Tag Archives: australian fiction

Weed on High

Weed on High

You’d think that telling chicks you write music for movies and live in a terrace in Darlinghurst would be a winner. It’s when they find out more that everything turns to custard.

Yeah, I really do write music for movies. Soft porn, since you ask. You know, girls lying on the bonnet of a Ferrari and slooooowly taking their kit off, licking their lips, then their fingers, and putting those fingers places where the camera goes on full zoom to follow. Nothing violent, sometimes a couple of lezzies, sometimes a girl with a guy, often a girl on her own.

This bloke in America makes the movies and pays me to do the music. Every time some horny bugger with his tongue hanging out downloads one of the movies it’s royalties for me too. It’s a nice little earner that bulks up the money I make being a sparky. Until the bloody ATO discovers me Paypal account.

Women I date don’t like it that I have to watch the porn to write the music but I can’t write without seeing what I’m writing for, can I?

When I was a kid I wanted to be a rock star. The only sensible thing Dad ever done for me was force me to become an apprentice electrician instead. Get a trade first, he said, so’s if the music shit doesn’t work out you got a day job. It didn’t work out but a few years back I taught myself how to compose music on a synth and computer, doof doof stuff that sells well on the internet for those dance and rave places where nobody gives a shit about the music but wants the beat.

One contact led to another and for the last year it’s been the porn music, regular stuff, one soundtrack every two or three weeks.  Bland sort of music, and I bet nobody notices if one soundtrack isn’t very different to another when they’re watching the action. I wonder if most of the blokes who watch this stuff notice the music at all really. Continue reading

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By Any Other Name

Imagine your Mum’s handwriting was so appalling that you were registered with the wrong name. An embarrassing one. And to get around it you create a whole fantasy existence …

By Any Other Name

by Caroline Sully

By Any Other Name

I was born at the same time we were moving house: from our crowded rented terrace in Glebe to a Federation pile on the lower north shore my Dad’s childless, widowed aunt had left to her only nephew.

From the confines of the Crown Street Women’s Hospital in Surry Hills Mum dazedly gave instructions about the move as Dad and my three older sisters thundered into the ward to congratulate a weary Mum and get their first peek at me.

I was, apparently, a red-faced squawking scrap of a thing with a mop of dark hair. My sisters, expecting a pink and white angelic infant who slept with a Mona Lisa smile on her perfect face, were disappointed and said so while Mum and Dad filled out the paperwork.

I was to be named Denise after the said departed aunt. After a heated discussion about my middle name, which made me howl even louder and brought a starchy nurse to the bedside, Mum scrawled the name Elinor down and sent the family away.

She gave the nurse the completed form for my birth certificate, and went to sleep. Job done.

Nobody thought to question Mum’s writing, which was appalling at the best of times and even worse after a long labour and a good dose of painkillers.

It wasn’t until I was five years old and starting school that we all realised the name on my birth certificate had actually been recorded as Penise.

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Filed under Fiction, Short(ish) Stories