MicroFlashFiction: Short Stories and Experimental Narratives - Steve Coel. '...Coel's experimental short fiction is really suited to this medium...' Writing Review, Q+A - 2024.
Here -
Where...frosted symphony bamboo foot bleeds into glass split concrete..
Where...silent fingers cup memory..
Where...bloodied alert eyes are street fierce..
Where...back pocket lamps guide bullied handshake greeting..
Where...muted trolley tight waiting is slow shuffled along wired footpath
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...spirited cloth tightly holds hidden defence..
Where...painted step reveals rusted night-time dancing..
Where...burnt time walking becomes wall shy and forced..
Where...open doors disperse rumour of stolen memory..
Where...expensive remarks are fake..
is the place language comes to die.
Wired Beauty
Here -
Where...drowned road happiness is traded for pennies..
Where...beauty is inked into loose skin..
Where...hostel dispute is shop door knuckled..
Where...salted air breathing is painful reminder of loss..
Where...wired thought becomes backroom industry..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel
Cut by masters of dead trades into bitter grey stone is your complete life story. Brief, like you, words from broken parents target elders who created your passing. Steve Coel
Lowland Feather
...after years spent on The Mercy Path absorbing wire sharp whistled song, farewells are still given through brick house window and muddied wall...
...close by, as carefully baited lowland feather slaps its muted surface, ripple stone water stumbles into ice age grass bank...and through gaps in tree tired stone walls, wild horses fret and gather as rutted horizons shadow mountain valley...
...(there) out on the scarab pathed moor, where lonely birds pleat their song into ferned memory, old feet, leisured by a lifetime of pain, shuffle slowly homewards...
Steve Coel
Saturday Night
..Experimental Narrative..
Iron Shelter
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...music is day-time dead..
Where...beaten up strangled trees steal fenced air..
Where...pavement shy funeral cars are smokey..
Where...mapped walkway is silenced by small group gossip..
Where...sleeping iron sided shelters are brick piled into bulldozed walls..
is the place language comes to die.
Deaf Ear
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..
Where...anger is buttery..
Where...doorstep begging is hasty and youthful..
Where...brave words are thrown away with cheap lager and soapy gritted water..
Where...curled up broken yard hideaways become legend..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...layered sounds of gated dog and broken motor serenade gloomy high street..
Where...cheap toys are solitary on pavement and stolen trolley..
Where...flagless memory walks sullen and dead down late night dual carriageway tunnel..
Where...simple slogans are stamped hard on tourist lamp post..
Where...lost faces merge with elderly condemned brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...early sandal foot death lays down grass foundation..
Where...shallow drunk opinion dominates afternoon decision making..
Where...teenage defence is held tightly to deaf ear..
Where...clumsy stapled barriers warn away passing neighbourhood shadows..
Where...off grid roads disappear through unpleasant fields of illegal chambered stubble..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...sad walled archives crowd day time sky..
Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..
Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carefully on stolen rusty spike rods..
Where...blistered nickel punches into broken fence..
Where...bitter tunes are formed around rough gateway..
is the place language comes to die.
Oiled Doorstep
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking..
Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone and heathland water..
Where...fractured ganglines decide night-time movement..
Where...ribboned plastic roof top windows glisten on oiled doorstep..
Where...seagulls congregate to share daytime information..
is the place language comes to die.
Timed Silence
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...silence is timed..
Where...stern booted smiles are frequent..
Where...folded arm argument frames evening entertainment..
Where...car lights halt hooded debt collection..
Where...hi-rise threats are sprayed on dumpster and metal security door..
is the place language comes to die.
Grey Water
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...hollow buildings shadow painted monument..
Where...decaying plastic childhood lies perched on slopes of tall stripped tree..
Where...repaired jigsaw roads wait for seasonal pacing and frosty morning..
Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone..
Where...daily trauma functions alongside passing rumour..
is the place language comes to die.
Q: Why do you publish online?
A: Well...I think my experimental approach to writing is suited to this medium. Although, to be fair, the initial drive to do this also coincided with my gradual withdrawal from festivals, recording and live performance.
I have published limited edition MicroFlashFiction pamphlets/chapbooks which I included in some of my Documentary Fiction Photography Folio Boxes [ Examples: The Mercy Path; Stryd Fawr / Stryd Uchel; UnEven Street -An 11.59 Publication].
But yes, online MicroFlashFiction and Experimental Narratives is the medium I have been involved with for the last 17 years.
Q: How have you previously responded to publisher/agent requests?
