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« Driving Crazy to the Front Door »
Dans cette première collection de courts récits par Michael Foy, écrit en anglais, la plupart des histoires se passent dans la banlieue de Surrey. Les personnages doivent faire face à la fin de leur histoire d'amour, une sorte de perte qui les force à se remettre sur pied et, si possible, à retrouver ce qu'ils ont perdu.
Les quatorze histoires mettent en lumière les aspects sombres de la nature humaine et, ce faisant, nous aident à mieux nous comprendre nous-mêmes, nos familles, nos amis et peut-être même nos ennemis. Driving Crazy to the Front Door nous plonge au cœur de la perte, non pas pour nous apitoyer sur notre sort ou nous désespérer, mais pour nous offrir de l'espoir et nous rappeler ce que cela signifie d'être humain.
À venir à l'automne 2026. Linda Leith Publishing (LLP). CLIQUEZ ICI pour plus d'informations.
PRÉCOMMANDEZ:
Extrait de forbidden spaces*, l'une des histoires présentées dans ce livre :
(Cet extrait est dans sa langue originale, l'anglais.)
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.
(*REMARQUE : Aucune partie de cet extrait ne peut être copiée ou reproduite sans l'autorisation écrite de l'auteur, Michael Foy.)