In the pale moonlight he began to cast the thread into a single piece 
of textile. But the more he spun, the more he deviated and the 
needle twisted and turned, forwards and backwards into ways not 
even he could comprehend. It was as if the thread was compelling 
him, forcing his fingers into complex loops and maneuvers until he 
lost track of everything and all that remained was an indeterminate 
bundle in his hands, chaotic yet somehow orderly, which seemed to 
change its shape depending on from which angle he looked at it. His 
needle was also warped and bent double into a smooth curve, 
although he could not remember it doing so while he was sewing. 


Carefully, gingerly, he lowered the strange dreamy bundle into the 
cavity of the skull, and stitched up the hole with a single movement. 
The glass eyes grew a little less opaque, and the tick-tick-tick of the 
clockwork heart quickened, and the woven man came to life. 


That was the story he told the townsfolk, as he brought the woven 
man to the market the next day. Silk pulsing through threaded veins, 
it spoke and breathed and acted like a human being. In fact, so 
engrossed was the master tailor at his project that he did not realise 
he had created the woven man entirely in his own image. The 
townsfolk were amazed, and expressed joy at the tailor having 
another hand to help about in the never-ending work and 
commissions. 


SCP-610-L4 


Events regarding the discovery, research, and handling of SCP-610 
rapidly degraded to a point where ‘fail safe’ options were being 
considered. For over one hour nothing further had happened at Site 
A following the loss of the research teams during the seismic events 
in SCP-610-L3 and subsequent contact with previously unseen 
SCP-610 life forms. 


With the absence of activity at Site A a remote drone dispatch was 
authorized in two parts. The first part would drop a remote relay 
device at the entrance to the Site A sinkhole and the second part 
would dispatch a drone into the hole directly to relay its data to the 
remote relay for transmission back to HQ. Drones on site were 
powered by solar energy with a battery maintaining a four-hour 
charge. 


Attached is the video log recovered from the Site A Sinkhole drone 
before its loss. 


Video feed activates. 
Researcher's face is seen looking into camera, applying 
a polishing cloth to lens. 


"This is Explorative Drone RSCP610-1 coming online. 
Systems check out. Video confirmed. Feed is good to 
relay station. We are testing rotors now and deploying if 
successful." 


The sound of a helicopter blade starts up as video feed 
begins to lift in the air. Camera tilts left and right to test 
pan features then directs itself toward the Site A 
sinkhole. 


"Video feed is go, engines are go, links are green. 
Alright, sending drone down now." 


The days went by, and soon enough the woven man grew to be as 
proficient as the master tailor was in his prime. The master tailor, on 
the other hand, slowed and declined, and instead preferred to spend 
his evenings at the local barhouse with a few friends, a deck of 
cards and a mug of vodka while his creation toiled away and 
practiced. One night in a drunken rage, he threw down his cards and 
exclaimed, "| should never have made that blasted woven monster 
in the first place! Why, | would have trained a respectable born-and- 
bred man instead, one smart enough not to overtake his master at 
his own art!" 


Late in the night, the town sentry recalled hearing a scuffle in the 
tailor's cottage. By the next morning, only one man was seen at the 
market, carrying his own wares. "What happened to the other one?" 
they asked. 


"Tried to murder me in my sleep, that traitorous bastard." 
"Where is he now?" 


The tailor turned to them. "I killed him. Torn him apart. Strung his 
sinews into a bonfire, then set him alight with his burning bones." 


The townsfolk asked little about that fateful night. The master tailor 
was apparently driven by the death of his doppelganger, and 
proceeded to generate tapestries the likes of which no one had ever 
seen before. 


But no man is immortal, and even the master tailor's rippling fingers 
could not save him from Death. Now this is where the story gets 
strange, for when they cremated his body in the town square, his 
body burned like dry cotton on a summer day, and at the bottom of 
his ashes was a single clockwork sewing-machine mechanism, 
winding down to the tune of a dead starpiece. 


Two Ships, Passing in the Night 


There were once two identical houses. Each house had a pair 
within. Time moved swiftly forward and the pairs aged with this time. 
First, one pair lost their other half. Quickly, they were gone too. And 
the house sat empty. 


The other pair promised it wouldn't happen to them. 


So, one day, one half picked up a gun, with a last promise and a 
kiss, they blew their lover’s candles out. Then, only momentarily in 
the horrible state of being alone, it was their time. Now both houses 
sat empty. The brother and sister arrived at the house with no blood 
on its walls, but they fought — first verbally, then physically, then 
legally. 


