Segment 2 of "Bastion" (Temporary Name)

Segment 2:

Anthony

Adam Bishops is not like me.

Anthony knew it upon first sight of him. The way he walked and talked, they were only subtly different, but different enough for Anthony to tell. The way he seemed to fit in with whatever mundane situation or setting was at hand. Adam was simply…human.

And Anthony knew that he himself was not. The way wind excited his senses, the way he could imagine the trees talking to him – and they would. Sometimes he could see the whole of the universe laid out in front of him sometimes, like a three-dimensional map. And numbers. Numbers and statistics everywhere.

Anthony saw everything in numbers: the height of every tree in this park, the distance from the picnic table to the lake (forty-three feet). He had counted every blade of grass in a three-foot circle seven times over in the last ten minutes. Adam had 119,347 brown hairs on his head, while Anthony himself had just over 140,000 blond ones.

There were countless more differences – but not just between Anthony and Adam. In fact, Anthony was astounded by the sheer variety in all the humans of the world. Even people that looked alike had small physical characteristics that set them apart, and everyone thought differently. Anthony’s family was what humans called Russian – besides the green eyes – while Adam was American. However, ethnicity didn’t matter where they lived, simply because every ethnicity was there. All survivors of the Flood had gathered in the great stronghold city of Bastion, regardless of race or age or other differences Anthony could notice.

And a bastion it was. A hulking behemoth of a city, about two hundred miles east of where Moscow used to be, sprawling out both above and below the ground. Great columns of steel and glass dominated the small vistas the proximity of the Wall offered, with endless walkways and tunnels and subways and bridges spanning every building’s structure. An energetic thrum vibrated about the place, simply reeking of activity. Anthony was sometimes awed by how different people looked, in fact, because Adam had only told him about Russian and American. Anthony didn’t know if there was a word for the people with slanted eyes, or the people with the glossy dark skin. Though once, he had heard a store owner call one of those people “a free can”, whatever that meant. He would ask Adam about it later.

Presently, however, as the breeze rustled his hair and brushed against his bare toes, Anthony watched Adam. He had blinked eighteen times in the past thirty seconds, so Anthony could tell something was on his mind. His mouth was pursed in a way that meant he was chewing on his cheeks, a habit he only pursued when he was thinking, and his eyebrows made four creases in between each other. Deep thought meant only three.

“Adam?”

“Yes?”

“You’re thinking. About what?”

Adam broke out of his stupor and sighed. “Nothing. . .nothing.”

Anthony flexed his toes and touched them to the ground, standing up. “I’m going for a walk,” he said, stretching out his legs and starting to walk around the lake.

Adam looked up vaguely, sighed again, and wondered some more about his abnormal friend.

New Book? Let's Keep it at "Story", Perhaps.

I've started a new "book" (you know those things that naive writers call "novels" or "books" and they try to finish them?) and I'm...6 pages, or 2,364 words into it. Oh joy. Anyways, I'm posting it in segments on ficlets, but I thought I might as well do it here too, where I don't have as much of a character limit.

So, Page 1 of...well, I have yet to name it, but for now I'll call it Bastion.

...........

Adam

Anthony Petrov was not human.

I knew it upon first sight of him, when he looked up with iridescent green eyes. Even in the way he sat, with his knees folded up against his chest at all times. However, he could hold more human conversation than any human I had met. He could walk like a human, and talk like a human. In fact, I was the only one who knew he wasn’t.

And now, as he sat across the picnic table, bare feet poking out through jeans, he looked less human than ever. It was his eyes, like before. An emerald flame seemed to be alive in the irises.

“Adam, do I creep you out?” he asked, suddenly and frankly.

“…No,” I replied truthfully.

“Mm.” He tucked in his legs a little more. “Do I creep other people out?”

“Well, probably. Everyone creeps someone else out. No one is happy with everyone.”

“True.”

Silence pervaded the grassy area for a little while, until he broke it again. “But do I attract attention? Do other people notice what I do? I know I don’t do everything exactly like other people.”

I sighed. He still didn’t know of my deduction, and I had a feeling this was a way for him to ask about it without arousing my suspicion. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m not other people.”

As Anthony shifted in his position, the water in the lake behind plinked up for no apparent reason. His eyes burned green simultaneously.

“It’s funny,” he started, “how the ways of the world work. I don’t understand it. In fact, what makes it funnier is that barely anyone else seems to understand it either. How there can be so much pain and death, and yet a balance of hope and life. Does this mean there’s a God who controls it all?”

“Some people believe so. I do. It’s an explanation for the impossible-to-understand.”

“Explanations,” he snorted. “They’re only elaborations on pre-formed judgments. I do better without them.” And he did. He was part of the unexplainable.

No, Anthony Petrov was not human. What he was, I had yet to find out. Maybe I never would.

Just like every other journal I've ever, ever encountered, I seem to make a habit of writing in it, and then never cracking open the pages again.

But maybe that's good, because some people think guys who journal are gay. Last time I checked, I'm not gay.

Just for the record.

Anyway. I've been on ficlets (371 published -- if you have no idea what I'm talking about, go to ficlets.com now. Do it. Just...do), and started plenty of new series: one where a guy has a girlfriend who is actually part of a criminal organization called La Pretni. And her mother's, like, the leader of it. And the guy's father is a high-profile official in Interpol. See the conflict? Starts here.

Also in a series with Never Explain on the same site -- an alternate dimension-y sorta thing where Bart writes from Max's (the main character who can control time and physics) point of view, and I from Tyler's (Max's friend who may or may not have the same powers). It seems to me sorta like a mix between The Matrix and The Giver. Starts here.

And since I haven't posted since...oh, whenever, I have a condensed flurry of news for anyone who cares (AKA readers, AKA, nobody): got an iMac 20" desktop for Christmas, with Photoshop, InDesign, Flash, and more -- all CS3. Yes, I'm spoiled.

My class has started a literary magazine for the school -- yeah, not too exciting, but seems at least a little interesting. I'm co-editor (one of the two editor-in-chiefs).

Went on my church's Winter Retreat -- absolutely one of the best things I've ever done for my spiritual life. Say what you want about it, you have a right to it. I mean, don't leave nasty, cursing comments. But whatever. Be cool.

Got some YouTube videos up. No, I'm not going to give you the link.

Yes, I know you want them. (I'm just humoring myself here, let me for a few more minutes).

...All right, that's enough.

And definitely enough news for now. Blegh. Carpal tunnel.