new

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (20)

Posted on by baholbrook

20.

The sky was a deep, forgiving blue, and the river tiptoed along in subtle silence, as the sun began its labored climb into the sky. The crows were almost mute, save for one, who choked momentarily on a piece of blood-soaked straw. A fog, as thick the river below, slowly trickled over the landscape, coating all it touched in opaque obscurity. The sun, as if obeying an order, rested just above the horizon and peered over the land with invisible eyes, which searched for something small and agile.

 A man in a small white car slept on a thin, winding road in the northern wood. In the West, a small black bear finally managed to muster up the courage to bat down a large bee hive in order to lick at the contents inside. The disturbed insects inside stung at his hide with such fury that the bear believed that a tiny thunderstorm had descended upon his bottom and ran to find cover with a mouth full of honey. In the East, across the river, a cloud rolled over and went back to sleep as an old ghost slowly floated through the fog like an old, aimless trout. In the southern woods, an odd-looking mutt of a hound dog sniffed through the underbrush, as the crows watched intently. It trotted over to the river bank, lapping its fill of water before following its nose farther towards the northern woods. It looks up to the crows, who all looked away, nervous of the dog’s intent. Then, as if led by a thousand years of instinct, the dog came upon a clearing in the woods containing several small cabins, one of which contained a young woman; a young woman who was awake, which was a very unusual sight, for the dog rarely saw anyone awake during his excursions. He watched her as she typed on a small computer in her kitchen, feeling a tugging in his tiny dog chest, as if someone had put a leash on his heart. Growing fond of this sight, he sat down at her back door and waited, simply watching.

“Well now” the dog thought, “This shall be a day unlike any other.”
…

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (18)

Posted on by baholbrook

18.

Chinstrap roams the forest like an old camel, trudging and spitting, with odd eyes dancing back and forth, seeking whomever he may entertain. He stumbles upon an old filling station, which accompanies a single winding road. No cars are there.
“Hmm”, he hmms, “I wonder what wonders lurk inside of such an establishment.”
And with that, he enters. Seeing no one, Chinstrap rings the bell on the counter, hoping for a friendly face to emerge from underneath. Perhaps even an attractive female for him to smooch upon in the moonlight! No. No, his wife wouldn’t like that, wherever she was. Chinstrap rang the bell again, which seemed to ring with a harshness that implied that the bell itself was annoyed to be handled more than once. He and the bell eyed each other like old adversaries.
“Fucking Bell”, Chinstrap voiced with disdain, “I shall ring you again at my whimsey, though the situation permits it not, to prove the more dominant participant in this debate of etiquette.” And with gusto, Chinstrap slapped the little golden bell on the top of its head as if disciplining a child. The bell screamed out in humiliation.
“Quit ringin’ the fuckin’ bell!” A voice rang out from a room behind the counter, “I heard you the first time!”
“Then I pray you, please, without quarrel or delay, make your motions to yonder counter top to discuss with yours truly the happenings of the day and, perhaps, answer a query or two as to whether or not a man, such as yourself, is privy to the goings on in a wicked wood such as this.”

A squat, quarrelsome-looking, badger of a man emerged from the rear room. “The fuck you just say?” he squawked like an old crow.

“Would you like to hear a story?” Chinstrap inquired, eyes gleaming.
“Absolutely not,” the badger man replied.
“My Gracious, Sir! My nature hath betrayed my intent, for if I’d presented it correctly, you’d never have rejected what was offered. I’ll reposition” Chinstrap repositioned. “My dear mud skipper, would you not only indulge the lowest aspects of myself, but the divine in yourself by allowing me the pleasure of presenting to you the gift of a performance so awe-inspiring and grand, that it cannot be denied?”

A silence.

“Sure, if you buy somethin'” The badger man chortled.

“Superb!” Chinstrap cheered, “I’ll take a Chick-O-Stick and a pack of Good N’ Plenty.”

 

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (17)

Posted on by baholbrook

17.

