Anart is more wild than magic, reality bending or thaumaturgy. It has 
no rules that bind it, it has no demands - aside from taking that one 
deep dive during the process of creation. 


What's Flow? It's when you sit down and just create. When things 
just go along nicely in your head and when you simply do art. Don't 
you have a feeling sometimes that it's not you that drives the piece 
but the piece that drives you? You're in the zone, you are fully 
immersed, you enjoy what you do. 


In the universe where there are things that exist outside our 
perception, Flow is a bit more than that. It's something you reach out 
to, unconsciously, during act of creation to infuse your work with it - 
to make it abnormal, anomalous, suddenly eager to disobey all 
known rules. 


Anyone can do it. Some find it easy, some can try and try again and 
never achieve it. Flow is capricious like that. Or maybe it has its own 
rules and patterns that artists can tap into? Nobody knows for sure. 
It just exists, and there are people out here that know how to use it 
for their own goals. 


Characters 


Martha Jenerous - A former anartist. Amnesticised after 
her little project got out of hand. 

Yang - Student of Legler, recently back from 
retirement. Has a very suspicious family background. 
Anton Legler - Old and grumpy anart professor. Full of 
fond memories of how AWCY used to be. 

Taman - A beginner anartist with a hidden mean 
streak. Likes pastels. Taking first steps in anomalous 
world. 


Agent Alex Cobalt - Undercover and with a degree in 
art. Prefers art history to dabbling in clay. 

Agent Green - Back again to deal with this shit. 

Doctor Samuel Samuels - Way too giddy about anart 
business for a guy with a name like that. 

Agent Gofr - An UIU agent standing admist the 
local artistic mess. Glad with the fact he wasn't pulled to 
Three Portlands. 


Flow 


Martha stood in a vast river, feeling the chill down her knees. The 
river, clear as clean glass, babbled around her, swirling and surging, 
but there was no shore. White mists loomed over the water, but she 
felt as if she could see through this endless pale veil, all the way to 
the end of the river. She wondered where the river came from. 


Birds were chirping, their chorus went through the open window, 
bringing in the wind of early spring. The wind flipped open a few 
pages of a notepad, but Martha hardly noticed. Her roommate, 
Yang, came in and called to her, but Martha did not respond, so 
Yang just placed a cup of coffee on the table. 


But even the normally pleasing smell of coffee failed to be a 
distraction. Martha sat motionless, staring at the pages in front of 
her. Her mind was in a different place. 


Sounds came from beyond, but the mists were like a thick white 
curtain, making them distant and unreal. She wondered for a 
moment if she had forgotten something, but the feeling passed. 


The river flowed faster and louder now. The chill was still there, but 
now felt pleasant. She bent down, and dipped her hands into the 
stream. It was beautiful, like liquid crystal, but also lacking. It was 
too clear, contained no life, no diversity. She saw no colorful stones 
at the riverbed, no fish swimming, no banks dotted by flowers. 


But she saw possibilities. 


Martha picked up the pen and began to write. She felt the words 
flow, as waters of a vast river loomed by thick white mists. She 
wrote page after page, as coffee grew cold, as the birds flew off, as 
Yang came and went without getting noticed. 


She knew what she needed to do. The white mists were still there, 
but lighter, happier, as songs flew above the river. There were not 


only fish and stones and flowers and trees, but also dark corners 
and shadowed edges. The river's flow changed too, no longer 
continuous, but with sharp turns and falls, rocks and rapids. 


The banks were solid now, forming a specific path for anyone who 
would walk alongside the river to see things she intended to display. 
Even as Martha stood there, she felt the rush of the river, urging her 
to go down. But instead, she turned. 


And saw that the beginning of the river still hid itself in the thick 
white mists. 


Soon after sun down, Martha rose from the chair, grabbing the 
sheets and claiming victory. Yang, now sitting on the sofa, offered 
her what was left of the dinner. 


In the end, it was not a thick book, but a small pamphlet with a black 
and white cover. Martha made a few copies and distributed them 
down the street. 


Most were never read, ending up in dumpsters or gutters, but a few 
were picked up. The readers would skim through, then read again, 
this time, more carefully, methodically. They read it with a cup of 
coffee, or when waiting for the bus, or as they climbed into bed 
before turning off the lights. 


They did not realize what would happen when they flipped open the 
pages, and even as they went through the words, thought it only a 
curiosity. A fine piece, but no more. But that night they would dream. 


They dreamed of the vast river. They dreamed of banks and valleys, 
of waterfalls and sharp turns, and the white mists looming over. And 
they walked the same path, water spattering and lapping at their 
feet. They felt the river rushing down, urging them to continue, to 
feel the flow and become part of it. 


