Experimental Short Fiction: Publications + Proposals. © Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
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.
Daytime Hideaways
Between rubble and broken glass, in backspaces unseen from roads and rear view mirrors, shaking hands are being shaken. Tracksuits here 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, 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.
Stretched Bone #6
Here -
Where...boasting is frowned upon..
Where...youth stubble walk across butchered sleeping path..
Where...the slow of foot shadow wooden shovel..
Where...hills consume history and memory is wiped out by nature..
Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..
Where...eyes glare blankly at half empty cups settled on scratched table tops..
Where...steep dark pictures dent curved sky-line..
Where...mobile notes are glued to pavements damp with summer..
Where...young people die old..
Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..
is the place language comes to die.
Stretched Bone #7
Here -
Where...purple eyes glaze across a stubborn river..
Where...stripped bare wall paintings spray the cold message of futile argument..
Where...narrow lane romance flickers over roof ridged border..
Where...small rusty badges and yellowed brick are etched on pointed walking stick..
Where...cheap tables split abandoned doorways..
Where...cliff edge bramble holds litter to ransom..
Where...puzzled footstep is matched with clumsy frail voice..
Where...second hand clipped fashion rails spill strong alcohol and stained toxic mist..
Where...narrow concrete staircases funnel nervous jealous glances..
Where...beauty is hooded..
is the place language comes to die.
Stretched Bone #8
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..
Where...the slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..
Where...routine is never obvious..
Where...fuzzy pictures reveal short hard lives scratched on to broken dockside and burnt timber..
Where...homes are splashed across derelict, tired hillside..
Where...debt plagues argument like two coins rubbed clear..
is the place language comes to die.
Stretched Bone #9
Here -
Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..
Where...fussy overcoats and woollen carpet shape grassy valley roadway..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
Where...fallen brick slices postered railing..
Where...juiced radios play out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..
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.
Stretched Bone #10
Here -
Where...loose coin is exchanged on blind side adult corners..
Where...sunny mornings and night time shadow move among rusting steel underpass..
Where...grey pictures are carelessly hidden in barbed wire hedge..
Where...slippery couples meet between sheets of harsh fabric..
Where...handshakes are never between strangers..
Where...crowds gather to pass time and silence..
Where...derelict woods shelter shrivelled worlds..
Where...fake grins act as currency..
Where...door step begging is hasty and mindless..
Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...loose coin is exchanged on blind side adult corners...
Where...sunny mornings and night time shadow move among rusting steel underpass..
Where...grey pictures are carelessly hidden in barbed wire hedge..
Where...slippery couples meet between sheets of harsh fabric..
Where...handshakes are never between strangers..
Where...crowds gather to pass time and silence..
Where...derelict woods shelter shrivelled worlds..
Where...fake grins act as currency..
Where...door step begging is hasty and mindless..
Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..
Where...fussy overcoats and woollen carpet shape grassy valley roadway..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
Where...fallen brick slices postered railing..
Where...juiced radio plays out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..
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.
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..
Where...the slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..
Where...routine is never obvious..
Where...fuzzy pictures reveal short hard lives scratched on to broken dockside and burnt timber..
Where...homes are splashed across derelict, tired hillside..
Where...debt plagues argument like two coins rubbed clear..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...purple eyes glaze across a stubborn river..
Where...stripped bare wall paintings spray the cold message of futile argument..
Where...narrow lane romance flickers over roof ridged border..
Where...small rusty badges and yellowed brick are etched on pointed walking stick..
Where...cheap tables split abandoned doorways..
Where...cliff edge bramble holds litter to ransom..
Where...puzzled footstep is matched with clumsy frail voice..
Where...second hand clipped fashion rails spill strong alcohol and stained toxic mist..
Where...narrow concrete staircases funnel nervous jealous glances..
Where...beauty is hooded..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...boasting is frowned upon..
Where...youth stubble walk across butchered sleeping path..
Where...the slow of foot shadow wooden shovel..
Where...hills consume history and memory is wiped out by nature..
Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..
Where...eyes glare blankly at half empty cups settled on scratched table tops..
Where...steep dark pictures dent curved sky-line..
Where...mobile notes are glued to pavements damp with summer..
Where...young people die old..
Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Stretched Bone #1
Here -
Where...voices falter and fingers strip lace and metal..
Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerbside shopfront..
Where...dreams begin and life ends..
Where...old smiles are reflected in rust..
Where...ugly water washes up dead fish..
Where...faded memory eats up roofless factory space..
Where...damp cloth pulled tight obscures fading gossip..
Where...cluttered twisted ornaments stride down sparrow allotment fenced path..
Where...for the cloth eared, movement is ghostly..
Where...warehouse beams trap steel smile and welded arm..
is the place language comes to die.
Stretched Bone #2
Here -
Where...weather growls at footsteps and distant noise is ancient and honest..
Where...rain drills fluent bitter nightmare into supple iron smile..
Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelter..
Where...silent voices speak empty values to woollen walls..
Where...cold chipped slab rock fountain is smiling and love struck..
Where...happiness is hidden in fly tipped back lane..
Where...crafted leather shoes sink into warm mud..
Where...gum fleeced stolen memory crumbles on to hidden platform..
Where...thick skinned beauty skids abruptly into gridded fence..
Where...teenage defence is tightly held to deaf ear..
is the place language comes to die.
Stretched Bone #3
Here -
Where...small feet climb cob-web steel tree and pram wheels fall into strutted path..
Where...slippery eyes fix on glassy oil pavement..
Where...shredded cliff top grass twists halted message..
Where...bitter, blameless minds enter watered down invisible strips of grey..
Where...dead fruit is picked clean by unseen nightlife..
Where...barber shop windows reflect passing stooped daytime..
Where...cheap toys are solitary on garden wall and stolen trolley..
Where...lost faces merge with elderly condemned brick..
Where...suspicious tin badge statements are worn like dismissed broken attitude..
Where...wild animals pass through broken door work place..
is the place language comes to die.
Stretched Bone #4
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 spiked rod..
Where...skin is scissored..
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..
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.
Stretched Bone #5
Here -
Where...thick water sucks daydream along nostalgia painted high wall..
Where...blank splintered openings face corrupt wired rubble..
Where...small cracked attic window looks down on worried waiting shadow..
Where...hollow buildings mirror collapsed monument..
Where...tired sea-salt fairground shutters mute spent messages to gloomy eyed visitor..
Where...blossom heavy stone lounges outside fenced in destruction..
Where...pick-up warnings are scratched into street corner metal..
Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..
Where...rules are manufactured and secrets appear down narrow gulleys..
Where...anger is buttery..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Where...thick water sucks daydream along nostalgia painted high wall..
Where...blank splintered openings face corrupt wired rubble..
Where...small cracked attic window looks down on worried waiting shadow..
Where...hollow buildings mirror collapsed monument..
Where...tired sea-salt fairground shutters mute spent messages to gloomy eyed visitor..
Where...blossom heavy stone lounges outside fenced in destruction..
Where...pick-up warnings are scratched into street corner metal..
Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..
Where...rules are manufactured and secrets appear down narrow gulleys..
Where...anger is buttery.
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 spiked rod..
Where...skin is scissored..
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..
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.
Steve Coel