One day the fog cleared as if pushed aside by a stiff breeze, 
compelled by some higher being that the siblings didn't believe in, 
but felt influenced by. The brother and sister realised how silly they 
were being, in the house that once belonged to such a loving pair. 
They called a silent truce and packed up — leaving the house alone 
once more. 


All the while, the house of apparent tragedy had sat empty. It only 
hosted weeds in the garden, and kudzu had worked its way around 
the outside, invading through the windows. 


The house, just as homes and people sometimes become, was 
broken. So, there was surprise when three figures took a chance 
and moved in. One could be seen wearing gardening gloves, 
removing wheelbarrows of weeds and kudzu. Another could be seen 
steadily cleaning the home, even removing the flaky blood from the 
musky walls. And the third, much smaller than the other two, could 
be seen making their own secret home in the overgrown garden, 
serving tea to a host of cuddly toys. 


They were still working when five figures moved into the other 


house. These people saw how hard they were working. They 
brought over steaming casserole dishes and occasional clunking 
glass bottles. More importantly, they brought over friendship. For the 
first time in a long time, both houses were filled with light and 
laughter. 


The two smallest had the biggest things in common — each owned 
stuffed toy was promptly named, loved, and shared at will; every 
fake cup of tea drunk with gusto and a contented sigh. Then, one 
day, hand in hand, the two smallest left their homes for an 
adventure. A monster with nails as long as claws, black gaps where 
its eyes should be, and a hunger for something food could not 
satiate found them instead. 


Kept alive, locked away, alone — terrified by this creature that 
seemed to come from another world, that leered at them with a 
mouth on its belly, that stared at them despite apparent blindness, 
that talked in a language neither child knew. 


Their bodies weren’t found for six months. Stuck together with black 
tape — bound by plastic. 


Something had interpreted the little ones’ fun. Something still on the 
loose. Something with skin that felt like a snake and had wrists that 
held no pulse. 


The larger group left their home first. Full of grief and unable to look 
at those they had been so close to — each blamed the other for the 
tragedy, even though they sometimes just happen. Grief can do 
strange things. 


Not long after that, the pair in the other home split in half. Neither 
wanted to live there, with the memories and the faint smell of blood. 
So, the home became a house again. They stayed empty that way 
until something stronger than a force of nature turned against them, 
a thousand times stronger than only weeds or twisting kudzu. 


The tides stopped peacefully coming in and out. A violent wind that 
seemed to come from no-where caused them to crash onto the 
beach, then the boardwalk, then started flooding into the 
neighbourhoods. 


Undeterred as they had been in the face of tragedy, the houses had 
little hope against the storm beating them down. Quickly, each 
became free from their foundations with a creak and a shudder. For 
a while they even floated impressively, creating a bizarre optical 
illusion in the rising water. 


Then, when these two houses with so much in common came within 
an arm's reach, they both shuddered at the same time, pushed by 
the same wave. And then, they went under, as if they'd never been 
there at all. Maybe they hadn't, and it was all someone else's dream 
— the suicide, the murder, the monster, the pain of emptiness. 


It was as if all the painful and joyous events had never happened. 
And no one needed the corpses of empty houses to remind them, so 
something bigger than nature dismissed the buildings as useless. 
But, before they died, the houses became as two ships, passing in 
the night. 


The End of it All 


untitled 1.txt 


Finally it was time. 


You had worked hard and long at this. Days, months, years ata 
stupid, mindless job, your body on automatic, while your mind raced 
ahead of itself. You had painstakingly built up a hoard of sick days, 
until you had a full month ready to go. This was it. This was your 
moment to shine. Your agent had weaseled you a contract for a real 
novel, no more short stories for you! You were finally going to write 
the novel you had always dreamed of. Action, adventure, comedy, 
romance, all with a unique twist, no one had ever thought of! 


You laid your fingers upon the keyboard, ready to let loose- 
And there was a knock on your door. 


You cursed. You KNEW you had put up a no solicitor sign. You 
hadn't ordered any packages. And you had blasted all your social 
media to make sure your friends knew to leave you alone. 


You decided to ignore it. 


Fingers poised upon the keys again, you let your mind wander. You 
had the perfect beginning. Start in media res, a gripping scene of 
high fantasy, bleeding into a flashback, during a drag- 


Again, there was a knock on your door, heavier, more insistent. 


You glared at the door, as if by force of will you could make them go 
away. “No thank you, | have at the office!” You call out, loud enough 
to be heard through the cheap wood of the door. 


Once more your fingers seek the home row keys, no hunt and peck 
typing for you, no, you are a master of your craft, the words will flow 
from your fingers like a fountain, no, a river, no, a veritable flood of- 


KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. 


