In defense of the dark

I am here, not as an absence but a presence—an inner strength that reveals what brightness blinds.

Hello dear readers!

Thank you for your continued enthusiasm for my In Defense Of series, where I explore the meaning of being “unfixed” by shining a light on the maligned, misunderstood, and often dismissed aspects of life. In a culture preoccupied with perfection, surface beauty, unrelenting positivity, and fixer-upper narratives, this series offers a counterpoint. It invites us to take in the whole inventory—to linger in the shadows and find value in what we might reflexively reject. From defending the quiet embrace of fog to the bittersweet gifts of unanswered prayers, In Defense Of champions the undervalued parts of ourselves and our world, reminding us that life often blooms most beautifully in the places we least expect.

This month, I’ve stepped out of my usual format. Instead of an essay, I’ve ventured into fiction—a brave (and perhaps naively ambitious) leap for someone who doesn’t consider herself a fiction writer! This short story is my attempt to narratively and metaphorically “defend the dark.” I’ve been deeply inspired by the incredible writers of this genre¹ here on Substack, and their courage gave me the nudge I needed to try something new. I hope this story resonates with you and, as always, I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

To Know the Dark

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the darkness, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

-Wendell Berry

from Dave’s and my xyxx archives

I want her to trust me, to let my body hold her sadness, to let me pull her down and inwards, steady, but not falling.

Once, I was her friend. We’d slow dance our bodies—her’s fetal and finite—and I’d whisper her name before her name. But when her eyes met the world, colors bled into her vision and she forgot me, then feared me, as if we had never danced at all.

Now I linger in hallway shadows, leaning into the corners, waiting. Her fingertips drift across photographs—I follow her touch: this one, no this one, her favorite. A couple bundled in winter coats, cradling their infant daughter, rosy-cheeked and round as a puff of snow. I swell inside her pause, hoping she might feel me here in this happy memory. But the snow is too bright, the smiles too wide. I know when I’m not welcome.

At the half-open door to her parents’ room, she holds her breath against me and becomes still as stone. An emptiness fills tiny ribs until she cannot breathe. Breathe Claire, breathe! I lose my balance.

Then the doorbell rings, and her breath spills out. Her exhale, my settling.

She runs, pushing through my embrace, down the hall, through the kitchen, and to the front door. Jenny’s mom stands there, casserole in hand, her daughter by her side. Bright-eyed, clutching a flashlight, she grins, hope and light twisted in her fingers.

“I found another one!” Jenny grins and wiggles the flashlight. “Wanna play?”

Jenny’s mom leans forward, peering into the house. “Is your mother around?”

“No—I mean—she’s busy.”

“Well, put this in the fridge, okay?” Claire nods, grabs the dish, and the girls run off, leaving Jenny’s mom in the doorway. She lingers a moment, unsure. I lean into her hesitation before she sighs and turns away. She fears me too.

Jenny eyes the kitchen table, scattered with cards and wilting flowers, a half-empty mug, yesterday’s cereal. Life, paused. I’m not heavy, this table is. I want to tidy up and swallow memory back into my boundless whole.

Claire grabs the flashlight from her friend, flips it on, and holds it beneath her chin. “I spy with my little eye... something that looks like… brains!”

Jenny squeals, snatching her light and sweeps it across the kitchen, landing on a glass container of old oatmeal. “Ewwww!”

The girls scurry away and I try to keep up. I understand their game—humans love to brandish light like a sword, wielding certainty at my center. But they misunderstand; there is no greater certainty than me. I long for Claire to remember her light in its absence. As they flick off switches, pull curtains tight, squeezing out every drop of daylight, I press close. Maybe today. They think they are escaping me with their light beams. But I am here, not as an absence but a presence—an inner strength that reveals what brightness blinds.

Passing her parent’s door again, Claire slows. The room is still, her mother’s breathing, low and even. For a moment, she lets me rest on her, steady and calm. Listen, Claire. Do you hear? Within this dark rhythm, your own song. But she turns, gently shuts the door, leaving me behind.

Upstairs, the girls huddle under Claire’s bed, cradling their flashlights like lifelines. I wait, softening the edges of their world, trying to make it safer, more intimate. But it’s a lost cause. Dragging their flashlight collection from under the bed, the girls illuminate rays in every direction. Claire knows each flashlight by heart, the same way she knew her father’s voice: steady warmth. Their beams glow like miniature dawns, but even in their imagined promise, I feel Claire’s longing, and then flickers of a hot rage—a small flame that will be stoked with each uncertainty, each loss, until I am banished. I know this story well.

Sensing the shift in mood, Jenny spins with a flashlight. “I spy with my little eye... something that is…slimy.”

Claire shines her light around the room, her red jelly shoes, no, a box of crayons, no, crumpled Kleenex? no, and lands on a half-eaten pack of gummy worms. Jenny nods, and they burst into giggles once again.

The girls tumble through the house, forming worlds from my exile. As if light is the mother of life! I rest in corners and shadows, waiting for Claire to notice not only what her flashlight touches but what surrounds. But her shoulders scrunch against me as I hover over memories and ache that only my stillness can touch. Her boundary holds firm; I cannot cross.

But when the phone rings and her father’s voice echoes from the answering machine, I sense a fracture. An emptiness threatens to pull her apart, limb by limb. I rush in—a fissure, my invitation—and try to comfort. But Jenny’s hand, a warm familiarity, slips into hers to keep her from breaking completely and whispers, “I spy with my little eye... something full of light.”