“I suppose you’ve never seen God, have you?” The Devil mumbled with an impossibly far look in his eyes.
“God?” The Old World Boy didn’t know anything about it. “No, sir”.
The Devil scoffed, “Don’t call me that, and I should’ve known. Nobody sees God. Anybody who says that they have is over-exaggeratin’. Or just a fuckin’ liar.”
“Why?” The boy asked, “How would you know?”
“Because,” The Beautiful Man replied, “If they had seen God, they’d know that she was a woman.”
The boy frowned. “God is a ‘she’?”

“Yep, and nobody knows it but me. People automatically equate power with being male, so it’s an easy mistake to make. But God is a matriarch, and her entire family line is matriarchal”.

“Weird”, the boy huffed with a scowl on his face, “So where do you fit in?”
The Devil pinched his nose and sniffed like an addict. “She’s the one I loved.”
The wind took advantage of the following silence, whipping through the fields in a dramatic display of invisible grace. “I loved her with everything I had, but it’s never enough, boy.”
“Why?” The boy’s eyes were as big as saucers.

“Loving God is like loving a tree, or a river. These things are beyond beautiful, and they give us life and sustain us. That’s what love is, and God is nothing but love. She’s incapable of loving anyone any more or any less. It’s all equal.” The Beautiful Man wiped his brow with a fine silk cloth.

“What about evil?” the boy asked.
“She don’t see good and evil, boy. Just action, reaction, and circumstance.”
The boy thought about this. “Well what about Hell?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s my fault” The Devil scratched his head “It’s also too complicated to explain. Just know that I left God because it hurt too much. It hurt worse than a thousand goodbyes, and if I couldn’t have her, I didn’t want anyone else to either. So I left Heaven and came to Earth, which, at the time, was the most colorless, driest, emptiest planet in the universe, and I slept for a million years. When I woke up, there was water and trees here. Out of fuckin’ nowhere, this dry, colorless rock developed the foundation for life. Then, I realized that She did love me. Really did. Enough to do all this. But I was so angry at our fate that I couldn’t do anything rational. I stayed here, refusing to return. And soon, God created all the animals to keep me company, so I wouldn’t be lonely. Then, she created people, and the nicer she was, the angrier I got. So I ruined it.” The Devil filled his lungs with air and looked to the sky before pushing out a long, powerful breath, as if exhaling the whole of history.

“Ruined what?” the boy asked.
“Everything,” The Devil replied.
“How?” The Old World Boy wouldn’t be letting this one go.
“I convinced one brother to kill another.” Devil’s eyes squinted ever so slightly as the Old World Boy shook his head
“That’s bad.”
“Yep. It was the first time that God cried, because nobody had to die. Then, from God’s tears and my rage, the perversion was born.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Gracious, boy, doesn’t your Daddy tell you anything?”

“Yeah, but not this stuff.”

The Beautiful Devil scratched his chin, then pinched a bit of tobacco to stuff his pipe. The clouds sailed across the sky as the boy, watching closely, wondered if he’d ever see anything like God up there. Then, he wondered about this “perversion”. What kind of being would be born from God’s sadness and the Devil’s anger.

“That’s right,” The Devil said, as if he could hear every thought, “the perversion is a thing unlike any other. It’s the sorrow of God mixed with my anger. In order to please God, it vowed to destroy me and my entire family to atone for me making God cry. It even went so far as to create Hell in order to trap us all inside. And that’s what it’s been doing. If anyone does anything to make God cry, they’re taken to Hell. And you and me? Well, we’re taken there automatically.”

“I hate that perversion” the boy spat.

“Good!” The Devil chuckled. “Go kill it. Go kill it before it kills you.”

The Old World Boy decided, then and there, that he’d one day find this thing and kill it, so he and his Dad would be able to die without fear of Hell. Maybe they’d even see God…

“You’re the only one who’s seen God?” the Old World Boy was intrigued.
“Mm,” The Beautiful Devil examined a shiny green beetle on a nearby leaf.
“What does she look like?” The boy asked, looking closely at the beetle, which the Devil now held in his hands.
“Hard to look at. Really hard. May as well not look at anything at all. She’s more of a feeling.” He seemed to blink twice as often whenever he’d reflect on God.
“What does she feel like, then?”

