Artwork by Anthony Brault

May 29, 2019

One day it dawned on me to ask, “How did you grab it?”

“Well, first I was told to keep my eyes on it. Because those around us who felt it first shared with the lost ones watching.” My father dead locked into my dilated pupils.

“So, what, ya’ll just copied their moves?” I asked.

He mentioned during the nights the beacon spoke loudly. People witnessing from their positions of oath, lights lavish, and the wealthy unlike the peasants made it worthwhile. But what the wind blew was you. They were there to show them something they hadn’t felt.

I was born in Dronya to confuse the people. They expected the women to only fetch water and shut up. Aside from existing, they too gave birth. Then function happened.

My father cared enough to build my birthplace, but only because he couldn’t trust home. The medicines only healed those who watched until infatuation started. They had the means to recover. And then their souls, where did they go? Well, nowhere really. But those below them often looked up. And today, money creates that sprint.

“Twisting torsos, changing their pitch. People were gazed. And they knew how to grab you.” My father explained.

“How’d you get the village people’s attention?”

“Well, we built their security first.”

“What’s that mean?” I knew enough to see their eyes roll back, then black. Like Bundy in his prime but they meant well.

“I told them I trusted them. Everyone being there was my blessing. Death or breathe, we live for what we don’t know.” My father then walked away with pun to a mystic. It helped writing my life away to Port Avanti.

The people will look and be curious. As holy as church can be, to an outsider this too is possession. They must’ve practiced, because most got anxiety at the thought of letting it go. Be louder than all nine villages; enough so their voices will be heard through Trenchport’s walls. And when the music stops, who are they really? Just dancers? Anyways, it sounded like an outdoor night club to me.

“Just be quite and listen. You’re human. So, you have a hum to you.”


“C’mon, Rigil, be the humming star you are.” My dad urging me to get up from the Gorilla pounding under my shirt, but I couldn’t that night. Exhibition play was starting the following week, and I hadn’t even studied for Kimberly’s pop quiz the next morning. I told coach what childhood was like. And when things didn’t make since to us we built Mahan. Dancing helped move it across the land so that space was no longer silent. But when we got there, the space was no longer there.


Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... “The world around us is our vehicle, what you'll read is how I digest it.” -Budd

2 Comment on “BOURGEOISIE I (Chapter II.3 Preview)

  1. Pingback: The Proof’s In The Mail |

  2. Pingback: Writing Appreciation From Strange Places |

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