Experimental Short Fiction - Steve Coel. Documenting through a fictional mirror, responses to the world around us... these experiments are nearly always intuitive and spontaneous. I will continue to publish On - Line. Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication (August 2026)
No Paths (2026) - Hidden Rumour
DFP - Steve Coel
Hidden Rumour
Here -
Where...spirited cloth tightly holds hidden defence..
Where...painted step reveals rusted night-time dancing..
Where...burnt time walking becomes wall shy and forced..
Where...open doors disperse rumour of stolen memory..
Where...expensive remarks are fake..
is the place language comes to die.
No Paths (2026) - Hedged Whisper
.JPG)
DFP (2026) - Steve Coel
Hedged Whisper
Here -
Where...misled concrete steps shape movement towards shattered corner stall..
Where...brittle smiles are forced reminders of drafted opportunity..
Where...roomed time is measured through medication and juiced meal..
Where...coated weather is blossomed and publicly stooped by hedged symphony..
Where...trip wire walking elevates cloudy watered decision..
is the place language comes to die.
No Paths (2026) - Grilled Walls
Grilled Walls
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.
No Paths (2026) - Grey Water
Grey Water
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 mornings...
Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone...
Where...daily traumas function alongside hidden rumour...
is the place language comes to die.
No Path (2026) - Grey Sky Weeping
Grey Sky Weeping
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.
No Paths (2026) - Greedy Laughter
Greedy Laughter
Here-
Where...filmed movement is bound by derelict building and deadwood fire..
Where...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.
.jpg)
No Paths (2026) - Frosted Vision
Frosted Vision
Here -
Where...narrow lane adventures are captured in muddy headlight and cry of tortured bird..
Where...broken lives are inherited..
Where...evening shadows lie 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.
No Paths (2026) - Fractured Acre
.JPG)
Fractured Acre
Here -
Where...slim concrete staircases funnel nervous jealous glances..
Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone..
Where...young people die old..
Where... unopened doors fade into peeling brick and small bottled yard..
Where...glum dance patters aggressively on fractured acre..
is the place language comes to die.
No Paths (2026) - Escape Bags
Escape Bags
Here -
Where...painted grief remains peeled along rubbished waterway..
Where...stabbed fist gestures halt illegal commerce..
Where...distorting 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.
...we should all read Experimental Short Fiction...
Lee Mackenzie, Poet, Artist
No Paths (2026) - Dull Flowers...Etched Arm
Dull Flowers
Here -
Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement..
Where...blistered streams fall into backyard shed..
Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..
Where...stone-engined vehicles bruise centre lane grass..
Where...weightless men saunter into cotton hospital shroud..
is the place language comes to die.
Etched Arm
Here -
Where...ripped memory is etched into electric wall..
Where...enveloped escape payments lie 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.
No Paths (2026) - Drunken Memory
Drunken Memory
Here -
Where...small feet carry heavy living..
Where...polluted idle engine blows rust water into tipped 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.
No Paths (2026) - Crow Time Feeding...Daytime Sleeping...Deaf Ear
Crow Time Feeding
Here -
Where...recycled daytime hiding is scripted into knifed tree bark..
Where...reckless noise making is brutal and metal knuckled..
Where...vape bloodied cafe gardens groan beneath rusted leather footstep and betrayed seating..
Where...crow time feeding is weed killer gravelled..
Where...small group silence rejects courtyard posters and charity reclaimed allotment..
is the place language comes to die.
Daytime Sleeping
Here -
Where...shielded discount aisles are glued together with spiced smile and free news..
Where...stickered metal bollards herd cheap early morning trainer 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.
Deaf Ear
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.
No Paths ( 2026) - Chemical Bone...Chop Shop
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.
Chop Shop.
Here -
Where...hidden alley way problems remain unspoken..
Where...broken woodland studded guards mock nature..
Where...silent animals pursue the sleepless old..
Where...stunted authority is doorway suited..
Where....cloned cob-web window warnings are nightly reminders
from chop shop vehicle..
is the place language comes to die.
Rescued Footprints (2024)
.jpg)
Extracts taken from walking notes. Sleepless mornings deep in busy empty streets.
..alongside several boarded up townhouses, torn cars are being buttoned into fired twisted spaces...it's the music of early morning neighbourhood footstep reflected in slow moving traffic windows that stutter and idle into a yawning high street...
...close by, bare armed and heavily booted, keyholders arrive in knots of secret glances and reluctant handshakes, while patiently adopting the routine of shouldered good nature and long days of empty ambition...
Text - Steve Coel
Photograph - Steve Coel
Curated by An 11.59 Publication
No Paths (2026) - Broken Light..Charity Coffee
Broken Light
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 doorway purchase..
Where...beauty is hooded..
is the place language comes to die.
Charity Coffee
Here -
Where...bladed vape chatter tumbles into unlit corridor..
Where...fragmented sour heel 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.
Footnote - Why we should all read Experimental Short Fiction
'Experimental writing is often the strop that keeps your knife sharp...to implore that there are different ways of doing things...different perspectives...and different modes of reading.
You will not like all of it, but you will have a greater idea of what you like...and most importantly, you probably won't forget it'
Lee Mackenzie - Poet, Artist
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)