In the morning, all had forgotten what they dreamed. They got up, 
and continued their daily life. But somewhere in their head, a river in 
the white mists flowed. Quietly at first, but becoming louder and 
louder as they dreamed of it each night. 


Then, a few times, after a day’s work or study, they would go home 
and begin to write. The river ran through them as words formed on 
paper or screen, and grew louder and louder. 


“This is actually working! | can’t believe it.” 

“Yeah.” 

“| mean, this is exciting! Like, this is really original.” 
“So you mean this is coooool.” 

“No, Yang. Stop that.” 


“| like how you did it, though. Pens and paper, all old-school. | 
thought you would be typing it down from the start.” 


“ ” 


“What's the matter?” 


“When | get this thing bigger next time, be sure to remind me that we 
live in the modern age and actually have laptops.” 


Martha stands again in the vast river, ready to create something 
new. She pictures something that will not just convey the urge, but a 
feeling more powerful. Maybe to make them see themselves, to form 
a new view, or even to shape reality. They will know as the river 
runs through them, with endless possibilities and endless power. 


Martha looks back, to the thick white mists looming over, and 
wonders where the flow comes from. 


« | HUB | Torrent » 


utilizing SCP-641 will be reprimanded and a note placed on their 
personnel file pending transfer to another project. Any experiments 
with the object are to be performed with D-class personnel whose 
medical history shows no alcohol or narcotics abuse, and whose 
psychological profile shows no predilection to addiction. If the object 
needs to be neutralized to prevent capture, current research 
indicates that a hammer, or tightly closed fist will do. 


Notes: This object shows potential in pacification of dangerous 
humanoid SCPs, research into how the effect is achieved will 
continue. Any field teams requesting access to SCP-641 may submit 
a request directly to me. Please include a description of who will be 
accessing the device, and notations of their trustworthiness - if it is 
broken, you will have me to answer to. - Dr. Frederick Heiden 


« SCP-640 | SCP-641 | SCP-642 » 


Torrent 


The book was small and thin. Some girl gave it to him on 
the street, smiling nicely and asking for him to read it. He 
paid it no mind, threw it into the bag, forgot about it until 
much later. 


He found it again in the evening, when he was 
undressing before going to sleep. He rarely read books, 
as they never managed to hold his concentration for long 
enough. Sometimes he read some things on the internet, 
short, something he could read in maybe 20-30 minutes. 
He put his laptop away for now, his full attention on the 
book. 


It was made of printer-quality paper, cheap stuff. The 
letters inside - and that was a surprise - were written by 
hand, the text sometimes giving place to black 
illustrations, all neatly photocopied. He flipped through it, 
here and there holding the book open for a little bit 
longer to admire the precision of drawn lines. He 
returned to the first page, ensured that the position he 
was in was comfortable enough and started to read. 


The story was a bit strange; he felt as if he started in the 
middle, characters not known to him mentioning names 
of people he never heard of, making references to 
events he didn't really care about and doing strange 
things in places he could only guess about. He grew 
bored with each finished sentence but every next one 
somehow forced him to continue his reading, stopping 
from time to time to wonder how the pictures were 
connected to the text only to read on and discover the 
connection. 


He finished the book in about half an hour. It was 
strange, that was all he could say. He never was one for 
critique aside from describing his own feelings in a few 
words. He put it aside, turned off the light and went to 
sleep. 


He woke up tired, which was unusual for he had slept his 
usual eight hours. Maybe he dreamt something strange 
— but no, he remembered something vague about a field 
covered in flowers with hundreds of bunnies made out of 
clay hopping around happily. Like in that old 
advertisement. 


He lied down in bed until the alarm rang but he didn't 
hear it. He still wondered about that strange field. He 
snapped out of it after snooze rang again. 


During his usual morning rituals his thoughts kept on 
circling back to that field. There was something elusive in 
it and fascinating, attracting his attention over and over 
again, his thoughts circling back to it when brushing his 
teeth or dressing up or preparing breakfast or waking up 
his daughter. 


He drummed his fingers against the wheel during his 
morning commute. At work, his pen kept on doodling on 
his notes, sketches becoming more elaborate as he 
thought about the field. When he drove home, as his 
daughter was happily rambling about her day at school, 
the rhythm of his fingers on the wheel grew less chaotic 
than before. 


Before sleep, he reread the book. He had no reason for 
that but somehow the vision of his usual evening news- 
checking was unappealing. 


