My sky greets me as | open my eyes. 


And this makes green my color. 


Walking around my fields, my mind starts working. | start 
thinking of important things. 


Like... if God is my father, and also their father, doesn't 
that make us brothers? | shudder at the thought. 


| mean, just to think | could have anything to do with— 


| see something in the distance. Two small shapes. Two 
small, deformed, monstrous shapes. 


Standing on my fields. 


So | walk... 


"Hey... hey, Simon. The hell is that?" 


"Dunno... don't like the way it's moving, though..." 


...towards them. 


"It's... it's getting closer." 


"Yeah, maybe we should—" 


Now red is my color. 


"Oh my God, what the hell is that thing?" 


Ugly, but still, those things... 


"Shoot it! Shoot it, dammit!" 


...they... 


"Run! Run, go get help!" 
"What about you?!" 


"Il try to ho—" 


...are... 


"ohgodohgodohgodohgod" 


...mine... 


"ohgodohgodohg—" 


...too. 


"Denizen" by Bunton 


| don’t know why my mummy screams. She just keeps 


scratching me and yelling and crying. It makes me feel 
sad. Is it my fault? | thought she liked having me here, | 
thought... | thought... 


Why doesn’t she love me? Is it something | did? She 
keeps... she keeps saying that she’s not my real 
mummy. But she raised me. | don’t care who put me 
here. My mummy is my mummy. She’s warm and nice 
and lovely. | love my mum 


She doesn’t really have any other children. I’m her only 
daughter, and | have her all to myself. | think she’s all 
alone. Nobody else ever comes here, not since what she 
told me about my other mother’s arrival. | don’t like my 
other mother. She abandoned me and left me. This 
mummy gave me a home. It’s a good home. So big and 
comfy. | just wish she’d stop scratching. She'll hurt 
herself. 


Ahhh... she keeps... she keeps doing it to me. Why? 
Why does my mum keep hurting me? | thought she loved 
me... | thought she... 


I’m just trying to rupture. Doesn't she want me to leave 
her body? 


Should | stay? 


"Dark" by SRegan 
New York, August, 1911. 


He had never liked birthdays much. Every year people 
had asked him how it felt to be sixteen, eighteen, twenty. 
And his answer was always 'the same as it felt 
yesterday’. It nonplussed him that people couldn't see 
that time existed irrelevant of human demarcations. But 
then, he had always viewed the world differently from 
those around him. They had stopped asking after twenty- 
two, as though one ceased to acquire new experiences 


or change one's perspectives after that date. 


Today he woke, as was his custom, one minute before 
the bell in the alarm clock beside him burst into life, and 
flattened the brass pip with the ball of his palm. He was 
twenty-nine years old. To be accurate, he thought, he 
would be twenty-nine as commonly reckoned at nine 
thirty-five this evening - until then he was merely a 
spritely twenty-eight. But as far as he could see, the 
conventional way men measured their ages was 
incorrect anyway; everyone was nine months older than 
they thought. 


He rose, lit a cigarette at the window then went over to 
the washbasin, regarded himself in the shaving mirror. 
He saw the same long, lugubrious face with dark eyes he 
had seen for as long as he could remember. | have not 
changed, he thought, though he knew it was untrue - you 
just changed more slowly than you could perceive it. 
Those near you were under the same glamour of 
repetition - they would remain convinced that time had 
no grip on you, until the day they noticed you were losing 
your hair or wearing your glasses all the time or were 
suddenly struck by the way your eyes creased when you 
smiled. Death would sneak up on everyone, he thought, 
and there was something beautiful in that thought. Death 
the Great Leveller. The movie stars, the debutantes, the 
great and the good would all collapse and putrefy one 
day at atime, and they would adapt to and accept it, just 
like everyone else. 


He went over to the ice-box and took out a bottle of 
Pemberton's cola, pressing it against his forehead. One 
product of this country he could live with, he thought. He 
could already feel how unconscionably hot it would be 
today, and the docks would give him no allowance for 
the day of his birth. Soon he would have to go and clock 
in. Things could have been different, he thought. He 
could have applied himself at the little rural school back 
in England and pursued a career as a doctor, or lawyer. 


Or perhaps that would have only increased the world's 
demand on him - to shut down his mind, to stupefy him. 
At least engaged in the menial task of loading and 
unloading the lifeblood of world commerce he had some 
time to think, to construct edifices and structures of 
cognition. When five years ago he had crossed the 
Atlantic to make his fortune in America he could not have 
imagined that he would have come to this, slaving 
fourteen hours a day in the hot sun, cursed at by his 
mental inferiors. 


