I join the other comments would love to read the book Annie On Wed, Feb 12, 2025 at 12:33 PM marc.garrett via NetBehaviour < netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:
> Thanks, Ana, > > It feels somehow appropriate to share it on the list rather than on social > media :-) > > Wishing you well > > Marc > > > On Wednesday, 12 February 2025 at 04:49, Ana Valdés via NetBehaviour < > netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote: > > Looking forward to read the book excellent start! > Ana > > https://anavaldes.wordpress.com/ > www.twitter.com/caravia158 > http://www.scoop.it/t/art-and-activism/ > http://www.scoop.it/t/food-history-and-trivia > http://www.scoop.it/t/urbanism-3-0 > > > > > <http://www.scoop.it/t/postcolonial-mind/> > > cell Sweden +4670-3213370 > cell Uruguay +598-99470758 > > > "When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with > your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been and there you will always > long to return. > — Leonardo da Vinci > > > ons 12 feb. 2025 kl. 00:49 skrev Alan Sondheim via NetBehaviour < > netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org>: > >> 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>* >> *=====================================================* >> _______________________________________________ >> 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 >
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