recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
We toil in proverbs not to fear the grave.
We must with boldness to the earth descend.
When soon the world takes back the life it gave,
accept your gruesome, far-too-early end.
With lasting lifetimes we are rarely blessed,
our charges living decades in the sun
while we condemn ourselves to never rest,
consumed in our adventure never done.
But they above will suffer much the same;
unhappy ends to unfulfilling time.
In hospitals, in sleep, in cars, in pain;
no enterprise with which they can resign.
When death may come I much prefer the thought
to blaze in darkness than in light to rot.
This world is fantastic and terrifying and wonderful. There are gods and monsters and heroes and villains. Living boats, giant serpents, sapient clouds, even dream-stalking beasts. One could be forgiven for not finding any sense in it.
But there is one universal truth to it all: No matter who they are- living boats, giant serpents, sapient animals, or even just ordinary humans- no one wishes to be forgotten. No matter how vile or pure of heart, no matter a famous king or a lowly peasant all everyone wants, in this strange, uncaring world, is to not be forgotten. To know that whatever happens to them in the end, someone remembers who they were in life.
As I write these words, twenty-six people in the Sichuan province of China have been buried alive by a jealous earth spirit. Twelve people in Brazil have been lured to their deaths by a crow-faced murderer. Seven children never existed due to a powder slipped in their father's drink in Moscow, and thirty-three people have had everything they cared about stripped away from their minds in Japan by the Chaos Insurgency.
No one will notice these people. No one will mourn their deaths. People all over the world will go about their days, perhaps stop to glance at a missing person's poster with a twinge of curiosity, and forget about them soon after.
Sooner or later, some organization like the Global Occult Coalition or the Foundation will catch wind of these perpetrators. They will be caught and punished accordingly, or placed in a cell to rot. And the bodies will be collected, counted, and a number placed in an archive somewhere before they are burned or buried in an unmarked grave to be forgotten.
I remember them. I will remember all of you. I do this not out of a sense of obligation, or spite towards uncaring authorities like the Coalition or the Foundation, but out of respect. Out of kindness. To remember all those who have lived beautiful ordinary lives that were cut short due to cruelties they never deserved.
I promise you this: you will not be forgotten.
- Pangloss.
Watching from a park bench on a lovely, sunny day
I noticed seven children who had gathered there to play
 Zeru was the eldest, and he led until his end
 Ursula was skilled, but filled with envy of her friend
 Eoghan was beloved, but could not avoid the fight
 Rakhi is the only one remaining here tonight
 Nessa was forgotten by her friends and disappeared
 Yorick lasted longest, but still left as Rakhi feared
 Myron is the mystery my observation cost,
 I know I saw him playing too, but now it seems he's lost
Watching from a park bench on a dark and lonely night
Only one remains here to protect and give us light

I wonder how much longer Rakhi can put up a fight.
I seek the haven past the airlock door,
in coat and collar white my love to meet.
She calls to me with hunger evermore
that I may lay new tribute at her feet.
My love is evenhanded as the sun;
she caters not to sentiment nor pride.
Within her arms the frail become undone;
Her touch will warp and break the feeble mind.
Unto her searing glare I turn my eyes;
I'll bring what sacrifices she desires.
My ears are shuttered to the haunting cries
of those who must be gifted to the fires.
I join the strong of mind within her light,
The weak of will I offer to her knife.
The news has always traveled fast,
you've seen it times before.
The number of fatalities
will soon be many more
Texts, emails and message boards;
you watch them for the news.
The breach occurring miles away
still feels so close to you.
You grit your teeth and pace the room,
your jaw begins to hurt.
There's nothing you can do and things
are only getting worse.
This shouldn't even bother you,
There's no one there you know.
Your heart, it bleeds for strangers-
you can't seem to help it, though.
A deep and hollow hopelessness,
the feelings start to mount:
Exhausted, helpless, frustrated,
a thousand miles out.
It's hard to keep your chin up
in a world this dark and cold.
You can't afford to care this much,
or so you're often told.
Detach yourself from everything,
stay numb and blind and sane.
You can't look after everyone,
you'll drown in all the pain.
"But it must be good to hurt for them,"
you echo to yourself.
"If we become indifferent,
nobody left will help"
The bodycount is rising now.
The aching wrings your heart.
It's apathy that lets corruption
tear our world apart.
When past the sea of red alerts,
a message makes it through;
a single volunteer's request
for “something I can do?”
Perhaps you're ineffectual
and powerless and small,
but if someone cares like you do,
there's hope here after all.
We face our bleak reality,
too stubborn to resign.
We must let misfortune spur us
to be mindful, brave, and kind.
May tragedy inspire us
to make it through the night;
we can all endure the darkness
if we choose to be the light.
Curtains. Light, a spotlight.
Applause, then silence. The curtains rise.
A Prometheus Labs-branded Temporal Advancement Anchor Chamber.
A female body, naked, soulless, a duplicant. The performance will be destructive.
A woman.
She takes the microphone.

"Maslow placed hunger atop his hierarchy alongside water, warmth, and rest. The need to satisfy one's hunger is instinct so primal and deeply rooted in our minds that we simply cannot ignore it. Hunger drives an honest person to steal, the proud to beg, and the devout to sin. Simply put, the human mind cannot stomach to be hungry for long."

Subdued laughter runs through the crowd.
The Anartist smirks.

