Confessor: Credo, and E4: Chapter 2

I've never been terribly interested in writing poetry, but when that urge does show up, it comes out as prose written in a poetic style. I try to write a narrative with words chosen carefully to be very visually evocative. I often will use sentence fragments and leave the story that's being told somewhat murky, like someone's transmitting their thoughts to you instead of speaking them. What I'm trying to do is create the surreal yet vivid form that my dreams often take, more dynamic than life often is during waking hours. I can't say I always succeed 100%, but I have had some good reviews for my work in this style.

What I'm sharing today is the first prose poem like this that I wrote probably about 7 or 8 years ago. It was my attempt to create a mythological-type character, in this case The Confessor, a man who is granted immortality but doomed to never love. There's a series, or a cycle as I call it, about this character. I think the first three are good, especially the second, but the fourth one needs some work. (I'll still post it here.) I would like to continue with these, but I think I need to be in a certain place mentally to write them. Here's the first Confessor prose poem:

Confessor: Credo

They call me Confessor; Forever to listen but never be heard.

I wander among them in the surge of New York streets. I take the long road to the west. Rush through Vegas, breathe in Arizona and dry out in Utah sands. Wherever I go, I cannot flee the perceptions that repeat themselves through the eyes of all that I meet. The crack of my grin, the grate in my laugh; they are the hooks that tell them I’m open. It is not a device of attraction or friendship, but of comfort. People tell me things. So, I listen. I do not want to escape, for my chest pains along with them at their troubles and expands with the secrets and sins they so willingly confide. I will not misuse them. My credo is to listen, to dilute their worries.

I have much to gain. Each injured soul adds emotions to my once hollow heart. At a bar, the man who’s younger than he looks speaks of his descent into ruin. The pretty girl on the subway tells me of the eager suitors she has to choose from. A college student comes to me for advice on his future, but uncovers his own desired path by voicing the options. It is not my duty to advise, but to hear.

By the time it is my turn to pour out terrors and hopes, they have tired of conversation. My ear is so available that they forget I am more than a wall to cast their stories against. After years of this, they are right. I do not have anything personal to tell. I exist for them, a sum of their vices and loves.

How many ages have passed this way? I remember a time when the rivers ran backwards and the days spun forth at length. Then, did I dare not to listen. Then, did I bring about my curse. I was not unlike every man apart from my supernatural ambition.

My eyes spring open when upon my travels I encounter the one woman who is capable of completing myself. She feigns happiness, but is injured like all of the rest. How can I accurately describe my feelings for her or why I am so engrossed? Can we truly summarize our absolute passion for someone? You just know that it is right. I do not lose focus of my eternal task, for I desperately want to help her, care for her. She, however, is the one person through all of time who does not confide in me.

Of all the people that I have met, she is the one I want to listen to the most. Why am I destined to fail her confidence? It comes from my past, when I once dared to love a goddess at the expense of not being there for anyone else. Family fell apart, friends went astray and my kingdom fell. I gave up all in my attentions to her, but is that not the sign of total love? Fate must not agree, for she never returned my passion and I have ever since been drawn to wander. The spell I have to bleed confessions out of others, the compassion I have for them, can barely atone for my mistakes.

Once in a lifetime, I meet that goddess again and the dance repeats itself. No longer do I have anything to lose. I yearn for her, but she is not taken by any quality that I possess. To infinity I could strive to be more than mortal for her, but it will never be enough. She moves on to another, finds comfort in his arms and exists in happiness without me being a part of that life. I am left to sigh in the shadows and walk on, for this is my lot.

They call me Confessor; Forever to wander but never to love.

I'd also like to share with you an excerpt from Chapter 2 of my novel. The chapter introduce Lenara, who is probably my favorite of the various characters I've created. She's a thief and mercenary who's very self-assured, sexy, and a bit of a Robin (fem.) Hood, although she robs and extorts mostly from those who deserve it, and absolutely for her personal gain. She's an unashamed materialist, but loves to live an adventurous life. She can mold her personality into most anything she needs to be for her job, but in truth she's easy-going and a bit maternal, a tomboy but still girly. I'd like to think she's the character in this novel who's the most at ease with who she is and honest about it, at least when she can afford to be.

Lenara's one of the four main character in the book, yet she's taken on a different life outside of my writing, yet still steeped in my creative side. I play few video games, with wrestling games being the only reason I almost ever fire up the PS2. Fast-paced gameplay aside, I love the game mode (primarily in the Smackdown series) that allows you to create your own wrestlers. I have a field day with this, my own storylines running through my head as I play the game. Lenara is my favorite character to use. While it's not realistic to have her fighting all the guys in the game, to me she's the spunky underdog who rallies at the right moments and retains nobility in her losses, which ties right into the essence of the character as I see her in my novel. In fact, the wrestling games seem to have made their way into the novel in this passage... :) :

E4 Chapter 2 excerpt

Lenara went to the right side of the office, as that was the general direction Zhuriosky had looked. She began toying with the floor tiles, running the key along their edges. Lenara had to give him credit for finding a good spot. After all, she had only figured it out because she was looking for it.

