Experimental Short Fiction - Steve Coel. Documenting through a fictional mirror, responses to the world around us... these experiments are nearly always intuitive and spontaneous. I will continue to publish On - Line. Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication (August 2026)
It begins by the shallow path that slopes unevenly away from the shadow nut wood. Here, along the broken hill and towards the distant wet rock, corrugated cylindered tunnels, all built to hide and imprison, shelter straight back frightened animals.
Thick with the embrace of both mud and food, death stamps its mark into heated spot, as an acid smell of ripped air, fallen dead leaf and crippled motor oil twists open the unyielding buckle of weed.
Here -
Where...small talk clouds swiftly dug passages to the next world...Where...fractured gang lines decide night time movement...
Where...the slow of foot shadow wooden shovel...
Where...the painted path, that divides day, disappears like the canal bridge into glassy undergrowth...
Where...glances do not go unnoticed and powerful voices weaken after each glass..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...sunny morning and night time shadow move among rusting steel underpass...
Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerbside shop front...
Where...twisted paths sheepishly carve a route across knocked out grass and broken bale...
Where...weather growls at footsteps and distant noise is ancient and honest...
Where...cracked window wired doorways smell of cheap red wine and restless sleep...
Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare...
Where...dreams begin and life ends..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...clipped metal drunken cars clutter the broken citadel at the head of illegal van garaged highway...
Where...coffee blasts from shattered arch match whispered vaped chatter...
Where...youth stubble walk across butchered sleeping path...
Where...loose coin is exchanged on the blind side of adult corners..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...small feet climb cob-web steel tree and pram wheels fall into strutted path...
Where...voices falter and fingers strip lace and metal...
Where...cobbled streets are cursed by van driver and box fresh trainers stumble out of brightly lit off licenced corners..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Steve Coel