The Right Shadows - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Daytime Hideaways

Between rubble and broken glass, in backspaces unseen from roads and rear view mirrors, shaking hands are being shaken. Here tracksuits are worn to hide shape, weapons and sex, and trade, like this space, is invisible and unknown.

The Right Shadow

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

The Mercy Path

Once you bypass the last starched lightning tree you enter a hillside world of midnight stream and border wire music. Here across shilling debris, early shadow and blisters of high mist, nature composes movement from iron and broken bone.

The Proposal

Cut into bitter grey stone by masters of dead trades, is your life story. Brief, like you, words torn from broken parents target the elders who created your passing.

No Paths

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

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Up at the knock - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

You's always in the hidden places; sometimes seen walking along the cold suede banks into the windowless tin roof shacks that are haunted by the black hair of the missing, and sometimes seen down the tight velvet lanes where the wild horses run and beer is drunk and apples still grow in secret orchards.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Half Stolen Buildings - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

In a regulation daytime armour that's still cracking with the coarse whispers of yesterday's broken promise, young women push vape shadowed baby carriers past boarded up shop windows. Their 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 plastic shoes will slap into one off needles that litter paper gutters and where, even on dry days, the pavement is damp.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Empty Chair - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

The Workplace

Steve Coel

Late for work

Again.

Busy stock taking

in the basement.

Power...

failure.

Wrong leaves 

late train.

Two weeks

jury service.

Fire 

drill.

False alarm

probably.

New cook

in the staff canteen.

Food

poisoning.

Strange noise

from the floor above.

Annual leave

staying in the caravan owned by that quiet guy in accounts.

A friendly word

to the new audit intern.

Multi tasking 

presumably.

Busy

really busy.

Payback

Employee of the Month.

MicroFlashFiction - National Flash Fiction Day 2023

MicroFlashFiction

Have a creative National Flash Fiction Day

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

*

Where...rough steps are will be taken to re-shape a brutalised blinkered existence. Probably.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Whistled Anger - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

Empty deadwood skip ideas 

reflect forgotten work messages

Where...hawthorn tree spaces catch song and memory..

Small window frames 

split wall and broken vision

Where...whistled anger cuts through motored gateway..

Where...subtle fingers repeat last nights drunken movements..

Shop door begging signs 

echo stranded isolated shouts of unheard ignored anger

Where...painted side street paths splash oiled drug wish on to sullen booted youth..

Where...anonymous blind construction hides skyline humour..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Small Pockets - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

Where...antique van apathy clings to melted future..

Where...layered sounds of gated dog and broken motor serenade gloomy high street..

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

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

Where...bottom shelf goods are swallowed by small pockets..

is the place language comes to die.

Local Trade - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

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

Where...fussy overcoats and woollen carpet shape valley roadway.. 

Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..

Where...fallen bricks slice postered railing..

Where...juiced radio plays out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..

is the place language comes to die.

Smells of Time - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

In you comes -

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

In you comes -

looking for deals on the 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.

Rings on her fingers... - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

And so it starts..

Two chases. At the same time..

Words spoken out of turn. Causes offence..

Everyone's 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..

Scratches on working cars..

A public celebration.