No Paths (2026) - Bandstand..Begged Scandal..Board Yards

Bandstand

Here -

Where...top floor swearing is frequent..

Where...poor disguises are deliberate..

Where...slippery couples meet between sheets of hard fabric..

Where...derelict woods shelter shriveled worlds..

Where...door step begging is hasty and mindless..

is the place language comes to die.

Begged Scandal

Here -

Where...old parking is pavement rumour and small stone guttered..

Where...eclipsed views remain splintered with caged scissor precision..

Where...begged scandal is threatened..

Where...24 hour slowness is eyed suspiciously through boarded shop window..

Where...young shoes shoulder new passages on to industry dust covered machinery..

is the place language comes to die.

Board Yards

Here -

Where...recycled pathways stay unused and ignored..

Where...newly painted rail station gallery is haunted by plastic discipline..

Where...cryptic commands rattle through tight van streets into twisted board yards..

Where...key-ring novelty is blown into building machinery..

Where...boxed reminders become landfill..

is the place language comes to die.

No Paths (2026) - Adult Hands...Apple Canal...Back Pocket

Adult Hands

Here -

Where...illegal plastic high releases urgent stammered step..

Where...solitary private glass is windowed in shoddy single drinking room..

Where...stolen adult hands are nailed..

Where...blown factory wall rage by-passes toughened water..

Where...sponsored imagination drains away through rusting pipe..

is the place language comes to die.

Apple Canal  

Here -

 

Where...surface anger is scheduled for evening cycle ride..

Where...delivery boxed vandalism is slow hand clapped on coin free street corner..

Where...carded empty building sites play daytime tunes to passing tin drunk..

Where...scooters litter apple canal space..

Where...walking dogs is compulsory..

is the place language comes to die.

Back Pocket

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.

Lowland Feather - Short Story Extract

Image - Steve Coel

...out there 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...

...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...

 ...after too many years spent on The Mercy Path absorbing wire sharp whistled song, farewells will still be given through brick house window and muddied wall...

No Paths

Here, where young people never return and there are no paths; is the place language comes to die.

Text - Steve Coel

Photograph - Steve Coel

Curated by An 11.59 Publication

MicroFlashFiction - An 11.59 Publication

City Trilogy ( Part 1 )

Dead Air into Warm Harp

Since I bust my legs down The Works I've had to spend my mornings blowing dead air into warm harp by the Central Library. Truth be known, it bust my heart too. Lost everything now. Everything. Still... once I get enough coin in my pocket I go and get a Mild and Clark's pie down The Vulcan. And...often or not, I end up talking to the old girls warming themselves up before they go and shelter under the bridge by The Glastonbury.

Clink Hotel across the road gets noisy in the afternoon after lunch so I wander into town for a bit of a stretch and cadge a cup of tea from Astey's, before heading back down Bute to the Sally for warm meal and early bunk. Don't get time to feel sorry for myself really, not me. Trick I find is to forget past and just stick to what's happening now.

Need change of shoes mind...but I'll always find some in the box by the side door come Sunday morning.

Half Stolen Buildings

In her regulation daytime tracksuit armour, cracking with coarse whispers and yesterdays broken promise, the young girl pushes her vape shadowed baby carrier pass steamed up pub windows. Her world is the High Street where each day a bitter grey tide shambles downhill towards abandoned blue churches and disappearing city light. And it is here her plastic shoes will once again slap into one off needles that litter fishless gutters and where, even on dry days, the pavement is damp.

Smells of Time...

In you come in your sad seven year old ironic tracksuit and pair of box fresh looking for deals on the board behind the brown top counter which we know show the same best day price as last time, last week, last month. So in you come, doing quick sums and ordering a dozen shots with your release money which you quickly share out to punters who don't care anymore. In you come, barely missed and completely blitzed. A madman bent by routine, a madman twisted by addiction, a mad man caught in the to and fro of the outside which has turned its back...and good riddance.

In you come - a poorer man, smelling of time.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

New Fictions

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

MicroFlashFiction and Experimental Narratives, An 11.59 Publication 

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

All That Remained Were Words...

...alongside (the many) mercenary stones that still indicate mossy unmarked graves... 

You seem listless in redundant twisted grey/green peaky cap as you leave the windowless corner caff. Your beard is wild and your eyes still sing of lost love and addiction. 

Days among these gravelly pits and cobbled streets are drunken... with local traders dealing in loose change and cans of strong cider your 24 hour park life is spent drinking, lying and dying.

Eventually you too will be burned in the tight verge leaving only your words: 

1..2..3 You Can't Kill Me!

Digbeth, Birmingham

2025

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

...creating fictions...

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication ...creating fictions...

