Machination - Text and Image by Eli Regan

We look at her with the indifference of tired commuters. Her stories are more entertaining than her poems. Her voice comes alive, sings, is louder when retelling the instances in which her poems were just semblances.

We, the audience sit scruffily attired in faded fleeces while a slight air of pretentiousness pervades the room.

The students cannot stop scribbling the names of every poem and huff desolately if they miss the title of one. They do not hang on her every word, but shuffle nervously, asking their companions for the titles. It’s getting late; I can’t afford to miss my train.

On the narrowly caught train the sole sound I can hear are the remains of a crisp packet’s crumbs being devoured. I look out and see a girl and boy contriving pictures.

The boy holds a camera and signals to the girl to throw the bread NOW. The birds scatter, and click goes the shutter I can’t hear.