Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Fly Away Home by - (best ereader for comics txt) 📖
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“You too.” I smile. It might be a small white lie. Mrs. Darby is showing her age, but it’s the only proper thing to say. She helped me through such a difficult stretch of childhood.
“Come in, please. I have a kettle for tea on the stove.” Her familiar kitchen hasn’t changed in twenty years. I fondly recall her serving warm cookies and milk for Dillon and me at the same table. “I’m so sorry I didn’t make it to your mother’s funeral. What she did, how she treated you . . .”
“Don’t worry. It’s okay.”
“I never understood how someone could . . . well, you know. It was wrong.”
“Please, think nothing of it. I understand.” I rest my hand atop the one belonging to my true mother and look deep into her eyes. Scared to hear the answer, I still need to ask the question. “Mrs. Darby, can you tell me where Dillon is these days?”
Selfishly, I fear she will tell me about a happy marriage, a gorgeous wife, three kids, and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. And a dog. I can’t forget the canine part of my forlorn dream. It was the fairy-tale ending I missed out on due to my lack of courage.
Tears flow unfiltered from Mrs. Darby’s eyes. “Oh, Claire.”
“Mrs. Darby? What is it? Are you okay?” A hollow and foreboding desperation washes over me.
“My baby Dillon. He died in a car accident. Three years ago. He was only thirty-five. Too young.” She fights through the sobs between each fragmented sentence. The grieving mom is answering my question, but she speaks as much to herself as she does to me.
I cover my mouth in disbelief, sorrowful tears mirroring those from Mrs. Darby. “I’m so sorry.” The choking pain in those four syllables carries more empathy than the words themselves ever could.
“I know, honey. It’s been so difficult, so painful. It gets better, but it never seems to go away.” I understood all too well. There is too much pain and loss running rampant in both our lives, so I redirect her toward happy memories of Dillon. As afternoon turns to evening, our tears of sorrow transform into smiles and giggles. The shared pot of chamomile tea and pleasant reminiscences are therapeutic for both of us.
Her small cuckoo clock announces the nine o’clock hour. It’s a reminder of the daunting task awaiting me next door. “I have to go, but it has been so nice to see you, Mrs. Darby. You’ve always known what I need. Thank you so very much.”
As we prepare to part ways in her foyer, Mrs. Darby’s wrinkles press together as she squints at me. She looks deep into my eyes and pats my arm. “You wait here, dear. I have something for you.”
I watch her retreat up the stairs, one slow step at a time. She returns a few moments later with a book in her hands. “For you,” she says, passing it to me. “I think he meant for you to have this.”
The title on the cover reads Homecoming. I’m not sure what to make of this unexpected gift until my gaze falls upon the author’s name. Dillon Darby.
“You made quite an impression on him, you know. He wouldn’t have written this without your encouragement. You take care now, dear.” She ushers me outside. It’s not because she wants me to leave. She senses my anxious desire. To seek out a private place where I might devour this tangible memory of my kindred soul.
I slip through the front door, greeted by a blast of cool air, and make my way toward the attic stairs once more. It isn’t necessary to consume this book in the privacy of my sanctuary, but it feels right.
Nestling into the corner of my cardboard fortress, I flip on the flashlight and pull my knees close. Opening the back cover, I find a photograph of Dillon and his brief author bio, but it’s not enough. I want and need more. Running my index finger over his picture, I caress the author’s face with a delicate touch. How I wish I’d had the courage to do so at that pizza parlor so many years ago. How different might my life have been?
I stare at the book, admiring everything connected to this man. He struggled through literature as a high school student. Now he is a published author. I smile, cherishing how Dillon had always been so perseverant.
With a million other things to do, I focus on the most important one in this moment. I open the novel, flip past the first blank page, and arrive at his opening words.
The dedication read: For Claire, the Road Not Taken.
How do I interpret this message? Was it a simple reminiscence of a time long ago? A memorable encounter in the pizza parlor that proved to be a turning point in his life as an author? It might be a safe interpretation, but I yearn for something more. Even if it’s painful to accept, I ache to be the road not taken. I want to be connected with Dillon on a deeper level. I can only hope his story will bring me peace and offer a response to the burning questions in my heart.
My answer arrives before I reach his opening line in the first chapter. There are no words, only three Post-it notes positioned across the width of the page. The trio of colors sends a message never shared in our secret language. Red, yellow, blue: I love you.
