Kiefdust Crusaders 

A Witch's Tale - Mistakes Were Made 
Ex Nihilo Nihil 

The Lord Judge 


Alternate Character Interpretations 

Not with a Whimper but with a Bang 

It's All Behind Us Now 

Notes towards a manifesto 

The Melody Of Autumn, Passing Into Winter 
Bong Rip Tendency 

Ichor 

Interlude: A Special Letter 

Interlude: An Exhibition 

Flow 

Phantom Blunt 

In other news, 

Orgy 5 Counsel 9: XXXK End of Virginity Scenario 
Moonlighting 

Ganymede 

Snipped From The Same Cloth 

Be a Dali and Help a Mann Out, or The Lamentable State of 
Modern Art 

Coming soon to a gallery near you!~ 
Patronage 

Quintessence Of Dust 

Concerto in D-Major, Orchestrated for Paintbrush and Fedora 
Disposal And Discourse 

Brotherhood 

And Then What Happened? 

The Cool Kids 

Shady Meetings 

Insufficient Clearance 

Are We Christmas Yet? 

Detained 

Final Attack Orders 

Nobody Dies 

SCP-173-D 

Snip Snip Snip 

Novel Cultivars 

Eulogy For The Living 

Cool War 2: Ruiz From Your Grave 
wowwee u kild ursefl 

The Friday Exhibition 

Empty Unmarked Grave 


¢ The Critic 

* Flexibility 

¢ It Just Shattered 

¢ The Cool War 

¢ A Cooler Manifesto 
* Everyone Knows 

* wowwee go kill ursefl 
* Quiet Days 


AWCY objects are described in a format called a Project Proposal. 
The Project Proposal is a brief essay by an individual artist about an 
object s/he has either created or intends to create, and is submitting 
for consideration in the decennial exhibition or which they are 
seeking funding or materials from a patron so that they can create it. 
The page title of a proposal should be "Project Proposal XXXX-YYY: 
Title", in which "XXXX" is the year of the next exhibition for which it 
will be eligible for entry (so if the artist is writing in the late '70s, it 
would be in preparation for the 1984 Expo), "YYY" being an arbitrary 
number assumed to be derived from the order in which that proposal 
was received by the exposition's submission jury, and "Title" being 
the artist's name for the object. 


The essay is formatted as follows: 


Title: The artist's title for the piece as mentioned above, italicized. 
Material Requirements: A bulleted list of materials the artist used 
to create the piece or which s/he expects to need, ranging from the 
ordinary to the exotic and hard to find to that which is anomalous in 
and of itself. 

Abstract: A brief description of the piece - what it is, what it's 
supposed to do, how it does it (if the artist knows), how it should be 
displayed, etc. 

Intent: In this section, the artist, speaking in first person, describes 
their reasons for creating this piece; what motivated them to come 
up with the idea, what they hope to achieve by producing it, how 
they went about making it, who the intended audience is, what kind 
of reaction they hope to get from the audience, and so on. 


Creator Information 


"The Treachery of Euclids" is a parody incorporating elements of a photograph by 
Keisuke Yamamoto Of the work "Untitled 2004" by toumi Kato and the 
painting "La trahison des images" by Rene Magritte. All rights are reserved by the 
artists. 


A note of caution: SCP-173 is a secondary use of the image of the art piece 
"Untitled 2004", which was created by tyumi Kato- !he concept of SCP-173 
does not have any relationship with the artist's original concept of "Untitled 2004". 


The sculpture, its likeness, and the photograph have not been released under any 
Creative Commons license. Only the text of this article is released under Creative 
Commons. This sculpture and its likeness may not be used for commercial 
purposes under any circumstances. Izumi Kato has graciously chosen to 
allow the use of the image of "Untitled 2004" by the SCP Foundation and its 
fanbase for non-commercial purposes only. 


Birth of the Cool 


In the nineteenth century, the march of progress made it 
possible for the first time for human science to 
contemplate and comprehend those phenomena which 
had long seemed to contravene the laws of nature. 
Within a matter of decades, concepts that had long been 
viewed as witchcraft or sorcery were laid bare in the 
terms of a new and secret science, and governments 
and organizations around the world began to classify, 
study, and collect all such anomalies. And, just as artists 
throughout history have turned a critical eye to the 
events of the day in their work, so too did the artists of 
this scientific Renaissance begin to interpret these new 
discoveries on canvas. 