Steve Coel

Smells of Time

Steve Coel

In you come...in your sad seven year old ironic tracksuit and pair of box fresh. In you come...looking for deals on the board behind the counter, which we all know show the same best advert as the last time, last week, last month, last year.

In you come...doing quick sums and ordering a dozen shots with your release money, which you quickly share out to punters who are no longer interested. In you come...barely missed and completely blitzed...just another forgotten madman. 

In you come...a madman bent by the routine; a madman twisted by addiction; a madman caught in the to and fro of the outside which has turned its back and good riddance.

In you come...smelling of time.

From City Trilogy (Part 1), An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Market Dish

Market Dish 

Here -

Where...beggared coffee is alley fresh..

Where...small change cups are collected for market stall dish..

Where...sweeping eye line catches weak fumbled glass..

Where...failure becomes habit..

Where...folded arm argument frames evening entertainment..

is the place language comes to die.

...creating fictions...

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Bandstand

Bandstand

Here -

Where...top floor swearing is frequent..

Where...poor disguises are deliberate..

Where...slippery couples meet between sheets of harsh fabric..

Where...derelict woods shelter shrivelled worlds..

Where...door step begging is hasty and mindless..

is the place language comes to die.

...creating fictions...

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Daytime Sleeping

Daytime Sleeping

Here -

Where...shielded discount aisles are glued together with spiced smile and free news..

Where...stickered metal bollards herd cheap early morning trainee's shoe..

Where...daytime sleeping is bagged with tourist litter..

Where...each stuttering step is guided by habit..

Where...whiskered waterway trees hang on singing electric wire..

is the place language comes to die.

...creating fictions...

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Deaf Ear: Parts 1 to 4 and Leafed Reminders

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel

Deaf Ear: Parts 1 to 4

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 archive crowds 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..

is the place language comes to die.

From Half Stolen Buildings (2024)

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel

Leafed Reminders

Here -

Where...dusty wind up street watches clutter closed library doorstep..

Where...smoked paper bag breakfasts are pocketed behind laddered vans..

Where...pointed leather shoes kick out leafed reminders of late morning wrestled submissions..

Where...painted wall challenges are numbered and stripped of crafted meaning..

Where...mobile ticket hall becomes corrupted illegal water bridge..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

 

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Dead Air into Warm Harp

Documentary Fiction Photography

Dead Air into Warm Harp

Steve Coel

Since I bust my legs down The Works I've had to spend all my mornings blowing dead air into warm harp by the Central Library. Bust my heart too truth be known. Lost everything now. Still...once I get enough coin I has a mild and Clark's pie down The Vulcan, and often or not, I end up talking to the old girls warming themselves up before they go and shelters under the bridge by The Glastonbury.

Clink Hotel across the road gets noisy in the afternoon so I usually wonder into town for a bit of a stretch and go and cadge a cup of tea from Asteys before heading back down Bute for warm meal and early bunk.

Doesn't have time to feel sad really. Not me. Trick I finds is to forget past and just stick to what I knows. Need change of shoes mind. Guess I'll find some in the box by side door Sunday morning.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication .....creating fictions....

 

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

No Paths

Steve Coel

Here -

Where...young people never return and there are no paths..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

.....creating fictions.....

Steve Coel

No Paths: Experimental Narratives, 2026

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication .....creating fictions...

 

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Metallic Stumble

Here -

Where...straight talking is a cold charmless click..

Where...wind launched building demolitions scratch neighborhood itch..

Where...stickered light falls on damp nylon shoe..

Where...last nights takeaway guides corner walled stumble..

Where...bitter smoke sticks to dark glass passenger..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Chemical Bone + Shank Metal

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Chemical Bone

Here- 

Where...car corner shadowed delivery is timed for all night pick up..

Where...burnt out tools lie on warped oil chop shop floor..

Where...thrift store T shirts sit bin begging long after closing 

time..

Where...skin twists tight against prescribed illegal chemical bone..

Where...tree lined hiding place becomes stripped down home for safe 

refuge..

is the place language comes to die.

Shank Metal

Here -

Where...frosted eating is laced with home grown bagged chemical..

Where...shared escape looks like walking..

Where...respect is shank metal ribbon hidden..

Where...floor sleeping is warehouse skipped redundant..

Where...happiness is distant..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Etched Arm

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Etched Arm

Here -

Where...ripped memory is etched into electric wall..

Where...enveloped escape payment lies forgotten..

Where...plastic 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.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Tented Song

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Tented Song

Here -

Where...broken rhythms pulse out of boarded second hand door darkness..

Where...stolen boxed official paper deliveries lie forgotten behind metered indoor yard..

Where...beggared song is shuttled away from bagged evening collection..

Where...glass eyed conversation is embankment tented secret..

Where...newness is nailed down and closely observed..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Wired Beauty

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

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 / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Metal Carpet

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Metal Carpet

Here -

Where...knotted metal carpet rolls lean on concrete window salesroom..

