Experimental Short Fiction: Publications + Proposals. © Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
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.
Here -
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded sprayed 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.
Here -
Where...booted thunder clatters into ticketed smoky backroom..
Where...padlocks protect broken fields from broken people..
Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..
Where...each step is guided by habit..
Where...angry shadows are nailed on to walled in wasteland..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...plastic fairground jewellery lies chewed up..
Where...kerbstone wheels idle dawdle in tune with open door security camera..
Where...words spoken in jest between strangers are echoed as 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.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Recent MicroFlashFictions
Steve Coel...
Cruel Lips
Careless Shoes - Compilation ( 2023 )
False Promise
Sad Walls
Invisible Feet
Nobody's Busy Fool
Thin Whistle at Dusk
Painted Brick
Big Vision
Rattled Stride
Half Stolen Buildings
Laughter
House
Tall Ships
Footfall in Albany
The Right Shadows - Compilation ( 2022 )
Daytime Hideaways
The Right Shadow
The Mercy Path
The Proposal
Stretched Bone #1 - #10 - Compilation ( 2022 )
Wild Places
Rains on Me
Up at the Knock
Smells of Time
Small Pockets
The Wet Shift
Paper Towns
Dead Air into Warm Harp
Bitter Fingers
Reading Glass
Jealous Feet
Broken Zips
Burnt Timber
Nice Breakfast
In the Blood
Apples and Pears
Broken Doorways
MicroFlashFiction
c.Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...bitter tunes are formed around rough gateway..
Where...steep hill shop fronts bend with debt..
Where...gloved hands hide in plastic bag lined overcoat..
Where...scarred beauty is magnified by haunted woolen cover..
Where...cruel lips swear into hidden micro market stall..
is the place language comes to die.
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.
It's found up along the cobbled visions of forgotten northern towns in times disputed by all who lived them.
In these places caught by Pentax and Olympus, children play on empty streets near to crumbled demolished homes.
Tall ships hang over brick walls in this broken vision. Tall ships made by small grey people whose dreams, daily smashed, mirror the horror of departure.
Close by, crisp tied visitors make quick decisions over ignored pie and local cake.
Morning
Is about frail, weightless, frightened older men who come into the cafe for daily three hour coffees, games of cards and who all talk endless bollocks about non existent winning horses.
Afternoon
Is centred on shapeless local smackheads and hard core druggies who come into the cafe to settle small debts and to boast about knowing where the next deal is going to happen.
Evening
End of the day for some. Sees cheap fatty meals and shelter from the pain of the street.
Late Night
Is all about 'real money' being made in the busy stockrooms of empty shops.