When he woke up, he felt exhausted. His mind was still 
focused on the field, but this time he paid attention. He 
noticed a spiderweb hidden in the tall grass, glistening in 
the sunshine. As he analysed the pattern of it while still 
lying in bed, somewhere in the distance he could hear a 


river. 


A child 


Gordon, aged 6, stared at his mobile. Strings. Painted 
paper folded into balls and stuck together with a tape. 
One shoestring he took from his shoe. Even more tape. 
Straws, green and red; one was even white with red 
stripes. Dad told him it shouldn't be too heavy or else it 
wouldn't move. After a climb on the mountain 
constructed of a chair and a stool stacked on top of each 
other and a complicated process of attaching his finished 
creation to a shelf (with more duct tape) just above his 
bed he nodded, happily. It was still swinging back and 
forth a bit, but if it calmed down, he'll blow some air on it 
and (Gordon hoped) it would move. 


Gordon then remembered that he forgot to take the 
crayon back upstairs so he ran (Mom told him to never 
run, but that crayon was important!) down the stairs, 
picked it up, remembered something else, ran 
somewhere else... And didn’t notice that mobile never 
stopped swinging back and forth. Well. At least he didn’t 
notice it then. He'll probably do so much later. 


And maybe Gordon will notice that he yet again couldn't 
differentiate reality from his imagination. 


The dance 


The warehouse was empty, rays of light flowing through 
holes in the ceiling, lighting up the dust and spiderwebs. 
It was late, so the usual cold darkness was won over by 
warm oranges and long shadows. 


She studied the floor, trying to find anything, broken 
glass or sharp metal that could potentially tear her feet, 
but she found nothing. The lack of smell of piss and 
alcohol tipped her off that it was a good place. She didn't 


really have space for that at home. There were people, 
of course, for whom their own rooms were enough. Not 
for her, though. She tried to dance in the gym in her 
school, but even a large hall was too small for her needs. 


She sat down on the cold concrete, taking off her trainers 
and socks. She noticed a rusty ladder on one of the 
columns and after a moment of hesitation she carefully 
climbed it and went out, onto the roof. She left them 
there, along with her hoodie and bag. 


Inside, she stretched, warmed-up a little. Hands, arms, 
all muscles along the spine, thighs, knees, feeling the 
warmth spread in her body, blood pump in her veins, 
flowing steadily across every single tissue from heart to 
the lungs whenever she inhaled and exhaled. And it was 
just the beginning. 


She raised her hands in the air. Took the first step, then 
the other. As in the gym, the first moments were a bit 
awkward, dancing without music playing around or 
without people surrounding her from all sides. A turn and 
a slight bend backwards and then a circle in the air 
drawn by two fingers. Everything was looking perfect in 
her mind - she had practiced every single movement 
separately before, the full choreography was ready for a 
long time and now, now she wanted to finally piece it all 
together. 


It did happen in a gym. She experienced it first-hand. 
She wanted to go further. 


A jump with a half-turn, a bow on a bent knee, hands 
moving down, fingers scraping against rough surface of 
the floor. She straightened and again raised her hand 
above her head, body supported only by toes. Closed 
her eyes. 


A drop of water fell onto her face. 


As if on cue, she resumed dancing, this time the flow of 


her movements steady as never before, not faltering for 
a second. Silence was broken by sounds of water 
dripping on the floor, first only in single drops that then 
turned into steady trickles. 


She was at the point that she no longer followed the 
scenario. At the gym at one point she crashed into the 
wall because of lack of space, which was when the water 
stopped falling and she was left with puddles of water 
soaking into wood. She tried to wipe it out and nearly got 
caught by a janitor. Now she didn't have to worry. 


Movements were natural, fast, no longer under her 
control, but she didn't mind, dance falling into natural 
rhythm. Sometimes her steps led her under one of 
torrents, water soaking her entirely. It was hot, just the 
temperature she liked under her shower. She briefly 
wondered if it was her dance that affected that or 
something else entirely. 


As time passed, it was getting more and more difficult to 
continue the dance. The water sloshed around her feet, 
now falling not only from the ceiling, but also spilling from 
the windows, dirty glass producing crystal clear torrents. 
The surface of the water was steadily rising, her knees 
already submerged. She struggled to keep up the tempo. 


She didn't mind. 


Her rapid movements became gradually more and more 
sluggish, her pace slowed down to a slow walk, hands 
now only turning and moving in lazy circles. All energy 
she used in her dance shifted to thundering waterfalls 
that surrounded her, hundreds of gallons of water spilling 
from the windows. She walked around, almost idly, 
letting the currents direct her, allowing the noise to fill her 
head.