“Nah, boy,” The Devil sighed as the tiny jewel of a beetle flew off towards the west, where a far off smoke trail could be seen. “You’re askin all the wrong questions.”

With that, the Devil lit his pipe and was silent. The crows could be heard singing in the distance.

More Chapters Here.

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (16)

Posted on by baholbrook

16.

She’d had the same dream for the 12th night in a row. It was of her mother, her mother’s mother, and a hundred other women that she’d never seen before who all looked like her, sitting on top of the water. These beautiful, loving souls all held hands, all smiled, all laughed as the sky grew closer and closer. Below them, submerged in the water, a great beast surrounded by a hundred other beasts looked up in great sorrow, as a woman (who she didn’t recognize) swam from beast to beast, ripping the bones from their torsos and slaying the beautiful creatures with great pleasure. With each kill, she looked to the family of women, seeking approval. But the hundred women who sat on the water did not understand this violence. Why would this woman kill such sad and beautiful creatures? Suddenly, she became doubtful as to whether or not this great hunter of beasts was a woman at all, noticing it’s masculine posture and deep voice growling with pleasure as the beasts were slain. Now, only two beasts remained: the great beast and one smaller beast, which seemed to be growing steadily with every breath it took. The warrior stared up into the eyes of the Modern Woman with a gaze so disturbingly deep and trusting that the Modern Woman gasped herself into waking. She was in her bed, in her cabin, in the woods, covered in her own sweat.

“No need to be afraid,” hummed the Kind Man, who stood at the top of the stairs, “your dreams are good dreams”.

And with a smile, the Kind Man descended the stairs and exited the cabin.

Find all chapters here!

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (15)

Posted on by baholbrook

15.

The Loveless Woman stared at her melting reflection in the currents of a stream she’d discovered just that afternoon. Her hair and make-up, as usual, were pristine; her posture, elegant; her body, well-clothed; her breasts, well-supported. If the entire world had decided to pick today to fall apart, at least she would be the portrait of order and togetherness in a universe that was built through chaos. The events of the past few days had left her wanting. Wanting what? Despite the attentions that she always attained, her oldest companion seemed to have no interest in her. More and more, day after day, he’d devote his attentions to this Modern Woman. But for what? Did he really want her? Or was this some sort of silent retaliation against that odd Kind Man, who had shown up unannounced, like a magpie in the chimney? She could feel currents shifting beneath the earth and a tension in the air as the trees whispered to each other. Nothing good was coming of this, and they didn’t need to be here. And, with that thought, for the first time ever, she thought that she may leave the Old World Man here and now. But as soon as this thought manifested itself, it had vanished again. She didn’t love him. Most of the time she didn’t even like him. But she was devoted to him, which is stronger than love. She was chained to him like Prometheus to the eagle’s rock. Her walking freedom felt like an illusion. She needed him to be near, and she would have to obtain his favor once again and rid him of this Modern Woman and these sinister woods. Not for her own sake, but for his. Because, though she knew not what it was, something was slowly, methodically, and silently trying to kill him, and he certainly did not want to die.

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (14)

Posted on by baholbrook

14.

There was a problem.  The Old World Boy had been practicing taking bits and pieces of souls for years, and he’d become quite adept.  He could slip his devilish hand in and out of a soul with the same ease as a child dipping their hands into a pond to ease a turtle from its chosen place of slumber. He had taken so many that he began to age less and less. At this rate, it would be a decade before he’d hit puberty.  That, however, wasn’t the problem.  The problem was with the owners of these souls. Regardless of whether it was a cat, frog, or fly, these creatures would always find the quickest and most efficient ways to commit self murder as soon as their souls were returned. The lengths that these creatures would go just to rid themselves of the lives that God had so graciously crafted for them was beyond reason. Frogs would climb to the tops of trees before leaping to their deaths. Cats would submerge their heads in water. Foxes would somersault into traffic with great haste. He’d once even witnessed an extremely dedicated squirrel fashion a noose out of muscadine vines before finding the closest spruce and hanging itself by the neck until dead.

