Long Way Home: A Ficlet Novelette

By Terry F. Torrey

Can you ever really go home?

 

A nameless everyman thumbs a ride on a dark highway, running from feelings that he has wasted his youth, his life.

 

But where is he running to?

 

Now, as he sets out to retrace the past that brought him to his present, his journey threatens to give him answers he won't like to the questions swirling inside him.

 

If you like dramas where characters search for meaning and redemption in the fleeting rush of life, and find hope, you'll love Long Way Home.

 

This short novel adheres to a form where where every scene is limited to a "ficlet", a block of text no longer than 1024 characters. The result is as beautiful as it is brief, as powerful as it is poetic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Provocative Press
• Release date: Apr 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781961042018

Terry F. Torrey

Born and raised in upstate New York, Terry F. Torrey now lives in Arizona with his amazing wife and awesome daughter. A lifelong learner, his most prized accomplishment is completing the acclaimed Creative Writing program at Phoenix College. Now, Terry spends his days writing page-turning vigilante action novels, riveting suspense novels with shades of noir, campy but realistic pop-culture monster novels, and an assortment of other quirky, compelling, and heartfelt books and shorts. Be sure to join his e-mail list to be notified of promotions, special events, and new releases of things worth reading, and find all of his work online at terryftorrey.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Y ou’re not supposed to pick up hitchhikers, I said as I got into the car.

The driver smiled, but my words had traced fear across his forehead. You don’t look dangerous, he said.

I settled into the seat and closed the door. You just can’t tell because it’s dark, I said.

He forced a dry laugh, then turned his eyes back to the road and stepped on the accelerator. Loose stones rattled against the undercarriage as the car built up speed, then fell away as the driver eased the car back onto the pavement. He looked over at me, obviously trying to relax himself. Where are you headed tonight? he asked.

I looked through the window at the dark road ahead of us. We were on I-17 headed north, forty miles outside of Phoenix, Arizona. Dark desert enveloped the car around us. I don’t know, I said.

He looked over at me, nervous again. What do you mean, you don’t know?

I don’t know, I said with a shrug. Flagstaff, points east. I turned to face the window and the great blackness beyond. I don’t know.

He stopped for fuel at a station on the outskirts of Flagstaff. While he pumped and paid, I walked to the edge of the parking lot and smoked a cigarette. The surrounding terrain was hilly with thick woods, and the whispering trees called to me. I had never been in these woods before, but I had lived nearly all my adult life in this state, and even the strange places felt like home.

It felt like a mistake. I felt the trees calling to me, and in my heart, I could hear an apology.

Do you know where you’re going yet? he asked, coming up behind me.

I inhaled deeply, tried not to sigh. East, I said.

He nodded, understanding more now. Is that where you’re from?

I took a drag off the cigarette. I hadn’t smoked in years, but the new pack in my pocket felt like an old friend, and the taste on my lips made me feel so young I could have cried. Yes, I said.

We stood in silence for a few moments.

Is it a girl? he asked.

Sure, I said, not untruthfully. It’s a lot of them.

Yeah, he said. It always is.

CHAPTER 2

Iwanted to get across the border before the sun came up, afraid if I didn’t make it I’d lose my nerve and turn back. It was after midnight in Flagstaff when I got a ride with a van full of L.A. stoners.

How far ya going? the driver asked, the most sober of the bunch.

All the way east, I said. How far are you going?

We’re headed to the desert, said a girl in the back wearing cut-off short-shorts and a tank top with no bra. We’re going to find the muse.

The muse? I asked.

Yeah, said the bearded guy whose lap she was sitting on. He had one hand under the front of her shirt. Like Jim Morrison. We’re going to take mushrooms in the desert and have a mystical experience.

The desert, I said.