Notes Of A Dead Man Sequel (Notes - #3) by Clive Cooper (ebook reader web txt) 📕

well, as long as it was in atmosphere. If there was any force at all on all sides, it's a balanced force. You can't get it to move relative to earth, because there's always some teensy atmospheric pressure opposing you. If you had it in space though, it would accelerate to C instantly and then keep going - at least until it touched a neutrino.

An object with negative mass though… that could be fun. That could be an SCP. I could write that.

And I did. I was meticulous. I put a lot of thought and energy into making sure I had the physics as right as I could make them, and then wrote it up, had it reviewed, and posted it. Then this happened. I kinda lost it. The amazing science aside, I'd written an SCP and had something resembling it exist in real life within two days. Seriously?

Then it got featured. This was basically the best possible scenario. I had more publicity than I could've imagined as a second-time SCP author. Frankly I had no idea that this was that original of a concept - I just thought it'd be fun. Apparently loads of other people did too.

Seriously, thank you all so much. That said, there's pretty much zero chance I can top this.

SCP-2649: Multidimensional Ceramic Omnivore

This one's a bit different. The page about the spidery teapot monster you see here started with just this image. An SCP fuel post on Reddit.

I initially wanted to give it a compulsion effect, but those are lame, so I didn't. I also initially had a test log where somebody drank the portal fluid, and anything they ate or drank went into the pocket dimension and fed the skip instead of the Class D. I liked that log, but I couldn't work out why the hell the Foundation would have someone drink it, so I scrapped it.

The concept of it cleverly trying to escape and making a pain in the rear of itself developed towards the end, and I could probably stand to add something there. Maybe eventually it'll get a rewrite. I dunno.

There's really not all that much else to say, really. I had a concept for what this thing would do, and I rolled with it. It's not my best - but if you ask me it ain't bad. Pretty hard to follow up my last one, although if you check my sandbox page I've got something in the works that might pull it off.

 

SCP-2649, coated in SCP-2649-A to defend against a perceived threat

TIP

Each story as fucked up as you think it is...

...

If you don't like it... stop it... 

 

That's a Fat Catalog for fat people... I just saw myself on this catalog and I am laughen...!

Dreams of the Dead Sea

It is said that in ancient epochs, when the world was closer to the stars, that in dreams one could glimpse foretellings of things yet to come. Such beliefs are not encouraged in these days, as the Temple considers any claim of prophecy to be a form of blasphemy. I now know that on this, the priests are incorrect, that the dreaming world can reveal things yet to come. Had I known it when I was younger, I might have been better prepared for the revelations that I have unearthed; but perhaps it is better now, that what was foretold has come to pass, that I can relate to you that which it has now come time for the world to know. It is likely that merely holding this text in your hands has marked you a heretic in the eyes of the Temple, but I implore you to hear my tale; and you will learn how the promise of St. Azarius has been fulfilled, and how it was foretold in my dreams of the Dead Sea.

 

The Dead Sea lies in the far east, amidst the barren expanses of the Plateau of Leng, far from the coruscant spires of Panopolis and the verdant fields of Arcadia. Its shores rest a thousand feet or so below the rim of a great pit the likes of which can be found nowhere else in the world, which extends at least three hundred miles in diameter. The depths of the pit are lost to history, as are its origin. Some speculate that it was once some primaeval ocean, or the crater left by a meteor of unprecedented size. The great Dr. Elutherius, of the Imperial Collegium, attempted to excavate the southwestern bank in my grandfather's day; he made it half-a-mile deep before his crew abandoned him, driven seemingly to madness when they discovered a rock face smooth as glass and beyond the artifice of nature. All know of the Dead Sea, and all will find their way to it in due time, but few who do so are in any state to tell tales of the place. No man sails the Dead Sea, nor does any fish plumb its depths, for it is not water that laps upon the shores of that sea, but flesh and bone. All who live must die, and it is the law of the church and the state that all who die are laid to rest in the charnel-house of the world, the Dead Sea.

 

The beginnings of the Dead Sea are lost to history. It was already in use in the first century after the Triumph of the Church and the proclamation of the Blessed Empire. Archaeologists have found remnants of lesser such accumulations around the world, which must have at some point been abandoned when the Temple ordered all the dead to be discarded in one place. It is said that ten thousand years ago or more, before St. Azarius promised eternal life in the hereafter to all who believed in Him, that the bodies of the dead were revered; they were cleaned and dressed, displayed for public viewing, and buried in the earth in the lands in which they lived. Such practices are now considered blasphemy, as the Great Scriptures proclaim;

"Do not lavish honours upon the bodies of the dead, for the body is but a carriage for the soul. The body rots and turns to dust, but the soul, which Our Lord knows and treasures, takes its leave for life eternal. Therefore, do not let the dead lie among the living as the heathens do, for they have had their reward in full; but take them away from your lands instead and cast them into the deepest hole, and let them be forgotten."

 

And so it has always been done; in every corner of the world, the dead are loaded onto trucks and trains and air-coaches, by the hundreds of thousands each day, and hauled hundreds or thousands of miles to the Dead Sea, to be dumped onto its surface. New bodies are unceremoniously piled atop the old, to be submerged in turn by the next crop of decedents, to sink and sink until they crumble away and rejoin the earth. A terrible miasma engulfs the land, and it is said that at night, the sea glows with corpse-lanterns fueled by the gaseous emissions of the decomposing millions. Few of the living set foot on its shores, save the high priests of the Temple, the carrion-haulers, and, it is said, those who illicitly dig to the lower layers of the sea and harvest the rich corpse-soil, to be sold as fertilizer. (This libel is a favorite of farmers to levy against their rivals; for who would buy their crops, knowing they were grown from the dead?) The last class of the living who glimpse the Dead Sea's shores are not spoken of in polite company. On the northern shore of the sea, where the drop from the edge of the pit to the sea's surface is much sharper than the gentle descent of the southwest, there stands the Long Walk; a causeway extending several miles from the edge, along which those convicted of the most abominable crimes against the church and the state are condemned to walk before casting themselves into the depths.

 

I have dreamt of the Dead Sea since I was a child. The dream does not come often, but it is always the same; I awake to find myself lying atop the surface of the sea, and as I surveil the horizon I can espy no hint of the shore; there is nothing on any side but the dead, baking and rotting below the blood-orange sun. I can find no steady footing, for with every step I sink knee-deep into flesh. I call for help, but there are no living ears to hear me. Thousands of feet above, the air-coaches glide silently overhead, barely slowing to discharge their rain of carrion unto the gory mass. I find myself sinking into the ichorous loam, fearing that soon I shall no longer be an unwelcome guest among the dead, when I awake.

 

Oft have I shared my dreams with the Temple priests during the Rites of Expurgation. I dared never speak my silent fear that I was being given visions of what was yet to come, for to be known to even be harbouring the thought might label me suspect. The priests nonetheless assured me that I need not fear any such fate befalling me; no man is marked for disposal until the hospitallers have declared that he is truly and irreversibly dead and his soul has left his body. They often suggested that the dreams evinced a defect in my faith; that perhaps I doubted the truth that my soul will depart when my body expires, and that I will be left to pass away into nothing along with my body. It was also suggested that, though St. Azarius would never