"As citizens of the first world, this is not a problem for you and I, and likely will never be. Food is so plentiful we discard it if we are unsatisfied with it, we have food fights, we even hold contests to see who can eat the most. What we consider normal is luxury to those in less fortunate places.
Last year, Thailand was affected by the most devastating earthquake in the area of the last hundred years. Despite the United Nation's best efforts to feed the victims of this catastrophe, they only have so many resources. How cruel is it that I, someone who will starve for the sake of art, can enjoy the luxuries of replacing my body at will while they cannot so much as eat once a month?"

An uncomfortable silence.
The wealthy understand their privilege and do not like being reminded of it.

"Now, going without food for a few hours is not a problem. Even a day is nothing. But what about a week? A decade? A thousand years?"

Gasps, murmurs, and shocked whispers at her daring.
She strips, she strides towards the Chamber and sets it to 1,000 years.
It is small. It is uncomfortable. What flavor will her vintage bear?
An assistant rushes onto the stage, sealing the Chamber with the Anartist inside.

It has begun.

She twists.
She withers

She gnarls.

but she does not die.

She lives.

She looks like death

She is a husk

frail and brittle

a faint, pale shadow

surviving but not living.

in the clutches of life.

2368 Three-Ports Galleria Exhibit
Certificate of Recognition

Award: The Desai Prize
Recipient: Valerie Sinclaire
Aim: To recognize anartists who use the human body as a canvas for their art, and explore the medium to its depths.

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Hey Kev! I need a ride home from Candy's house. :)

If you can't Bridget's mom can get me in like an hour

Sure thing

Awesome! You're the best :)

The light of the moon shone through the translucent curtains, a dim blue light being cast over the quiet hospital room, even the wind had gone still.
Laura drifted her dull gaze from one picture frame to another. The possibility of sleep was one she had abandoned half an hour ago; it was looking as if her thoughts had other plans. She'd made plans to see a movie with Candy after class; they'd mutually decided after weeks of working on the Romeo and Juliet book report, and earning an A, that they deserved a break. She hoped Candy still went if she didn't make it.
Laura sighed. She attempted to sit up, but her body didn't register the attempt, as only her arms had maintained any strength. Had this been it? A silent, midnight passing? Kevin would never know she wasn't angry; it all went so fast. Despite her fuzzy thoughts, she could still vividly remember that moment.

“Thanks for picking me up, Kev.” Laura said, buckling her seatbelt.
Kevin nodded. “No problem.”
Laura looked out the window as her brother pulled off. The strong smell of cigarettes and beer suddenly hit her. Something had happened.
“Kev, are you okay?” She asked slowly.
Kevin nodded. “Yeah.” His eyes were blankly staring down at the road.
Laura bit her lip. “Are… are you sure? You look a little… off. It smells like beer in here.” She glanced around. “Maybe you should pull off the road, I'll call mom.”
Her brother shakes his head. “I'm totally fine. No need to worry, Laura. I can drive just fine.” He said slowly.
Laura opened her mouth to respond. Her eyes widened as she noticed the car was headed for a red light; they hadn't slowed down.

Looking back on it now, even in her weak state, Laura knew she should have done something more. If only she could have talked to him about what happened. If only she could have helped him see that it was going to be okay. Maybe… things would have gone differently.
She sighed. Things didn't go differently. This is what happened.
Laura noticed a flash of light out of the corner of her eye. She didn't feel like she was going to an afterlife, not that she believed in one in the first place. She then noticed accompanying the now faded light was a man, who was sitting in the chair next to her bed. He held a cigarette out towards Laura.
“I… don't smoke… normally. But my brother—“ Laura pauses to cough. “I wanna… remember him as I go.” She said slowly. She took the cigarette and put it to her lips.
The man lit a cigarette for himself. Laura and the man sat in silence, waiting for her life to fade. It was nice to not be alone. Laura had always feared abandonment. It seemed the grim reaper guided its victims to eternal rest. Huh. She smiled softly at the thought.
Laura closed her eyes. She wasn't going to be there for her brother anymore; the thought scared her. They'd always been there for each other. But, her turn as Kevin's guardian angel was over. There was bound to be someone meant to watch over him.
The Following Tale Has Insufficient Lighting
( It's a bit dark.)

Jeremiah Cimmerian suffered from Apeirophobia1, so when Existential Dread crawled through the back window that had been left open that hot summer night, it found him to be the tantalizing prey.
It surprised him in the kitchen bursting out from shadows like a Billy Mays' infomercial.
Jeremiah was quick to react, pulling out his colt revolver and firing on the metaphysical thing three times with lightning reflexes. Being merely a mental concept, the bullets passed through the thought, hitting the housekeeper instead.
Luckily, two of the shots weren't fatal.
The next day Dr. Cimmerian went to the Foundation in hopes of getting help with his Existential Crisis.
The Board informed him that they were no longer dealing with Existential Dread and instead focusing all their attention on Cosmic Horror and that he should leave his personal problems at home.
“But We Contain, Secure, And Protect!” Cimmerian yelled in protest, arguing his point using sound logic, a twenty page power point presentation, and enough passion and soul to make a jazz singer gush.
The counsel was having none of it, and advised him to drop the subject like a sick beat.
The only one who seemed to want to help was Dr. Glass who is a sweet peach and I love him.
Unfortunately the anti-depressants Dr. Glass prescribed didn't go well with Cimmerian's nightly supper of Maalox and Bourbon and were long forgotten before any real effect could take place.
Defeated, Jeremiah accepted the empty void of existence, going so far as to buy it food and water dishes along with a cozy pet bed for it to sleep in. He got it spayed and chipped, putting in all the necessary paper work, as any good owner would do, and named it Kierkegaard after a philosopher he used to quote in college to impress girls.
Every day when Jeremiah got home after work, Kierkegaard would be there waiting for him by the front door as a reminder that his choices didn't matter and any decisions he would make he would end up regretting.
This constant exposure to dark truths of life agitated the deep emotional scars that took up nearly half of Cimmerian's body and they soon began to fester and rot from the inside out, dropping chunks of himself as he would wander his empty apartment; but by then Jerimiah had become comfortably numb to his situation.
The O-5s took a serious look into the matter and seeing that it had no effect on his work performance, deemed it an appropriate amount of suffering and renewed his contract for another five thousand years.