Where...reflected sleep is caught shuffling across bridged river..

Where...drained smiles remain confused..

Where...doctored papers shield gridded nylon building..

Where...ordered talk is wooden..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Open Mic. June, 2025. Y Gogledd: #2

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Paper Bag

Here -

 

Where...banned entry is monitored by walled bored glass eye..

Where...cracked machine street furniture empties rigid oil onto skated shoe..

Where...paper bag eating is tin roof sheltered..

Where...curious hands grip tightly bridged water passage way..

Where...alarm bells herd crowds into uniformed wallets of silence..

is the place language comes to die.

Electric Hair

Here -

Where...tree scaffolding shields stained daytime drinking..

Where...coughed innocence is heavy in charity cotton shirt..

Where...electric hair passengers are stiff backed against fake safety exit..

Where...metalled corner stubs become local broken emblems..

Where...chested aggression clips rough handed into rum hinged crowd..

is the place language comes to die.

Glum Dance

Here -

Where...slim concrete staircase funnels nervous jealous glance..

Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone..

Where...young people die old..

Where...unopened door fades into peeling brick and small bottled back yard..

Where...glum dance patters on fractured acre..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Greedy Laughter

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Greedy Laughter

Here - 

Where...filmed movement is bound by derelict building and deadwood fire..

Where...sober silent conversations are concerned and paper free..

Where...official tattooed authority is broken by wired library bench seat..

Where...early evening heron fishing gets plastic bag poison water netted..

Where...greedy laughter clings to painted doorway shadow..

is the place language comes to die

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Open Mic. June, 2025. Y Gogledd

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Painted Hatred

Here -

Where...silence is timed..

Where...kerbside road walking is never local..

Where...car lights halt hooded debt collection..

Where...early morning cigarettes are gathered from canal path bin..

Where...painted hatred shows handcuffed hints of humour..

is the place language comes to die.

Sad Eyes

Here -

Where...crowded thoughts are positioned above empty guide dog begging..

Where...plastic bag clumsiness shelters fenced bus stop..

Where...shadow glassed laughter becomes bitter and sad-eyed..

Where...blistered wood holds signed memories of yesterdays bargains..

Where...puddle damp trainers split through confused traffic..

is the place language comes to die.

Metallic Stumble

Here -

Where...straight talking is a cold charmless metallic click..

Where...wind launched building demolition scratches neighbourhood itch..

Where...stickered light falls on damp nylon shoe..

Where...last nights takeaway guides corner walled stumble..

Where...gritted smoke sticks to dark glass passenger..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel/An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Open Mic, June 2025. Y De.

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel

Adult Hands

Here -

Where...illegal plastic high releases urgent stammered step..

Where...solitary private glass is windowed in shoddy single drinking room..

Where...stolen adult hands are nailed..

Where...blown factory wall rage by-passes toughened water..

Where...sponsored imagination drains away through rusting pipe..

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 a painful reminder of loss..

Where...wired thought becomes backroom industry..

is the place language comes to die.

Metal Carpet

Here -

Where...knotted metal carpet rolls lean on concrete window salesroom..

Where...reflected sleep is caught shuffling across bridged river..

Where...drained smiles remain confused..

Where...doctored papers shield gridded nylon building..

Where...ordered talk is wooden ..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

* Add ons - random choice[s] from 2023 - Stretched Bone (An 11.59 Publication)

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Wire Horizons

 

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel

Wire Horizons

Here -

Where...truck loaded panel shelters are fragile and small minded..

Where...bird wire horizons become tortured tree reminders of industry..

Where...casual uniform is formal authority threat to liquid thought..

Where...lamp post stickers appeal to irrational voted thinking..

Where...empty towers crumble into bottled grass memory of a good better time..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Tin Canal

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel

Tin Canal

Here -

Where...alarmed rent money is silently spent..

Where...hi-rise wind flows between tin canal and secretly painted terrace..

Where...glued actions bustle into map markets..

Where...electric fear spreads from street to newspaper columned whisper..

Where...window shadow warnings are ignored..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Board Yards

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel

Board Yards

Here -

Where...shuffled animal recycled pathways stay unused and ignored..

Where...newly painted rail station gallery is haunted by plastic discipline..

Where...cryptic commands rattle through tight van streets into twisted board yards..

Where...key-ring novelty is blown into punctured building machinery..

Where...boxed reminders become land-fill..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication - Tickertape Blossom

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel

Tickertape Blossom

Here -

Where...blanket river scene is reflected on forged interest brick and cemented error..

 

Where...empty windowed business shields broad shouldered silence..

Where...tidal courses are banished..

Where...apple tree blossom tickertapes sullen grass verge..

Where...beat box music, early morning bird and shrill delivery van collide...

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication