Featured Artwork by PABLO LADOSA

Futuristic refugee, RIGIL, touches down at Port Avanti’s International terminal. After recollecting his first few steps out of the jetway and onto America’s refined soil, he and his family come across an Ambassador, who’re idealistic figures sworn into secrecy, integrity, and diplomacy. What, or who are these Ambassadors? I wrote about this concept hereThanks for reading!

Monday, October 4, 2021

After our first wheels down at P.A.X., it takes too long until deboarding the plane. We sat in the last row. Exiting the jetway, we enter the gate to a sea of Avantians lined up at our left and right, waiting to greet the latest arriving international passengers. Slowly walking between them, Remi lifts her right arm, slices her hand through the air with wavering flickering fingers.

Monkey see monkey do.

“They’re waiting to board the next flight,” Gus says, smacking down our swaying hands. Pulling us both at the arms to walk faster out of the gated area, I turn around, and a gray-haired lady waves back at us, smiling through her black thick-framed glasses.

.

.

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While aromas smack like Avon, Gus approaches the teller. Through the glass double doors, our sun’s ray reflects off the marble-tiled floors. Avantians continue striding across us through the reflection with purpose—from business casual to others in dark-colored formal wear. And here we are waiting for Gus—in what could be our longest errand with him.

“Excuse you, sir, don’t you think we all are?” A woman’s stern voice echoes over the building’s interior white noise. “Stand down,” she demands.

A brunet topped male security guard stands at Gus’ right arm, and the woman to his left has a perm. She faces the guard as Gus steps away to re-approach the teller. Moving through the shadows of our sun’s glare, the woman’s arms swing wide, left to right, as her hands and fingers sway to her voice’s command. Although we can’t make out her words, the guard stands with his chest out and eyes at her attention. Gus completes his transaction with the teller, turns to us, and signals to walk out.

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Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes because no one can 'read' him. And it's a great way to hide public thoughts...

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