As you will now no doubt be reminded that Solkyri’s new album, Mount Pleasant, launches on March 6, 2020, and I am in the process of writing a piece of flash fiction for each track. Grab it, have a listen.
You can read Holding Pattern, and Pendock and Progress, the first two pieces.
The band is hosting an album launch on March 28, 2020 (if you’re in Sydney, Australia).
I am launching one more piece, a prologue to the album. After this I am setting out to write six more pieces for the other tracks and will launch the collection as a chapbook later in the year, probably before June (to allow for typesetting, set up, ordering copies and the like – stay tuned).
The prologue sets the scene for the thematic focus of the album: deception, decait and false facades. The stories are based on the inspiration behind each track, and interpreted in my own way, and my response to the music.
Four boys pulled up on their BMX bikes at the sign declaring the name of their suburb, dismounted and dropped their bikes just off the footpath in the unmown grass and collected rocks from the broken edging of the bitumen where it crumbled and exposed the road base.
The white reflective background of the sign mimicked a rainbow from the right angle as the boys took aim at the black and faded capital letters. This invisible line of demarcation creating a boundary of narrowed expectations as thin and carcinogenic as a cigarette. Scratched and pockmarked with its own acne.
The boys threw their rocks with no other intention than to score a hit, celebrating the ping as each rock struck. One of them drifted away, found a length of stick and started swinging through the heads of grass and weeds. He flung the stick towards his mates, skittering it along the footpath as it twisted and jumped, hitting one of them in the back of the legs. It was thrown back with greater force, catching him across the shins.
“Arsehole.” A smirk at having drawn spots of blood.
The honk of a horn and the rattle of ute pulling over onto the crumbled verge, tyres coughing through the gravel, passing the boys and pulling up just beyond the sign. Two council workers hopped out and began setting up tools at the base of the sign. The boys watched, ignored by the council workers. One of them pulled a packet of Burger Rings from under his t-shirt, filched from the servo where they’d pumped up their bike tyres. Another one passed around a packet of chewie.
A piece of gravel taken from the footpath and chucked it at the sign. It pinged and the council workers flinched and retorted, “Piss off!”
“What ya doing? Having smoko?”
“Changing the sign; what does it bloody look like?”
“Suburb’s getting a name change.”
“Because of hooligans like you, that’s what’s for.”
The four stood around as the council workers set up two step ladders behind the sign, climbed up and began loosening nuts. The spanner slipped from the hand of one of the workers and clattered in the gravel and dirt. The boys raised a mocking chorus of approval. They watched the name of their suburb come down, thrown into the back of the ute tray before the new sign was pulled from a cardboard sheath.
Within a few minutes the new sign was in place instantly changing the name of the suburb. The new sign gleamed pristine and fresh.
“Dad reckons changing the name of the suburb is like wearing a suit to the pub.”
“Yeah but your dad’s full of shit, too.”
Beyond the sign the suburb looked exactly the same, unaware of the name change and probably wouldn’t have cared for it anyway.
One of boys picked up another piece of gravel and chucked it at the sign, the ping ricocheting into the traffic noise.
“Different name. Same shithole.”
They spat their chewing gum at the sign, picked up their bikes, rode under the sign and headed home.