1.6 – Pilot

A commercial airliner flying through local airspace disappeared today, only to reappear in the Night Vale Elementary gymnasium during basketball practice, disrupting practice quite badly.

The jet roared through the small gym for only a fraction of a second, and before it could strike any players or structure, it vanished again. This time, apparently, for good.

There is no word yet on if, or how, this will affect Night Vale Mountain Lions game schedule, and also, if this could perhaps be the work of their bitter rivals, the Desert Bluffs Cacti. Desert Bluffs is always trying to show us up through fancier uniforms, better pre-game snacks, and possibly by transporting a commercial jet into our gymnasium, delaying practice for several minutes, at least.

For shame, Desert Bluffs. For shame.

7.4 – History Week

It has been several weeks since anyone in Night Vale has seen the Apache Tracker, that white guy who wears the inaccurate and horribly offensive Indian headdress everywhere. He has not been seen since he began investigating the great screaming heard at the Post Office, and the words written in blood inside. Also, the entire structure of his house has vanished, and the lot where it stood is now a bucolic meadow that neighborhood kids will not ever enter, for reasons even they are unable to explain.

I think I speak for everyone in the community when I say, good riddance to that local embarrassment. He made the whole town look ignorant and racist.

11.15 – Wheat & Wheat By-Products

And finally, some good news! All wheat and wheat by-products have mysteriously vanished from Night Vale, and the City Council promises that they will be gone forever.

This scourge, this siege upon us, this salvo of food-based warfare is finally over.

Never more will we be threatened in our homes by this enemy, or its by-products.

We also will never eat bread again, and that’s a pretty big bummer.

But this is the balance that must be made between what we desire and what we fear. Between pain and pleasure. Between wheat, dear listeners, and its by-products.

Many of you are huddled now and forever in the quarantine behind the playground in Mission Grove Park. For this community-minded sacrifice, we thank you.

I know you were forced there by martial law, but still, you should be commended for your brave actions.

Terminal quarantine might seem scary now, but I understand they have a well-stocked supply of canned lentils and the Silver Screen edition of Trivial Pursuit.

And of course, you have the radio. I hope you will let my dulcet voice and our humble community station into your ears and hearts until your final wheat-loving breath.

Dear listeners, stay tuned next for a live broadcast of a man locked in a recording booth silently staring at the microphone with intense suspicion.

And as always, since always, and for always, good night, Night Vale, good night.

13.8 – A Story About You

The crate is in your kitchen where you left it, and you get down on your knees to embrace it more fully. It has grown warmer, even hot. It still is not ticking. It had taken you no time to get back home. Now that you think about it, were there any other cars on the road? Where did all the cars go? The man with the semaphore flags explaining the speed limit – he wasn’t there either. Your heart pounds.

Without allowing another stray thought to wander through your mind and delay you, you grab the crate and throw it in your trunk. You turn the ignition, and your car radio comes alive with a pop, just as the announcer says that your car radio comes alive with a pop.

Where to now? You don’t know, but you go there anyway. A pair of headlights, a pair of eyes, and two shaky hands, speeding through the silent town. Behind you, you see helicopter searchlights sweeping down onto your trailer. There are sirens. A purplish cloud hangs over the town, glittering occasionally as it rotates. The whole works.

You drive past the Moonlite All-Nite, still aglow and full of people eating what sounds good only late at night, and Teddy Williams’ Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, which has taken to not only locking but barricading its doors at closing time. You pass by City Hall, which, as always, is completely shrouded after dark in black velvet.

Moving farther out, following the pull of the distant, uncertain moon, you pass by the car lot, where the salesmen have been put away for the night, and Old Woman Josie’s house, where the only sign that the unassuming little home could be a place of residence for angels is the bright halo of heavenly light surrounding it, and the sign out front that says “Angels’ Residence”. And the town is behind you, and you are out in the scrub lands, and the sand wastes. By the road you see a man, holding a cactus in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. He shakes both at you as you pass, and howls.