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)
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.