The letter on his doormat as he made to leave took him 
quite by surprise. In the first instance, the room he rented 
for eight dollars a month didn't even have a postal 
address - it was a cramped box that had been half a 
parlour, subdivided by his landlord to fit in another 
credulous wealth-seeker from England. He picked it up - 
the envelope crisp, white paper of a sort he hadn't seen 
before - an ornate cartouche on the upper right hand 
corner. There was no stamp or postal mark, so it must 
have been delivered by hand. He turned it over and saw 
his own name in a swirling, faintly familiar hand on the 
front. He had a minute or so, he thought, closing the door 
again and slitting the letter open with a breadknife. Inside 
was a small bundle of letters, tied together with a deep 
crimson ribbon. He untied it, carefully. Was it too much to 
hope for deliverance, that someone had seen him and 
believed in him, his power to change the world - that he 
might have a patron? He lifted the first sheet and read 
what it said. 


Dear Bartholemew, 


| am most apologetic for the delay in sending 
these documents - | could inform you that the 
method | have discovered of transmitting them 
did not allow them to reach you prior to this 
point. That, however, would be a lie. And we 
must never lie to ourselves, must we? | have 
chosen this day and this moment because you 


are ready. You have seen what | have seen 
and are mentally prepared to act upon it. Do 
not consider me your master or a tyrant; | am 
simply accelerating the process that took far 
longer to reach fruition in my case. It may well 
be that you never discover yourself the means 
by which | prepared or sent these documents - 
| have prepared for this eventuality and in 
these papers you will find guidance that will 
serve you through the coming decades. 


At this time you still harbour dreams of 
industrial prowess - of making your wealth in 
oil, or gold, or the railways. | have something 
grander in mind for you; an empire. There are 
partners you must seek out and persuade - 
their counterparts have persuaded me of the 
dangers of too great an interference of my 
part, so these documents are to remain secret 
from them at first. In the nineteen-thirties you 
are to write out some of the information | 
provide to you in this document and share it 
with them; instructions on what to copy and 
when are provided therein. If you heed my 
advice, your empire will expand over 
continents and encompass Presidents, Prime 
Ministers, the law and police - | bequeath this 
to you. | think of you as a son, though of 
course this is entirely inaccurate. 


Your first task, Bartholemew, will be to pena 
letter in your own hand. It will seem to you of a 
most strange and troubling character, but you 
must deliver it to an organisation whose name 
will become familiar to you in the years to 
come. You will establish yourself in their trust 
and what you obtain from them will furnish the 
beginnings of your work. It is to be addressed 
to Dr Hermann Keter and concerns recent 
events in the country of Guatamala... 


Bartholemew read on, eyes widening. At the bottom of 
the letter was the same swirling signature he had seen 
on the envelope. As he looked at it it resolved itself into 
letters. They said: 


B. Dark 


"Delight" by Drewbear 


| try to be good in small ways. You know, doing little 
things that brighten someone's day. Sometimes | go a 
little overboard, but that's a learning experience, is all. 
And hardly anyone is around to complain. 


One day, many years ago, | was walking around a 
college campus when | overhead a young woman crying 
at a picnic table outside one of the dorms. Listening in, | 
overhead that it was her first birthday away from her 
family (only 17! Such a precocious young thing!) and that 
no-one here had wished her a happy birthday or gotten 
her anything. She sounded very, very sad and lonely. 
Poor thing, all alone on her birthday. 


So | wandered away for a bit, keeping my eye on her in 
the meantime, and took a birthday card from the campus 
store. | wrote a birthday wish in it, in my elegant 
handwriting, and sealed it with a smile and a kiss. She 
didn't even notice when | slipped it into her backpack as 
she passed me on her way to class. 


| didn't follow her ALL of the day (that would be impolite), 
but | did return to her side when | felt her touch the 
imprint of my kiss on the envelope. Graceful fingers and 
a gentle touch. She seemed hesitant as she opened the 
envelope, but she seemed so surprised and happy when 
she opened the card and the spray of light erupted from 
my writing. Seeing the tears of joy roll down her cheeks, | 
was so happy to make her feel better, and took my leave 
of her to spread goodness elsewhere. 


SCP-610-L5 


Approval from Central HQ was granted for a manned assault 
excursion into the tunnels beneath Site A to try to ascertain the 
extent of the SCP-610 infection. The destruction of Site A and Site C 
have established SCP-610 can be contained and destroyed, making 
the source of the infection top priority. The initial descent into the 
tunnels consists of five teams, two research and three assault, along 
with enough equipment to establish an underground base of 
operations. 