By the 1870s, Paris was the center of the world of 
anomalous art, and the city stood witness to endless 
debates about the role of the anomalous in art, or 
whether such a role existed at all. When in 1874 the 
famed Salon des Magnifiques refused to allow any 
"works of a phantasmagorical nature" to be displayed at 
their grand exhibition, those artists shut out by the 
committee organized their own counter-exhibition, to be 
held at the same time across the river. "Sommes-Nous 
Devenus Magnifiques?", as the show came to be called, 
was the talk of the Parisian press for months, earning 
equal amounts of curiosity, dismissal, and outright 
derision, but the exiled gadflies had made their point - 
the paranormal, the anomalous, and the bizarre had 
found a place in the world of art and would not be so 
easily gotten rid of. 


"Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques ?" held its 
exhibitions every ten years thereafter, and as time 
passed the world of anomalous art grew larger. From its 


beginnings in Paris, artists from all across France and 
Europe, and later from the Americas and the Orient as 
well, began attending the increasingly prestigious - and 
increasingly bizarre and difficult to keep hidden from the 
disdainful eyes of a concerned government - exhibition, 
expressing new and different interpretations of the role of 
the anomalous in human life. It was at the sixth 
decennial exhibition in 1924 that the growing rift between 
the two largest schools of thought - logical vs. emotional, 
science vs. faith, Old World vs. New - came to a head, 
for it was at that show that for the first time, the works of 
the French surrealist Marcel Duchamp would be 
exhibited alongside those of Ruiz Marcos, the Mexican 
artist whose themes of magical realism and religious awe 
intertwined with the viscerally accessible Forteana of our 
world had set art critics worldwide at war with each other. 


Those who saw the two during the days leading up to the 
opening of the exhibition said they spent nearly the entire 
time in heated discussion with one another (in English, 
for neither spoke the other's mother tongue confidently) 
about everything under the Sun - the importance of the 
artist in relation to his work, the importance of context, 
faith, knowledge, law, free will, God, the State, 
democracy, Marxism, the war, the League of Nations, 
and the best way to serve a cup of coffee. It seemed that 
they might continue bickering throughout the entire 
exhibition, but as the artists prepared to greet the 
assembled press on the morning of its grand opening, 
they appeared to have finally come to an understanding. 


If there is one image that comes to the mind of any art 
historian when the 1924 Expo is brought up, it is of that 
iconic photo of Duchamp and Ruiz posing side by side 
with their fellow artists in front of the still-closed doors, 
Marcos seemingly leaning over to whisper something 
into Duchamp's ear. For decades, many have speculated 
on what words Marcos had for his colleague during that 
memorable instant; a question of metaphysics? Or a 
challenge? An affirmation of their coming to terms? A 


reminder of the reason why they were there at that 
moment of time? Perhaps an expression of amazement 
at the multitudes that had come to see them? According 
to one reporter who claimed he stood close enough to 
overhear that whisper amidst the din of the crowd, it was 
all five at once, expressed in four simple words; 


"Are we cool yet?" 


- Excerpt from The Coolest War: Memories of a Critic, 
by Anonymous 


Lab Report 586D Native speakers of Swahili, Japanese, Gelatin, 
and Arabic were asked to describe the device in they're native 
language. Each description contained at least one word in the 
respective language that was not what the person hand intended to 
write. 


Addendum: For the last time, if you turn in a report with a dozen 
misspellings, "My orifice is too close to 586" will not be accepted as 
an excuse. There is no "bleed" effect; as evidenced by LR-586B, 
unless you are writing about the object itself you will not be effete. 
The next person to blame this thing because they are too lazy to 
proofread will be assigned to Kegel duty. Dr. 


« SCP-585 | SCP-586 | SCP-587 » 


Birth by Guitar 


Some people are fond of saying that those who do not 
learn from history are doomed to repeat it. It would be 
more accurate to say that history is doomed to repeat 
itself. 

- Excerpt from The Coolest War: Memories of a Critic, 
by Anonymous 


As the sun set over the Seine river, the migration began. It was slow 
at first, with a few figures crossing the waters by bridge. As the sky 
darkened, the travelers multiplied. They came in bicycles, boats, 
taxis, and trucks. A few walked. A few more ran. The sun sank 
completely below the horizon, and the migration ceased. The crowd, 
now a few hundred strong, reached its destination, merging with the 
multitude of individuals who were already there. It was closing time 
at the Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques, and the final exhibition 
was about to begin. 


The Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques opened its doors for a 
month every ten years, closing them for fifteen minutes at sundown. 
A large poster glued to the wall of the gallery lied about the reason 
for this closing in seventeen different languages. The poster 
identified the downtime as, among other things, a time to have lunch 
(French), a cleaning period (English), a dirtying period (German), 
and a mandatory smoking break (Swahili). In truth, the gallery did 
not shut down during these fifteen minutes. It simply moved 
outdoors. 


The gallery's doors swung closed, and a final figure darted between 
them. She carried a weathered guitar under her arm. The figure 
leaned against the side of the building and began to tune her guitar. 
When the job was finished, she raised her head, acknowledging the 
crowd for the first time. 


