abstract porcelain statuettes, the flowing fountains with 
clear water clean enough to drink, kissed with the 
fragrance of exotic flowers and foreign fruits? 


It is a café, but only drinks are served. No one notices, 
and no one minds. 


Perhaps it’s the soft, tinkling music of the café that lulls 
people to contentment, perhaps it’s the effect of the 
glossy surfaces, perhaps it’s the sight of the graceful 
servers, perhaps it’s the way that everything seems to 
gently melt into a rhythm of motion, an instinctive rhythm, 
perhaps, perhaps. 


Most of those who leave realize later that something 
feels strange, something is missing. Some feel 
lightheaded and faint, all simply attribute it to the café’s 
ethereal, otherworldly atmosphere. 


While the café willingly welcomes repeat customers, the 
staff keep their secrets to themselves, and so no one 
ever can decide whether there is something special 
about the place that keeps them returning to it, or if there 
was simply something missing from life all along. 


The rooms are always full of light, but there are no 
windows. 


"Supply and Demand" by Clef 


The truth of the matter is that Aesop's fables were never 
fairy tales. In the past, animals did speak. So did trees, 
and mountains, and the wind, and fairies. 


What changed? The human population grew. Since the 
day when Aesop first put stylus to wax, the world 
population has increased sixty-fold, from one hundred 
million to six billion. That's over five billion people who 
had to be born with souls. Five billion humans using up 
the souls that could have been used to create a talking 


tree or a living rock. 


And as it turned out, the Hindus were right. Souls are a 
limited resource. New ones are never born. Old ones are 
never destroyed. And with the human population 
exploding the way it has been, the number of souls 
available for talking rabbits and magic mice is growing 
smaller... 


One day soon, the very first soulless human will be born, 
and things will start to change. 


"Meow" by Gaffney 


The man gave a tuneless whistle as he walked along the 
dark sidewalk. Every fifty feet, he passed under another 
lamppost, briefly illuminating him before he passed back 
into the dark. There was a slight breeze in the warm 
summer night. In his right hand he held a plastic bag 
filled with all manner of goods: scalpels, wire, rubbing 
alcohol, needles, fishing line, lighter fluid, and cat food. 
The bag spun lazily back and forth as he walked. 


He came to a crossroads. Although the street was 
empty, the crossing sign displayed a bright orange hand. 
He decided to wait. Once, while he had been carrying 
some of the waste from his hobby, he had crossed 
illegally. A policeman had yelled at him and told him not 
to do it again. And even though the policeman never 
asked him what was in bag he was carrying, rolled up in 
newspaper, the experience had put the man off of 
jaywalking for good. 


As he waited at the light, he thought about home. He 
began to sort through the contents of the bag, just to be 
sure everything was still there. As he went through the 
bag, came a mewling sound from an alley behind him. It 
was so soft he nearly didn't hear it. But there it was 
again! Decades with his hobby had given him an 
instinctive understanding of animal sounds. Low and 


hungry, with a touch of desperation. His lips twisted 
upwards in an involuntary smile. An alley cat. People 
hardly ever missed alley cats. Not at all like a house cat. 
Several near misses with the law had taught him that 
feral animals were safer than domestic ones. 


He moved slowly towards the alley, not wanting to scare 
away his new quarry. As he neared the entrance to the 
alley, he crouched down to seem more approachable. 
There was another sound from the alleyway, one which 
gave him pause. It was the same tone as the first, but it 
sounded different. Deeper. Thicker. More ragged. For a 
moment, he remained in place at the mouth of the alley 
as the bag twisted gently in the breeze. 


He shook off the feeling and moved slowly into the dark 
alleyway. Even without light, he could make out 
silhouettes of the mounds of garbage bags littering the 
place. "Heeere, kitty kitty. Here, kitty kitty," he said 
gently. No response. He moved deeper in. "Here, kitty 
kitty." He reached into the plastic bag and took out a tin 
of the cat food. "Hungry, ain'tcha? | got some food for 
you. And a place for you to stay, not all dirty like here." 
He ran a tongue over his upper lip. "Heere, kitty kitty 
kitty!" 


One of the piles of trash began to unfold itself and move 
towards him. As it unfolded, its silhouette transformed 
into the shape of a cat. But it was at least four feet long, 
coming up to at least his knee. He stumbled backwards 
and fell, spilling the contents of the bag all over the alley 
floor. The former mound gave another mewl, low and 
ragged, as it came towards him. It moved with a 
pronounced limp. He picked himself up and began to 
back away. As the shape came closer, he began to 
make out certain features. Thin, frayed wires emerged 
from its head. Ribbons of flesh and fur hung from its 
face. It waved a tail, split down the middle, back and 
forth. 


