undisturbed, crease-free. It is an invisible line neither will cross by their own volition, a will that extends even to times when neither is conscious.

One bed. Separate sides. Separate dreams.

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