Short Fiction: Experiments + Proposals - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking..
Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone wall 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.
Here -
Where...eyes glare blankly at half empty cups on scratched table tops..
Where...mobile notes are glued to pavements damp with summer..
Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..
Where...faded pictures dent curved sky-line..
Where...young people die old..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...youth stubble walk across butchered sleeping path..
Where...hills consume history and memory is wiped out by nature..
Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..
Where...slow of foot shadow wooden shovel..
Where...boasting is frowned upon..
is the place language comes to die.
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.
( Previously published: Stretched Bone#4, 2-10-22 )
Here -
Where...Sunday morning dead mans clutter waits for eager hands..
Where...open spaces become dog bound and burnt by fogged spite..
Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carelessly on stolen spike rod..
Where...skin is scissored..
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
( Formerly published: Stretched Bone#4, 2-10-22 )
Extracts...
In your spring hat, tied with lost string, you're searching the free paper for clues to which day you now find yourself waiting. And, as you well know by now, waiting on this particular corner beat today in the rain for the next delivery is always going to get you plenty of disturbed glances from local windows and trolley men...The steady clump of your drunk wet shoe against the cracked kerbstone shadows the high street, which is still roaring with anger over closure and debt and is also where even the most fucked up has memories when called upon or paid for.
So; you've been shadow hunting. Fucker. Isn't nice. And it sure doesn't look as if it is going to end well either, because people have already got their mobiles out and others are instinctively putting their hands over stash's and stolen wallets...From one of the stickered shop windows a tidy looking woman is shaking her head at the nasty row growing on the pavement outside. It was always about dodgy deals and money owed. Always. And always the same exhausted faces...The sound of blues fast approaching up the street usually moved on most as CCTV's are already being clicked off, wiped or removed.
And all the time is snatch's of stoned smiles floating through smoked windows of passing stolen number plates. Everyone knows the street cliches and seems to love them around here. And not ironically, ironically.
( Previously -Extracts from Yesterdays Broken Promise, 2022 )
In their regulation daytime armour that still cracks with the coarse bedroom whisper of yesterdays broken promise, young women push vape shadowed baby carriers pass boarded up pub windows. The world is the local high street, where each day a bitter grey tide shambles downhill towards abandoned blue churches and disappearing city light. And it is here their plastic shoes slap into one off needles that litter paper gutters and where, even on dry days, the pavements are damp.
Here -
Where...narrow lane adventures are captured in muddy headlight and the cry of tortured bird..
Where...burdened 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.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Small Fish
Here -
Where...gilded bark sinks wild animal muddied path..
Where...small fish paper local canal...
Where...plastic scaffolding is blown from derelict shelter..
Where...threatened glance reveals suspicion of the new..
Where...bad health is assumed..
is the place language comes to die.
Glass Light
Here -
Where...anonymous hands trade new and old signatures...
Where...construction is blind..
Where...feeling twists bitter movement..
Where...reflected glass light signposts narrow lane..
Where...knuckled welcomes operate..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
