Reformed Recreationists - Art is for the transformation of the 
self in all aspects. This sub-school has traits similar to that of 
religions, and as such is rife with conflicting themes and ideas. 
This sub-school is notable in the general lack of external 
artistic media: the Reformed Recreationist considers the soul 
to be the perfect canvas, and as such it is the only one worth 
using. 


Deconstructionists -Those anartists who act to destroy facets of 
pre-existing reality, without providing replacement. 


Pseudo-Deconstructionists - This sub-school focuses on 
toppling what they view to be oppressive or corrupt structures 
of society. This sub-school often mixes with the 
Reconstructionist schools, most commonly Petty 
Reconstructionism. 

True Deconstructionists - The target is not only to be 
destroyed, but erased utterly from reality, so that it never 
existed in the first place. This is a very rare sub-school, a 
testament to the difficulty of creating such a work. Of course, it 
should be noted that their rarity might be a result of their past 
success. 

Absolutist Deconstructionists - A school based on the 
belief that existence itself is both corrupt and meaningless and 


must be destroyed completely. Members of this sub-school 
are highly dangerous and openly hostile, and should be dealt 
with using extreme caution. 


Creationists - The broadest school of anart, focusing solely on the 
creation of art and expression through it. Some scholars claim that 
all anart is by nature Creationist, and so the label is redundant. To 
an extent this is true: there is extensive overlap between Creationist 
art and other schools. However, the general opinion is that 
Creationism is specific enough to exist on its own. 


¢ True Creationists - The vast majority of anartists fall into this 
category, and it serves as an effective catch-all for those who 
do not easily fall into other categories. This definition extends 
to all anartists who create anart for its own sake, and whose 
view of art does not place them among the High Creationists 
or Artistic Deists. 

¢ High Creationists - Through the act of creation the anartist 
does not only express reality, but defines it. This is a property 
shared amongst all anartists, and so all anartists are 
considered valid in the eyes of this school. Recent scholarship 
has argued that this is not a true school of anart, and the 
position has been gaining momentum in recent years.4 

¢ Artistic Deists - The Artist is God. Unlike High Creationists, 
where the ability to define truth and reality is shared by all 
artists, the Artistic Deist believes that the right is theirs alone, 
and that no other individual may define truth. Artistic Deists 
are often highly dangerous, often exhibiting traits of 
megalomania. Sufficiently skilled Artistic Deists may be 
considered in the same category as reality-manipulators. 


Each of these schools and their respective sub-schools will be 
explained in greater detail in later chapters. 


Footnotes 

1. William Tartore,Ars Gratia Anomalia, (Foundation Internal Press, 
1978), 4. 

2. Please seeA History of Woken Words(Smith),Five Days with the 
Author(Malakhov), andThe Universal Library(Quattrochi) 

3. Further detail on Reconstructionist mockery art may be found on 
page 34. 


4. Please seeAmerican Creationism in the 21st Century, by Dr. Levi 
Copp for an in-depth explanation of this theory. 


A Suicide Note 


lam going to kill myself. 


Who am | kidding? | probably can't even die at this point. | know that 
the cyanide | injected isn't working because of the antitoxins put into 
my blood over a decade ago. Arsenic doesn't work, either; tried 
using rat poison and got no results. 


Everyone at the Foundation thinks I'm omnipotent, that I'm some 
kind of reality-bending psychopath who goes on 'wacky' adventures 
with Kondraki, Bright, Rights, Crow... oh, how fucking wrong they 
are. Konny's in a psych ward, Bright joined the Serpent's Hand and 
finally managed to die, Rights merged with that... thing she called 
her pet project, and Crow... poor, poor Crow. | had to shoot him 
myself. 


So, only | remain. Alto Clef. Alto "I will take a shotgun to a reality 
bender's balls and pull the trigger at point-blank range" Clef. Alto "I 
blew up the Challenger with my mind" Clef. Alto "I tried killing 239" 
Clef. Alto "Fucking Satan" Clef. 


Maybe the last part is true. Maybe | am Satan. And as my 
punishment for defying God, I'm forced to never be able to interact 
with anomalies. I'm not a reality bender; just the opposite. I'm a 
reality anchor. I'm the only thing that's certain in a world where 
Yellowstone National Park just started being noticed less than a 
year ago, and where the spontaneous combustion virus breached 
containment and killed an entire site in a week, where something 
that claims to be God walks around containment unhindered- except 
he can't very well walk anymore. | made sure of that. My last act in 
life, before | pull the trigger. 


| can't see ghosts. | can't walk into another universe; I've tried it, and 
there's an invisible barrier that keeps me from going through. | can't 
be affected by bends in reality, but | can touch those who bend it. | 
can't operate anomalous machinery- | nearly broke 914 by trying to 


use it in a test. | can't be seen by anything that would even remotely 
qualify as an actual deity or demon, and | can't see them, either. | 
can't see any of the hundreds of thousands of wonderful and terrible 
things that walk in our world. | can see bigfoot, aliens and some 
other cryptids, probably because they're not 'anomalous' in the 
traditional sense. They're part of this universe, not from outside of it. 


