From The Mercy Path (2024)

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

From Half Stolen Buildings ( 2024)

Drunken Memory

Here - 

Where...small feet carry heavy living..

Where...polluted idle engine blows 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.

Steve Coel

From Half Stolen Buildings (2024)

 

Kiosk Cards

Here -

Where...sad walled crowds archive day time sky..

Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..

Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carefully on stolen rusty spike..

Where...blistered nickel punches into broken fence..

Where...shallow drunk opinion dominates afternoon decision making..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel

From Half Stolen Buildings (2024)

Coat Collar Romance 

Here -

Where...shaded front window blanks out screamed memory..

Where...watered gravel road hides handshake meeting..

Where...cheap endeavour is forced..

Where...emotion is mid-air and blank eyed..

Where...coat collar romance is early evening and drunk..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel

From Half Stolen Buildings (2024)

Charity Coffee

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.

Steve Coel

Digbeth

Saturday Night

Sunday Afternoon

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

..Experimental Narrative..

Iron Shelter

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.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Deaf Ear

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.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Oiled Doorstep

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.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Timed Silence

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.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Grey water

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.

Documentary Fiction Photography

MicroFlashFiction - Q+A, August 2024

Steve Coel

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

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

From The Mercy Path

Steve Coel

Idle Heels

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

From The Mercy Path

Steve Coel

Daytime Sleeping

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

Celf Llawr

Steve Coel

The Mercy Path - Lowland Feather

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....

...(here)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...

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Extracts from Lowland Feather - The Mercy Path Project, An 11.59 Publication

(2018 - Present). 

Various Images and Text have featured in Folios since 2020.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Ceramics: K. Andrews

Birmingham

MicroFlashFiction - Set#1: Rock Pockets, Honest Footstep, Etched Arm

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

MicroFlashFiction - Machine Winnings

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

Documentary Fiction Photography, Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction - Brick Bank

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

Documentary Fiction Photography, Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction - Secret Keys

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

Documentary Fiction Photography, Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction - Broken Light

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

Documentary Fiction Photography, Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction - Small Fish

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

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction - In the Corner

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.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction - Glum Dance

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

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Traded Memory

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

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Rust on Cloth (2023) - Experimental Narratives, An 11.59 Publication

Rust on Cloth (2023)

Steve Coel

The Right Shadow

Grey when you're staying at Clink Hotel. Black when you returns home to no fixed address. Each casts the right shadow, makes you invisible. Makes you useful.

Spare Change for Twisted Feet

People you want, need, are always busy. That's why you end up in Clink Hotel. Every time.

Cracked Smile

Like two coins rubbed clear your cracked smile is a daily reminder of that last fight 30 years ago.

No Paths

Here; where young people never return and there are no paths and where old people still stop to watch lost cars, is the place language comes to die.

Rust on Cloth (2023), An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Grilled Walls

Grilled Walls - Steve Coel

Here -

Where...saw dust machine driving is echoed across water and back yard..

Where...rusting district wires hang bird mirage nested along defined grid route..

Where...illegal paper is scratched from power grilled wall and street light post..

Where...stained half lit drinking rooms spill simple ideas on to wooden floor..

Where...dry air cycle pavement dealing is fence chain bagged..

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Grey Sky Weeping

Grey Sky Weeping - Steve Coel

Here -

Where...isolation is frequently park benched behind littered garden..

Where...sweet song is car windowed..

Where...sprayed agenda becomes wire caged in overgrown broken side street..

Where...twisted knuckle bus stop waiting is grey sky weeping..

Where...gated steel business doors welcome alien van sacks..

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Apple Canal

Apple Canal - Steve Coel

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 appled canal space..

Where...walking dogs is compulsory..

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Cycling for Happiness

Cycling for Happiness - Steve Coel

In all fairness she must have expected the water to be pretty cold. It was early November after all and a long damp summer couldn't have been helping her to think clearly. But there you go, what can any of us do about it now?

Anyway, being short of money haddidn't stopped her taking them all away for the weekend, and I suppose she thought the break would do them all a bit of good. In what way though I'll never really be sure now I think about it.

She'd booked a side street B and B. So no thrills there then.

Thing is at that time of year all the rides on the front are boarded up for the winter and even the caffs are empty, so I guess the children must have been pretty miserable about it all. But as they say a change of scenery can put a lot out of your mind, even briefly.

Like I've heard that if a car were to drive on to your foot the adrenaline will give you the strength to pick the car up and save yourself. So I've heard.

Even so, no one's really sure where she got the strength from to disappear into water with her kids like that.

Born in the WorkHouse, An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Tin Meals

Tin Meals - Steve Coel

Here -

Where...plastic council flags hang from disaster bins on forgotten streets..

Where...flakey advertising masks scripted brick..

Where...simple waves of the hand alert broken smiles..

Where...beggared tin meals are lined up as prizes outside filmed doorways..

Where...booted foot steps quickly retreat behind bottle sharp lunch time escape route..

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Stretched Bone - Parts 1 + 2

Stretched Bone - Part 1

Here -

Where...voices falter and fingers strip lace and metal..

Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerb shopfront..

Where...dreams begin and life ends..

Where...old smiles are reflected in rust..

Where...ugly water washes up dead fish..

is the place language comes to die.

Stretched Bone - Part 2

Here -

Where...faded memory eats up roofless factory space..

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

Where...cluttered twisted ornaments stride down sparrow allotment fenced path..

Where...for the cloth eared, movement is ghostly..

Where...warehouse beams trap steel smile and welded arm..

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Rings on her Fingers

Rings on her Fingers - Steve Coel

And so it starts...

Two chases. At the same time..

Words spoken out of turn. Causes offence..

Everyone seeing signs that aren't really there. 

First kiss of the day..

Protection. Hiding away is not an option..