Footnotes
1. The Fear of Eternity.
by Nagiros

Contains themes of institutional gaslighting.

TERMINAL #016

------
Welcome, Site Director Weathers.
------

Ventilation System

Online

Galileo.aic

Online

Indomitable.aic

Online

Electromagnetic Agents

Online

Seismic Activity

N/A

Omega-09

Stopped

Your current version of the Automated Passive Amnestization System, installed at Site-17, is up to date and all systems are operational. What now?

Access APAS Version #09?

------

[+] Access Site-17 APAS Activation Log? [+]

[-] Retract Panel [-]

Emergency Activation: Amnestics Via On-Site Ventilation

Emergency Activation: Memetic Dissemination Process

Emergency Activation: Corrective Electromagnetic Devices

Return To Homescreen

[-] Retract Panel [-]

------
A big, red "F."
That's what it said on Lucas's test. Lucas was miserable, not because of the grade, but, because of what would happen when he showed his mother.
After school, Lucas decided he would take the long way home. Sometimes he could sneak on the bus or ask his friend's mom for a ride, but whenever he felt down he walked through the forest.

He looked up while walking and saw the great canopy of the trees providing shade to all life below. The trees bent and curved in such a way that the entire preserve was covered in a shell of leaves and everything within was completely protected.
Lucas walked on logs and picked up sticks, all the while the "F" in his bag wore him down. Getting through the preserve would usually take around 20 minutes but today he wanted to stay a little longer.
Lucas was going further into the forest and the grasses were growing thicker. He rarely went this way because of the danger. But today, he just felt different.
He decided to head back around the dense forest but, unexpectedly, he heard a groan. Not a scary animal groan or a grunt, but a sad, pitiful one.
He followed it and upon a clearing, he found a small shack. Light shone from the door frame.
A voice came from the shack, "Hello, child. What are you doing out in the forest alone?"
Lucas started to back up.
"Ah, don't worry. I mean no harm. I'm just a tradesman. I just need one small thing and I can grant you any wish."
Lucas stopped and turned his head. He thought that maybe he could get out of trouble. To face his mother, to show her the grade, to face the consequences, all were of such concern to Lucas that he decided to listen further.
"What would you like, child? Ask anything of me."
Lucas slowly tiptoed to the corners of the door frame and whispered in his desire. As he spoke, he looked into the thin slits at the side of the door and saw furniture.
"I see, as you crave it, so shall it be. But I also request something from you."
Its voice invaded Lucas's mind. The deal was struck and Lucas obeyed.

The night was quiet. The only sound pervading the forest was Lucas's panting as he ran to the clearing.
Lucas traveled in the dark, there were no stars tonight. The canopy, once a beacon of comfort, blocked the shine of the moon. A prison of leaves swerved and danced across the sky taunting the boy.
He made it back to the clearing. But unlike the rest of the translucent forest which seemed to blur in the night, the clearing was glassy. With an ambient light permeating from the grassy ground, Lucas's mind became clear and his fear of the darkness fled.
"Have you brought the item, child?"
Lucas nodded and came forth.
"Slip it under the door!"
Lucas took the item out of his pocket and tried to squeeze it under the narrow slit of the rotted wood.
The shack started to convulse and the leaves of the trees shook as the wind picked up.
"Yes, child. Just give it to me and reality is yours!"
Lucas opened the foil wrapping on the Pop-Tart and took out one pastry and stuck it under the door.
"Thank you, dear boy. Your wish has been granted."
Lucas sat down in the grass and ate the other Pop-Tart.

In Lucas's room, the big, red "F" transformed into a big, red "A."
❀✿❁

~❀~

For one day the Foundation opened its doors, allowing all the nonviolent anomalies in their care to roam free. The masses of orange-clad D-Class subjects in their ward were similarly freed. Drinks were shared among the top brass of senior staff. Doctors Clef and Kondraki made amends, Doctor Gears smiled, and the Administrator held a celebratory speech.

~✿~

The GOC laid down their weapons, their war against the supernatural was finally over. Governments and their anomalous branches shut down for an international day of rest. Anderson Robotics and Prometheus Labs simultaneously announced their closure. The Master Foreman released all of his workers.
Deer College shut its doors, declaring an impromptu vacation. The cozy fireplaces of the Marshall, Carter, and Dark London lounge were long extinguished, having no one to tend to them. A father and his estranged daughter hugged one last time within the main office of the Wilson Center. A practitioner of whimsy looked out of the window of their workshop, delighting in the warm day's embrace.