I've only ever been able to interact with three anomalies ever, all of 
them females. Go figure. The first one was... | can't even remember 
her name. | knew it, at one point. | think it started with a D. She was 
the love of my life, and | was told to kill her. | was told to take a 
shotgun to her head and blow her away just like | blew away a 
common bixby or a mary sue or a type green or whatever you called 
them. | couldn't. | saw in her eyes that she was afraid of me. So, | 
did what | had to. | ran from the Coalition, until there was nowhere 
left to run. | pledged my services to the Foundation if they promised 
amnesty for... Dairine. That was her name. 


| still remember the first bixby | killed. She was twelve years old. | 
had to run her over with a car. The only thing she did was make one 
of her dolls come to life because she was just so lonely and needed 
a friend. She was bullied at school to the point where she started 
cutting herself. She was twelve. She shouldn't have had to worry 
about what razor blades would leave the least noticeable scars or 
getting hit by people in black vans. Al Fine told me | was doing a 
service to the world. | had half a mind to shoot her right then and 
there. | waited for about six months before | actually did. Made it 
look like a mugging gone wrong. 


The second anomaly | was ever able to interact with was Epon. My 
daughter. | say ‘interact’, but I'm still immune to her anomaly. | knew 
it was her the instant | saw her. She had her mother's eyes. She's 
my only proof that there was a man named Alto Clef. My daughter, 
who's stuck in a cell because the Foundation is afraid that every 
male in the world is going to try raping her. They call her a 
succubus. What a joke. If she was a succubus, it would be the other 
way around. So, my daughter, who you know as 166, is being held 
against her will for the simple reason that she was born. She doesn't 
deserve it. I'm hoping that what | left with her will stop anything else 
from happening to her. 


And yet, | can't do anything about it. | can't even let her know I'm her 
father. The Foundation just thinks it's another anomaly that I'm 
immune to because I'm an anchor in a stormy ocean. But | know 
she's my daughter, and | want her to be happy. | tried to make her 
life a little better, but | had to use half of my contacts just to get a 
single note into her cell. | had to use the other half to leave my last 
gift for her. Epon, I'm sorry. 


The third one | could interact with was... was Sigurrés. 239, as you 
know her. That whole shitstorm with her... it was because | was 
scared. | could actually feel her in my mind. And | was terrified. | had 
to kill her because, if she could get into my mind, she could do 
anything. | couldn't let that power go unchecked. The whole Telekill 
Sword thing was bull. In my hands, a sharp stick could have killed 
her. 


| think that whole thing happened the way it did because, whatever 
239 is, it wanted to toy with us. It wanted to laugh at us. It made me 
fight Kondraki. It made the thoughts in my mind into a dragon. It 
made everyone else act like fucking idiots just for a laugh. It was 
doing that for years, ever since we discovered it. 


She's dead, now. | put a cocktail of cyanide, arsenic, whatever 035 
and 075 produce (I got it from the Coffee Machine with help from an 
assistant), and a few dozen other things into her system. She 
melted, right then and there. Since then, people have started acting 
normal again. Gears Gerry actually laughed yesterday, when | told 
him a joke. It almost made me rethink this plan. 


But | know the Foundation is gonna figure out who melted 239 at 
some point. And because the Foundation's motto is Secure, 
Contain, Protect, not Destroy, Destory Destroy, Destroy, I'm going to 
get my mind-wiped and dumped on the side of the road in 
Albuquerque or something. I'm not about to let that happen. 


My name is not Alto Clef. But it's probably the name you'll know me 
by, assuming the O5s don't expunge all record of my existence. My 
will can be found in Dr. Bright's old office, behind where he used to 
keep the picture of his family on the south-eastern wall. 


Assuming | can go to Hell, well, I'll see you all there someday. 


Instances of SCP-777-1 will behave aggressively to any lifeforms 
that enter SCP-777, and will attack on sight. SCP-777-1 will single- 
mindedly hunt their prey and have on several occasions followed 
intruders out of SCP-777 and to nearby towns. 


Instances of SCP-777-1 do not appear to attack each other, and 
instead behave in a hive mind, using flanking maneuvers to distract 
and kill their victims. SCP-777-1 typically collapse and become 
inanimate if not provided with further moisture after twenty-four (24) 
hours, although this timescale seems to be longer in smaller 
instances. 


Sand retrieved from SCP-777 appears to retain its anomalous 
qualities until it is taken a further six (6) kilometers away from 
SCP-777. Taking advantage of this, a research outpost has been 
established two (2) kilometers away from SCP-777, and research on 
the anomalous sand is currently being undertaken. 


