of nurture’s wildness - a novella (ch. 4)

by Tom Stuckey

IV

James woke up in the library alone in a comfy wing-back chair, the fire still full, at what must of been dawn, the sun just appearing from behind the mountains. “Morning," Gloria said brightly, "we will bring you some breakfast soon. Today I wonder if you would be willing to spend some time in here writing. If you are I ask that you spend a period of time reflecting and then write whatever comes to you, you have all day, so no rush.” Gloria was wearing a blue pastel dress, that was cut quite high in a V at the back, and as she put some extra wood on the fire, it showed a little up her smooth legs and bum concealed only by some darkened stockings. “OK.” James replied. Fresh, white, stacked paper and a pen sat in front of James on the table. After sitting for a while whilst staring in at the flames, even though he did not feel like it, he began.   

Dear Jude,

            I want it to be deeper than it actually is, but I just can’t find the words. So I won’t waste it writing about how I wish it had been different between us, but I have to write something. There has always been and always will be death, but living with that knowledge and continuing on is the hardest part. I am sure of this now; mothers should love their boys, because the alternative makes a very ill and scary world. Death of that part, is death of life, and it leaves a weakened life, forced to carry heavy death around.   

Putting down his pen when Jenny came in with some coffee and hot buns, he realised that this was the first thing he had wrote in years. “I have brought you some coffee and food James.” But before he could reply she had left the room, so James picked up the pen and continued, the sun still not above the mountains’ peaks, it seemed to be permenantly hovering.  

           Frank, I fucked your wife. It was during that hot summer when you were arguing a lot and separated for a while. I felt bad about it, but less so when I heard the way that you had treated her. It was in a motel and she was telling me about all the shitty things that you were pulling, like forcing her to go on a diet, and hitting her when she ate 'too much,' I saw the bruises. Anyway, I fucked her, and we ate burgers after, and then we fucked again. After all the fucking we talked about killing you, how we would do it, and where we would bury you, and maybe fuck again after you were in the ground. She looked very beautiful that night, her red hair and white skin in the electric lights of the motel. She enjoyed getting fucked, almost like an exorcism, I fucked most you out of her, but that was not enough so she carried on with others, you were a lot to get rid of.

***

Corporal punishment was banned in schools in 1986, but the rights were extended to 1999 for private schools. In a prefabricated state school classroom in 1989 Mrs Smith beat me in front of the class for making fun of a drawing she made of a deformed hand. It was an illegal act, but I wonder now if she knew this, and or, if she worried about breaking the law after said act. The same year at only eight years old, in the cloak room after all the other children had left to play, me and a girl kissed each other. They later cut down a big tree on the play ground, and when it hit the earth it shook us all from feet to head. 

Still with its rays behind the mountain, James could not make out if the sun had travelled through the sky and was now on its way down. Time had seemed to not exist when writing, and was only re-started by some giggling that came from behind him. On the sofa was Jimmy and Liza, he could only see because of a reflection from a mirror that was in the corner of the library. Liza’s long blonde hair was laying in Jimmy’s lap as he stroked her hair with one hand and with the other he felt down her back and in-between her legs. She giggled for a while but then stopped, and the giggling turned to a kind of resistance as Jimmy pushed her head down, as he put himself in her mouth. James could not tell weather Jimmy knew that James could see them in the mirror, or maybe this was his way of showing that he didn’t believe in anything, public sex. When they had finished they both came over to James. “Oh, hey man, we didn’t see you there, Gloria got you writing I see.” Liza was wiping her mouth and Jimmy was smiling. “You still going through with it?” Jimmy was one of those kids who’s whole life was a pretend, a collection of copy and anger which tried so hard to be apart from others, but always ended up being the same, and as soon as Liza recognised this she would be gone too, James thought as he turned back to the pages. “OK, man, be like that, I don’t care.” Jimmy said, although he looked and sounded like he really did care.

After what seemed like a life time, but a life that had actually passed instantaneously, with the suns amber still behind the mountains, Gloria returned and sat in a chair just to his side.

 “How did you get on?”

“Good, I think.”

“OK, these were just for you, you can throw them in the fire and we can do some more another day. None of what we do here is to talk you out of your decision, it is just to give you space to make your own choices. Also to experience new things that you may not of noticed before, it is quite an unorthodox place, you will see.”

James took the pieces of paper and made them in to a ball within his tightened fist and threw it into the fire which went yellow, then red, then black, as they burned and turned to smoke.

“Good, I have to go into the city tomorrow but maybe we can go for a walk when I return the day after if you wish? I will bring along some of my poems, and you might share some things with me?”

Gloria, still in the short blue dress, almost as if she was not conscious, opened her legs and for a little while showed James that under her stocking she did not wear anything and then crossed her legs again.

“Good.” Replied James.

*Read Tom Stuckey’s next installment of Of Nurture’s Wildness on June 5, 2025, at 6PM CST.

Photo of Tom Stuckey

BIO: Tom is a writer from Devon in England.  His work can be found at A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Bristol Noir, Nut House Press, and Pulp Magazine. He is the author of The Canary in the Dream is Dead and The Sun Marches upon Us All. Learn more about Tom Stuckey at www.tomstuckey.com.