This leaves the jello, at least if you want the title of this particular 
story to make any sort of sense. Well, that's actually an interesting 
story. See, when | was in the first grade, my homeroom teacher (a 
fantastic woman by the name of Miss Veronica Jerky) had us each 
prepare a traditional dish of our family's for the annual class picnic. 
Now, Miss Jerky wasn't to know that | came from a family of South 
Samothricans, and that our traditional foods consist entirely of 
various fried dishes of tungsten, so obviously | couldn't bring that to 
class. On my dear old mum's suggestion, however, | decided that a 
proper alternative would be a nice big bowl of lime jello. 


Needless to say that as a twelve years-old first grader | had no real 
idea of how to actually make said dish, and mum didn't know either 
what with her entirely tungsten-based diet, so | had no real choice 
but to consult an expert. That expert happened to be my great uncle 
Brett, who | now suspect was not really my uncle, what with him 
being a ten-foot tall rock that was standing in the middle of our yard. 
Regardless of blood relations though, Brett was known around the 
neighborhood to be a world-class maker of all things lime-jello 
related. Well, | say around the neighborhood, but I'm really only 
talking about our street. And when | say our street, | mean my 
house. And when | say house, | mean | figured asking him would be 
a good idea. 


So anyway, | go to Brett and | ask him how to make the jello for my 
class picnic, but Brett doesn't answer. Now, you might think this was 
because he was a rock, but Brett was usually as loquacious as any 
rock you'd ever meet, so this silence on his part was very unusual. | 
mean, to be fair | wasn't being very polite, what with me starting the 
conversation by calling him a rat bastard and basically demanding 
the recipe under threat of whiffle bat, but you'd expect a mature 
individual like grand uncle Brett to look past that and help a kid out. 
Long story short, he only agreed to tell me how to make the jello 
after | took out my stone grinder and sliced me a nice piece of Brett. 
That's the origin of the brick portion of the brick-in-sock combo | just 
applied to the suspected Dr. Bjornsen, if any of you were curious. 


So | have the jello, and the class picnic is here, and there | am in my 
Thursday best with my bowl of jello at Hatsfield Park. All the other 
students are there too, but we can't find Miss Jerky nowhere. This 
makes us very worried, of course, since Hatsfield Park is where we 
buried our previous homeroom teacher and we don't like the idea of 
Miss Jerky sniffing about there, so we go look for her. 


So there | am, crawling through the bushes with my Thursday best 
and my bowl of jello and getting dried leaves and lizards on and in 
both, when | come across the strangest scene. See, | crawl out of 
the bush near the statue commemorating the battle of Lukewarm 
Point (which is the pride and joy of the park, needless to say) and 
there | find Miss Jerky, all wrapped up. Now when | say "all-wrapped 
up", | mean that very literally, as the poor woman was stuck in what | 


can only describe as a seething cauldron of gauze-snakes. If you've 
never seen a gauze-snake, well, they're like snakes, but made outta 
gauze. Miss Jerky is naturally not very happy with this turn of affairs, 
and she's struggling and cursing and casting cantrips all over the 
place. But the gauze snakes they don't let up, since they reproduce 
by turning people into mummies and this was in the middle of their 
mating season. 


Am | rambling? Nah, not possible, I'm like the most concise story 
teller to ever set foot on this teal, square earth. Which reminds me, 
did | ever tell you the story of how | got this sock? No? Well, I'm not 
gonna, since it's a personal story and not fit for the earholes of the 
likes of you. | mean, just look at yourselves, reading this bullshit 
when there are so many better things you could do. Me, for 
example, | docked an alleged Scandinavian PhD with in the face 
today. | bet none of you people can claim the same. Bet you never 
even had a sock, let alone a brick. You strike me as sandal people, 
and everyone knows sandal people cannot be trusted. Like the 
wood. Fuck sandalwood. 


Continue with the jello story, you say? Well, | was going to, but now 
I'm not in the mood anymore. So instead I'm going to tell you about 

something else. Let's see, what should | tell you about... ah! Got it! | 
will sing you a little song! It's my favorite, so listen carefully: 


There... once was a man named Mr. Lizard 
Who once had a bone stuck in his gizzard 
He fell down a well 

He died and he smelled 

Then everyone died in a blizzard 


Yeah. Bet that blew your MINDS. 