Descent into the tunnels was established using pulley systems and 
a lift to move equipment. Assault teams were the first to descend, 
armed with flame units to clean SCP-610 out of the area. All teams 
were able to descend without incident and flame units took point 
providing an undisturbed journey toward the water source where the 
RSCP610 drone was lost. 


Base camp for underground SCP-610 operations resides at the 
bottom of a three-way junction, four if the water flow is included. The 
first pathway is that which led from Site A to Cavern HQ. The 
second is the pathway to the ruined village residing in the mountains 
above where RSCP610 was destroyed by a large unknown 
SCP-610 entity. The third pathway heads west and seems to follow 
the flow of water for an unknown distance. The cavern area here is 
quite large and is supported by a number of rock formations that are 
coated with decayed SCP-610 material. The state of this material 
suggests great age and appears to reinforce the structural supports. 
Whether or not this is intentional or coincidental is unknown. 


The two research teams split activities between building Cavern HQ 
and collecting samples of SCP-610 in various states. No contagious 
materials were detected within this area and the creature recorded 

by unmanned drones did not appear at any point to the Cavern staff. 
Of the four research teams, three were ordered to proceed down the 
unexplored pathway while an aerial drone was prepped for a second 


May your eyes ever sparkle and your voice 
ever soar. 

May your pockets never empty that you never 
shall be poor. 

May your lovers find you winsome and your 
husbands treat you kind. 

May your womb ever quicken with the children 
of your mind. 


Happy Birthday, dear one 


Enjoy your gifts well. 


"D-1243" by ChazzK 


"D-class subject number 1243." That was what he had 
been called for the last 39 days. Twenty nine days of 
"community service", following ten days of transfer and 
orientation after he signed the form that got him off death 
row for a charge that was trumped up anyway. That was 
what he said and stuck by, it couldn't be first degree 
murder if he never met the other guy before, and besides 
that guy was the one with the gun. Not his fault he was 
just quicker, nor that the guy had such a short temper 
that the gun was pulled to start with. 


So strange that someone in his position could get off with 
"community service", but then again this was a strange 
community. His first three days involved cleaning some 
awful sludge out of the holding pen for some sort of 
statue. Just once, someone blinked a split second too 
early and 0781 fell right on his ass, due to the concrete 
hands an inch from his neck. Then it was a week 
watching a television that kept playing some kind of 
footage of Ronald Reagan; he had to write down all the 
horrible ways the tape kept changing, and man it was 
horrible. He actually kind of liked the couple of days that 
he got to spend with the bugs, the researcher involved 
with them was so nice, especially since he wasn't one of 
the poor saps who got bit. 


Yes, D-1243 was a lucky guy. Bouncing back and forth 
between tests because of minor contrivances, being part 
of the group (or only one of the group) to unexpectedly 
survive, or just get an easy one. D-1243 had seen other 
men in orange jumpsuits beaten, shocked or outright 
gunned down because they wouldn't cooperate, but he 
hadn't been hardened by prison enough to think "sticking 
it to the man" was more important than seeing freedom. 


That morning, D-1243 woke up in the dormitory with the 
same three men he had shared it since D-8775 got stuck 
in a hole in a wall. Today was the day. They would be 
given drugs that would make them forget everything they 
saw, and be released back into the world. It was an extra 
special day, and few things were as disturbingly 
heartwarming as seeing former-death-row-inmates 
gathered around singing "Happy Birthday." They were all 
happy though, they were getting out too. 


"So how old are you, anyway?" 
"Twenty-nine." 
"Man, what a birthday gift!" 


The five D-class subjects were eventually gathered up 
and moved by armed escort through the wing. The room 
they were led to was small, with smooth metal walls and 
no windows. The door made a distinctive clang as it 
closed shut. D-1243 then heard the slight hiss of gas 
being released; that must be how the mind-wipe drugs 
worked, he thought. The five men got sleepy fast, and 
laid down on the bare metal floor. The last thing D-1243 
thought before his mind shut down was that he hoped he 
would wake up soon; he wanted to be able to have some 
cake on his first birthday as a free man. 


"Doll" by Reject 


Stuffed animals are so much better than people. Just like 


Mommy said. When a stuffed animal rips, you just sew it 
back together. Stuffed animals always listen to you talk 
and never tell you to do anything you don't want. Best of 
all, stuffed animals are with you forever. 


Daddy said that seven is too old to still have teddy bears 
and stuff, but | think he's wrong. Other than you 
Freddybear, there's Buttons the rabbit, Millicent the 
moose, and Socrates the squirrel. I've had just about all 
of them as long as | can remember. And they've never 
broken. Well, too badly at least.