Claire’s eyes rest on her dad’s favorite flashlight. I’ve held close to this one for weeks, taking its owners print back into my fold. She hesitates, feeling me near; then walks over and slips us into her sweatshirt pocket, clutching tightly to her newfound possession.

*

At dusk, the girls part ways at the driveway. Jenny waves goodbye, and Claire stands at the edge of the woods. My favorite time of day! I balance on the gloaming, summersault into shadows, stretch a wide asana over valley and hill. Can she feel my playful beckoning? Her father’s old flashlight bulges heavy in her pocket, a small pull toward the trees. She stands still, listening.

Then in a brave defense against me, she turns on the beam and steps into the forest.

Amongst the stately giants and cloaked in my finest, I nudge her along curiosity’s path. Her father’s broad light cuts me into generous swatches of wooly shadow, turning sky and limb into unfinished script. She presses forward, hands drag over moss, feet surrender further into earth; her cells remember me and read the final draft. She sets the light down for a moment, illuminating hidden worlds of leaf and wet and wonder as her fingertips join their horizontal play.

“Hoo—oo—oo.” Claire jumps, her eyes finding an owl perched just beyond the flashlights’s yellow curtain, massive and still. Their gazes meet, her body thrums with the thrill of being seen. They watch each other for so long that I can’t help myself: her father’s light flickers, dims, dies.

I expand.

The owl, startled, spreads its wings, lifting into me. Claire fumbles in her pocket for spare batteries, hands trembling. She is prepared—her father always made sure—but even with new batteries, the light remains dead. She tries everything, shaking it, flipping the batteries around, willing it back to life as if light alone will save her. But nothing—nothing can chase me away.

She runs, branches grab at her hair, roots catch her feet, shadows dwarf her small frame. She paints me monstrous, devouring, absolute. She runs until her legs can run no more, and finally collapses on damp earth. Panting, panting—upon each exhale, I settle like mist around her small frame until her breath slows and finally, she falls into a deep sleep.

At last. All is me. I hold her close as she settles into my nurturing folds, cradled between seed and constellation.

“Hoo—oo—oo,” the owl calls again, and Claire awakens to the night filling her senses: drops tap leaves, insects snap and chitter, wind whistles through branches. She doesn’t open her eyes right away; while listening to my composition, her forest within comes alive. And with this shift, I hand over my wand.

Claire lifts the dead flashlight like a conductor’s baton, and instead of jousting me, she joins me. Her small hands draw out music that only I can sing—I am vast, empty and intimate all at once, and she now sings along.

The night forest stirs with the precision of a maestro, wild instruments tune themselves into uncanny coherence as she sweeps her dead flashlight through the mist.

Tap, tap, tap, droplets cue the overture:

A gentle rustling of leaves sets the rhythm…a pianissimo schrooooosh, creeech, thrissss, while crickets pulse a steady 4/4 time.

Chirrr, sawww, three, four, chirr, sawww, three, four.

The owl layers in a solemn call. “Hoo—oo—oo.”

Chirrr, sawww, three, four, chirr, sawww, three, four. Schrooooosh, creeech, thrissss. “Hoo—oo—oo.”

A reedy vibrato then pierces the night—a coyote’s hollowing, hallowing OOOOOoooooooooOOOOOOOOO.

Then echoed in soft counterpoint—oooooo, yip yip oooooo.

The wind—WHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIRRRRROOOHHHHH—

answers and builds, answers and builds—a billowing baritone choir.

Oh! The melody! Claire’s body tingles, alive with possibility, the forest humming through her veins. Mystery around and within deepens, vast and brimming, and she glimpses it—an endless reservoir, a wellspring hidden at my core.

Then in a final, grand gesture, she sweeps her dark wand through the night, and the flashlight f fl fli flic flickers back to life.

SNAP! A lone cymbal cracks, a falling branch ushers in sudden silence—

the forest—even me—holds in suspense.

(Hushed)

then scurrying

sc u rrrrr yyyyy scurry s c urr y ing

the wild retreats into natural, easy dissonance.

Claire breathes heavily. And then stands tall, taller, while her senses sparkling with both light and me—balanced—guide her home.

Entering the front door, she pauses. One by one, she moves through the house, inviting me in: the porch lantern clicks off, then the kitchen desk lamp, then the hallway light.

In her parent’s room at last, where sorrow lingers, Claire nestles close to her mother with the warm glow of her father’s light between them. Then remembering, she turns it off.

evening walks with spiders in our neighbor’s overgrown Christmas tree farm

A special thank you to one of my favorite fiction writers

Nathan Slake

for giving me the courage to share my first piece of fiction. His body of work soars with startling depth and mystery, always favoring the implied over the explicit, inviting readers to mine their own histories for meaning. His recent piece Skrimshander left me in a state of awe, marveling at the intricate layers he weaves into his stories. It was a reminder of the power of storytelling to both unsettle and enchant, to leave us reflecting long after the final page. His encouragement has been a true gift, and I'm endlessly grateful for his inspiration and support.

1. A few of my fiction favorites:

Eleanor Anstruther

Nathan Slake

<Mary L. Tabor>

Ben Wakeman

Silvio Castelletti

Adam Nathan

Mr. Troy Ford

Julie Gabrielli

Nadia Gerassimenko