Hrm. | have like a thousand words more to go if | wanted to use 
them, but honestly | figure most of you already tuned off like a while 
ago, so no real reason to bother. Instead, | will end this with 
something a bit different. My final piece of art: 


rbot pote t pote te tate tet potest pote tet potest tote ttt 
Hnrtotot tetetot totetetet tote tetetetotet tab tetetetet pete totet 
rtotot tote tetetet tote tet toto tote te tet tetetotete t+ 

[Nf] lilt] [hlaldin|'|t] |bfele|n| |flo[r| [Cloft|tloin|-|Elyle| |Jlole| [III] |ble| 


en] |mfalr|r|ije|d [al |Io/n}g| |tli/m|e| [alglo| |W/hle|rle| |dji}d| |ylolul |e] 
o|mle| |frlo|m|,| |Clo|t|tlo|n|-|Elyle| |Jjole|?| 

Hatt toto t pote te tote pototetet pete tet petetotte ttt tt 
Hato tat tote tet pete tetot potest tat fet potest tote tote t 
Hato tat totetetetet petetet potetet pete tetet pote 


Habitat tet to tetet petetet potetetet tetetetetet potetetetet tet 
tat tote tot pete tet tetetetetet pete tet potest tote tote t tote 
tat tototetetetetetetetet fete to+ 

|Wihlelrle| |dlild] lyloful |clo|m|e| |flrlo|m],| |w/hle[rje| |djijd| lylolul |g| 

o|?| |Wihlelrle| |djijd| |ylojul |clo|mfe| |f|rlo|m|,| |Clojt|tlo|n|-|Elyle| |u| 

ole|?| 

tatetotitet tote tet fetotot ttetetet tetetetetet tetetetetet t-4- 
tat tetetet tetetot tetetetetit tetetet tetetet tetetetet tetet-t- 
tat totetotetetetetitotot totete tet 


Rigged from the Start 


The school had been closed down as a crime scene. Summer 
classes had been taking place, so the students were moved to 
nearby schools. The status of the school for the Fall semester was 
uncertain. They could have easily moved the Anabasis, but 
someone had determined that it shouldn't be removed from the site. 
Dr. Marlowe had been pushing for its relocation, but rumors had 
been going around that Marlowe had once gone to this school, and 
hated it with a passion. Some were thinking she'd pushed for the 
school to be shut down and occupied for the duration. 


Priss had initially believed that, until she saw half the classes on the 
first floor were filled with researchers. And dirt. Boxes and boxes of 
dirt. 


"What're they even digging for? Damn," Agents Sharpe and Locke 
were assigned to oversee the hauling of new boxes of dirt up from 
the basement and into storage areas. Then they were hauling boxes 
of dirt after much of the employees went off for the day. More dirt 
kept coming. 


"They're not digging — it's the Anabasis testing." 


"They're testing it by teleporting tons of dirt from parallel universes? 
For what?" 


Locke shrugged, watching Sharpe drop the last box into place, then 
try to squeeze the door shut on the boxes, "For soil samples, 
microbes, biological material. Other stuff. It's not just dirt being 
brought in.” 


"Can't they do it one universe at a time?" 


"They are." 


Sharpe kicked the door shut, crushing the dislodged boxes in as she 
locked it, then turned to Priss, "Why with the nonstop fucking dirt, 
then?" 


"We could've been done sooner if you let me help." 


"If | let you help, you'd end up in a hospital," Sharpe patted her on 
the shoulder. Compared to herself, Sharpe was massive, near six 
feet tall and built like a wrestler, "You're exhausted and you nearly 
snapped your arm in two." 


"| could've carried one box at a time." 


"Go home and rest. If you don't take the day off tomorrow, I'll put 
you in the hospital so you can rest." 


Priss stared vacantly across the hall, at the stairwell leading down to 
the Anabasis. 


"It's your sister, isn't it?" 
"That's what | told you twice already." 


"You told me she's been drinking every day and making noise all 
hours of the night. But that's not all, is it?" 


Priss lolled her head to one side, trying not to close her eyes, "She's 
constantly picking fights with people. Going out late at night, doing... 
| hope not what | suspect... She's already been arrested for drunk 
and disorderly." 


"What'd she do?" 

"She picked a fight with some people at a café discussing politics." 
"Oh." 

"Nngh." 


"What about you, Locke? You say you're solidly WestCiv. If that's 
true, you're the worst WestCivvie I've ever seen." 


"What about me?" Priss grumbled, starting to not like this line of 
conversation. 


"How do you really feel about it all? America, nationalism, 
preserving the white race, the Qing..." 


"| don't think. That's why I'm here. Foundation isn't a governmental 
organization." 


"It's not illegal to have an opinion on things. Loads of us argue 
politics with each other, and stay best of friends at the end of each 
day. You... you never take part. You barely speak to anyone but me. 
You belong here, so there's no use trying to isolate yourself from 
everyone else." 


"You want to know what | think" Priss stared into her lap, taking a 
long moment to calm herself down, "I think the Earth is our home, 
and our species is growing up. Soon we're going to have to go out 
into space and find a new home. | think in terms of advancing our 
species. What policies, what social issues, what ideologies and 
religions will get us closer to space? Those are my morals and 
values. What policies, what social issues, what ideologies and 
religions take us further and further away from space? Those are the 
worst evils in the world. We're not in serious danger yet, but the 
more we keep stepping back, the more we put ourselves at risk of 
complete extinction. Race doesn't matter a damn... whites may be 
one way, blacks may be fundamentally different, but they're all 
human in the end. As long as our species is trapped on one small 
fragile little planet, we can't afford to be identifying ourselves by race 
or by nation..." 


"Then why the WestCivvies?" 


Priss chewed lightly on her lip, "Horrible as we may be... we're still 
the ruling power of the richest, most powerful country in the world. 
And as ingrained as our bigotry tends to be, we still let people voice 
differing opinions. We don't keep slaves anymore, we don't put 
people in jail for being in debt. | think it's safer to tolerate injustice 
now rather than to risk upending the entire system and having to 
rebuild. Progress is being made, sluggish as it is." 


Sharpe snorted obnoxiously, "Was being made..." 


Priss came home, and found her sister on the couch with a young 
black couple. She would have smiled, delighted that Rhie was 
bringing friends home, except the two were staring at her like she'd 
just barged in with a gun. Both were dressed in black, and the man 
had a thick beard and mustache. Marxist, she suspected. 


"Hey," She said, dropping her backpack on the kitchen counter, and 
moving along to the bathroom to wash up. She couldn't hear them 
out there. As she came out, she spotted them smiling. The man's 
smile faded quickly, the woman's lingered, turning ugly and hostile. 


"What the fuck's your problem?" Locke blurted out. 


Rhiannon burst out laughing, "Please forgive her, my sister has 
always had trouble with the subtle nuances of social etiquette," She 
patted the couch beside herself, but continued to address the young 
couple, "WestCiv to the bone, but there's hope for her yet." 


"| meant you," She turned on Rhiannon, glad for the justification at 
least. The strangers hadn't said a word and she'd already cursed 
and yelled at them in less than five minutes time, "| don't mind you 
bringing people over, but you don't just insult your host — much less 
your own sister who is supporting your unemployed ass — in front of 
strangers." 


Rhiannon smiled cheerfully, "I did not insult you until after you yelled 
at our guests, Prissy-baby," She turned and indicated the two, "This 
is Marcus and Jeanne. If you'd be patient, | would have properly 
introduced you all after your trip to the bathroom. | Know how you 
WestCiv types are around Such violence... how are the hormones 
treating you, Prissy?" 


Priss restrained herself from charging at her sister. She instead 
removed her coat, and stepped around the empty couch. Then she 
reached down, grabbing Rhiannon by the hair and yanking her up to 
her feet. Rhiannon howled with what sounded like laughter, and 
head-butted her sister down onto the empty couch. Priss wrapped 
her legs around her and started to feverishly pound on her sister's 


back. 


Rhiannon got up, easily escaping Priss's unstable grasp. She turned 
her back on Priss, casually walking away, letting Priss lunge at her 
and tackle her up against the opposing wall. Rhiannon slammed an 
elbow into the side of her head, staggering her and letting Rhiannon 
turn and take control of her. She drove a knee into Priss's 
midsection, doubling her over, and shoved her down to the floor. 
Again she turned her back on her. 


Priss got back up and ran headlong at Rhiannon. Rhiannon was 
prepared that time, easily stepping away and flinging Priss into the 
wall. Again, Priss came at her, and Rhiannon flung her on to the 
couch. Priss caught against the armrest, doubling over. Rhiannon 
giggled, reaching around to unbutton Priss's pants, "Insolent child! 
Shomevone getsh a shpanking!" She squealed. As she leaned over, 
Priss slammed her butt against Rhiannon, and whirled, smashing 
Rhiannon full in the face with her fist. 


The hot rage flushed from Priss as she saw the mess of blood that 
blossomed from the impact. Her own knuckles burned in pain, and a 
cut on one of them was bleeding. Rhiannon crumpled, and Priss 
shuddered hard. Slowly, Rhiannon began to rise. Her nose was 
bloody, and her lips oozed blood onto her chest. She grinned 
toothily to Priss — one of her front teeth was gone, the other 
cracked, almost snapped in half. The rest of her incisors were 
cracked and chipped. Then she spat in Priss's face, the other front 
tooth coming off and hitting Priss between the eyes. She turned and 
left, the young couple rising and following her out. 


From : 113110ULH@.com 

To : moc.liamtoh|rekcoL_P#moc.liamtoh|rekcoL_P 
CC : ten.dkuf|n0On1 eihr#ten.dkuf|n0n1 eihr 

Subject : None 


| picked up a new book on Lincoln today. People seem to 
be looking at him in a whole new light recently. | guess 
they have for the last twenty years or so, but I'm old, give 
me a break. It wasn't like that in the fifties. 


| met aman named King back then. Good man, very 
religious but practical and tolerant. A group of his friends 
and congregation were organizing rallies and boycotts on 
companies that discriminated based on race. Picked up 
a lot of steam in '57 with the neo-liberal rise. People 
genuinely thought the WestCiv Party was on its way out 
and there'd be a renaissance (or revolution, depending 
who you asked) of racial and cultural harmony not seen 
since | don't know. Maybe never. 


People got violent because they were scared. Not 
because of the boycotters, but because of the WestCivs. 
The Party leaders were quiet. Legislation was being 
openly discussed in statehouses all around the country 
that would do away with things like voter tax, patriotism 
tests, and all manner of garbage they'd passed to keep 
black people from voting. 


And all the while, the WestCivs said and did nothing.