Short Fiction: Experiments + Proposals - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...twisted paths sheepishly carve a route across knocked out grass and broken bale..
Where...shop doors embrace the bubble gum smell of illegal cheap drink..
Where...bricked up elegance is submerged behind hungry false promise..
Where...early day windows gather to taunt community editors..
Where...curled up broken yard hideaways become legend..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...glitter ball glamour is boarded up and gig postered..
Where...simple gestures are challenged and closely debated..
Where...machine winnings replace job prospects..
Where...broken promises are public..
Where...sad walled archives crowd day time sky..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...glances do not go unnoticed and powerful voices weaken after each glass..
Where...crippled landscape shakes at the passing of invisible feet..
Where...tree top dead whispers flap on barbed wire peat field..
Where...mudless lanes fracture industry and metal..
Where...happiness is solitary, forgotten and distant..
is the place language comes to die.
Mystery man, shadow man is what they used to call him. Him when he was the latest three day thin whistle at dusk millionaire returning from sea to die like his father. Shallower sea back then mind, better cut cloth, broader smiles. Now though, after too many rope marks and twisted bone, life comes mixed to stillness with drink, sharp curses and dark corners.
Here -
Where...cracked window wired doorways smell of cheap red wine and restless sleep..
Where...burnt out bandstand and gritted wall hold the sky in place..
Where...top floor swearing is frequent..
Where...bitter hands rub endlessly into painted brick..
Where...poor disguises are deliberate..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...thick suited men drink bottled park bench liquid breakfast..
Where...melted slices of stairway rug fold into careless shoe..
Where...dead meat flags hang from rusty hook in damp empty rows..
Where...closed shops remain open..
Where...the big vision is narrow and short-lived..
is the place language comes to die.
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.
In her regulation daytime armour that still cracks with the coarse whisper of yesterdays broken promise, the young girl pushes her vape shadowed baby carrier past boarded up pub windows. Her 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 her plastic shoes will slap into one off needles that litter paper gutters and where, even on dry days, the pavement is damp.
Some rules have never been written down because everyone knows what they are. It's an odd kind of laughter sometimes.
Row after row of empty houses. Once they had people living in them, families. They don't anymore because they're not very nice. Rooms small, stairs narrow, walls too thin and the road that now passes each front door is always busy and dangerous. Cold and damp the window frames rotted, so with water dripping everywhere, the floorboards warped and sagged. These houses are twenty years old.