Sitting next to the fire escape door facing the entrance..

Threats; the bad kind.

More to follow. Lots more..

The fight..

Looking the other way..

The arrests.

Bad debt, bad deals..

The rumours..

The quiet word..

Secret meetings.

A major disagreement..

Bloody hands and tip offs..

A one night stand..

Random warnings.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Smells of Time

Smells of Time - Steve Coel

In you comes -

in your sad seven year old ironic tracksuit and pair of box fresh.

In you comes -

looking for deals on the bar board behind the counter.

In you comes -

doing quick sums and ordering a dozen shots with your release money which you quickly shares out to punters who aren't interested.

In you comes -

barely missed and completely blitzed, just another forgotten madman.

In you comes -

a madman bent by 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 comes -

smelling of time.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Adult Hands

Adult Hands - Steve Coel

Here -

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

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 rags by-pass toughened water..

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings, An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Half Stolen Buildings, Set - 3/6/2024

Roped Water - Steve Coel

Here -

Where...hammered workplace shoulders scratch tattoo vein..

Where...elevated mirror views reach into roped water..

Where...rapid stone road footstep signals are passed among rivals..

Where...casual shop window seats remain chained to suspicion and small debt..

Where...old newspapers stay untouched..

is the place language comes to die.

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.

Sad Eyes - Steve Coel

Here -

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

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

Where...glassed humour becomes bitter and sad-eyed..

Where...blistered wood window sills hold signed memories of yesterday's bargain..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings: Steve Coel, An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

MicroFlashFiction: Half Stolen Buildings, Set - 20/5/24

Solo Rooms - Steve Coel

Here -

Where...plastic fairground jewelry 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 habit..

is the place language comes to die.

Deaf Ear (Part 1) - 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.

Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel

Documentary Fiction Photography

Celf Stryd - Lloegr

An 11.59 Publication

MicroFlashFiction - Escape Bags

Escape Bags - Steve Coel

Here - 

Where...painted grief remains peeled along rubbished waterway..

Where...stabbed fist gestures halt illegal commerce..

Where...distorteding voices emerge from collapsed shop door crowd..

Where...coin bagged exchange between enemies is shaped by secret patterned movement..

Where...loose clothing slopes into hidden wood seeking instant escape..

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel

Documentary Fiction Photography - Arbrofion

MicroFlashFiction - Etched Arm

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

Documentary Fiction Photography - Arbrofion

MicroFlashFiction: Scratches jotted on car door handles, An 11.59 Publication

Scratches jotted on car door handles

Steve Coel

You walk ahead so you can keep an eye on his back. Even now when you've both been outside for six months and you're both still wearing trademark greys with parallel pockets and your newest clasps. Like all bad habits, is difficult to break. Of course we see your interesting walk straightaway. Looks like you're both walking at the same pace. But you isn't. It's a trick you'll need to learn and practice. Brings unneeded attention if you look like you're running, which you is really. Even so, you're brave. Have to be round this way.

Thing is you've both got to try harder to stop being this stupid. Although, fair does, everyone knows two heads is better than one. So well done there. And it's clear people have got to break you up if they're going to get the better deal. And that's how it always starts. Always. Takes three to break two and four to break three and so on. Is how wars start. So; twos easier to deal with. Trust like.

Documentary Fiction Photography (2024)

MicroFlashFiction: Stuff Outside, An 11.59 Publication

 

Stuff Outside

Steve Coel

Like looking out through the window I does. Looking out I sometimes wonder to myself what it must be like negotiating a way through all the stuff on the sidewalk. Bit of an adventure I suspect. We've had all sorts of complaints I'm telling you. Bruised knees is popular. Letters from council has finally stopped though. Owner will probably be pleased when I see him.

Still; we never have customers, so looking out the window gives me something to do while I wait to answer the phone and pass on the message. Doesn't really explain all the stuff outside the shop on the sidewalk though does it. Can't help wondering where it all comes from to be honest.

Documentary Fiction Photography (2024)

MicroFlashFiction: Tidal Movements, An 11.59 Publication

Tidal Movements

Steve Coel

Walking across the field that afternoon the man and his daughter had come upon the young man picking mushrooms. Greeting him simply, as was their way, they commented about the chill, damp day and continued on their walk. The younger man returned to his now shattered day dreaming while the man and his daughter concluded a queer conversation about the animals they had been carefully placing on the opposite side of the valley that morning.

Later that week, in the local newspaper, the man and his daughter spotted a picture of the same young man and a short report about his tragic accident at sea. They smiled at each other with relief, recalling precisely the words they'd spoken to him. They also spoke briefly and secretly about his sad ending, and then continued constructing their models for the valley.

Documentary Fiction Photography (2024)

MicroFlashFiction: Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel. Set 2 - 9/5/24

Set 2 -  Half Stolen Buildings

Dull Flowers

Here -

Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement..

Where...blistered streams fall into backyard carpet shed..

Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..

Where...stoney engined vehicle bruises centre lane grass..

Where..weightless men saunter early into cotton hospital shroud..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel

MicroFlashFiction: Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel. Set 1 - 9/5/24

Set 1 - Half Stolen Buildings

Today not Tomorrow

Here -

Where...flakey water and chipped clog merge into whispered avenues of nervous laughter..

Where...wrinkled hands, that snap splintered cotton sleeves, grip trolley and last nights hiding place..

Where...free newspapers haunt forgotten cold meals outside cracked broken shops...

Where...ringed fingers shadow lager bottle and small tight-fisted girlfriend..

Where...cheap vinyl mattress' sell dreamless arrival and soulless departure..

is the place language comes to die.

Broken Light

Here -

Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded walls of distant 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.

Rattled Stride

Here - 

Where...bladed vape chatter tumbles into unlit corridor..

Where...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