of nurture’s wildness: a novella (book 2, ch. 2)
by Tom Stuckey
II
Lisa did not reach her destination by nightfall as anticipated—or the nightfall after that—instead, with it being the rainy season and most trails being impassable, she needed to detour around a longer route to begin her penetration into the forest. Regardless, this did not dampen her spirits. A contentedness was present in her, like in all explorers who thrive amidst adversity and in the face of the unknown. Lisa was a person who found real struggle being in the mundanity of supermarkets and fancy restaurants. Being alone was also not a problem for her, in fact, she had spent most of her life alone. She had had boyfriends from time to time but was never stationary long enough to enjoy any of them, or what they had to offer. Sex was a requirement, however, and Lisa got her needs fulfilled where she could, often at the heartache of the men she then left for the next town, the next country, or the next morning. So, setting up camp deep in the rainforest, with only the insects and her thoughts for company, could only feel like home.
Lisa’s contentedness, as soon as the camp was set, began to fade and was slowly replaced by fear. Nothing much changes for those types who used movement and activity to avoid life’s challenges: as soon as they stopped, no matter where they arrived at, life always found a way to rush in. This time, it came in the form of a giant centipede crawling up Lisa’s leg, making her freeze. After a moment or two, her brain engaged, and she gently removed it and let it go on its way. “There you go, mister. Away you go.”
The nights in the rainforest were louder than the days, which gave it an eerie aura, a feeling—a strange underworld of animals—curiously similar to that of the city. Those that did emerge at night mostly did so because it was safer, but the predators followed. They always did. Hearing what sounded like human footsteps—the tent’s thin barrier seeming to amplify the sound—Lisa’s heart pounded as she held her breath, loudening the pulsating inside her head. Whatever it was, it seemed to go away, and Lisa managed drift off to sleep even though the high-pitched din of the forest never stopped.
His face was as distinguishable as her fathers, with those pock marks and large greasy glasses, and even the smell of stale ale on his breath. His face hovered over hers, grimaced, and then smiled a guilty smile.
She woke drenched in sweat but was relieved to see the sunlight starting to make its way through the canopy onto the damp, verdant ground. It was impossible to stay dry in the rainforest, but some fresh water would get rid of the grime that had accumulated on her skin.
Lisa began preparing for the day’s march that she hoped would take her further into the forest and to the location where she believed the tribe to be. She had brought along her micro fly drone so it could follow her wherever she went. It had a good battery life and would not need to be recharged until she got back to civilization; it was as small as a fly, too, so the tribe would hopefully be unable to detect it very easily. With the camp packed, she set off, hacking through the dense undergrowth with her keenly sharpened machete. Most of the animals were hiding somewhere (above probably), asleep until the sun’s eventual exit from the sky.
After what seemed like a day, she stopped to urinate and heard the distinct sounds of man a bit further on, beyond her makeshift trail, through the foliage. It was difficult to see anything other than trees and vines and leaves. Stilled and squatted, she listened and waited for them to move. And move they did. Slowly, little faces were made out, distinctly flesh-coloured in an otherwise expanse of green, and then an arm, a neck, a chest, until a full man came into view, just like one of the ones in her files. She rose and did up her shorts, slowly making herself visible, holding up her hands, thinking that a universal sign of peace. At first glance, the tribesmen, of whom there were two, became startled and retreated back before succumbing to their curiosity about her: blonde hair in a ponytail; long white legs, the longest they had ever seen; large, pointy breasts in a bra. She was a giant in comparison to their relative statures. She smiled the largest smile she could manage and opened her eyes softly, showing off their blueness. Seeing that she was unarmed and alone, drawn in by the un-natural wonder of her, they approached, cautiously sniffing the moist, warm air, capturing her smell, her new scent.
*Read Tom Stuckey’s next installment of Of Nurture’s Wildness (Book II) on August 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.