Abstract: Masoschism is a makeshift tent made out of clear plastic, 
which is draped over four metal tent poles and fastened to the 
ground using ropes tied around tent stakes. While inside of the tent, 
feelings of pleasure and pain are inverted, so that any harm done to 
a person feels "good" in a manner unique to each person. Likewise, 
any action which would normally result in feelings of pleasure (a 
gentle caress, petting a fluffy dog, the obvious example(s) you're 
already thinking of, etc.) result in pain; again, unique to each 
participant. This is achieved by a simple temporary re-wiring of the 
brain, causing pain signals to output dopamine and pleasure signals 


to output whatever it is that causes pain. Due to this process, the 
participant's brain is re-wired upon exit, which can cause them to 
suddenly realize that they've stabbed themselves repeatedly (Hence 
the "schism"). 


Masoschism should be displayed outside, where the tent stakes can 
be properly hammered into the ground. The metal table should be 
put in the center of the piece and all instruments capable of inflicting 
pain except the stove and branding iron are to be neatly placed on 
top. The branding irons should be kept partially inside of the stove, 
which should remain on and at a constant temperature sufficient 
enough to keep the branding irons red-hot. 


Up to 20 people should be allowed in at any one time. Waivers must 
be signed by any and all participants, for hopefully obvious reasons. 
In accordance with the health and safety regulations of potentially 
lethal pieces (Article 5, Section 4), the first aid kit will be kept on- 
hand in case of severe damage. 


Intent: On 12 September 1961, | accidentally wandered into a 
freshman college philosophy class instead of my normal chemistry 
class. Too shy to leave and therefore non-verbally admit my mistake 
to the 50 or so people seated, | decided to sit in on the lecture. The 
professor walked in and spoke at length about morality and why 
people consider certain things to be "distasteful". When he asked 
the class why they thought certain things were inherently bad, 
almost everyone said the same thing; these actions cause pain. 


This obviously got me thinking. If the existence of evil is inherently 
based off of suffering, then would evil be considered moral if the 
harmed person gains nothing but pleasure? Admittedly, this kind of 
thought is why | would have failed philosophy, but it nevertheless 
remained in the back of my mind for the next few months. Needless 
to say, this is my practical display of that thought. 


Name: Johnathan Miller 
Title: /t's still garbage 


Material Requirements: 


¢ 2 foot tall cylindrical steel garbage cans; 1 foot diameter (5 
needed, 70 preferred) 

* Steel garbage can lid (1 needed, already in my possession) 

* Something capable of cleanly cutting through steel 

¢ 2 foot tall marble pillar; 1 foot diameter (1 needed) 

« Hammer and chisel (1 set, already in my possession) 

* Spotlights (4 needed) 


Abstract: It's still garbage is a steel garbage can 2 feet tall and 
between 12-142 feet deep depending on the number of cans 
gathered. The can should be placed in the center of its own room on 
the intricate marble pedestal provided. The room should be devoid 
of light outside of the spotlights, which should hang from the ceiling 
corners and directly face the piece. At no point should the spotlights 
be turned off. 


Intent: Mieszko Wojcik won the 1964 exhibition with Masoschism. 
While | respected and continue to respect the opinions of the judges, 
| disagree with their verdict. | saw Masoschism firsthand, and even 
tested out some of the milder injuries during the off-hours, as | didn't 
want to be hit in the back of the head by Sociopath-Sophie with one 
of the 20 spiked bats that were lying around. While | was sitting 
down on the table idly prodding my thigh with a fork, | had time to 
reflect on the tent | found myself in. 


It was ugly as sin. 


Specks of blood dotted the tarp, steak knives were partially buried 
so their blades stuck up, and none of it meshed in the slightest. | 
understand that most of it was out of Wdjcik's hands, it was 
performance art after all, but even in its initial state, the state 
Mieszko had the most control over, it was simply bland. 


This piece is meant to be self-reflective of our community, and call 
into question the worrying shift away from beauty. The art world as a 
whole seems to be focusing on making their point as blunt and 
noticeable as possible, and completely disregarding the aesthetic of 
their piece. 


Project Proposal 2014-234: "Outdoor Object of 
Ordinance" 


Title: Outdoor Object of Ordinance 
Material Requirements: 
* One (1) 7’ Park Bench 


Abstract: The Outdoor Object of Ordinance is a park bench. It is 
fully functional in the sense of it is able to be sat on comfortably by 
up to three people who do not know each other and up to five 
people who have known each other for a long period of time. One 
individual is able to comfortably assume his/herself in a horizontal or 
resting position on the surface of the bench. The Outdoor Object of 
Ordinance may also function as a surface of which objects can be 
placed, however objects smaller or as large as the gaps on the 
bench may drop to the ground if not handled with care. 