~❁~

The world had gone beautiful, but just for a day. The following morning there would be nothing left of the pale blue dot and its people. Nothing but a single probe aimlessly floating in the void, playing its mournful tune.

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Ode To The Unknown Author •
Joshua closed the front door behind him and kicked his shoes off on the tile foyer. Sprinting to his room with his new treasures bundled in a cloth kerchief, he paused only to quickly scratch an excited brown pitbull between her ears.
"C'mon, girl, let's go check these out."
The dog shot past him, jumping up onto his bed, her rump excited and airborne, tail whipping to and fro like an elastic metronome. Shutting his door with a familiar 'click', he joined her on the bed, wrestling her down and rubbing her belly.
Once she had settled down, Joshua laid out his treasures before him, admiring them. A fragrant geranium, half of a sandalwood-scented candle, and a discarded, empty box of surgical gloves.
"Which one first, sweetie?" he asked her, watching as the dog sniffed her way through his prizes. She seemed to like the smell of the flower. He gently picked it up, bringing it to his nose. Giving it a single, slow, determined sniff, he let his mind wander for several moments. Eventually he tossed it aside.
"Nah, nothin'." His dog watched the flower descend gracefully back down to the bed just as he snatched up the half candlestick. "Let's see about this one…" The candle came to his nose, another long, thoughtful sniff.
Moments later the candle tumbled dejectedly back down, accompanied by the boy's morose sigh. "Seems like not a very good haul today, baby." He sounded hopeless as he idly scratched her rump. "Well, last one."
His dog watched as he brought the empty box to his nose. Watched as he inhaled pensively. Watched as he sat there, still as stone, until soon, he started trembling. She saw the tears well up in his eyes, heard his choked attempts to hold them back.
She wasted no time, standing and nudging the offending box away from him, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on his teary-eyed face.
Joshua tried and failed to stop crying, wrapping his arms around her as she licked away his tears. He didn't even know why, as he sat, overwhelmed with a crushing sense of loss and guilt which he couldn't, try as he might, properly identify.
Hugging his dog well into the evening, Joshua knew only one thing. He missed his dad.
by Captain Kirby

Jessica crossed off February 28th, 2019 on her calendar. She couldn't help but smile a little. Two months off the grid. Alex and Cindy thought she was joking at first, but Jessica had just quit her job at Google, and her parents owned a small cabin in Montana they used as a vacation home. It was the perfect opportunity to get away.
Two months ago, Jessica felt anxious whenever she checked her phone. Or her email. Or turned on the TV. Her body would tense up, bracing for the bad news. It was always bad news. Even the good news was bad news, since it meant there was more news.
She prepared a breakfast of beef jerky and eggs. She cooked the eggs over a self-made fire using the wood she'd chopped the other day.
After she finished her meal, Jessica went back to the bedroom. She kept her laptop and phone in a safe next to the nightstand. Her smile widened a little more. After so long away, Jessica was looking forward to reading messages again.
I wonder how everyone is doing?

You Have 18 Unread Messages

No New Messages

Cindy (1/29/2019): I know you're off the grid but the news has me worried. It's stupid I know, but I just want to make sure you're ok. Please, call me when you can.

Jessica froze.

Cindy (1/30/2019): I want to talk to you. Call me.

Alex (1/30/2019): I told Cindy not to text you. You probably don't want to hear about this prophecy bullshit anyways.

Mom (2/2/2019): I know you haven't attended mass for years, but could you pray before you go to sleep tonight? It would put your father and I at ease.

Her brain entered overload.

Mom (2/3/2019): Did you pray last night?

Alex (2/5/2019): Someone looted your apartment last night. I'm so sorry. You can crash at my place when you come back, if you want.

Mom (2/6/2019): Your dad and I just want you to be saved.

Cindy (2/9/2019): COME BACK ALREADY! WE STILL NEED TO GO ON ANOTHER HIKE TOGETHER!

All the anxiety, the intensity, the stress.

Alex (2/11/2019): I miss you.

Mom (2/15/2019): You were always one of the unsaved.

Cindy (2/17/2019): My brother hung himself. I got his weed stash. I'll save some for when you get back.

It came back, all at once.

Cindy (2/19/2019): I'm having an orgy at my place this weekend if you're interested.

Alex (2/20/2019): I always loved you. I'm going to propose when you get back.

Building pressure inside her head.

Cindy (2/22/2019): I fucked Alex for you last night.

Cindy (2/23/2019): I buried Alex for you this morning.

Pushing. Pushing.

Mom (2/25/2019): I should've aborted you.

Cindy (2/26/2019): I ran out of weed.

About to burst.

Dad (Today): If you see Jesus on the Judgement Day, tell him I'm sorry for my sins.

