4.12 – PTA Meeting

Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received word from Secret Police that the rift in space-time that opened at last night’s PTA meeting has been sealed at last. The final missing pterodactyl has been returned to its own timeline in either prehistoric or alternate universe Night Vale. The creature’s lifeless body was found a dozen yards outside of the dog park entrance, stripped of all flesh and with most of the organs inverted and strung around its exposed skull like an old-fashioned soft meats crown, as worn by the 18th-century religious leaders who settled our fair burg.

The dinosaur’s body was returned to the vortex, the gateway closed, and the PTA meeting rescheduled for next Tuesday at 6 PM. That meeting will continue to address the important issue of backpacks, and whether or not they are causing autism. There will also be a memorial service for the 38 parents and teachers who lost their lives in the attack, followed by a raffle. Remember, winners must be present at the time of the drawing to claim their prizes.

City Council and Secret Police have issued a reminder that Night Vale citizens of all species and all geologic eras are not to enter, look at, or think too long about the dog park. This reminder, they say, is completely unrelated to anything that may or may not have happened today.

Coming up next: stay tuned for our one-hour special, Morse Code For Trumpet Quintets.

And listeners, Night Vale is an ancient place, full of history and secrets, as we were reminded today. But it is also a place of the present moment, full of life, and of us. If you can hear my voice, speaking live, then you know… we are not history yet. We are happening now. How miraculous is that? Good night, listeners. Good night.

Advertisements

6.13 – The Drawbridge

Apparently, the Sheriff’s Secret Police agree with me about old Steve Carlsberg, dear listeners. We just received a report from a reliable witness that two days ago, Steve was whisked into the back of a windowless van, only to reappear earlier this morning wearing thick head bandages, and eating styrofoam shaped like an ice cream cone.

I want to take this moment to thank all of you out there for all of the generous donations you may or may not be aware that you just made. During this show, we have raised just a hair over $45,000, which includes a $45,000 donation from a certain anonymous world leader. I can’t tell you who. Let’s just say: muchos gracias, El Presidente! Mano dura, cabeza, y corazón. [This was a campaign slogan used by Otto Pérez Molina, President of Guatemala; it means “Firm hand, head and heart.”]

Thank you again for your involuntary support of community radio. We couldn’t do it without the support of listeners like you, in conjunction with unethical contributions from nefarious organizations. And with that, I leave you alone with your thoughts, folks. Stay tuned next for Zydeco Note By Note, a special two-hour verbal description of what zydeco music sounds like. Buenos noches, Night Vale. Good night.

8.12 – The Lights In Radon Canyon

Teddy Williams, over at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley & Arcade Fun Complex, has an update on the doorway into that vast underground city he found in the pin retrieval area of lane five. He says that every window of the city is now glowing both day and night, and he heard the shouts and footsteps of what sounded like an army marching upwards toward the world above. He also said that given that nothing really matters now, bowling is half off and each game comes with a free basket of wings.

Mm, nothing like those Desert Flower wings.

Let me leave you with this, dear listeners. We lead frantic lives, filled with needs and responsibilities, but completely devoid of any actual purpose. I say, let’s try to enjoy the simple things. Life should be like a basket of chicken wings: salty, full of fat and vinegar, and surrounded by celery you’ll never actually eat, even when you’re greedily sopping up the last viscous streaks of buffalo sauce from the wax paper with your spit-stained index finger. Yes… that is as life should be, Night Vale.

Stay tuned for a special live broadcast of the Night Vale Symphony Orchestra performing Eugene O’Neill’s classic play The Iceman Cometh. It is a good night, listeners. Good night.

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.

10.12 – Feral Dogs

Ladies and gentlemen, good news. Mayor Pamela Winchell called a press conference moments ago, declaring an end to our dog pack terror. The mayor announced that the dogs were not actually dogs. Just some plastic bags caught in the breeze that people mistook for wild dogs.