Beautifully, one of the stone tiles popped up. Lenara gingerly put it aside and found that there was a small lockbox set into the floor. Triumphant again, she pulled it out and clicked open its lock with the key.

The Anastar Ruby looked like an eye that had been plucked from a whale made of crystal. It seemed alive, not composed of stone but glistening, red blood. It connected with Lenara’s natural desire to possess beauty and, for a moment, she felt the drive to keep it for herself. She forced herself to pull away, to blink, to disconnect. This was a job. Her employer was awaiting her, one hand held aloft to examine the ruby and the other offering a very substantial paycheck. Without him, Lenara wouldn’t be able to go on such treasure hunts.

Lenara re-approached the jewel with an assessing eye.

The Anastar Ruby had been lost to the world in 1851. It was on display in London, for the Great International Exhibition at the Crystal Palace. Held in a graceful building made of glass and framed by steel, the largest of its kind at the time, the Exhibition featured inventions that boasted of the Industrial Age and international showrooms that glamorized Britain’s imperialism. Plundered from India, the Anastar Ruby was a perfect symbol of foreign wealth. Sometime during the exhibition, the ruby vanished into the ether and attendees were left to marvel at the marble post on which it had sat. It was never seen again. The facts of the heist were very familiar to Lenara, but she didn’t know what had become of the ruby in the intervening years. She had only become aware of it being in the grubby hands of Zhuriosky because he had a big mouth. Now, though, it rested softly in her gloved hands. She smiled, and could almost hear it purr.

Lenara reached into the right side of her parka and undid the zipper of a hidden pocket. It was cushioned and would well protect the ruby. She barely had the jewel inside when the door to the office swung open and Vlad stamped in. Lenara swiftly continued tucking the ruby into her pocket in the hope that he didn’t notice. No such luck. The walrus of a man leaned against the door as he closed it and waved a finger at her.

“Bad girl,” he reprimanded, “I knew Zhuriosky shouldn’t have trusted you.”

Lenara rested her arms at her side as she poised for action. It really aggravated her when people talked down to her, but Vlad’s tone had much more amusement in it than she expected from the otherwise silent and conniving man. Lenara didn’t respond, but regarded him with a sly grin.

Vlad grunted and walked over to where the tile and lockbox were still on the floor.

“So that’s where he keeps it,” Vlad said, scratching his brown beard. He nonchalantly faced Lenara, careful not to get so close as to spook her, but crossed his arms and frowned down at her. “My friend prizes that ruby. I cannot allow you to leave here with it.”

Lenara readied her knee for his crotch.

“But,” Vlad said, putting his arms behind his back, “if you give it to me, I will find a buyer and we can split the profits.”

Lenara laughed and shook her head. “You’re my kind of scum, Vlad.” She tilted her head all sexy-like and Vlad realized that she had different-colored eyes, one blue and one green. “How do I know that I’ll get my half?” she asked softly.

“Hmm,” Vlad muttered, “I see why Zhuriosky prefers you. All the women here are pale and plain. They are voluptuous, surely, but they are workhorses. Charms aside, girl, I think you only have the option I’ve given you. It involves...trust.”

Lenara nodded. “All right, Vlad, sometimes thieves have to share.” She reached into her parka’s inside pocket and pulled out a handful of ruby. At least that’s what Vlad thought it was. Lenara tossed it up and Vlad went to catch it, only realizing as it neared his hands that it was a fuzzy, pink wallet.

Lenara made the most of the distraction and threw herself onto the stocky Russian. She got a grip on his neck and swung her body around and onto his back. Vlad gasped in surprise as she tightened her arms around his throat, cutting off his air with her tight, toned arms.

“You bertchhhh...,” he gargled, his face turning red. Vlad grabbed her arms to break the hold, but her grip was insistent. He tried to flip her forward, but Lenara squeezed her thighs into his sides and crossed her legs over his waist like a praying mantis snatching her prey. Vlad began to gag and panic. He ran backwards, slamming his back and the thief against the wall. Lenara yelped, but gritted her teeth and squeezed with her total might. Vlad stumbled forward and ran back again, hitting the wall. It knocked the breath from Lenara, but she forced herself to hold the grip just a bit longer. Vlad stepped forward again, arms slowly flailing, then fell to his knees. His head lolled forward and Lenara knew she could let go.

Vlad crumpled to the floor, passed out. Lenara quickly extracted her limbs and jogged to the door, still gasping and feeling the pain in her back. She doubted he would be out long and she needed to get as far as possible before he came to. Then she realized something, went back over to Vlad and yanked her wallet from his hand.