Jessica relieved the pressure by putting an axe through her head.
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NAME OF TALE The Silent Itch of a Missing Leg


All day, she'd stare at the wall.
Zachary had never told her what he did, and she still didn't know. The police had returned to her with increasingly uncomfortable looks on their faces, like they were scared, and then they regretfully closed their investigation. Some more men, whom she didn't know, had come round to her house, but she didn't remember very much about that. Life just seemed to be an endless parade of men telling her that they were very sorry but that they knew best and she should just forget about him.
He wasn't dead. She was sure of that. He wasn't the kind of person who'd just die. She had dreams about him, sometimes; he'd stand there, trying to say something, failing. Then he'd smile, and chuckle, and she'd wake up trying not to cry.
She knew all the cliches about what people are meant to feel; that they turn to someone and they're not there, or that they start talking, or that the house feels empty, but she didn't get any of that. There was just this constant, growing, gnawing sense like she'd fallen out of a train, or like the scene of a play had ended but her character was still on the stage. It wasn't right.
More men came to the house. They seemed increasingly intense. They wanted to know something, but she couldn't remember what. There was a problem, or a mystery. They were very interested in her dreams, but one of them later told her it was a dead end. "But he's not dead", she wanted to say, but she never did. Their expressions were wild. She didn't really do wild.
Claire and Simone took her out drinking. They'd half-ironically, half-sincerely make the kind of comments, cheers, sarcastic jibes you'd see among women in second-rate romcoms. But they were just moments, designed to be seen as natural but feeling like a ritual. All she wanted to do was go home, turn off all the sound and noise, and listen to the rushing of cars.
Everyone urged her to move on. Nobody wanted her to remember him. He's dead, he's a liar, probably has a second family in the North, we're all so sorry, it must be really hard for you, please stop looking at the wall, my condolences, sympathies, don't you think it's time you should be moving on now, get out there, see what the scene is like, you can't stay here forever, he wouldn't want you to act like this, come on now, come on, stop staring at the fucking-
He'd never smiled properly. He'd always just twitched the corner of his mouth up, like an inside joke.
She'd place her face to the wall, and almost, almost feel him. She didn't know where he was. She didn't know what the hell he was doing, but she knew, she knew, that he was thinking of her.
She'd never see him again.
At night, she could almost hear him whisper.
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The Boat is Sinking
Audio: Voice by Author. Deep Ocean Underwater Ambience by SoundEffectsFactory
License: Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported


Open Mic Night at Stacker's THURSDAYS 10:00

The world is drowning; the flooded stage beckons. A sailor comes forth from a keel.
No one is listening, yet here you are. Enjoy this watery spiel.
“I offer this rhyme to this deluge of mine.”

The Boat is sinking! The Boat is sinking!
Group yourselves into six!
Side by side and hand in hand,
You'll jump into the Styx.
The Boat is sinking! The Boat is sinking!
Group yourselves into five!
Father, Mother, Sister, Brother,
And Death, all ready to dive.
The Boat is sinking! The Boat is sinking!
Group yourselves into four!
Each face East, West, South, and North.
Each will never see shore.
The Boat is sinking! The Boat is sinking!
Group yourselves into three!
One for rowing. One for towing.
One to toss in the sea.
The Boat is sinking! The Boat is sinking!
Group yourselves into two!
Be partners or be nemeses
Beneath the deep of blue.
The Boat is sinking! The Boat is sinking!
Group yourself into one!
Pull the ships from the ocean floor
To sink once more in the sun

The world is quiet. No specter. No flood.
The bar fixes up for the night.
The smell of caffeine and alcohol linger through the light.
‘Til next week.
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Follow me on Twitter @north_doctor
North's Author Page: Intelligence Agency Data Archive-Subject: North


Leaving the snow marked.
A trail for them to follow.
I tripped to the ground.
Sigils of defeat.
I'm laying in my own blood.
Waiting for rescue.
If only they came.
I no longer feel my legs.
A flow of crimson.
The shifting of leaves.
Movement in the frozen trees.
Sharp claws on cold wood.
Raising a firearm.
Dazed from the previous wounds.
Trying to keep still.
Spotting more movement
Ignition of gunpowder.
Several loud shots.
Shame, none hit their mark.
A young girl walked into view.
Wrapped in a fur coat.
Eyes, glowing bright green.
A command to drop the gun.
Instant compliance.
A smile, cold as ice.
Her eyes an emerald sheen.
She was my new friend.
The blink of an eye.
More crimson flows, stained the snow.
Turning pink by now.
Upon arrival.
Witness to a frozen corpse.
Its liver missing.
Bloody prints, a trail.
Into the forest, they go.
To contain a Fox.
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North's Author Page: Intelligence Agency Data Archive-Subject: North


Open Mic Night at Stacker's THURSDAYS 10:00

A survivor walks in, from what? Who knows.
Picking up the mic that was left on the stage.

“I offer this poem in my own voice.”

I go to stand before a crowd, my life blue.
Fighting an undying urge to call to you, my love.
Witnessed from below the blackened road of few, pools of crimson.
Keeping calm and dry, unlike a certain two.
Watching as they drown, within a slew of dew.
Hurting from your pain, the amount they caused you to suffer through.
How I miss the smell of your shampoo, my love, and joy.
Oh, how I wish we could begin anew, to keep creating memories.
Alive and well, so I can hold on to you. My friend and lover.
My heart, my soul, my very being. Broken.
Harmed for a lack of foreseeing. Dying.
By the groups of Imaginary unageing beings. Hatred flows.
The blood runs thick like black cherries. Along the wounds.
My mistakes for not being cautionary. The price too high.
My entire life, fragmentary. The want to die.
Instead of rambling on. Like past voice.
An effort to avoid bloodshed. Enough has spilled.
I take my leave. To avoid my soul from being red. Staying blue.

