To the Un-Trained Eye

finding meaning in the mundane

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Photo by Random Institute on Unsplash

To the Un-Trained Eye was featured in The Weaver’s debut issue, Accidental Altars

Curating a tapestry of sensory mythologies, The Weaver is a new print literary magazine reviving a patronage of the arts—created for those unshakeably devoted to the written word. Born out of a love of meaning-making, Kim Rashidi’s magazine seeks emerging and established writers to weave together worlds of felt meaning…

To the Un-Trained Eye

by Caitlin Ellis

A whisper of steam;

paper napkin tucked, waving

biscuit crumbs aside. 

“Long mac half-topped?”

I swoop upon it like a gull and swivel with a muffled thanks towards platform 8. I glance at my watch. Shit. 

My stroll turns awkward half-jog as I realise my express train to work has outdone itself, humming in preparation for departure below. I barge past a buzz of teenagers to tap my train card at the reader. Low funds.

I jab my fingers into the neighbouring vending machine’s greasy metal buttons and purchase a ticket. One sluggish attempt at printing later, I snatch the paper, tearing the corner. My stomach flips when I check the departure board: This train leaves in 1 minute. Shit!

I run. An older woman stands mid-escalator, a yawn on her lips. Here I am taking the stairs two at a time and this old lady’s in a morning haze. I can’t miss the train, I’m late already, and if she would just move—I clip her as I rumble past. Ankle rolls, bag overshoots, coffee flies.

I find myself on my hands and knees, bowing to the train doors as they gently…close…shut… 

Coffee tapestry 

blends concrete chaos under

sacrificial soles.  

“Oooohhhhh!!”

The teens pass and revere in the spectacle. My hands are hot from the slap of the concrete and coffee they’re coated in. I push onto my knees, reach for my phone (thankful it didn’t fly off the platform), and text my work friend:

missed the train and stacked it -

tell Jace i’ll be late, please!!

The billboard ticks over: This train leaves in 27 minutes. 

I face the mess I’ve made and sigh. The woman I knocked aside passes with an audible huff. After letting my heart settle back into my chest, I collect my sad, soggy coffee cup and take it to the nearest bin. Similar cups spew from the rim onto the floor. I balance my addition on top. 

Paper offerings – 

final sips turned cold. Short-lived

and empty lovers.

“Excuse me, Miss,” a tired man calls from the floor nearby. The sleeping bag beneath him looks as though it barely knows warmth and the mug before him looks like a stranger to any form of beverage. A few flecks of silver peek from its base. I turn with hesitation when he asks, “Care to spare a few minutes with an old man?” My brow softens. I have a few minutes.

And so, we sit. Me, stinking of coffee and sweat. Him, of the platform beneath us. We don’t speak, but his shoulders rest on the wall behind us and his gaze softens, falling upon his belongings.  

Lucky Strike incense. 

News rolled. Polaroid pinned down;

paperweight all hope. 

Time ebbs on and we watch the stairs of the escalator chew through the ground. I notice for the first time how few people are here this morning. I notice peace in the absence of hurrying bodies and how the stranger’s breaths are as slow as a tortoise. I wonder how mine became so fast. 

My ears perk up at the sound of the next train rolling in, the rails squealing as they bring the next mechanical beast to a halt before us. My phone beeps:

What are you talking about?

It’s Sunday. 

I read it a few times. 

This train leaves in 1-minute flashes overhead. I watch as the teens pile through the doors. The older woman follows, and I catch her throwing me a quizzical look. The doors hold for a moment, alarm in final warning, and close. I lower my chin into my sticky hands and watch the carriage blur and fade. 

“Not going to get that?” the man asks. 

I shake my head. Finally, I turn away from the empty platform to meet his eyes. I notice they’re a milky brown. 

“Would you like to get a coffee with me?”

…

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my copy of Accidental Altars <3

To the Un-Trained Eye is my first piece of published microfiction and my first step away from poetry (okay, okay, but the haikus were a must!) since I began submitting to lit mags. It’s an honour to have The Weaver publish my work and give this story a home — it’s found its way between the most mesmerising tapestry of poetry and prose.

Although Accidental Altars is no longer in print, you can purchase a digital copy of this whimsical curation for $5 below <3

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Let today be your reminder to look closer & listen — everything is telling a story…

.

Yours in rumination,

Caitlin ❧

In case you missed it…

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