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Driving Crazy to the Front Door
In Michael Foy's debut collection, many of the stories are set in Surrey's urban sprawl. The characters face a demolition of love, a type of destruction that forces them to rebuild and, if they can, recoup their loses.
All fourteen stories shine some light on the darkness of the human condition, and in so doing, help us to better understand ourselves, our families, friends, and maybe even our enemies. Driving Crazy to the Front Door takes us right up close to loss - not for self-pity or despair, but to offer hope, and reminds us of what it means to be human.
Forthcoming Fall 2026. Linda Leith Publishing (LLP). CLICK HERE for more information.
PRE-ORDER:
Excerpt from forbidden spaces*, one of the stories featured in this book:
Scccccratch. She puts the arm to rest, and the record stops. Then—to stamp it in—she presses the LEGO-sized power button. And with that, something great is lost. My musical solace is over. Well, sort.
Mom’s no Dr. Dre, but she likes her profanity.
“Get up! That little bitch stole my lighter. I know I had it the last time she was here. We sat right there,” she points at the chesterfield, “and smoked my cigarettes. Next time I look for it—gone, and so was she—that’s no small fucking coincidence.”
Standing in a housecoat and slippers, holding an unlit cigarette, Mom places her tumbler of iceless and cokeless rum on the coffee table.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “I’m moving, I’m moving, relax.”
I lift my feet and head from the armrests, get up and move. I’m a spectator backing away from a street brawl. She scans the couch, wedges a hand into the crack between dark foam cushions, and slides it down like a chisel plough through soil.
Her eyes bug.
“Wait a minute…wait a minute.”
Only to pull out three Life Savers welded to a nickel—all covered in cat hair.
Sherry Black has eight brothers and sisters, but we know little about them. In our neighbourhood, when anything goes wrong, is stolen, broken or missing, she’s the prime suspect: guilty until proven innocent. Put out an APB, call America’s Most Wanted, position the sound guy and roll cameras. Walk the streets and gather interviews from neighbours and family friends—anyone who knew Sherry before the stealing spree. I mean, c’mon, she would need a double door garage to store it all.
Mom’s derision pours out when Sherry isn’t around, sloshing and splashing onto everyone. I don’t understand. If you’re angry with someone, shouldn’t you tell them, I mean direct, face to face. Why should I have to listen to the bitching, the moaning, and the demands? Besides, I know where this rant is heading: to the Holy Grail, straight for The King himself. You know, the skinny one, before he got all drugged up and fat. The boy from Tupelo—innocent and beautiful, like a fresh blade of grass.
Four months ago, a piece of Elvis Presley went missing: the 45 with “Blue Suede Shoes” and “Tutti Frutti” on the B-side. It was a birthday gift from my Dad, back when my parents started dating. He gave her the record the night before the big show: Elvis Presley Live at Empire Stadium. Starring in Person. Price $1.50. He still has her ticket stub.
(*NOTE: No part of this excerpt can be copied or reproduced without the written consent of the author, Michael Foy.)