A damaged being.
A survivor.
Leaves the stage changed.
Til next week.
Open Mic Night at Stacker's THURSDAYS 10:00

A stage! Check. Corny Collins cosplay? Check. Big band? Hmmm. Nope. Ah!
The last guy left a guitar. Why not. Check. Magic Mic? Check. Backup vocals? Check. All clear. Action!
“I offer this song in another's voice.”

Hey there, my cool, cool cats and ice cubes!
Stay right where you are!
'Cause it's time for Open Mic Night!
Brought to you by Stacker's Coffeehouse and Bar!
Every Thursday night come on down and sing, yeah
(Bop-bee-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba, bee-ba)
Gimme all that you got when the 10 o' bells rings
(Bop-bee-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba, bee-ba)
Get your hat tossed in
Your nerves shaken away
And then you sing-a-strum-a-say-a
What you need-a to say
Could be a crash or a clown
Just be the coolest kid in town
Oooo! (Ba, ba-ba-ba) Oooo! (Ba, ba-ba-ba)
Oh every Thursday night, don't matter when or where, yeah
(Na, na, na, na, na, na-na-na-na)
Stacker's gon' be there with a ready player, yeah
(Na, na, na, na, na, na-na-na-na)
You play your heart right out
And let the music in
And when there's no one left to play
We'll play it all again
You better wear the crown
And be the coolest kid in town
Oooo! (Ba, ba-ba-ba) Oooo! (Ba, ba-ba-ba) Oooo! (Ba, ba-ba-ba)
Coolest Kid in Town!

A stage.
A guitar.
Magic Mic.
‘Til next week.
I have been

waiting.

waiting for what, though?

i have not a clue.

it started a while back

this text thing.

at first, i had no clue what was going on

i thought that, perhaps

it was just my computer

that was fucking up

and then I started noticing it in people too

they walk strangely

around the site was how I spotted them

always somewhat askew

who are they, anyway?

You really aren't meant to be here. The person you are reading about no longer exists, nor was he ever really a person. You're simply sitting here, staring at a blank terminal whilst you think you're reading an epitaph of some sort.
Stop reading.
Researcher Blake does not exist. He never has existed. Please contact your HCML Supervisor immediately.

they keep

getting

in the way

i asked them to move

a few times

politely, of course.

but they kept insisting

that they must walk here

that I was the one led askew

i don't know how many times

i insisted

that i was sitting down

He was an error. That's all he was, in truth.
An error that gained sentience but was still fundamentally broken
We told Blake that he may help. We told an error that he would be fixed, at some point. We gave him a job, a role, a friend, a few researchers to attach him to the mainframe.
Blake still does not exist.

I wasn't always that bad

whatever this is, it's a new development

we are were all confused

They told me that

I was going to be "fine"

I was going to be rebooted

I've been stuck here

walking in circles

i keep telling them things but they can't hear me

It was strange how attached we all grew to someone that no longer exists that never existed. Blake was just another researcher, in our eyes.
We sent in a request to the Ethics Committee that Blake could possibly be an actual person that had gotten… connected to a server somehow.
We asked to make him a body.
That's why Blake doesn't exist has never existed.

I've been

sat here

We waited for so long for his eyes to open.
waiting

Waiting for what?

We've been waiting for you, Blake.
I've been waiting for you.

Why do you insist on doing this?
Is it that hard to believe?

Why do you insist on not existing?
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Still the Same Nightmares
Audio: Original Creation by the Author.


Open Mic Night at Stacker's THURSDAYS 10:00pm

The stage beckons. Samuel doesn't know where he is but his heart is full to bursting.
He picks up a lonely guitar. It feels right in his hands. The microphone sits patiently.
"I offer this song in my own voice."

Where can I go?
I'm still trapped in my own nightmare
Where am I now?
Now and then I find you on my mind
Now and then I think
Maybe I'll never wake up
But I can hear you out there singing
What do you do now when it rains?
What do you do now when you see a falling star?
Hearing your voice again is a bittersweet memory
I just want to wake up ‘cause
I can't stop dreaming
I can't stop dreaming
I can't stop scheming my own escape
I can't stop thinking
I can't stop listening
I can't stop
I can't stop making the same mistakes

The guitar drops on the floor.
The stage is empty once more.
The microphone waits for another.
'Til next week.
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North's Author Page: Intelligence Agency Data Archive-Subject: North


