MicroFlashFiction - Short Stories and Experimental Narratives. '...my experimental approach to writing is suited to this medium...it's an odd kind of laughter sometimes...and it's always in the hidden places...(an ongoing series of) imaginative journeys into experimental fiction...' Writing Review, Q+A - 2024. Steve Coel
Here -
Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..
Where...fussy overcoats and woolen carpet shape grassed up valley roadway..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
Where...fallen brick slices postered railing..
Where...bottom shelf goods are swallowed by small pockets..
is the place language comes to die.
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.
Here-
Where...the slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..
Where...routine is never obvious..
Where...fuzzy pictures reveal short hard lives scratched on to broken dockside and burnt timber..
Where...homes are splashed across derelict tired hillside..
Where...debt plagues argument like two coins rubbed clear..
is the place language comes to die.
Here-
Where...plastic fairground jewelery lies chewed up..
Where...kerbstone wheels dawdle in tune with open door security..
Where...words spoken in jest between strangers are echoes of threat to local trade..
Where...shuttered motor industry is impatient and bolted into the fabric of labour..
Where...failure becomes a habit..
is the place language comes to die.
* Previously published: Chewed Up - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...cheap tables split abandoned doorways..
Where...cliff edge bramble holds litter to ransom..
Where...puzzled footstep is matched with clumsy frail voice..
Where...second hand clipped fashion rails spill strong alcohol and stained toxic mist..
Where...beauty is hooded..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...small feet climb cob-web steel tree and pram wheels fall into strutted path..
Where...slippery eyes fix on glassy oil pavement..
Where...shredded cliff top grass twists halted message..
Where...bitter, blameless minds enter watered down invisible strips of shadow..
Where...dead fruit is picked clean by unseen nightlife..
is the place language comes to die.
Heavy Locks
Quarrels echo across the yard toward a large watery gate. Grey
figures turn hiding their hands and run as animals scatter
with the wind. Down the hill
women gather and men glare from behind vast whiskers.
In photographs of heavy locks, decisions are fastened
from the outside.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
* Previously published: Kildas Song, Feb.2017 An 11.59 Publication
Like a dream it was just now. You barefoot and unconcerned across this wet road, it being early morning and all. I'm guessing here but you must have started the evening with shoes. Anyway, there you go. No CCTV following you, not round here, not yet. But you're being watched my friend, trust me, you're being watched. Yes it's quiet around here.Well apart from the water pouring from this broken guttering and occasional gun fire. Odd that. Guns usually start later, at a more sociable hour. No point this time of day. No-one to frighten really. So this time of day is just showing off.
So what the fuck's you doing round here? Is beyond me. Thing is though I'm not being paid to worry about stupid little fucks like you am I ? So, better get on then. Now, I'll just get this knife in a bit further and I'll be on my own way as well.
Shit. Was that gunfire again?
* Previously published: Tin Collector - Selected MicroFlashFiction, 2015. An 11.59 Publication
Robert Johnson, 1911 - 1938
In the tumble down wooden wide spot Robert sits crumpled with a 12 fret guitar on his knee as slowly he begins to play to the expectant faces in the crowd.
He returns their stares and begins to weave his spells.
He sings of lost love and slavery and distant waters. Finally, he twists the last notes towards the wet earth and finishes. The faces stop staring. People smile and thank him.
Robert returns to his thoughts and cigarette and once more listens to the distant voice tempting him to play God.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
* Previously published: UnEven Journey - April, 1993. An 11.59 Publication
** Previously recorded: Two Voices E.P. - 1998. An 11.59 Publication