Empty Chair - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

The Workplace

Steve Coel

Late for work

Again.

Busy stock taking

in the basement.

Power...

failure.

Wrong leaves 

late train.

Two weeks

jury service.

Fire 

drill.

False alarm

probably.

New cook

in the staff canteen.

Food

poisoning.

Strange noise

from the floor above.

Annual leave

staying in the caravan owned by that quiet guy in accounts.

A friendly word

to the new audit intern.

Multi tasking 

presumably.

Busy

really busy.

Payback

Employee of the Month.

MicroFlashFiction - National Flash Fiction Day 2023

MicroFlashFiction

Have a creative National Flash Fiction Day

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

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Where...rough steps are will be taken to re-shape a brutalised blinkered existence. Probably.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Whistled Anger - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

Empty deadwood skip ideas 

reflect forgotten work messages

Where...hawthorn tree spaces catch song and memory..

Small window frames 

split wall and broken vision

Where...whistled anger cuts through motored gateway..

Where...subtle fingers repeat last nights drunken movements..

Shop door begging signs 

echo stranded isolated shouts of unheard ignored anger

Where...painted side street paths splash oiled drug wish on to sullen booted youth..

Where...anonymous blind construction hides skyline humour..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Small Pockets - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

Where...antique van apathy clings to melted future..

Where...layered sounds of gated dog and broken motor serenade gloomy high street..

Where...teenage anger lasts long into retirement..

Where...harmony is seen between broken shop trolley, mid-summer puffa jacket and cannabis vape..

Where...bottom shelf goods are swallowed by small pockets..

is the place language comes to die.

Local Trade - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..

Where...fussy overcoats and woollen carpet shape valley roadway.. 

Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..

Where...fallen bricks slice postered railing..

Where...juiced radio plays out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..

is the place language comes to die.