2.14 – Glow Cloud

Dear listeners, here is a list of things.

  • emotions you don’t understand upon viewing a sunset
  • lost pets found
  • lost pets unfound
  • a secret lost pet city on the moon
  • trees that see
  • restaurants that hear
  • a void that thinks
  • a face half-seen just before falling asleep
  • trembling hands reaching for desperately needed items
  • sandwiches
  • silence when there should be noise
  • noise when there should be silence
  • nothing when you want something
  • something, when you thought there was nothing
  • clear plastic binder sheets
  • scented dryer sheets
  • rain coming down in sheets
  • night
  • rest
  • sleep
  • end

Good night, listeners. Good night.

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9.12 – “PYRAMID”

Well, listeners, it seems the pyramid has disappeared as mysteriously and suddenly as it arrived. Too late, I’m afraid, for the Flaky-Os board of directors, who have all been taken to the abandoned mine shaft outside of town for processing by the City Council.

The Sheriff’s Secret Police are declaring victory in their stand-off against the pyramid because they say it’s about time they won something.

Meanwhile, the pyramid has left behind a much tinier pyramid. A mere souvenir of its looming, inscrutable mass. This tiny pyramid is broadcasting one final message, a farewell from the geometric shape that stole our hearts. So, let us wrap up our show today with its words.

Somewhere there is a map, and on that map is Earth, and attached to Earth is an arrow that says your name and lists your lifespan. Some of you die standing. Others sitting. Many of you die in cars. I can never die. It is difficult for me to understand the concept that I am attempting to convey. I cannot show you this vision, but you may imagine it. Step forward and tell someone of it, please.

You heard it here, folks. Tell people. Tell people about Flaky-Os’ new line of cereals for nighttime only. Do it in memory of its board of directors.

Stay tuned now for an hour of dead air, with the occasional hiss and crackle. Speaking of the nighttime, I truly hope you have a good one, Night Vale. Good night.

10.11 – Feral Dogs

This just in: two more schoolchildren were attacked by the wild dogs this morning near the playground at Night Vale Elementary School. One of the boys was taken to Night Vale General with treatable leg injuries. The other boy, we understand, was unharmed, because he was a better boy, and more loved by the angels.

We’ve also received confirmation that a handful of mangy curs broke into the Senior Center, stole their televisions, and made the internet stop working. This has gotten out of hand, ladies and gentlemen. We simply cannot live in fear for our safety because of wild dogs.

Allow me a brief editorial here, if you would. First off: please, have your pets fixed. It’s an inexpensive and quick process. You can take your dog or cat to the Night Vale SPCA, to your local veterinarian, or to Big Rico’s Pizza. Rico studies taxidermy as a hobby, so he’s happy to help out in whatever way he can.

Second, many of these dog packs are formed by dogs that are not raised to be loved, but bred to fight. Trainers are teaching these dogs everything from jujitsu to kickboxing to knifework. This is simply unacceptable. Dogfighting is illegal, cruel to animals, and a danger to society when these dogs are untethered.

But we are a strong, united community here in Night Vale. We must stand up to violence. Our town was founded by peace-loving imperialist conquerors who, to escape taxation, overwhelmed a potentially violent race of indigenous people and founded this beautiful city on principles of family, fortitude, fence-building, and friendly propaganda. Let’s not forget our long-standing town motto: “We have nothing to fear except ourselves— we are unholy, awful people. Fear ourselves with silence. Look down, Night Vale. Look down, and forget what you’ve done.” That is the motto of a determined, unified community.

And now, the weather.

[“I Know This” by Rachel Kann.]

14.12 – The Man In The Tan Jacket

Ladies and gentlemen, during the break, I received a call from someone claiming to be an angel. Now, I don’t know if this was a prank or not, as no one has ever actually proven that they’ve talked to an angel. Even Old Woman Josie’s word is just that, her word.

But listeners, I think this has to have been an angel, because my face became hot, and the voice filled every part of my body, and tears were flowing down my face the instant I touched the phone receiver, and the whole room was lit up in, well, how can I describe this? A bright black beam illuminating every atomic detail. And the angel, if that is indeed who called, the angel said that the Man in the Tan Jacket with the deerskin suitcase was from a place underneath the earth. Underneath our knowledge, a vast world right below our feet.

I asked for more, but the angel, if that is indeed who called, whispered, “A flower in the desert.” and if filled me with ecstasy and dread. Then the call ended, and the black ray of truth was gone, and I was breathless and alone. And dear listeners, the silence, well. It was unlike any silence you have ever not heard.

So our mystery man remains unfound, and I’m still not sure why an angel would have to use a telephone, but for now, we can only know what we know. And that is that we don’t know.

Thank you again for listening, listeners. I look forward to another fine year, a new year, well-spent with all of you out there. Stay tuned next for two commercial-free hours of E sharp. Good night, Night Vale. Be alert, and write down everything you cannot comprehend Until next time.

15.7 – Street Cleaning Day

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s broadcast is sponsored by Target.

Target is a great place to shop, and they would like you to consider the variety of silence in this world. The deathly silence when an argument has reached a height from which neither party can see a safe way down, and the soft wet silence of post-coital breath-catching. Silence in a courtroom moments before a man’s life is changed completely by something so insignificant as his past. And the silence of a hospital room as a man, in front of everyone he loves, lets the heat from his clenched hands dissipate into the background hum of the universe. The quiet of outdoor distances, of wilderness, of the luxury of space, and the quiet of dead air on the radio. The sound of a mistake, of emphasis, of your own thoughts when you expected someone else’s.

[whispered]

SHOP. AT. TARGET.