As the object’s intent, it should be displayed in a park in which the 
public are able to spectate and utilise it as they please. 


Intent: In my search for inspiration | have come across marvellous, 
remarkable displays of the most unconventional means of 
contemporary art done by my idols, the professionals, and quite a 
few of my colleagues. | marvel at their creation, in my mind thinking 
how | can succumb to their degree. Such dangerous, controversial, 
brave surrealistic objects can only be exceeded by a piece more 
dangerous, more controversial, more surrealistic. 


| was sat down one Monday afternoon and in vain, attempted to 
gush all my thoughts and ideas into a sketch book. A life-sized 
replica of Joseph Stalin’s head reciting Soviet secret in the tune of 
the first documented song by humanity. A school play of Les 
Miserables with genuine famine. North Korea but bees. Nothing 
satisfied me. As | stood up from where | was sitting, it hit me. 


Everything in the movement could be broken by something ordinary. 
| am making an anomaly among anomalies. 


Ex Nihilo Nihil 


| wake up, and | wonder once again what | am. What | was meant to 
be. | move, though | will my limbs not, and as | walk through the 
darkness | feel them scrape upon one another, and crunch on the 
brushed concrete floor. This is not life. 


They open the door, and my body freezes. The light is so bright it 
burns, and although | have no eyes to see it | know it is there. They 
move slowly around me, and | cannot run. | can never run, even 
when they no longer see me. | am a slave to myself, and to my 
shapeless limbs. 


Sometimes, before | kill them, | look at myself. At my grey, formless 
hands, at my misshapen head. At the walls of my prison. At the 
floor, stained red and brown by the substances that | will into being. | 
am a statue, but | have no beauty. | move constantly, but | have no 
purpose. | am a thing without form or function. 


| am not art. 


They come, and they look at me. | feel their stares bore into my 
hollow body, probing for any hint at my tormented mechanism. It 
continues for days, for years. The burning light, and the inevitable 
darkness. They have stopped now: they know that there is nothing 
more to learn. | was not made for them, nor they for me. | am no 
plaything of theirs. 


lam not wonderful. 


It is possible that | was a gift of some kind, but it is hard to imagine 
what good | could possibly do in the world. My frame is weak, and | 
have no kindness to bestow. | cannot control the crimes | commit, 
and | can only commit those crimes. My life is not mine to give, and | 


know in my heart that they will not take it. | will never know the 
pleasure of death. 


Whoever created me, they were not charitable. 


It is true that | am beyond their comprehension, and that they hold 
me in reverence. It is the reverence of the damned. | kill for 
pleasure, and the pleasure is not even mine to have. My painted 
mask runs red with blood, and | know that there is no God, for if 
there was he would not let me live. He would not let me be. | am an 
abomination, a threat to both good and evil. In a world of black and 
white, | dwell in the grey. 


| have been called many things, but never divine. 


What, then, is my ultimate fate? Not to be bought and sold asa 
commodity, | know that. | am outside the reach of mere wealth. 
Those that hold me in their possession would rather see me ground 
to dust than traded as merchandise. Nor am | a weapon: | am weak 
despite my strength. | murder, but | do not harm unjustly, and | am 
not under the control of any single person. | have no knowledge to 
impart, no joy to bestow, and no task to fulfil. | do not even scare 
them any more, disquieting though my visage is. 


Amongst a web of life, | am a dying prisoner in a shell of clay. lama 
single object, doomed without purpose, without any source of 
respite. To subsist as | do now is to die a death more potent than 
that suffered by mortals: | can only dream of having the vitality they 
take for granted. No-one takes responsibility for my actions save 
myself, and even | am unable to speak out against the world. 


My legs walk onwards, tracking pathways through the brown and 
red, awaiting the pain that comes with light, and the darkness that 
hurts me more. 


In my cage of brick and steel, in my cage of dye and dust, | am 
alone. 


Ascension Hub 


In between each tiny thing, 
Cracked in rock or dreamed in dreams, 
Lies a piece of a mystery, 

Its secrets 


In each spark of lightning, 
Drawn on walls, in sewing seams, 
Lies something we barely see, 
Its secrets 


Lean in close, lend an ear, 
Do not fuss, forget the years, 
Everything will be explained 

And all in good time 

What secrets kept from you 

Inside your own mind? 


Sometimes | Wish This Moment Could Last Forever 
Waiting on the Good Times 


* In the Beginning... 

