of nurture’s wildness: a novella (book 5, ch. 1)

by Tom Stuckey

I

The company that had (at first) eagerly employed Ted as a part of the rejuvenation of old lighthouses had gone bankrupt long ago, leaving them mostly unattended; this had happened without Ted noticing. He had given up on keeping time, and this included the years, as well as the months, the hours, and the minutes. The only rough idea he had was because of a large, dateless ledger that he had started writing in from the start, and the seasons were mentioned—sometimes—with the winter entries, which often were more chaotic and violent.

Ted had to stretch his arm out to start writing at the top of the page. With the light that came in through the sea view window, he struggled to see the lettering, so he decided to just start at the bottom and scrawl upwards.

winter

again

it

for

come

have

you

His lettering had become almost Gothically ornate with large strokes made with a brush dipped in ink, of which he had made sure there was a large supply. For smaller notes, he quickly switched to a fountain pen that had been left behind by the previous occupier and began to write from above in an arc formation.

                                                               will

                                          you                              not

                             that                                                      take

                 knowing                                                               everything

                 a                                                                                             in

          have                                                                                                   your

   already                                                                                                          hungry

   I’ll                                                                                                                        mouth

He finished with a little drawing of a woman, like the one you would find on the side of a WW2 bomber and said to her, “That will be all, I think, Helena.” Before standing and leaving the ledger, he first went with the impulse to randomly pick a page from an earlier entry and began to read. Helena was not on the page that he picked, and he felt instantly abandoned with the realisation that he was all alone. The second thing he noticed was that the words were all neat and in straight lines, the characters at home as if they were battery chickens’ eggs waiting to hatch.

The first two weeks of attending to the lighthouse has been eventful; the storm of the century descended on our little patch of rock and battered us hard, the main light briefly disturbed by a power cut from the mainland, but the backup generator is a sturdy machine and works great. I thought I’d miss certain things about the mainland, but surprisingly they aren’t the things that I would of thought of, such as bird song—the seagulls are frankly loud with their squawking laughter and are constantly fighting for a spot on the lighthouse before another fishing boat is spotted in the distance. Some of the obvious things I miss are too obvious to write here. I am a little worried that I have swopped to alcohol in the ladies’ absence. Having not been much of a drinker, its effects are obvious when I go past a certain point and leave the lighthouse a wreck upon the rock, until I wake up… 

“Not now, Helena.” Ted had noticed that Helena had appeared on the page; she had been drawn in a very seductive pose with the detail of the breasts very clear under a thin layer of silk. She was pulling up the dress, and you could just see the beginnings of her genitals.

…. I have fears that I didn’t have on land, ones that have replaced the ones from society living. I know in my mind that there is no one in the darkness at night—no stabbers, no rapists—but that doesn’t seem to be enough reasoning for the mal lives in the spirits, soul, mind. Can they exist when it is only me? YES seems to be the answer. I have been occupying the time and space in a good way with music, as well as by reading the vast number of old books that were left behind by the previous attendant. I have a seemingly good idea of what he must have been like; although, what I heard from my employers doesn’t seem to add up to what he read in  _________ and _____.

“What are you doing?” Helena now ferociously scratched out the names of the books and wrote:

These writers don’t know what they are talking about. We have seen the truth, and they are all liars!

Ted nearly jumped out of the chair as a seagull hit the window, leaving a crack in the pane and a flurry of feathers that were quickly dispatched by the wind. Ted looked out upon the sea below, and it looked angry as it swallowed the white and grey bird whole into one of its constantly moving jaws. Ted looked back at the page, and Helena was covering her lips with her fingers, her eyes sexy but scary. He slammed the book shut, which mimicked the sound of the poor, unfortunate bird’s collision with the window, but he did not jump because he knew that sound was coming.

*Read Tom Stuckey’s next installment of Of Nurture’s Wildness (Book V) on December 2, 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.