He backed away and began to walk quickly towards his 


house. The thing followed. He began to run. As he 
crossed the road, the mewling grew closer and more 
insistent. He looked to his left and right for cars, 
pedestrians, anything or anyone. Nothing. The street 
was deserted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the 
cat-thing. For its size, it was emaciated, with ribs jutting 
out of its side. Its front right paw was missing. A trick of 
the light caused its eyes to appear pure white. He began 
to sprint. The thing kept pace behind him, meowing ever 
more insistently. 


At last, at long, long last, he reached home. He took the 
key ring from his pocket and hurried through the various 
keys, trying to unlock the door. The thing was right 
behind him. After a thousand years, he unlocked the 
door, slamming it behind him. There was a pleading 
sound from behind the door, followed by a frenetic 
pawing. He deadbolted the door and braced himself 
against it. Eventually, the pawing ceased. He leaned 
against the door and slid to the floor, breathing a sigh of 
relief. He sat there in the dark, looking at nothing in 
particular. 


From the kitchen, there came a sound. It was unlike any 
animal he had ever heard. It sounded deep, somehow 
greasy. For a moment, he was unable to recognize it. As 
his brain tried to process the sound, there came another, 
similar sound from the bathroom. Then another from the 
basement door, which had somehow opened itself. Then 
from within the living room. As he sat, unable to move, 
the silhouette of his armchair unfolded itself and began 
to move towards him, padding gently along the wooden 
floor. Even within the dark he could make out dozens of 
shapes, all moving towards him. One passed through a 
patch of light from a nearby window. Tortiseshell fur 
hung down in ribbons over a mouth relived of teeth. A 
trick of the light caused its eyes to glow pure white. From 
a jawless mouth there came a meow. 


"Feet of Clay" by Orion 


There was a town out a piece to the northwest. Way 
back, folks over there were bein’ overrun by snakes. Big 
and mean ones, too. These snakes didn’t go much for 
people, but they’d sneak up on the livestock and bite 
‘em. Cows, sheep, pigs, hell, even the dogs! The 
animals’d be dead before anyone could do anything. 


One day, this fella appeared in the town. Said he could 
get ridda the snakes. Only thing he wanted was a pair of 
boots, toughest ones the cordwainer could make. 
Townsfolk agreed, and Willard the cordwainer worked 
through the night on the boots, with a bit of input from the 
stranger. Willard never talked about what he said. 
Always was the quiet type. 


Anyway, early the next morning, with his new boots, 
tougher’n a lumberjack’s callused thumb, the fella led a 
sounder of boars into the town. 


What? ‘Course they ate the snakes! Long with damn 
near everything else! Ol’ Pethers had one clean out his 
coop, and take the coop down on its way out! 


Now, when a boar goes after a man, his first point of 
attack is the feet. He gets at them, chewing and 
gnashing with his tusks, and the man’s down quick. 
Once you’re on his level, you’re at the boar’s mercy. And 
they’ve got as much mercy as a porcupine in heat. Even 
the toughest, meanest man, has still got his feet of clay. 
Except for that fella with the new boots. 


So the townsfolk tore the boots off of him, tossed them 
into the bog, and threw him to the boars. 


Boy, did he run. Never thought a man could run that fast. 
And those boars chased him through the bay and out 
onto that godforsaken island. Old timers used to tell us 
you can still hear screaming if you go out too close to it. 
They said that once a year, on Irv Eddy’s Eve, the 


stranger swims out to the Old Pine Bog to find his boots. 


‘Course, later we knew the real reason why we shoulda 
stayed away from that island. Or used to, anyways. Can’t 
seem to remember it now. 


Surprise! Happy Birthday! Once more... 


You're rather resilient, aren't you? | thought we'd be done 
with this by now. It feels like we started a long time ago, 
doesn't it? It feels that way to me. It feels like this should 
have been finished such a long, long time ago, but for 
some reason... Bah. Nothing to worry about right now, is 
it? This! This is supposed to be a time of celebration! A 
time of jubilee and cake and ice creams, yes? That's 
what it's supposed to be. 


Funny how things turn out, isn't it? 


Welcome back to another year, fair elder. Welcome back 
to another celebration made of tales. Tales made of 
happy truths and sad fictions. Tales made of wet paint 
and dry sand. Tales about roads that were traveled until 
they became rivers, and tales about the page before the 
book's cover. Tales about the man made of ashes and 
cinders, and tales about the woman who stitched herself 
a patchwork husband. Tales about the satyr who fucked 
a universe, and tales about the lost ones who are waiting 
for us all under the dirt. Tales of triumph. Tales of failure. 
Tales about the treasures found in attics and the horrors 
in closets. Tales of years fluttering out of your hands like 
the fragments of a broken leaf... 


Ah. Ahem. And Happy Birthday, Gears. For now. 


"Boxes" by Troy 


There’s a little man who lives in a box, 
Right at the corner of my bed, 

And the little man that lives in the box, 
Whispers secrets into my head, 

And the little man that lives in the box, 


Wears a scarf made of puppy’s tongues, 
And the little man that lives in a box, 
Well, that’s how he has fun. 


