Wild men, Grave men, Good Men, Wise men

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
based on the two poems do not go gentle into that good night and metho drinker

Submitted: April 28, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 28, 2012



Wild men, Grave men, Good men, Wise men

Silvery shadows cast by the moon patterned the walls of the quiet, suburban home. The only sound that pervaded the night time silence was the gentle dripping of the kitchen faucet that cut through the eerie silence like a knife. Every so often,  a soft, chilling breeze whispered through the house stirring the curtains into a gentle dance; and, in the living room, a single man with green feline eyes and ebony hair sat burdened with the pressing choice he was about to make. Most men, good men, would cherish the life he had; a loving wife, a son that idolized him, a secure job and a home in suburbia. Yet he was not content, he wanted freedom, but freedom comes with a price.

With stones in his stomach, Brent got up from his chair and walked solemnly to the door, his hand resting on the cool, metal doorknob as he contemplated his decision to leave his family. As he swung the door open, the chilling night air hit him like a wall, knocking him back, willing him to go back to bed with his loving wife, yet he was determined to leave. His pride and joy, his Harley, sat expectantly outside, the moon’s silver light glinting of the finely polished metal like the sun glints of a wild animals teeth before it sinks them into its prey.  As Brent swung his leg over the bike, sinking into the comforting seat, he felt the presence of two eyes burning into the back of his skull. He turned like a criminal caught in the act to find his son’s large green eyes staring at him with confusion. Brent turned away swiftly, not wanting to stare at his sons accusing eyes. His Harley roared like a wild animal as he rode away from his family, as he rode, gentle, into that good night.

Nights were filled with white snowflakes, lit in his glass pipe, inhaled into his misty lungs. His throat burning with the acrid, sulphur taste only soothed with the bitter, smooth alcohol he drank like water. Days were filled with the petrol scented, black pitch highways. His bike, roaring across the roads, a wild animal finally released from years of captivity, the wind thrashing soothingly across his face, as he became a wild man, who caught and sang the sun in flight.

The years blended into each other, time lost in a dark, swirling sea of hedonistic pleasures. Yet, in his mind, he never forgot his wife and son that he had so willingly left behind. In the rare moments of rational, sober thinking, he was tempted to go back to the conforming life he once had. Yet his white and burning girl, his woman of fire crept into his heart and set a candle there, sinking him back into the sea of pleasure. As Bret grew older, however, he grew uneasy under her kiss, winching from that acid of her desire. It was then, that Bret learnt the curse of the Wild men, that they learn, too late, they grieved it on its way.

Reality came, crashing down on Brent. Too sick to do anything, his only choice was Rehab, a fate unbefitting on an un-honourable man like himself. He ached for his burning girl, crying out to her ‘O take from me the weight and waterfall ceaseless time that batter down on my weakness’. Yet even she did not come to comfort him like she had all those years. Instead, she had turned against him, her misty grip tightening over his heart, giving him his fate, as he became a Grave man, near death, who see with blinding sight, blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay.

However, in the depths of his despair, came hope like a flickering candle. His son had not forgotten him. After all the years they had spent apart, his son had searched hopefully for him, until he found him once more. Through a letter, he heard his sons sweet voice again:

My father

There on that sad height, Curse, bless me now with you fierce tears I pray. Do not go gentle into that Good night”.

A number he left on that letter. To call him, to talk with him, to reconcile with him, his son still loved him. He reached desperately for the phone on his bedside table, yet, as his black tipped fingers touched his life line, his burning lady gripped his heart. A pain pierced him as he crashed to the cold  floor, the phone falling with him. He moved with one final chance, his heart beating frantically in his chest, his shaking fingers dialling the number determinedly. He wished with his heart to just hear his sons voice, that was his dying wish.

“Hello?” his son answered, his sweet voice, like music to his dying ears.

“My son I... I love you” he gasped through gulps of air; the dark abyss swirled around him as he fell with rage, rage against the dying light.



Brent awoke; the clicking, beeping sounds of the life support machines had roused him. The sanitized smells of a hospital filled his nostrils, as his eyes readjusted to the bright sun that shone through the window, illuminating the soft, white sheets of the bed. He gingerly lifted the sheets off of his frail body, and inspected the clean, straight scar in the middle of his chest, stitched masterly by the surgeon. His eyes stung with tears as he thought of the new chance he had in life, to make everything better and have a relationship with his son. His silent cry was somehow heard by a nurse who came rushing in to inspect him. She soothed the frail old man, comforting him, telling him that he had a heart attack and had been rushed to the hospital for a heart transplant. Through sobs and whimpers, he asked the frazzled nurse the name of the man who had died to give him his heart. The nurse gently murmured a name to him, before rushing off to get the doctor. An icy finger ran down Brent’s spine as the scene played out before him:

“A Son, who gets a call from his long lost father, only to hear his father’s dying words gasped over the phone. He races desperately through the roads to get to his father in time, only to crash. The paramedics arrive, only to find his lifeless, broken body sprawled across the black pitch road. They place him in a black, plastic body bag and take him to the hospital, where they discover he is the perfect match for the dying drug addict upstairs. They harvest his organs, like a farmer harvests his crops, and they place his young, pure heart into the tainted old man”.

A wave of remorse came crashing down on Brent at that very moment. His son had been a good man; his frail deeds might have danced in a green bay if not for him. Bret howled at what he had done, at the price his son had paid to finally be with him. His heart beating blood through his foolish father’s veins. NO, not foolish, he will never be foolish again. Brent had finally became the man he was always meant to be, he had become a wise man, who at his end know dark is right, because he had learnt the cost of freedom the hard way, and that had cost him dearly.

“My Son!” he howled “Do not go gentle into that good night!”.

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