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...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..
Where...fussy overcoats and woolen carpet shape grassed up valley roadway..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
Where...fallen brick slices postered railing..
Where...bottom shelf goods are swallowed by small pockets..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..
Where...anger is buttery..
Where...doorstep begging is hasty and youthful..
Where...brave words are thrown away with cheap lager and soapy gritted water..
Where...curled up broken yard hideaways become legend..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...layered sounds of gated dog and broken motor serenade gloomy high street..
Where...cheap toys are solitary on pavement and stolen trolley..
Where...flagless memory walks sullen and dead down late night dual carriageway tunnel..
Where...simple slogans are stamped hard on tourist lamp post..
Where...lost faces merge with elderly condemned brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...early sandal foot death lays down grass foundation..
Where...shallow drunk opinion dominates afternoon decision making..
Where...teenage defence is held tightly to deaf ear..
Where...clumsy stapled barriers warn away passing neighbourhood shadows..
Where...off grid roads disappear through unpleasant fields of illegal chambered stubble..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...sad walled archive crowds day time sky..
Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..
Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carefully on stolen rusty spike rods..
Where...blistered nickel punches into broken fence..
is the place language comes to die.
Here-
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.
Here-
Where...plastic fairground jewelery lies chewed up..
Where...kerbstone wheels dawdle in tune with open door security..
Where...words spoken in jest between strangers are echoes of threat to local trade..
Where...shuttered motor industry is impatient and bolted into the fabric of labour..
Where...failure becomes a habit..
is the place language comes to die.
* Previously published: Chewed Up - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
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...beauty is hooded..
is the place language comes to die.