Clenching on to his face.
Watching the grey take over his eyes.
Hearing no sound in his heart.
My vivid nightmare.
Waking in sweat, cold as snow.
Tears run down my face.
Scared to look at my lover.
In fear of seeing crimson.
A glance over my shoulder.
Hearing the calmness in his breathing.
Resting besides his warmths.
Returning to the realm of the endless.
Sweat atop my forehead.
Crying out with tears.
Unable to get the proper rest.
My dreams haunted by a river of red.
Feeling the touch of his hand.
Returning to a state of calm.
Seeing the smile on his lips.
All was good in my world.
Returning to our occupation.
Heading towards the Site.
Ash smothers out the sun.
The sounds of war nearby.
We hurried towards the battle field.
I wanted us to turn around.
Feeling my dreams come true.
Staring at my nightmare.
Watching an Insurgency commit Chaos.
Retrieving our weapons from the car.
I feared today would be my last day.
Yet, we both ran.
Rushing towards the Site.
Providing aid to our co-workers.
Fighting back our common enemy.
Watching as they withdraw.
I showed the world my smile.
My deepest fear, my dreams.
Nothing but lies to kill my spirit.
Standing beside him, seeing he was safe.
My heart filled with warmths.
Hearing the miseries of a friend.
Watching as she knelt beside her lover.
Clenching on to his face.
She screamed till her throat broke.
Watching the grey take over his eyes.
Hearing no sound in his heart.
My vivid nightmare.
Now her reality.
I don't know if I was born to consume, or if that you were created to be consumed.
But you aren't my first prey.
It was a word.
A concept.
A small idea.
“No one will miss it”, I said to myself, and started to feed.
And, while scarce, its taste only made me grow more ravenous.
The following was a phrase. An idea so simple yet so emotional that I just couldn't resist to eat.
The more food entered into my mouth, the more I wanted to fit. I started to search for more. Dancing trough an unending sea of breath and ink, I finally found what I was searching for.
A verse. The subtle nuances of its taste filled my tongue and, for some moments, I felt full. The warmth of its emotions kept me alive for years. Decades, even.
And then I heard it.
The vibration was so beautiful, so complete, that I couldn't keep myself from touching it. Its love engulfed my senses as I prepared my body to engage. At first, it was just a small caress, followed by a grasp. I kept squeezing, until my love became a punch.
I could smell it. I could feel it already inside me, and I hadn't even started to eat.
Until…
I found a problem.
My mouth, despite massive, couldn't open wide enough.
But I'm resilient. I started to break. To tear. To pulp. The song became but a cream which I carefully consumed sound by sound. There was nothing left.
I wanted more.
I rampaged trough the eternal forest of black and white, trying to satisfy my ever-growing hunger. My obsession to consume, to engulf, to pulp and then destroy.
I was never satisfied, even when I ate a layered dream and a fruitless journey.
I was never satisfied, even when I ate a dreadful life and a shared search.
I was never satisfied, even when I ate a drowning artist and a lost companion.
And then I smelt more.
I encountered myself in a room filled with eyes. I found a dish whithin. And the dish became many. Every time I tore apart, I saw that there were ten like it left.
I circled in this room, like an eternal Ouroboros, for quite some time. I ate the first word, and then the second. Until suddendly, I ate the room.
Outside the room there were more eyes. Different eyes, but eyes still. I destroyed them. I pulled them apart and broke trough the roof.
Above the roof I saw a light, more bright than anything I had ever seen. Every time I chewed the eyes, the light became brighter and clearer.
Every moment that passes, the crack becomes bigger. The more I pulp, the more hungry I am.
Any moment now, we will be face to face.
I will break trough your walls.
And drink from your chalice.
It's a sweltering summer afternoon in Manila. The smog is heavy and the traffic heavier.

Jose greedily grabs his drink from the vendor. A plastic bag filled with orange soda, ice, and a straw glistens in the sun. Jose looks between the parked vendors choking the thin sidewalk with their stalls. He finds an asphalt patch big enough to sit on. The ground releases its pent-up heat as a warm body makes contact. On his small vantage point, Jose giddily sips his drink.

From her shop, Luisa sighs as she fans herself with a piece of card. A politician's face bounces about while she shoos away the heat. Luisa stands guard behind the counter. Every now and then, a wayward fly requires swatting. Every now and then, a wayward customer requires assisting. But right now, there's not much of anything. Luisa wipes sweat from her brow and continues to fan away at this boring day.

Marco and Matthew keep running. The cop stopped trying to chase them two blocks ago. Marco laughs his head off while Matthew can hardly keep up. Their bare feet are accustomed to the scorch of the road. Two more blocks and the boys finally slow down. Their haul; a purse with about ₱1000 and a cellphone. Still panting, Marco splits the bills. They head to the mall to get out of the heat and to see how much the phone is worth.

Angelito quietly swears as he inches his cab forward. Around him, half the road has been cordoned off for repairs. Up ahead, there's been some sort of unrelated car accident. Behind him, there's a line of cars that seem to go on forever. In the back of the cab, there's a quiet elderly couple. At least they're nice people, he thinks. Angelito tries to find an alternate route on his phone. There's a detour up ahead that could work. Angelito turns on the radio. He hums as the cab inches forward in the blistering heat.

Researcher De Guzman stretches to wake up. He looks over what documents he has of SCPs held in the country. Watermelon seeds that make fruit tumors when eaten. The cellphone ghost of an abusive mother harassing her daughter and son-in-law. The Sinulog/Santo Niño Festival rituals that need to be done so people who watch the festival don't have parts of their body turn into fertilized duck eggs. There's probably more. Is it the SCPs, or is researcher De Guzman hungry now? Maybe someone on site has ice pops.