The little man who lives in a box, 
visited by sister last night. 

The little man who lives in the box, 
borrowed my eyes for sight, 

The little man who lives in the box, 
collected one more tongue, 

The little man who lives in the box, 
came back and told me to run. 


The little man who lived in the box, 
still sits at the foot of my bed, 

and the little man who lived in the box, 
Sometimes crawls round in my head. 
The little man who lives in the box, 
Will never let me atone, 

And the little man who lives in the box, 
Will never leave me alone. 


"And Everyone Can Walk Away From It Whole, After a Time" by Eskol 
The angel is radiant. 


I've fallen to my knees already. | don't remember now if | 
meant to do that, or if something about this creature just 
knocked me to the ground. | had been running, running 
through the woods prior to this, running across the shitty 
little nature trail that the city had installed a year ago to 
commemorate someone who was run over in the street 
because he didn't have a shitty little nature trail to get run 
over in instead. I've been running for what feels like... 
years. Half an hour, maybe, that felt like years, in this 
day that's moved as slowly as a geological epoch. 


My knees hurt. Shit, | thought, / would figure | wouldn't 
feel anything right now. That's the shit part, though. You 
feel all kinds of things when you don't want to. 


She isn't saying anything. | don't know how I'm giving this 
thing a gender, but I've decided that the vaguely 
humanoid shape in the blinding light before me is female. 
There's probably a very interesting psychologcal 
deconstruction to make from the fact that, in this time of 
all fucking times, I'm looking for a woman to save me. 


"Are you..." | gasp, half out of breath, half out of a 
decided uncertainty of all of my words. 


"Is..." | said, trying again, still unsure. 


"Can you..." I'm actively just embarrassing myself in front 
of the divine at this point. 


Finally, | hear a powerful whoooosh as the angel 
breathed the diseased air of the corporeal world into 
herself. 


"WHAT DO YOU NEED, CHILD." 


"H...help,” | stutter out finally. "I...help me. Please, help 
me." 


"WHAT IS WRONG?" 


| spoke to the angel like a child speaks to their mother, in 
the brutal honesty that comes from the complete inability 
to form these feelings into some larger gestalt, the 
complete inability to frame my problems as her 
problems, the complete inability to somehow sel/ her on 
helping me by pretending there's some benefit to her. 
That's how we do it, isn't it? It's somehow wrong to just 
need, to reach out with the complete absence of 
strength, to hope that there's a hand on the other end to 
help us up. We have to manage our pain like a politician, 
stuff away as much as possible and bribe our friends to 
be there when we need them. We'll jump to the aid of 
anyone who asks us, but God forbid we need to ask 
someone else; then we just imagine everyone we know 
has some quid-pro-quo account of help they're willing to 


give, and if we haven't made enough deposits, you better 
not expect much of a withdrawal. Nobody does this, and 
we act as though everyone does this. 


Well, fuck that. | don't have the strength or the 
inclination. 


"It hurts. God, it hurts so much. It's been so long since | 
felt this, and it hurts." 


"HAVE YOU HURT YOURSELF?" 


"No, no, she hurt me. That...that fucking bitch hurt me. 
She...she stabbed me in the back. | trusted her, | loved 
her, and she hurt me. |...| can't have deserved it." 


"WHY DID SHE DO IT?" 


"Because she didn't love me anymore. Because she's 
bored with me. Because she's the fucking Devil. | don't 
know. | don't know. | didn't see it coming. | don't know." 


I'm not crying. | can't. | wish | could, but it isn't 
happening. It never will again. 


"WELL, THEN. HAVE YOU NOT HURT YOURSELF?" 


"Wh—" | didn't understand. "I don't understand. | just 
said —" 


"YOU ARE HUMAN, CORRECT? WITH VOLITION AND 
FREE WILL, AS YOU CLAIM? THIS IS NOT THE 
STOMPING OF AN INSECT BY A HUMAN FOOT. THIS 
IS NOT THE ERADICATION OF THE BODILY FORM 
OF A HUMAN BY A SERAPH. IT IS AN INTERACTION 
OF EQUALS." 


"l...you can't say that | deserved this. That's fucking 
ridiculous. | did nothing but love her. | did nothing but 
show her love." 


"AND SHE HAS REJECTED IT. THIS WAS ALWAYS A 


unseen forces, rippling outward from invisible contact points and 
rolling in waves from unfelt winds. The team avoids this pool at all 
times and proceeds through the ruins slowly on stable foundations 
where possible, making the church their target area. 


Within the church are pews, as would be expected. However, there 
are only four, one of them shattered, when the building could 
accommodate as many as twenty. The three intact pews are 
arranged in a two-one formation facing a pulpit. There is no trace of 
dust on any surface, the entire area appearing to be immaculately 
clean, given the location and believed age. Behind the pulpit is a 
hole in the floor exposing an area of the SCP-610 ‘pool’ beneath the 
building.