It was not the boy’s intention to kill these creatures, not after taking something so important to them. He’d have to stop this. He was certainly doing enough damage as it was.

One evening, after the sun, but before the moon, he’d found himself in the presence of the most peculiar red raccoon, which appeared from behind an oil drum like an angel in a dream. It scanned the Old World Boy with shrewd, honest eyes, as if trying to think of the proper question that this answer coincided with, but its thoughts had betrayed it. The boy and raccoon had only locked eyes for a fraction of a second before the boy had descended upon the raccoon as quick and unforgiving as Oklahoma thunder, pinning the raccoon to the ground by its nose using one finger, and violating its soul with his right hand, using a motion as quick as a handshake between friends at Handee Hugo’s Convenience Store, which is quite quick and almost too convenient. The boy slipped the tiny glowing soul seed into the front pocket of his overalls, as the raccoon rolled back and forth in the dirt like a drunk in an attempt to regain itself. The boy then crouched, watching the raccoon, searching for any suicidal thoughts that may spring forth from its primitive mind.  The red raccoon sat up on its bottom and looked into the boy’s eyes.  Soon, it began analyzing its surroundings, looking left, then right, narrowing its eyes as it focused on a hawk, which circled above the clouds in it’s personal air space.

“Oh no you don’t!” the boy barked as the raccoon darted off between the boy’s legs and towards the hawk. The Boy from the Old World, determined to prevent this impressive display of self-annihilation, tore off after him as quick as a thought, yelling after the raccoon as if scolding a child.  The raccoon, clearing the gas station parking lot and making it to the open field, screamed aloud like a furry, red damsel-in-distress, calling the hawk to do its duty and rid him of his wretched perversion of a life. The hawk heard and responded in kind by diving at the raccoon with the kind of precision that surgeons use to save lives, with the sole intent to eat this noisy, red coon who, at this very moment, was screaming across this Carolinian tobacco field like an ambulance.

Talons outstretched, beak opened wide, tongue flapping in the wind, the hawk seemed to be within a yard of the raccoon inside of three and a half seconds, and as the raccoon closed its eyes and prepared for the next life, it felt a small, sturdy hand grab it by the scruff of its neck and yank it back so hard that it thought its skin may come off all at once. At the very same time, the hawk, who’s mind was already focused on how he would prepare its latest meal (let’s be honest, he’d just eat it raw again), realized that its claws were digging, not into the back of a red raccoon, but into the arm of a little boy, whose right hand had found its way into the hawk’s chest, much to the dismay of the hawk, whose delicate sensibilities had caused it to promptly black out due to shock (and the removal of a piece of his soul).

If a local had seen the whole thing, they probably would’ve stared in disbelief at this boy who had seemingly sprinted (faster than anything I ever saw) into the fray, only to be tag teamed by a pair of ill-tempered woodland creatures, and wondered what the boy could’ve done to cause such a fiasco. The local, of course, would’ve been wrong, and upon further investigation, would’ve witnessed the boy sit on both the hawk and the raccoon and cross his arms in defiance.  “Lil’ shits”, the Boy from the Old World would say, “Sit still, ain’t nobody dyin’ today.” And for the next 15 years, the boy would wander the land with these two sinister pets by his side, as well as a dozen other wayward creatures (including an incredibly sarcastic rabbit), until he, as we all do, came face to face with tragedy.

Read More!

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (13)

Posted on by baholbrook

13.