“There are no wild dogs in Night Vale,” she said, “and if there were, they’d be sweet little dogs with big, meaningless eyes and tongues like flypaper.” The plastic bags, meanwhile, have been safely returned to the dog park from whence they came, and which is to remain unknowable and unremembered.

Journalists asked about the injuries and aftermath of this morning’s dog-pack-related crimes and injuries. The mayor responded with a hollow stare. She promptly shook the podium off its base and whispered through gritted teeth, “Plastic bags. Plastic. Bags.” The Sheriff’s Secret Police then ethically kettled the pool of reporters, gently coercing them with pepper spray. Most were taken away peacefully in handcuffs and black hoods.

Thank goodness it was all a misunderstanding. Dear listeners, I don’t want to say I told you so… but wasn’t I right when I said we were a determined, resilient little town? In the face of wild beasts, we did not crumble. We did not back down. We stood eye to eye with violence and it blinked first.

Stand proud, Night Vale! Be afraid on the inside, of course. You are, after all, your own downfall. But stand proud against those predators that would harm your family.

And that is our show. Thank you for listening, listeners. Stay tuned next for the popular advice program “Dr. Brandon.” This week, Dr. Brandon offers a step-by-step on how to remove your own appendix without surgery.

The sky tonight is a soft, quivering green. The wind is calm, but prepared. Get your sleep, Night Vale, and don’t forget to dream. Good night.

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.

12.12 – The Candidate

Ah, but that is later. Now, it is dark. It is quiet. Just you and me, dear listener. Just my voice, traveling from this microphone, traveling silent and immediate across sleepy homes and lost souls to your ears.

You curl under a blanket, protecting your body from the world, excepting a few clever spiders, and you are listening, hearing me. Sleep heavily and know that I am here with you now. The past is gone, and cannot harm you anymore. And while the future is fast coming for you, it always flinches first, and settles in as the gentle present. This now, this us, we can cope with that. We can do this together, you and I, drowsily, but comfortably. Stay tuned now for our two-hour special, Car Alarms And Their Variations, brought to you commercial-free by Canada Dry.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

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.

16.11 – The Phone Call

Before we go, intern Stacy just handed me this. The Sheriff’s Secret Police would like to issue a correction to their earlier special alert. In their warning, they stated that memorizing a very specific list would keep you safe. This is incorrect. According to the new statement, quote, ‘We are not safe. We are all being hunted by time and our own deceitful bodies. Memorizing the list will merely prevent additional external pain beyond that which you experience daily just by being alive. The Sheriff’s Secret Police regret the error.’ End quote.

That’s it for our news. Stay tuned next for a community-wide frisson of cosmic fright. Thank you again, Night Vale! May you too find love in this dark desert. May it be as permanent as the blinking lights, and as comforting as the dull roar of space. Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

17.12 – Valentine

Ladies and gentlemen, emergency workers report that they have reached Old Town Night Vale, and further report that it is a scene out of a nightmare, assuming you have had the usual nightmare in which Old Town received minor structural damage and debris, with no serious injuries.

Emergency workers report that they have treated those who need treating, and have cleared away what needed clearing away. They report that the usual stress of day-to-day life was worse, but now it seems better, and later, they project, it will be worse again. Emergency workers report that they are feeling good about stuff in general, for once. Emergency workers report that they are smiling, and they don’t even know why! Emergency workers report a cloud. Just that, a cloud. And isn’t it funny how we often don’t notice little things like that, they report.

Well, listeners. It seems perhaps that we have come through this day and reached some other side. Not unaffected, no, not unchanged, but here. After all, this Valentine’s Day, as all Valentine’s Days, will not succeed in bringing our city down. This Valentine’s Day, as all Valentine’s Days, will soon recede into painful memory, fading with time until another foul Valentine’s Day is upon us again. Stay tuned next for me saying ‘Good night, Night Vale. Good night.’

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.