I will read Dillon’s story in its entirety one day, just not now. Removing each slip of paper from the book, I get to my knees. I place each one in succession along the pane of glass in the attic window. It’s a reminder to the boy somewhere across the way. Even though it may have taken a while, I might finally understand what it means to be home.
3
I appreciate the transformative power of words. They’re able to replenish the soul, inspiring a person to soar higher than the loftiest clouds. But there’s also a dark counterpart with the potential to drag one’s hopes deep below the surface. Into the depths of an abyss devoid of any light. I never realized how fast those disparate effects can swing from one extreme to the other.
I clutch the same pilled blanket I used to hide under as a girl. With a storybook and flashlight, I would create an imaginary castle beneath it each night. The cotton fabric protected me from the harsh reality beyond its border. Once able to cover my entire body, it now only reaches my chest. It’s proof that some things have grown with time.
I roll over in bed and blink at Dillon’s book on the side table. It wasn’t a dream. A mockingbird greets the rising sun with its delightful melody. Outside my open window, a gentle breeze ushers the scent of fresh-cut grass into my bedroom. There’s so much good to notice in the world. Instead, it’s the porcelain plaque with a chipped corner that catches my attention. Home is where the love is.
The sign hangs cockeyed next to the door frame. In this singular moment, I become aware how words can force us to face the sobering truth. With all these beautiful reminders of encouragement surrounding me, I realize there is no optimism inside. This is not home. There is no love here.
My choices haunt me. I latched onto a woman who hurt me and pushed away someone who shared nothing but genuine affection with me. Dillon is gone. Forever.
I force a deep breath from my lungs. It’s a futile attempt to rescue me from this feeling of utter despair. In an act of psychological self-defense, my thoughts meander somewhere new, down the hallway to the bedroom next door.
Russell is the older brother I admired as a child. He’s left me to deal with this physical and emotional debris field by myself. I have no idea who my father is, and given my track record, I’m not sure I want to know.
Everything about my sad reality is in shambles.
I’ve been treading water for decades, waiting for a monster to drag me beneath the surface. Feeling the weight of my body sinking into this mattress, I imagine I’m sinking into quicksand. The more I move, the deeper I sink. There must be a better way to go through life.
It’s time to face the truth. I’m not cut out for love in any capacity. I never was. Living a peaceful and solitary existence is something many people find rewarding. Why shouldn’t I be one of them?
#
SURPRISINGLY, MY DECISION is liberating, even if I don’t know where it will lead me. Abandoning my mind-numbing secretarial position is an easy choice. For years, Donna has wanted sole ownership of our shared condo on the Virginia coast. She’ll finally get what she wants. I’m almost forty. I should have a place to call my own.
After making a few phone calls, I arrange for a sizable donation to the local homeless shelter. I’ll leave the rest of my mother’s possessions for the real estate agent to handle. I have no desire to see them again. The required fees are over the top, but it’s worth the chance to flee this empty shell, devoid of love, as soon as possible.
#
SEATED IN THE CAR, I grip the steering wheel with uncomfortable levels of fear and anxiety. If I let go, I’m afraid I’ll spin out of control. My view out the windshield makes me feel like a magnet spinning erratically between its poles. In one moment, the unhappy memories of life in a house that stole so much from me is repellent. Then, loving thoughts of the home next door arrive, pulling me toward something positive.
A breeze blows through the open window and ruffles the pink feather tag on my suitcase. It reveals Dillon’s book hiding beneath it. I leaf through the first few pages before finding the epigraph on a page of its own:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
It’s all the encouragement I need. Thank you, Dillon. The only decision now is which way to head. Things have gone south in the past several days. Heading north sounds like a welcome change. But that direction alone won’t suffice. It’ll do nothing more than carry me from the Georgia coast where I grew up to Donna and our shared condo in Virginia. I’ll add a healthy dose of west to the mix. Chasing the metaphorical sunlight is always a good idea.
After a few hours on the road less traveled, my failing awareness of life’s necessities catches up with me. I haven’t eaten. My fuel gauge is near empty. And the onslaught of lovebugs raining down on my windshield obscures the view, all the while taunting me. How does the rest of nature find it so easy to identify a compatible mate? Guilt consumes me as I obliterate that soulful connection while driving along these backcountry roads.
The flashing yellow light ahead warns me to slow down. Insects once destined to meet their final resting place on my front bumper deflect to safety. Clint’s Country Store sits on the far corner of the lonely intersection. Overgrown fields surround it,
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