* Breaking & Entering 

* Camping w/ Friends 

* The Meeting 

* Philosophical Car Ride 
* Cabin in the Woods 

¢ Jerry Saves Us From Ourselves 
* Getting the Hotel Hots 
* Shit Goes Down 

* Rachael Wins 

* Epilogue 


Forever Young 


SCP-588: A Voracious Coin 


Item #: SCP-588 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: The original copy of SCP-588 is 
maintained in a minimum security storage locker at Site-19. 
SCP-588 is contained in a clear, plastic box and is fitted with metal 
restraints. Researchers coming into contact with SCP-588 are 
required to wear padded protective gloves. If SCP-588 is removed 
from containment, absolute attention is to be maintained to ensure 
that it does not escape (see Incident Report 588-B). Any additional 
copies of SCP-588 produced during testing are to be subjected to 
temperatures in excess of 1100°C for a minimum of five minutes in a 
Site-19 disposal furnace. 


Description: SCP-588 is an American twenty-five cent piece (25¢) 
minted in 1972. Analysis of the chemical composition of SCP-588 
has confirmed that it is a standard 91.67%-8.33% alloy of copper 
and nickel. The depiction of American President George Washington 
on the obverse side of the coin displays activity consistent with 
being “alive.” Despite being bound to the plane of the coin face, the 
head of Washington has a full 180° range of horizontal movement 
and a vertical range of approximately 90”. 


In addition to movement of the head, SCP-588 is capable of opening 
and closing Washington’s “mouth,” and will attempt to feed 
ravenously upon any organic material brought within its proximity. 
No other parts of the face on the obverse side have been witnessed 
displaying movement, including the eyes. 


SCP-588 has demonstrated the ability to consume up to 1 gram of 
organic material in a single feeding. Researchers have snapped 
several specimens of SCP-588, revealing a minuscule air pocket in 
the area of Washington’s neck which appears to serve as a pseudo- 
stomach. Analysis of the composition of SCP-588 has revealed no 


Sometimes | Wish This Moment Could Last Forever 


Sometimes | Wish This Moment 
Could Last Forever 


by DarkStuff 


Are there any questions? 


What happens in real time? 


Our brains collapse into black holes. There is only so much 
information the human brain can store, and entropy would eventually 
have it collapse entirely. Fortunately, our machine works faster than 
physics the way we understand them. Nobody will know they're 
dead, and we won't be present to handle the aftermath. 


Have you tested your machine? 


No. There is no way to test it. If it works, we all die. Which means it's 
a one shot. All we can do is trust the equations and the conscience 
within. We have been able to test some cursory abilities, to make 
sure it works on a simpler level, but there is no way to know if the 
end goal works before executing said end goal. Worst case 
scenario, we all die and are here to feel it, which is what would 
happen if we didn't activate the machine anyways. 


Specify cursory tests. 


They were extraordinarily dangerous, which is why we only have 


two. In the first, the tested subject entered a coma. We believe her 
consciousness left her body completely, and dissipated into the 
universe. The second one, our subject's conscience was able to 
connect with my partner's. In this way, we know that we can connect 
souls, and we can release souls. But we could not test its ultimate 
use. 


This, for obvious reasons, is a last resort. 


Of course. 


If we come within a month, this will be considered. In the meantime, 
your research will be monitored. Make your theories more practical. 
Work harder to prove them. We will see if we need your help in time. 
If your machine does indeed fail, it should at least provide a quicker 
more painless death than the inevitable. 
Mr. Young, please take a seat. 


Rachael was doing very important work. 


60% 


It wasn't homework, to be sure, but it was important. 

60% 
Only two days ago, while stressing over a math test in class, 
Rachael made the lights go out. 

60% 
Nobody suspected her, but she felt it. She felt her mind searching 
the cables and wires running through the walls. 


60% 


Right now, she was figuring out how to charge her cellphone without 
a charger. 


60% 


Work damn you. 


61% 


"Rachael," her mom called up to her, "get out of your cave and come 
to dinner, you've had your ‘just a minute’ already!" 


And she had. Rachael Davidson practically danced down the stairs, 
rubbed her dog's face as she passed by, and spun into her chair. 
Rachael had accomplished something. She was learning control. 
She sat down, facing a bowl of split pea soup, the best possible 
addition to her day. Silently, her parents stared her in the eye, and 
they all simultaneously bowed their head. In unison, they hummed 
"Bless, oh lord, this food to our use and us to thy service, and keep 
us ever mindful of the needs of others. In Jesus' name, amen." 
Rachael didn't hesitate to dig in, ignoring looks from her parents. 


She was having the best day she could remember, even better than 
Disneyworld, even better than her 13th birthday, even better than 
8th Grade graduation. She had a purpose now, she was excited, 
she was electric, she felt like the queen of this crappy town, of this 
stupid country, of this dingy world!