of nurture’s wildness: a novella (book 2, ch. 4)

by Tom Stuckey

IV

The hut that was little more than a thatch roof atop four, leafed walls fastened together by sturdy vines and dried mud. Along the walls, stacks of cooking pots, clay bowls, and plates were stacked. Lidded vessels of varying sizes, used for storage of food and potable water, haunted the darkened corners of the structure. Upon a raffia mat on the dirt floor, Lisa took in her surroundings, feeling more alone than ever. Much of the colour had fallen from the green on the walls, the leaves becoming more like pointy knives that seemed to be everywhere in her view. Occasionally, eyes would pass by the small window to her right, temporarily blocking the sun from entering, making the hut dark and increasing its smells that were unfamiliar and unfriendly.

Lisa wished she could be anywhere else but there, even thinking about places she hated with a kind of nostalgia, such as the town where she had grown up with its animal markets, where sheep would be brought for sale, the smell and crying of beasts ignored by the hard-faced farmers under rusting tin roofs. She took her phone out of her shorts pocket and stared at the infinite depths of its blackened face. It wouldn’t have a signal even if the battery weren’t dead, she thought. Regardless, like most creatures in these situations, survival mode took over, worst case scenarios were played out. She thought it best to win over the chief, first, by any means necessary. She had seen the look in his eyes, unmistakable for anything other than lust (a woman knows that look). Lisa also noticed how the women glared at her, obviously not wanting her there, but they would follow the chief’s lead, or at least she hoped. That fact didn’t sit well with her; a tight knot had formed in her stomach, and her breath became shallow like a bird that wanted to remain silent to die. She believed in the ideals of individuals’ right to choose, free speech, feminism (to some extent); however, the women out there hadn’t heard of any of these things; instead, they lived by the rules of the jungle.

Places that Lisa hated weren’t the only things that came back into her consciousness, but people, too, like Peter McCarthy, her first kiss (though he denied ever doing so to save face with the other kids at the school). She wondered why she always ended up alone, but she shut down that train of thought before it got too far down the tracks, to a place where she was unwilling to go. She remembered Peter’s soft kisses and his embarrassment when he got an erection. “I won’t tell anyone. Don’t worry. It is good that you did, natural even,” she had empathetically assured. She was kind to him, but he betrayed her; this had become a pattern throughout her life.

As dusk began to fall, the sounds of the rainforest gradually becoming louder, a little hand appeared at the bottom of the hut door; it held out a pot of stew which Lisa took. It was pork, she was sure, as it was the only livestock that she had observed before her confinement. The broth smelt good, and the food began to calm her body down a bit with the energy it brought, even staving off her fear a little. That was until out of the still darkness the sounds of hissing began to pitch and roll past the hut door. It must be the women of the tribe, Lisa thought. Cats wouldn’t act like that. 

*Read Tom Stuckey’s next installment of Of Nurture’s Wildness (Book II) on August 19, 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.