A: To genuine requests? Well...I'm not reclusive in the sense that I feel disconnected in some way from a mainstream...just take a look at some of the fantastic online music making, online art galleries, on line literature events and so on. There's a lot going on and a lot of us doing this...by choice.
Writing Review: Extract - MicroFlashFiction, Q+A 2024
Evenings Shadow - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...narrow lane adventures are captured in muddy headlight and cry of tortured bird..
Where...broken lives are inherited..
Where...evenings shadow lies distressed on ripped rock and moss border..
Where...isolated youth walk through decades of frosted vision..
Where...small trees blanket fallen brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Idle Heels - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...bladed vape chatter tumbles into unlit corridor..
Where...fragmented sour heeled machinery lies idle..
Where...cracked glass memory leans into elbowed temper..
Where...crippled time shelters from hillside churched solitude..
Where...rusty thimble alcoholics drink cold cartons of charity coffee..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Daytime Sleeping - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...shielded discount aisles are glued together with spaced smile and free news..
Where...stickered metal bollards herd cheap early morning training shoe..
Where...daytime sleeping space is bagged with tourist litter..
Where...each stuttering step is guided by addiction habit..
Where...whiskered waterway tree hangs on singing electric wire..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
The Mercy Path - Lowland Feather
Steve Coel
...after days years spent on the Mercy Path listening absorbing to wire sharp whistled song, last farewells are (still) given free through tufted grass brick work house window and muddied wall...
...close by, ripple stone water stumbles against into tired grass bank as baited lowland feather slaps its muted surface...and through gaps in low tree tired stone walls, wild horses fret and gather as rutted horizons shadow mountain passage valley....
Rock Pockets - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...small feet carry heavy living..
Where...polluted idle engines blow rust water into lipped gutter..
Where...emergency words remain anonymous..
Where...stone roof collapse haunts drunken memory..
Where...rock pocket begging is sandwiched between road crossing and loose fingers..
is the place language comes to die.
Honest Footstep - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...weather growls at footsteps and distant noise is ancient and honest..
Where...rain drills fluent bitter nightmare into supple iron smile..
Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelter..
Where...silent voices speak empty values to woolen walls..
Where...cold slab chipped rock fountain is smiling and love struck..
is the place language comes to die.
Etched Arm - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...ripped memory is etched into electric wall..
Where...enveloped escape payments lie forgotten..
Where...plastic shopping bag purchase is photographed and questioned..
Where...traffic stamps impatiently along ditched street..
Where...broken fence literature is sprayed on machined older arm..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Machine Winnings - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...failure becomes a habit..
Where...values are challenged and always disputed..
Where...machine winnings replace job prospects..
Where...happiness is solitary, forgotten and distant..
Where...teenage anger lasts long into retirement..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Brick Bank - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...disguised water shudders beneath road corrosive tar.. and abandoned metal escape door..
Where...daylight hides behind abandoned metal escape door..
Where...brambled adventure is signposted with late last nights left overs..
Where...baited brick memory foot step becomes rudderless..
Where...gloved fingers pick apart wooden slatted slatted wooden wire protest barrier..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Secret Keys - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...angry muted back street conversation is hidden..
Where...illegal music gags unlicensed holder of secret keys..
Where...push chair convention is ignored..
Where...teenage defence is tightly held to deaf ear..
Where...skin is scissored..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Broken Light - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded walls of commerce..
Where...fractured gang lines decide night time movement..
Where...waistcoat watches lie trapped in muddied brickwork..
Where...shallow drunk opinion dominates afternoon decision making..
Where...beauty is hooded..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Small Fish - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...gilded barks sink into wild animal muddied path..
Where...small fish paper local canal..
Where...plastic scaffolding is blown off derelict shelter..
Where...threatened glance reveals suspicion of the new..
Where...bad health is assumed..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
In the Corner - Steve Coel
In the corner of the local cafe sits the neighbourhood's old lady. She's here every day, her cups never empty and she's never charged.
Around midnight she'll often prowl out pointing and swearing at the passing cars as staff take it in turns, from a distance, to see her home safely.
Early morning they clear her corner, waiting for her inevitable return.
Glum Dance - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...slim concrete staircase funnels nervous jealous glance..
Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone..
Where...young people die old..
Where...unopened doors fade into peeling brick and small bottle yards..
Where...glum dance patters aggressively on fractured acre..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Traded Memory - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..
Where...skin is scissored..
Where...memory is traded..
Where...new work jackets have missing buttons and broken zips..
Where...angry shadows are nailed on to walled in wasteland..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