Analysis of the radio interference and evidence given in Interview 
777-1 indicate that the source of the anomalous events is the center 
of SCP-777. However, all attempts to reach it have met with failure. 


History: SCP-777 was discovered by the Foundation during a 
routine myth verification operation undertaken by Mobile Task Force 
Zeta-17 "Beach Bullies". Contact was lost with Task Force Zeta-17 
one (1) hour after the mission began. 


Mobile Task Force Phi-22 "Well Wishers" then began a rescue 
operation and managed to retrieve , the leader of Mobile 
Task Force Zeta-17 and only survivor of the incident, on the 
outskirts of SCP-777, who informed research staff of SCP-777's 
nature. 


SCP-777-1 Testing Log 


Test 777-1a 

Materials used: One (1) grain of sand taken 
from SCP-777. 

Result: Drop of water is applied to sand. No 
visible effect. 


-Alto Clef. 


The above document was found in the office of Dr. Alto 
Clef following the sound of gunshots being reported from 
the general vicinity. When security teams arrived, blood 
matching that of Dr. Clef was found on the wall directly 
behind his desk, along with some brain matter and 
buckshot embedded in the wall. A spent shotgun casing 
was found underneath his desk, along with a Winchester 
1912 shotgun that formerly belonged to Dr. Clef; saliva 
matching his DNA was found on the end of the barrel. 


To date, Dr. Clef's body has not been recovered. His 
current status is unknown. 


A Swingset's Song 


Here | am with metal arms; still and silent, knowing 

Tracing back to rural farms; old and quiet, sowing 

As a boy | learned | had; low and secret, power 

Grew much older, good and bad; self-taught knowledge, flowered 


A stronger frame gave me in life; skill and chances, schemer 
Not coveting success or wife; no need for child, dreamer 

| sought to be the one who gives; inspiration, wonder 

Yet failed to be someone who lives; real life is hard, blunder 


Setting out to shape my course; seek my own way, freedom 
Using skills of phantom source; make well the world, feed them 
Building wonders for the young; my calling found, completed 
The accidental trap is sprung; blood and failure, seeded 


| failed three times, abysmal; alone and guilty, tragic 
Knowing that my ledger's full; red from misuse, magic 
A final use symbolically; an overcharge, of strength 
Break my light equivocally; contorting death, its length 


Slumbering in playground bed; a friend is made, he listens 
Holding on to what I've shed; fear glittering, it glistens 
Betrayed and given up to some; sequestered far, contained 
Friendship with an odd machine; not ending well, restrained 


No understanding comes with this: some accidents, alarmed 

| give out one last Christmas gift; your colleague's here, unharmed 
They give up hope just like | did; forgotten long, so still 

Until the end times knock the world; unmerciful, to kill 


Eons pass and here | stay; my only friends, are rubble 
Calling out the only way; with broken light, my bubble 
A guilty lighthouse in the dark; dying planet, shattered 
A voice replies, a shining arc; will this one think, | mattered? 


Ruiz Sobers Up 


Once upon a time, in the mysterious land of Brooklyn, New York, 
Ruiz Duchamp was getting fucked up in Joey’s house. 


twinkly wind chime sound effects 
“Ruiz. Your art. I’m telling you, it’s not good.” 


“Everyone’s a fucking critic,” he said as he threw back his head and 
swallowed. 


“Should you really be taking all of those together? Won't that like, kill 
you?” 


“Abso-fucking-lutely. And what’s it too you if | die? And my art is 
fantastic you prick.” 


“It’s a bunch of saw blades hanging from the ceiling, with letters that 
spell ‘this s art u fcuks.” 


Ruiz took a swig. “Indeed it is.” He took a puff. “But you’re missing 
the point.” 


“Which is?” 
Ruiz chewed and swallowed. “That it’s art and that you’re a fuck.” 
“Oh my god.” 


“Listen, Joey. What was the last cool thing you made? That cheesy 
celery platter whatever. Cheese and celery don’t even go together.” 
He sniffed and licked his fingers. 


“Your dad seemed to like it.” 


“My father is a self-righteous Critic. Just like you!” Ruiz stood up and 
walked over to Joey’s sofa. He face-planted into a throw pillow. “Vve 


problmm wivy ur urt iz -“ 
“What?” 


Ruiz lifted his face off the pillow. “The problem with your art, Joey, is 
that it all has to do something. It has to serve some purpose. Why 
can't it just exist, and in existing fulfill its purpose of being art. Art 
should evoke, not invoke. Art should make you feel like you just did 
a line, not help you draw one. And art should definitely not be food. 
That’s dumb, Joey. It’s just dumb.” 


“If you didn’t like my cheesy celery bites it, you didn’t have to eat 
them.” 


“But | did Joey! And they were gross.” 
Joey took a sip of his coffee. “You’re an asshole, Ruiz.” 


“No, I’m a dick. There’s a difference. And this dick has to take a piss. 
You got a bathroom in here?” 


“Down the hall.”