The Crow sat in her tree with a short piece of blood-soaked straw in her mouth. Where the blood was from, she did not know; some corpse, which probably tasted just like every other corpse: the taste of failure. She was fond of this post-meal ritual, because it made her stand out. And why not? Why shouldn’t she stand out? She took a deep breath and nestled her head into her shiny, coal-black, feathers as if she were doing her best turtle impression. Ha! Turtle impression. She’d have to show the others later. They’d get a good cackle out of it. But they weren’t around at this moment. Something had wandered into the woods the day before, and all of her friends had become profoundly disturbed, all with grave looks on their faces and pebbles in their bellies, hopping to and fro, screaming in protest of it’s appearance. At first, she’d believed this disturbance to be the Woman, the Writer Woman, that Sweet Woman who seemed to be inextricably attached to the Old World Dog. They were all wary of this woman, because there was something in her that was old, too old, too foreign, too beautiful. But this was no reason to caw. Something else had appeared. Something had come here on purpose, looking for a fight. A strange thing. The strangest thing of all, appearing first to the Silent Corpse, but now, plotting, delicately walking, sharpening its knives, with nothing but hatred in its twisted amalgamated body for their Old World Dog, which would not be tolerated.

The Crows loved this Dog. They’d watched him grow from a tiny, scared thing into something worth cheering for. They’d fed him when he’d been starving. They’d called out to him when he didn’t know where to go and led the way. They’d broken into harems, homes, and hospitals for him, just like they had for his Beautiful Uncle. Just as they would for anyone in their family who embraced their true nature. The Crows are loyal. The Crows are always loyal.

She remembered the many conversations she’d had with the dog; the sad poems he’d recite for her, the whimpering in the dawn at the sins he’d committed, the way she’d hold him the best she could, though he was much larger than she, the way she’d say “There, there, young dog. We’re all devils here, we’ve no use for love”, even though she had no idea what it meant. He’d been alive for so long and was now in his prime, and would be for such a long time, if only this odd thing would leave him alone. She needed to see his life through. She needed to be there until the end.

Perhaps you don’t know about crows. They recognize faces, they memorize habits, and they follow you. There are no such things as guardian angels, however, if anyone wanted to look into the subject, crows would be the closest thing they’d find to such a wild and bizarre concept, because they don’t die until you do. You don’t pay attention, because they all look the same, but every crow that you’ve ever seen has been the same crow that you saw the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. They grow with you, they get to know you, and when you fail, they’re there to cackle at you, and drop a piece of corn in the right direction. Every crow has a human, and if you see more than one crow around, then you’re not alone. The reason for this is too controversial to dive into, but just know that she, this beautiful black crow chewing her blood soaked straw, was his crow, and the rest tagged along because members of the Devil’s family were all closely watched by these strange and magnificent birds. Especially in such an old and dangerous wood.

She worried about her dog, but, for now, there was nothing she could do.  So instead of cawing in hatred at new perversions in the forest, she watched, she listened, and she spied. Her Old World Dog wouldn’t lay down so easily, not after everything he’d been through. She would insure his dreams, because the Crows are loyal. The Crows are always loyal.

Catch more Chapters Here!

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (12)

Posted on by baholbrook

12.

The Silent Man stared at the Modern Woman as everyone drank and sang around the fire. She was beautiful. She reminded him of a song. Something that he used to…no…he never used to sing. The Loveless Woman did, though, and the Old World Man did, too. But the Silent Man had never sang a word.

He reflected on his day and the strange visit. Nobody else had been there, except for the Silent Man, who had been chewing a piece of jerky when the chorus of crows cried out words of anguish and disgust, howling like great black dogs from the trees. Crows eat carrion. What could they possibly find disgusting? The Silent Man peered upward, searching the trees for the cause, but only seeing the languid dance of the tree tops, which swayed back and forth as if they were trying to uproot themselves and clear the area. Then, upon lowering his head back to eye level, he saw it. The Silent Man was the very first one to see the Kind Man enter the camp. But perhaps “enter” was the wrong word, for the Kind Man seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He stood a few yards away from the Silent Man, dressed in all white (which, after this first encounter, would never again be his color scheme). The first thing the Silent Man noticed was his face, such a strange face. It appeared too feminine to be male, beautifully so, but still emitted a masculine aura. Several times, he’d sworn that he’d seen a slight shift in gender, making him appear more masculine or feminine as if trying to adapt properly to the circumstance.

The Silent Man hadn’t had enough time to gather his thoughts before this strange thing began to advance towards him walking ever so delicately like a chameleon or a finch on a wire. Then, lowering its head to the Silent Man’s level, it stared into his eyes, a long pitiful stare, as if it were about to cry. It even reached out to touch the Silent Man, but decided against it. It decided against the Silent Man altogether, shaking its head, turning and walking off into the woods the same way young maidens used to when they were going to meet with the devil.

