of nurture’s wildness - a novella (ch. 3)
by Tom Stuckey
III
A dusty purple wind blew the little bird as it tried to hold onto the branch, but its little claws broke free and it was taken high into the sky, up and up, until it disappeared into space where it floated for a moment in the blackness, until it dropped like a stone, falling, picking up speed and mass and bursting into flames, coming down to earth with vengeance. James woke to the sounds of the bells from the bell tower and a faint knocking at the door. “Come in.” Gloria appeared from behind the door, she was wearing a different outfit of blue jeans and a cream woollen jumper, and her hair seemed darker and put up high on the head showing her neck.
“Would you like to go for a walk so I can show you around?”
“Yes,” James replied, still discerning reality from dream.
They walked further down the hallway, that was long and had rooms on either side, until the end where there was a door. “This is the door to the old part of the hospital, it is unused and mostly how it was left, except for a little chapel that is in use always if you want to visit it. Gloria opened the door, and it was like going back in time, the hall ways were of painted, unheated stone and was noticeably colder. The first door along the hallway, one that faced the rear of the building, opened to a room with a high stained-glass ceiling, it was higher than it was wide, and gave the feeling of about to be shot up into the sky. It had a few pews and a little wooden alter at the front. It gave a feeling of immediate peace, no matter what was going on, like all churches do, it was a refuge from the outer self. James could recall most of the churches that he had visited, in many different countries, and they were a stable reminder throughout the world. He also thought to himself that in a church, such as this, he came so close to God that he could not help filling the awkwardness with something, so he turned to leave.
Walking back up the hall to reception James noticed the grandness of the entrance, that was now lively with people, “Come, I’ll show you the communal areas, now that people are up and about.” Gloria led the way saying hello to Cheps, the receptionist and general keeper of the administrative side of things. He was a suave and enthusiastic looking man, in suit trousers and a waist coat, with a thin moustache and a pin striped shirt. “Good afternoon Gloria - Mr R-------, when you have a spare few minutes please could we get together and fill in these forms, nothing major just routine check-in items?” James raised his head and managed a nod. Gloria continued into the large dining room that looked more like a ball room hunting lodge, with antler chandeliers and fake electric candles on them, “Cheps has been with us a long time, he came up here after the war, the paper work is less thorough since then, which I think we would all agree is one of the few benefits of it, for facilities such as these anyway. Here is where we all take our meals together, you can see that there is plenty of space and lots of tables by the windows that look out over the mountains. Our chefs are two brothers and they take turns doing the cooking and they make wonderful food, but sometimes they argue. Here we have a library and music room where guests can spend time reading by the fire which is kept alive by Cheps as one of his many duties. We already passed the other residents rooms, and through here are the staffs’ rooms.” Gloria pointed to the door just offset from the library. “Would you like to say hello to some of the other residents?” Gloria began to return to the ball room and walked up to a woman that was sat at the table staring out of the window. “Hi, Gene, is it ok to introduce you to James? James is our newest resident and will be joining us here.” The woman stayed completely still except for her eyes that raised and turned to the side to see James. Gene had greasy, slicked-back hair and was very lean and had a firm and unfriendly face. “Hello James, who did you support in the war?” She moved her eyes back toward the window. “And this is Henry, he was also in the war.” Gene shouted over interrupting, “FASCIST!” Gloria gave an awkward smile, “They don’t get along.” Henry was a large man, with a long beard and strong defining features. “Don’t listen to her, James, she is just a bitter BULLDYKE!!” His voice boomed out and shook James’s skull a little, and was followed by an awkward silence. “Pig,” Gene whispered. “OK, and this is Jimmy and Liza.” Jimmy and Liza were the youngest out of all the residents, and both still with malicious beauty. “Nice to meet you, James, don’t worry I don’t believe in anything,” Jimmy smiled and whispered, “except pussy.” He looked at Gloria when he said this. “Jimmy, please.” Jimmy then shouted, “Pussy!” And last, but in no ways least, this is Bernard, he is our oldest resident. “James,” Bernard reached out his arm and shook James’s hand firmly. “I don’t know why they are so bitter; I was the one who lost the most out of that war.” Gloria filling in the blanks, "Bernard used to own most of the city until the financial collapse." Bernard was wearing a suit, had white hair and rimmed glasses, and looked like a ghost from a booming past. “And that is everyone. Oh! I cannot forget Jenny; she does most of the cleaning and caring for the resident’s needs.”
“Why don’t we sit down at this table now that you have met everyone and you can ask any questions you might have?” Gloria drew a chair so that James could sit, and then sat down opposite him. “It is a lot to take in, meeting everyone, scary even?” She looked with such green eyes that were even more remarkable because of the back drop of blue and white. “Yes it is,” James took a deep breath and went on, “But I have done it now.”
*Read Tom Stuckey’s next installment of Of Nurture’s Wildness on May 29, 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.