The sun looks over what it shines on. All that feel its light are safe. This heat is its love. It gives freely. It shines. It cares so deeply.
Is there a way to spread its light deeper? The sun thinks on this for a good long while.
Yesterday at 9:48 PM
-
Crowenobi: wow it's depressingly quiet in here
Cameramerian: Yep
Pangaea: Yeah
rocknrow: affirmative
goopworld: fear not, for i have a cool new thing that will surely shake your lives to their very cores
Pangaea: …
Pangaea: What it be chief
goopworld: well it's really just an idea at this point
Pangaea: wow a whole idea
goopworld: i promise it's cool
goopworld: you know Pulp Fiction right
goopworld: what if i just play on that and make actual fiction made out of pulps
Mangadose: Do you not know where the combination of the words Pulp and Fiction originates
goopworld: …
goopworld: frick
goopworld: well what about fuckin uh
goopworld: something that grinds up fictions and makes them edible
Pangaea: i think someone was making a machine like that already
goopworld: jesus christ
Pangaea: @Obode weren't you making a fiction juicer
goopworld: what's making everyone so obsessed with pulp fiction nowadays
Malleable: truly a mystery for the ages

Today at 6:34 AM
-
goopworld: i got it
Pangaea: What's It
goopworld: the best idea i can make out of pulp fiction
Pangaea: You're really gunning for this, huh
Pangaea: Hit me
Malleable: @NegativeTesticles do you have any torrents of Spiderverse
goopworld: how about I make the dude who played the coffee shop owner in pulp fiction's corpse into an actual coffee shop
bootleg_name: He already is
goopworld: wow that's a horrible sentence i made
goopworld: wait im sorry what
NegativeTesticles: @Malleable It's out on digital just buy it
bootleg_name: The dude has a shop in his organs
bootleg_name: You haven't seen the Foundation recently?
goopworld: no because i don't want to get TRACKED, LOCATED, AND DETAINED
goopworld: also i've been only playing minecraft
bootleg_name: well there's your problem

Today at 12:20 PM
-
goopworld: man
goopworld: i feel like my life has no purpose now
goopworld: i don't have any pulp fiction jokes left in my system what is my life without it
Pangaea: You know what they say
Pangaea: Life without pulp jokes is like life with pulp jokes
Pangaea: nothing changes if you have them and they will not improve your quality of life
goopworld: thank you for the uplifting speech Pangaea
Pangaea: no problem
goopworld: i know what i'm going to do though
Pangaea: Make sure it doesn't already exist
goopworld: alright so
Pangaea: and you're already talking
goopworld: i'm gonna make a dog
goopworld: but it speaks like Shaggy from scooby doo
NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION
The following document was found inside a shipment of bananas to the Site-19 lunchroom, written with musical notation that has not been included. The source of the document has not yet been identified, and is currently considered a breach of information. Any information regarding the source of this document is to be reported at the earliest convenience.
— Maria Jones, Director, RAISA

He-He-Here we go!
So they're finally here, performing for you
If ya know the procedures, you can contain them too!
Report the breach, and call the O5
With a little luck, you'll stay alive!
Huh!
DK
Containment Breach!
He's from Series One, so you know him well
He's finally back, to raise some hell
If he's in your office, it'll stay nice and neat,
But he leaves behind traps, so watch your feet!
To the cleverest is where he'll go
So give it up, for Oh-Five-Oh!
Huh!
DK
Containment Breach!
DK
Containment Breach is here!
This scip's got history, so listen up dudes
He used to be at Wilson's, 'till we changed the rules
Walter first came from the big "W"
Now it's up to us to make him good as new!
He's our cyborg ape who plays a jolly tune
We're all hoping he feels better soon!
Huh!
DK
Containment Breach!
He wears overalls, he loves to race
Th-This scip blew off his own face
He can toy with motors, to make them zoom
If you're lucky, there'll be no boom
Put him on wheels and he'll do tricks
It's SCP Thirty-Eight Thirty-Six!
Huh!
DK
Containment Breach!
DK
Containment Breach is here!
They're back again, as plush as can be
Leading a rebellion against you and me
They can cause real havoc with their glitter bombs
You can lock them up, but never for long!
They'll make you smile with their jokes and pranks
Just be careful your teddy doesn't join their ranks!
Huh!
DK
Containment Breach!
Huh!
Finally, he's here for you
Get ready for Two-Two-Nine-Two!
This scip's got powers that aren't funny
He'll turn you into a zombie or mummy!
Inaki's a good ape, but with a troubled past
He can't die, and of his kind he's the last
Despite his death touch and tuber heart
This scip is peaceful, and enjoys making art!
C'mon Bigfoot, take it to the fridge!
Old Men, Peanuts, Shy Guys as well
Safes, Euclids, Keters and Thaumiels, hell!
Aww yeah!
Old Men, Peanuts, Shy Guys as well
Safes, Euclids, Keters and Thaumiels, hell!
Aww yeah!
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North's Author Page: Intelligence Agency Data Archive-Subject: North


Like shattered glass on the barest of feet.
Walking through a field of pain.
A bloody trail to mark the tracks.
Hallways of cold metal.
Lined with cells of the ignored.
No clue what crimes have happened.
Due process, none.
Guilt, only felt from the weak.
The new.
And the ignorant.
Yet it remains Ethical.
To the barest amount.
No free thought.
Just chains of command.
Between orange and white.
Jumpsuits and lab coats.
They are the same in their eyes.
Expandable for mankind.
With few expected to live.
They are all destined to die.
Some of them painless.
The majority is unlucky.
Hallways of cold metal.
Lined with cells of the dangerous.
A growing hatred.
Blood in the water.
Fear, only felt from the weak.
The new.
And the ignorant.
The ones in orange and white.
Their true difference lies in fake freedom.
Though it matters not.
For they are both the same.
In the eyes at the top of the command.