agree, incredibly powerful, I wonder if this is truth, fiction, mixed, it makes a difference in the reading, amazing writing -
On Tue, Feb 11, 2025 at 8:08 PM giselle beiguelman via NetBehaviour < netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote: > What a powerful text! I can’t wait for the book. > > GB > > Em ter., 11 de fev. de 2025 às 20:40, marc.garrett via NetBehaviour < > netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org> escreveu: > >> *A Suicide at the Picnic* >> >> Before Ken became my stepdad, my mother, my brother Nigel, and I would >> often walk past the local garage where he worked as a mechanic. We would >> stop and chat with him, exchanging pleasantries. At the time, I wasn't >> entirely sure how long it took for him to step into the role of our father >> after Barry, our biological dad, was sent to prison. Barry's absence didn't >> leave a void for us—we didn't miss him. However, we did deeply mourn the >> loss of our sister, Donna, who had been taken away by social services >> around the same time. That was the real heartbreak. >> >> When Mum started seeing Ken, life seemed to have a brighter hue. >> Everything felt rosy, and we genuinely enjoyed each other's company. >> Although they weren't married yet, Ken naturally assumed the role of our >> new dad. It was an exciting time for us, and we still lived in our modest >> ground-floor flat on Windermere Road. >> >> One morning, Ken pulled up outside the flat in a Bentley T1, a sleek and >> impressive car. He casually mentioned that it was the same model the Duke >> of Devonshire owned. I had no idea who that was then, but the name made it >> sound grand. The car's boot was packed with a picnic hamper brimming with >> delicious food: fresh rolls, butter, ham, cheese, tomatoes, cucumber, >> boiled eggs, pickles, and more. Alongside it was a large crocheted blanket, >> one of Mum's favourites. It had a zigzag pattern, which I always thought >> was beautiful. >> >> As soon as we climbed inside, I noticed how pristine the Bentley smelled, >> a mix of freshness and a distinct scent that I later assumed was leather. I >> wasn't sure if the seats were made of leather, but they certainly had a >> strong, rich scent. Ken explained that he had borrowed the car from a >> friend named Tommy, who was passionate about collecting cars. This >> particular loan was a gesture of appreciation for some repair work Ken had >> done for him. Tommy had many vehicles; I vividly remember him visiting us >> once in a striking yellow Lotus Elan. That car had an 8-track tape player, >> an obsolete format, but at the time, it played the smooth, soulful grooves >> of the late '60s, adding to its charm. >> >> This trip marked a milestone for my brother and me—our first outing into >> the countryside. Ken drove for about an hour, and none of us, except him, >> knew our destination. Eventually, he parked at the top of a hill, and we >> climbed over a turnstile, stepping onto a vast, open meadow. In the >> distance, a railway line cut through the landscape. Mum spread the large >> blanket on the grass, carefully arranging the food, cutlery, and crockery. >> The sun shone warmly, and a gentle breeze danced through the air. It felt >> like the perfect day. I was particularly delighted because boiled egg >> sandwiches were my absolute favourite. >> >> It was one of those rare, precious early moments with Ken. We were all >> together, basking in the simplicity of a family picnic. We ate, laughed, >> and enjoyed the idyllic setting, savouring our newfound happiness and >> stability. >> >> Then, abruptly, the atmosphere shifted. A policeman emerged from nowhere, >> walking shakily up the hill toward us. Ken immediately stood up and went >> down to meet him. Their conversation was quiet and solemn. I could only >> watch from a distance, wondering if we had unknowingly trespassed and >> broken the law. But it soon became apparent that something far more grave >> had occurred. >> >> Ken returned to us, his expression unreadable. The officer remained >> partway down the hill, waiting. Ken then delivered news that changed the >> day's tone entirely—a person had jumped in front of a train, and the >> officer, who was on his own, needed assistance. He needed Ken's help to >> retrieve the scattered remains of the body. >> >> Without hesitation, Mum and Ken began packing away our picnic. They >> quickly stowed the half-eaten food, utensils, and dishes into the basket. >> Ken tugged at the blanket, folded it neatly, and, without another word, >> followed the policeman down the bottom of the hill. As they disappeared >> from view, the distant sound of police sirens began filling the air, but we >> could not tell what was happening. >> >> For the next forty-five minutes, we waited in uneasy silence. When Ken >> finally returned, he looked pale, his face tinged with shades of grey and >> green. He didn't say a word about what he had witnessed or done. There was >> no discussion, no attempt to explain. The weight of the experience clung to >> him like an invisible shroud. We gathered the rest of our things, climbed >> back into the Bentley, and drove home in silence, the earlier joy of the >> day wholly erased. The ride back felt infinitely more prolonged than the >> drive there, and the air was thick with an unspoken heaviness that none of >> us dared to break. >> >> A section from the book Feral Class by Marc Garrett. To be published by >> Minor Compositions in 2025. >> >> >> _______________________________________________ >> NetBehaviour mailing list >> NetBehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org >> https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour >> > _______________________________________________ > NetBehaviour mailing list > NetBehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org > https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour > -- *=====================================================* *directory http://www.alansondheim.org <http://www.alansondheim.org> tel 347-383-8552**email sondheim ut panix.com <http://panix.com>, sondheim ut gmail.com <http://gmail.com>* *=====================================================*
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