"Ah!" gasped the Guitarist, feigning surprise. "Who might you lot 
be?" 


The crowd erupted into a roar of sound as hundreds of voices rose 
to answer the question. 


The Guitarist clicked her tongue. "This simply will not do," she said. 
"You must appoint a speaker from within your ranks if you wish to be 
heard." She paused, adjusting a few of the strings on the guitar. "Go 
on, make your selection. Choose somebody to do the talking. 
Nobody in particular." 


As it did every night, the crowd parted to reveal a serene, well- 
dressed man. The man strode to the front of the crowd and locked 
eyes with the Guitarist. The crowd held its breath. The man 
coughed, and the Exchange began. It was an old performance, one 
that had been scripted decades earlier. As the two players spoke, 
the members of the audience mouthed the performers' lines, having 
seen the Exchange dozens of times before. 


"And who are you?" asked the Guitarist. 

"lam, as you requested," replied the man, "Nobody in Particular." 
"Why are you here?" asked the Guitarist, gesturing towards the 
crowd. "What did you hope to accomplish by gathering before me 
tonight?" 


"We have come to be cool." 


"Why not take a dip in the river, then?" the Guitarist replied with a 
smile. The crowd chuckled. The joke wasn't particularly funny, and 
hadn't matured well after a thousand repetitions, but the crowd 
always chuckled. 


"We're here to listen to music." 


"Is there something you had in mind?" the Guitarist asked, lazily 
strumming a chord. 


"A special song, stolen from the future." The man doffed his hat. 


The Guitarist grinned. "Ah, but the future comes later." She placed 
her hand on the neck of the guitar. "It will be stealing from me." 


The Exchange was completed. The crowd cheered, then fell silent 
as the Guitarist began to hum. She tried a few notes before she felt 
her voice catch on the proper one. She hummed again, and her 
voice caught again. She tried once more, and felt the catch in her 
throat tear itself free, releasing a deep, throaty voice. The Guitarist 
opened her mouth and sang. 


Brother, won't you lend your ear 
And help me if you can 

‘Cause | ain't seen hide nor hair 
Of the Manna Charity Man. 


They said he had no soul for jailin' 
Nor the talents for work in art 

The Circus didn't call him, no 

He's been helpin' from the start. 


Well if manna falls from heaven 

Then it lands above our heads 

But don't you frown, ‘cause the Charity Man 
Said he'll keep all of us fed. 


Oh, the Fact'ry's still now workin' 
Smokestacks pushin' smoke 
Assembly line still movin' 
Overseer can't take a joke. 


Brother, won't you lend your ear 
And help me if you can 

‘Cause | ain't seen hide nor hair 
Of the Manna Charity man. 


Charity Man said don't you worry, now 

Charity Man said don't you cry 

Said he's knockin' on doors all the way to Heaven 
Ain't nobody gonna turn a blind eye. 


Seen Jailers down over by the docks 
Jailers don' understand 

Jailer-man always askin’ if 

I've seen the Manna Charity Man. 


Charity Man's been workin' on something 
Way deep underground 

But | ain't seen no Charity Man 

Since the Jailers came lookin’ 'round. 


Brother, won't you lend your ear 
And help me if you can 

‘Cause | ain't seen hide nor hair 
Of the Manna Charity man. 


The Guitarist bowed her head, and the crowd applauded. The man 
smiled and tipped his hat again, vanishing into the throng. The doors 
of the gallery creaked open, and the wind picked up, carrying the 
song to the lips of the performer who would sing it for the first time, 
years later. 


Somewhere between the singers, in a small house in New York, an 
insomniac tapped his pen against a sheet of paper. He was meant 
to be writing a highly important letter, concerning nothing less than 
the fate of humanity, but he could not find the right words. Truth be 
known, the writer was beginning to doubt his own cause. 


A breeze blew through the window, and the paper rippled beneath 
the pen. The writer rose to close his shutters, then froze. For a 
moment, he was certain that he'd heard a voice drifting through the 
room along with the wind. Then, he dropped back into his seat and 
began to write, the voice and the window forgotten. 


In the interest of sharing all of God's miracles with the 
least of His children, and in the interest of humanity as a 
whole, | am pleased to announce the formation of a new 
organization that shall work towards the liberation of 
those in poverty, in depression, and in the throes of 
death. This organization shall hereby be known as the 
Manna Charitable Foundation. May it prosper for 
generations to come, and all of mankind with it. 


Living in the Limelight 


| believe it was Shakespeare who said "All the world's 
indeed a stage, and we are merely players, performers 
and portrayers, each another's audience outside the 
gilded cage." 


He was half-right. 


-Except from The Coolest War: Memories of a Critic, 
by Anonymous