Loud enough it felt like your house shook, loud enough it jarred your 
mind free from your fantasy worlds. You were out of your chair 
before you were thinking, crossing the living room in three great 
strides and throwing open the door. “WHAT?” You yell, before you 
even look at the person before you. 


He is a small man, wider than he is tall, the word rotund springs to 
mind, like a human version of a rubber ball. His face damn near 
gleams, chubby cheeks nearly spherical as he looks up at you with 
nothing but wonder in his wide, innocent eyes. “It’s you.” He 
whispers. “It’s really you.” 


You step back, startled at the tone of sheer devotion in his words. 
And his clothing, well, it’s vintage, but, it’s, too vintage? He looks like 
he stepped out of an 90s advertisement, his clothing crisp and new, 
unworn since the day it was packaged. “I’m sorry?” You stutter out. 
“Do | know you?” 


“No, of course not, how could you know me? | wasn’t born when 
you... well, no you don’t Know me. But | know you. The whole world 
knows you. The greatest author to have ever lived. The one whose 
novels changed the very way the world thinks!” He gushes, hands 
close to his chest. “You're the best.” 


“|, uhm, think you may have me confused with someone else. | 
haven't written any novels.” Your hand is on the door, ready to close 
it. 


“You haven't, yet.” And the way he says it makes you turn and look 
at him again. The way he seems... too real. His skin, no trace of 
flush. His blue eyes, bluer than any you've seen. His hair, perfectly 
coifed, with no hint of product in it. “I’m from-“ 


“The future.” You finish, faintly. What kind of science fiction writer 
would you be if you couldn't recognize a time traveler? You step 
back, feeling a little faint, and your visitor takes this as an invitation 
to step in, a suitcase on wheels following after him. No, not wheels. 
You peer down and see that it has dozens of tiny feet. You sit down 
heavily in shock, and raise an eyebrow at the stranger. 


He glances back at his luggage, and his face splits in a joyful grin. 


“An homage. It doesn’t really need the feet, but | couldn't resist. | 
mean, | know you’ve barely begun, but... Well, you must have so 
many questions.” 


“Not really?” You say. “I mean, yes, they are boiling up inside me, 
eager to know... But I’ve read enough time travel stories to know | 
shouldn’t ask them. Well, maybe one. Why are you here?” 


“To the crux, ah yes, to the crux, as ever, so salient and to the 
point!” He fairly cackles with glee, rubbing chubby hands together. “I 
am here for something very important.” He kicks his suitcase gently. 


Nothing happens. 


He kicks it again, slightly harder this time, and the lid pops open, 
revealing a good thirty hardcover novels. They are beautiful books, 
your name blazing across the top of each one, but not blatantly, a 
subtle nod to you, worked into the very art of the jacket art. And the 
art! The covers blend into each other, revealing a completely 
different picture takes as a whole, then when individual. You gasp in 
delight, reaching out for them, only to be stopped by your visitor. 


“I, well, can’t let you read them. Might chance too much. Our 
computers say that this much won't alter anything. What | need from 
you is simple.” His face lights up with glee, his eyes sparkling. “I 
need your autograph on the inside pages, please.” 


“Of... of course. Anything for a fan.” He already has a pen ready as 
you lean forward, and begins open the covers for you. 


“Thank you, thank you, so much, this is so great of you. Can you 
make them out to Tim? Oh, thank you, thank you, yes, this one is 
my favorite, the twist at the end? Everyone spent years wondering 
how you were going to get the protagonist out of this, and then, you 
did? And it was so masterful. I’m so glad | could meet you, on today, 
of all days, when you begin your first masterpiece!” He keeps up a 
steady stream of chatter as you sign each book, your eyes slightly 
glazed, trying not to take in too many details. Words on the inside of 
the dust jacket stand out, here and there, ‘Jimithy Kalters,’ ‘Death of 
the world the spire,’ ‘the Darkness that Dwells,’ and more, just little 
hints of what is to come. You desperately try not to read them, you 


don’t want to influence yourself. 


“There you go.” Signing the last one with a flourish. The front cover 
of this book is graced with what seems like an homage to the sci fi 
novels of the sixties, but with a beautiful man barely dressed on the 
front cover instead of a woman. You smile up at him, a little strained. 
“Is that... is that all?” 


“Oh yes, that will be perfect.” He smiles at you again, bobbing his 
spheroid head. “Thank you for this. I'll leave you in peace now.” And 
he turns on his heel, his little footed luggage trailing along behind 
him as he goes. The door closes behind him, but you don’t see 
whether he did it, or the luggage did. 


You stay seated for several minutes. That was... amazing. 
Phenominal. Beyond belief. You slowly stand, snagging a soda from 
the fridge before you lazily make your way back to your computer.