Where was he now, the strange thing that would soon come to be known as the Kind Man? The crows were now calm and silent, relaxing in the nighttime air. The Old World Man was drunk and happy, The Modern Woman smiled with delight at his jokes, The Man in the Hat stared off in to the woods, suspicious of woodland creatures, and the Loveless Woman..,what was that look? She must have been plotting something, and that Kind Man was somewhere else. Somewhere far away from here in these old, dark woods.

Find More Chapters Here!

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (11)

Posted on by baholbrook

11.

There was an ethereal ghost billowing from the nostrils of the Man in the Hat, who eyed his landscape like a butler, sensing something out of place. An untidy tree, a river too far to the left… could he correct such a mistake? Was such a thing a “mistake”? The sun hung from the wisps of clouds like a golden orangutan, swinging back and forth, the benevolent god of warmth. Things were happening all around him. Big things. God big. Small things. God small. And all imperceptible sizes in between. He could feel it, and it agitated him like a spider in the sock. He sucked on his cigarette, feeling his lungs expand and contract simultaneously. A dusty chapbook of unknown poems kept him company. He stared at one:

Merrily then,

upon black, burning, tar

we leave our flesh.

Ah,
America.

-Unknown

Poetry never made a lick of goddamn sense to him, but he liked its naive honesty. It made him feel like less of a brute. Had he ever been married? He couldn’t remember. He, in fact, could remember very little of his life; his parents, his siblings, if he’d ever told a lie at all. His first clear memory was of the Old World Man saving him from committing suicide, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember why he’d wanted to kill himself in the first place. He could remember one more thing, however. He used to wake up every morning at 7 a.m., but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d awoken before noon. It’d been a long time. Years… Years?

How old was he?

lincoln_kirstein_in_bowler_hat,_1930

The Secret Griefs of Wild, Unknown Men (10)

Posted on by baholbrook

10.

The Woman from the Modern Era was a rare breed of human being. More rare than the Tasmanian tiger or the passenger pigeon (both believed to be extinct, but neither are; they’ve just taken to the smart habit of diving behind trees and under logs whenever humans tread nearby). She, however, was never aware of this. She, like most of us, had always assumed that her heritage and ability were as average as average could be. However, she, like most of us, was wrong. She found it odd that the Old World Man had become so interested in her past. He and the Kind Man from some other place had appeared to be absorbing all of the information about her that they could. Of course, the Kind Man seemed to be teaching her more about her past than the Old World Man, who was simply curious. Both, obviously, would be disappointed. Her past was as vast and entertaining as a flattened cardboard box.

She had been raised by both parents in a lovely town in New Hampshire. Her family consisted of herself and three boys, and they all loved each other as a family should. Her childhood was closer to a clipping from a 1950’s Life Magazine than that of a normal person. She had gone to college for English and had become a moderately well-known writer. She was currently in these woods on a self-imposed writer’s retreat, which had been funded by a grant she’d received. Nothing in her life had provoked the kind of interest in her that these two had been showing; the Old World Man with his grumbling inquiries, which droned like a locomotive from his bearded lips and strange, penetrating eyes. The way he’d stare at her when she spoke, as if every word that fluttered from her lips was a dark secret. The way that, like a dog, he’d angle his head when he appeared confused. She was inexplicably drawn to him and would never be able to part from him. The Kind Man, however, was always on the opposite side of the Old World Man. Always offering clarity, always eager to help, always wanting to listen. His delicate features, so strong, yet so fragile, as if they were made to be rearranged. Something odd was in this Kind Man. Something she trusted with her life, but certainly not with anyone else’s; especially the Old World Man, whom the Kind Man seemed to have a deep, abiding, primal aversion towards. She was the Kind Man’s primary interest; her past and future, her loves, needs, wants, and thoughts, and she trusted it… Even though nobody else did.

 

View other chapters here!