A tram - to nowhere... Extract(s)

Requested - from 1986 -87

...the bird darted from the sky, landed on top of his head digging its claws firmly into his skull and pecking at his eyes. After a few minutes nothing was left except torso and legs...' wake up mate, everybody out here!'...far below he could see the crowds watching expectantly. Waiting for him to fall.

...the snow was beginning to bother him, the cold didn't...Angels wings lay rotting under empty hi-rise tower blocks, rusting cars littered cracked side-walks, rain was falling...The sky crumbled, something was moving through a pile of discarded shop trolleys, loud music...

...the sound of a tram screeching to a sudden halt brought him back to his shaken senses...

Note: All my creative work during this period, both image making and writing, was very experimental.

Thanks for the request.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Bitter Fingers ( 2022 ) - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

Where...bitter fingers rub endlessly into painted brick..

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

Where...happiness is solitary, forgotten and distant..

Where...closed shops remain open..

Where...failure becomes a habit..

Where...values are challenged and always disputed..

Where...machine winnings replace job prospects..

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

Where...Sunday morning dead mans clutter waits for eager hands..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Small Country - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Me? I like to walk. 

I like listening to places - Steve Coel

( Interview: American Audio Prose Library, Columbia, Missouri )

Waving goodbye to the good times.

...she noticed the writing when quickly dropping from view to hide from her minder. He was still busy looking for her and she didn't fancy getting beat up again so soon after the last time. Evil man, evil temper, bad habits. But not even street minders come in this place. Not here. And owner, seeing it all, just simply placed drink on table and went outside for a couple of minutes to have a quiet word. She noticed them shaking hands. Clearly having reached some agreement.

...tonight, looking out on to the empty street she looked once more at the writing by the door. Strong words, written in her own language.

Small Country, from Tin Collector - Microflashfictions, 2015

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Dead Trees - Extract

Here -

Where...carriageway kinks line metal assault on painted banks and melted slices of stairway rug fold into careless shoe.. 

Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..

Where...damp cloth pulled tight obscures fading gossip..

is the place language comes to die.

Here -

Where...crowds gather to pass time with silence and bleak splintered openings face corrupted wire rubble..

Where...stoney-engined vehicle bruises centre lane grass and fallen dead leaf trees gather along stolen factory wall..

Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelters and shredded cliff top grass twists halted message..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Empty Corners - Extract

Stepping away from the street and through a broken open two door, customers painfully walk into a high congregation of brown paper and leather. Along each damp tired wall, anointed paint quietly peels and unclean fragile carpet, frayed by disappointment, falls into hooded empty corners stacked high with rotting chairs. 

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Early Shift - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Today the dry docks glimmer with salty channel rain, as woollen old men sit on one of their favourite benches to listen to the day go by. Each has a private smile as together they share the remembered songs and toughened laughter of the young hard welders they all once were.

And today as usual, visitors to the dock will be glancing at walls of dismal grey photographs. Some photographs show weary men and women waving half empty beer glasses in the air. Others are of car empty streets clogged with leather boots being dragged to early shifts. And some are of boys playing scrappy football with tight balls of Western and Echo in muddy parks bordered with adverts for cheap beer and bread.

And tomorrow? The old woollen men will return and listen to the dry docks all over again as departing visitors will once more fail to see them.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel

 

Heathland Water - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

Where...small talk clouds swiftly dug passages to the next world..

Where...fractured gang lines decide night time movement..

Where...the slow of foot shadow wooden shovel..

Where...the painted steps, that divide day, disappear like the canal bridge into glassy undergrowth..

Where...glances do not go unnoticed and powerful voices weaken after each glass..

Where...sunny morning and night time star move along rusting underpass..

Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerbside shop front..

Where...twisted paths sheepishly carve a route across knocked out grass and broken bale..

Where...weather growls at footsteps and distant noise is ancient and honest..

Where...cracked window wired doorways smell of cheap red wine and restless sleep..

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

Where...dreams begin and life ends..

is the place language comes to die.

Here -

Where...clipped metal drunken cans clutter the broken citadel at the head of illegal van garaged highways..

Where...coffee blasts from shattered arch vaped chatter..

Where...youth stubble stride across sleeping butchered road..

Where...loose coin is exchanged on the blind side of the adult corner..

Where...small feet climb cob-web steel tree and second hand pram wheels fall into strutted cobble..

Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking..

Where...chapel neat red velvet seats line walls of rooms that glow with stories of hill and tractor, long tipping nights, and arguments lost to hated officials..

Where...memories are painful and lonely deaths from Woodbine and Senior Service are still talked about in public houses..

Where...boasting is frowned upon..

Where...whispers are heathen across bleak land and words are spoken loudly by clear eyed distant people..

Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone and heathland water..

is the place language comes to die.

Heathland Water

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

No Paths - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

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

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication