01/06/2017 14:11:50 ¶ ●

## 109 - A Story About Huntokar

This is a story about Huntokar, said a voice on the radio. A voice you had never heard before, though she has been speaking to you your whole life.

I am Huntokar, the Destroyer. You have already been destroyed, you just don’t know it yet.

Once, long before this sorrowful now, there was only the mudwomb. We gods waiting to be born. The Woman from Italy, the Distant Prince, so many others. We waited for time and space to begin. In the mudwomb, nothing ever happened. Even the idea of action was impossible. In the mudwomb, you weren’t yet but you knew that some day, you would be.

And then history began, and we scattered out into the light and the hours. How simple and easy everything seemed in those first few millennia! There was only ever one of anything.

The Woman from Italy dipped her hand into the stars, running her fingers through the great glowing coils of the universe. The Distant Prince explored every far-off cave and every out of the way hole, all of the dark places. The cloud in the corner of the sky glowed, changing colors every second and dropping dead animals long before animals ever existed. I sat cross-legged in a lake for 10,000 years.

But nothing lasts forever, not even us. Soon there were other beings in the universe and everything changed. The Woman from Italy became fascinated at the pain that could be inflicted on these creatures. The Distant Prince began to shape some of them into wounded servants driven wild by what he had done to them. The Glow Cloud controlled the minds of any that got too close.

And I? I thought I was the exception. I thought that I would nurture them, rather than rule them. I was, of all of us, the only good one. But it was I who would end up truly destroying them.

I’ve spent every moment since my mistake trying to put back together what I took apart, but – it is beyond me. Every action that endeavours to improve only causes more suffering and terror. Even my appearance, once a source of awe, is now to them strange and horrifying. Nothing fits together like it used to.

Cecil. Sweet Cecil, who I tried and tried to guide toward the truth. I could never quite say the words. I am the Destroyer, I would say to him, but what could he make of that? My cowardice concealed the details of my crime. I couldn’t bare to repeat them. Until now.

I say this in every world at once: everyone must understand what happened. This is a story about Huntokar. But it’s also a story about you and them, and every poor soul who hears it. Of course I say Cecil singular as though there were one of anything. But as we now know, there is not one of anything. There’s a Cecil who would not listen. There’s a Cecil who listened, but could not comprehend. There’s a Cecil who did his utmost but who failed. There’s a Cecil who was gone long before I came. There is Cecil and Cecil and Cecil and Cecil and then there is me, trying to explain to him over and over about the choice I made. But all that ever comes out is the truth.

I am Huntokar, I say. I am the Destroyer. All true. All useless.

Each of us in those early days chose our domains. The Glow Cloud in the clouds. The Distant Prince in the distance. The Woman from Italy everywhere but Italy. We could each of us do whatever we wanted in the places we chose.

There was no criteria for my choice. I came across a valley, dry, almost lifeless. Save for a few brave people who had worked out how they could be sustained there. And I chose them, I guided and taught them, and gradually a town grew. Night Vale. The one place in the world that was truly mine.

I am the Creator.

And it was, I suppose, in the moment that I first felt love for my creation, that the fuse for the unraveling of all things was lit. Although it would not happen for many centuries, but the very inception of my greatest satisfaction and happiness, this tragedy became inevitable. Worship of me started, as they became aware of my kind presence in their lives. Their love gave meaning to the passing of my years and in exchange, I gave them a better and better world. They developed ceremonies devoted to me, wearing soft meat crowns and building what would become known as bloodstone circles.

And this is how it was for a long time. Night Vale was not a place with any distinction to anyone in the world, except for me, who watched over it and loved it. A love that would spell its end.

Now, in this destroyed world, I am forgotten. Still they have bloodstones and still they worship, but never does anyone ask: what is being worshipped in those circles? Why do we have all of this meat strapped to our heads? What once was tribute is now a series of gestures, as human and meaningless as they were before I came along.

They see glowing arrows in the sky, dotted lines and circles and they think nothing of them. Air traffic, space debris, weird birds. They cannot, will not read the messages from their God. The only ones that truly remember me are the oldest ones, the ones that stand outside of time. The Faceless Old Woman, who came to this country trying to find some answer to a long ago betrayal. She remembers me, although she would never speak up for me. Her ways are ways of sorrow and they only lead her to herself. She is a closed loop of a person.

The Glow Cloud remembers me, but can do no more than flash welcoming colors to say hello. I have no human mind it can control, so there is no way for us to speak. And of course the others, the Distant Prince, the Woman from Italy, the five-headed dragons, that… beagle. They know exactly who I am. And more is the doom of Night Vale for that.

The path to this destruction was laid by the humans. They invented a bomb of utter dread, a weapon so horrible, it could never be used and then threatened to use it. Fools! They faced across the water, squabbling over misunderstood ideas and announcing in louder and louder voices that they were prepared to end their species’ history over a point of pride. Some of the gods encouraged it, enjoying chaos and fear as entertainment, and spreading paranoia as they moved through the world. I tried to keep Night Vale calm. But even my children weren’t immune to the growing fear.

And then the day came, November 7, 1983. A practice Armageddon mistaken for the real thing, and so through this misunderstanding, transformed into actual Armaggedon. Hmh, the power of a fearful thought. The bombs were in the air, there were only minutes left, the people of Night Vale huddled waiting for the end to their story.

I could see it when it as it was about to happen. I could see the flash and the tower of fire, the heat that transforms a body into only its shadow. The slow sickness and the drying of crops, I could see starvation in a winter that would not end. I could see all of this, as though it had already happened.

I looked up into the sky, as the people around me wept and said goodbye to each other. And I saw something else: a planet of awesome size lit by no sun. an invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans. It hung so close that it filled the entire sky. And that was the moment that I decided, no. I would save them. I would save the town I created, I am the Saviour.

It was a simple idea. I would have to remove Night Vale from this ending world. I didn’t know if it would work; I had never seen any god try this. but I only had minutes, and I knew that I must save my only town. I was naïve, but lovingly so. You should not forgive me just because I had love in my heart. Intension never matter.

Night Vale would stand alone, disconnected from all of the rest of the universe, but safe. Or, that was what I thought. No action is without consequence. I am the Destroyer.

What happened next was a horrible cracking noise. A noise like I had never heard before, like no one had ever heard before, because this particular thing had never been broken, not in the history of all possible histories. When I tried to lift Night Vale out of the world it belonged in, I shattered reality. And I did not shatter reality just in my Night Vale, but in all Night Vales. All Night Vales that were or could be, every possible Night Vale in every possible universe broke simultaneously and fell into each other.

There was a Night Vale exactly like my Night Vale, but in which on a single day, a single citizen wore a green shirt instead of a yellow shirt. There was a Night Vale that had grown into a great metropolis: skyscrapers and crowds and little bars where people sat and talked about the great things they would write when they stopped going out to litte bars so much.

There was a Night Vale that never was, in a world where humans never came to be. There was a Night Vale in which Old Woman Josie would never die, and there was a Night Vale in which she had never lived.

There was a Night Vale in a world that had flooded, and this town floated on the water and thrived, its light spreading iridescent over the waves like an oil slick.

There was a Night Vale in which there was no Huntokar, and this town should have been safe from me, but then all of the other Night Vales fell into it, and it too was destroyed by my action.

Every Night Vale then, every Night Vale now, every Night Vale past and present, every town with every possible person making every possible important and unimportant choice, all of them, a fractal of Night Vale, an endless iteration of Cecil and citizens, and in my moment of foolish hope, in my belief that I could save anything… I reached out my clumsy hand and destroyed them all.

[deep sigh] I guess here is where Cecil would say it, so Cecil, I’ll say it for you. Let’s take a look at the weather.

[ “Full Metal Black” by The Royal They]

Night Vale is shattered. But for now it’s still here. Hmh, time is startlingly persistent in that way. Even badly wounded, it moves. And so the towns, every possible version of the town, balanced precariously on their broken reality. Some versions of the town fell completely into other versions, becoming folded in their reality and unexpected combinations. Others merely opened borders with my original Night Vale, doorways through which travel was possible, but not advisable. For a while, I believed we could go on like this. If we only put our heads down and insisted on living, without looking at or considering the world around us, we could just keep moving. And the main thing was to – keep moving. Denial was key. As long as we denied, then nothing was wrong.

The other gods were attracted to the site of my teetering domain, but I was able to arrange truces with them. They did not do anything that would upset the balance by which my world barely hung, and in exchange, they could poke their heads in, look around, maybe take a few versions of my Night Vale to turn into playgrounds for their terror-filled delights.

Others were drawn, not only gods. There were those who came to help, like the angels that Night Vale denied as strongly as strongly as they denied their own situation. And there were those who came for debased purposes of their own, like those awful men and their awful crates. The important thing wasn’t a life worth living. The important thing was just a life that continued.

But now the five-headed dragons in their grief and anger have pulled all of the other gods into this situation. And our fragile truce is ending. The cracks are widening. All possible Night Vales are opening up to each other. There will never be only one of anything ever again. When all realities are real, sense cannot be made. Everything at once is essentially nothing at all.

I’ve tried so hard to keep Night Vale moving forward, unaware of what happened to it. Blissfully ignorant. But my efforts end here. The world is finally falling apart, piece by piece, and I stand by. All the powers of my thousands of years, and I can only watch it fall.

Cecil, sweet Cecil. Whose life lies directly on the fault lines of this broken reality. He narrates his own ending without realizing it is his ending. He does not understand what is happening to him.

And so, here I am. Telling you this story, so that at least in your destruction, you will understand who has destroyed you. And you will understand that she destroyed only out of a loving desire to save you. May you perceive her as foolish and naïve, rather than monstrous.

Even as I speak I look up into the sky, and see that dark planet of awesome size perched in sunless void. Invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep turbulent oceans. It’s so close now. I can see it just above me. Maybe even, if I tried very hard, I could touch it.

This has been a story about Huntokar. She who thought she could save. She who, in saving, instead destroyed.

I am a storyteller. The story may do you no good. Huh. But a story is never for the listener. It is always for the one who tells.

Good night, my Night Vale.

Good night.

Today’s proverb: Less is more. Simplification is the way to happiness. You are not your things. Anyway, thanks for your wallet, byeee!

15/06/2017 18:54:51 ¶ ●

## 110 - Matryoshka

I once was lost.
But now I’m fine with that.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Steve Carlsberg: Ahem. First I wanted to say that there are glowing arrows in the sky. You can’t see them even though you should. I can see them.

There are dotted lines and arrows and circles. The sky is a chart that explains the entire world. For reference, I printed up this diagram on poster board. Notice the arrows here, which curve around the circles. And the dotted lines. It’s pretty clear if you just look at it.

Please look at it.
You’re not looking at it!

Well, I’ll just leave it here on this easel and you can look at it later. Or while I’m talking. Lots of people like to look at other things while I’m talking. It puts them at ease.

I say things people don’t like to hear. I show people things they don’t like to see. My brother-in-law sometimes says I give off a smell that people don’t like to smell. Well, I thought it was funny. [chuckles] It hurt my feelings a bit, but he kept doing it. I mean it was kinda funny, I guess?

Cecil Palmer: Fun fact. Did you know that a group of dragons is called a “weyr”? A pride of lions, a murmuring of starlings, an ennui of buffalo, and a weyr of dragons. Interesting, right?

And now the news. There’s a weir of five-headed dragons burning down City Hall right now. There is another weir of dragons stomping great holes in Route 800, the only highway leading out of Night Vale. And yet one more weir – did you know that it’s also correct to refer to this as a “flight” of dragons or even a “thunder” of dragons? – tearing open the aqueducts along the town reservoir. More on the complete annihilation of our city, as this story develops.

Mm. I’ve gotten several frustrated calls and letters about our program a couple of weeks ago. Because the program was called “A Story about Huntokar”, many listeners rightly anticipated a story about Huntokar. But all they heard was radio static over faint sounds of inhuman screaming. We apologize for the disappointment, and we will more closely review any programs before putting them on the air. I’m sure it was a tough time for you to voluntarily listen to a sub-par radio program.

[sighs] The town is.. nearly empty, save for flaming buildings, irate dragons, and a sky that has all but been replaced by an enormous hole, out of which pours continuous darkness, confounding visions and a deafening ripping noise, but again, sorry you didn’t like that one… radio show.

In related news, the city is in fire, and completely in control of Hadassah McDaniels and the five-headed dragons. The holes that have torn across our sky have merged into one giant hole, and false realities are converging into our town. Many citizens, including our Mayor, have chosen to run from their own unpleasant reality towards some more pleasant options offered up by the collapsing of all space and time into one. Frances Donaldson, owner of the Antiques Mall, said she discovered a reality where antiques were not sentient, venomous creatures but in fact, just old items one could resell. Frances left this Night Vale last week to go live in another Night Vale, which occupies the exact same space.

Bob Sturm, vice president of finance for the Night Vale Auto Insurance company, found a reality where cars were made of Stilton cheese, and another where insurance executives made almost 2000 dollars more year on average. He’s still weighing which reality better suits his lifestyle.

Steve Carlsberg: I see you’re looking at my chart now! I think I should have gone with a classier font like Helvetica, but this one looks just like the writing in comic strips! I couldn’t resist, it’s just so funny! [laughs] Makes all of these terrible messages so much easier to bare!

These arrows and lines in the sky are a message from someone named Huntokar. I learned this on the radio last week. Is she a god as she claims? Maybe, although I’m not religious. The folks over at the Joyous Congregation said there is no god but the Smiling God. I asked if she could be the smiling god, and they asked if she was smiling. I said I didn’t know, it was on the radio. They made weird gestures with their fists and told me I would know once we were all devoured.

I asked my other brother-in-law who’s a scientist, and he said the arrows and lines were probably a bunch of comets or solar flares or possibly an aurora. Then he got really excited about talking about space, and skipped away while laughing and clutching his hands to his chest, so I’m not sure if there’s a natural explanation.

What I do know is I’m not the only one who can see them. For a long time, I thought that I was. I told Cecil and he scoffed. I told Leann Hart at the Daily Journal, and she threw a hatchet at me. I showed them to my daughter Janice, but she’s a teenager and isn’t really interested in what her parents are interested in. My wife said she believed me, but showed little interest so – I think she was just saying that to be nice.

I told Mayor Cardinal and Mayor Winchell before her. Mayor Cardinal said she would look into it, but I’m positive she never did. Mayor Winchell totally agreed and got really excited about it, but she started telling me about how there’s a man that lives in the Sun, and all he does all day is sit at a little table with a phone on it. The phone isn’t plugged in, but he waits and waits for it to ring. The man often says to no one, because the Sun is so loud and hot an large no one can hear him: [old man voice] “I will receive the call. I cannot leave for I do not have an anshwering machine. But when that phone rings, boy howdy will that be shplendid!” Based on this story, I’m positive Mayor Winchell and I were talking about different things.

For a long time, I thought all of these people didn’t believe me. They politely or impolitely urged me away from that line of conversation. They said “sure sure” and “no way” and “you’ve got something on your shirt”, and then they poked my nose when I looked down.

I’ll get to the angels in a second. I promise this relates.

Cecil Palmer: An update on the estate of Old Woman Josie.
The hearing to decide the legal ownership of Josie’s estate has been postponed indefinitely, as City Hall is completely overrun with dragons, and they’re not letting anyone schedule the hearing room. Not even for, like, 30 minutes. Josie’s daughter Allondra Ortiz and her lawyer, Emilio Tavarez, have claimed that in the absence of a will, the estate should go to the next of kin, in this case Allondra. However, the angels who cared for Josie in her final years have claimed that they have joined ownership and stake in Josie’s assets, as they built and maintained her home and helped develop Josie’s cultural foundation. The angels’ biggest hurdle so far in this ugly battle is that they legally – don’t exist. As they are angels. The Hall of Public Records is holding a hearing today to determine the validity of the angels’ existence and whether to officially recognize their being. We’ll report back when a decision has been reached.

Steve Carlsberg: But it’s not that people don’t believe me. They do believe me. You believe me. You just can’t accept it, acknowledge it and understand it. We have customers in our bank all the time who don’t want to know their account balance. We can just print it on their receipt, but they always decline because they don’t want to know there’s only 168 dollars and rent is due in a week. They know, but they don’t want to have to acknowledge it.

Which brings me to the angels. They’re real. You can see them. They’re standing at the back of the room right now! And yes, I hear the city’s “angels acknowledged” sirens, and I see you Sheriff Sam, sitting right there in the front row, taking out your handcuffs. But there they are in the back of the room. Just turn around! Look! They’re super tall, and have several arms and long faces and wings. You see them? They’re the ones that glow bright black and sound like French horns. Yeah, them. Wave at them. They’re waving back!

There are a great many crises facing our town. The holes in the sky, the dragons chasing us into hiding, The Woman of Italy threatening to flay us alive. The Distant Prince slowly creeping less distant. All of the unrepaired pot holes, all kinds of stuff that may seem more important than a simple clerical matter of existence. But I ask the city officials present, the administrators of the Hall of Public Records, the people of Night Vale, please legalize the acknowledgement of these angels! They are protectors. They have saved our city from evil corporate encampments, from that beagle. They built us an Opera House. They cared for Old Woman Josie through hospice. They are recorders. They memorize our history without judgment. They are beggars. They have like a billion dollars in our bank, but they constantly roam the streets asking people for ten bucks. It’s not because they need money, it’s because they need connection. They just want to know you heard them ask.

[thunder and banging noises]

Cecil Palmer:: Listeners, I’m getting word that the dragons have stopped their rampage across town. No more burning buildings or crushed cars of devouring of pets. Every single dragon in town has gathered out in the Scrub Lands near the Sand Wastes. They are facing outward toward the mountains, silently watching – for something.

The city is quiet again. I do take some comfort in not hearing shouts for help or glass shattering. It is a relief to not hear reptilian roars or car alarms, to not see plumes of smoke. There’s so little solace, an inexplicable peace. The chaos in our streets was – normal, predictable. I mean it was upsetting, but we knew why it was happening. But for no clear reason, the dragons have stopped. Something they have not done since they began months ago.

The last remnants of the sky… have gone. There are hundreds of people out wandering the streets, but they aren’t actually here. They’ve living in some other Night Vale that is not attacked by dragons, some other reality that is not in flames, I-I-I-I can see them. Solid figures moving through – each other. Unaware of the layers, upon layers, of reality.

My brother returned to see me last night. But I do not have a brother. Nearly all of his hair and teeth were gone and he could barely walk. Every few steps he would fall only to get back up and walk slowly again toward me. Line of dried blood down the front of his polo shirt. He couldn’t speak, only groaned. “The bomb”, over and over. “The bomb!” He grabbed my arm. And I couldn’t pull away, I only said, “You’re not real.” But he just stared distantly, as only a person who has seen death can stare.

People ask me all the time, “are we at the end? Is this it?” And I tell them no. We must keep moving forward, that’s all we can do. But… I’m lying. I can hold tight to what I think is real here, but it’s done no good, I’m just one person. I’m afraid.. we’ve broken it. We’ve. Broken. Night Vale. I am so sorry.

Stay tuned next for… everything. Nothing. And for one, last time, from the voice of your town to all listeners out there:
Goodbye, Night Vale.
Goodbye.

[end music, silence]

Hang on. I just thought of something. While I figure this out, have a listen to today’s weather.

[“Everyone I Know Will Die” by Erin Lovett. soundcloud.com/erinlovett]

Steve Carlsberg: Unless we pay attention to our true reality, all will be lost. I believe recognizing angels is a vital first step. It’s like my brother-in-law saying mean things all the time. I tried to ignore the mean bits, I just put my head down and kept moving. The main thing was to keep moving, not to bog down in tears and fights and emotions. Just move forward, because facing it would mean pain.

But then a few weeks ago, I looked him in the eye and said, “Stop.” He looked shocked. I inhaled and just as I did, he did too. And in a synchronous moment of breath, I started crying. I wasn’t weeping in sadness, I was just crying from the intimacy of truly seeing someone and having them see me. We were vulnerable and raw and I said, “It hurts me when you joke. If you don’t like me, just tell me why and we can work through it.

And he told me about his childhood and his mother, and his tumultuous relationship with his sister, and how difficult it is to let strangers into his world. And it was just easier for him to keep me as an interloper in his life. I could never understand his difficult childhood. And I said he was right, but that I could try.

He let me hug him. He even hugged back, which is rare for Cecil. He stopped saying rude jokes about me. In fact, even saying nice things about me. We acknowledged our issues. Nothing is perfect, and I don’t think it will be, but it is better. Perfection doesn’t exist! All we can hope for is better. Thank you, officers of the Hall of Public Records, for letting me speak at the hearing here today.

Cecil Palmer: My brother-in-law Steve Carlsberg didn’t know Old Woman Josie, not like I did. I loved her like a mother. Steve did not know the angels, either. I’m sure he had heard me talk about them, I’m sure like all of us he had seen them, and known them to be real, but averted his eyes for fear of violating the arcane law against acknowledging angels. Yet, he went to the hearing to support them. Because I am doing the show today, I could not attend the hearing. A hearing I desperately wanted to be at, to proclaim my passion, to change our out of date laws. I am sad I could not.

But Steve told me he would speak for me at the hearing. He listened attentively as I told him everything I felt about the issue, and then he said, “It’s like the arrows in the sky, the-the dotted lines”, and I rolled my eyes, because Steve has always been a conspiracy theorist, seeing patterns where there are none. He got upset at my dismissiveness.

Um, [sighs] my sister Abby and I rarely got along, but after our mother died, that began to change. I spent so much time with her, and with her infant daughter Janice, whose spina bifida was costly and and and terrifying and exhausting. And then Abby met Steve, and Steve took care of Janice financially, and of Abby spiritually, and I was just an uncle again. I was no longer wringing my hands every day over the health of this struggling girl anymore, I wasn’t spending away my savings on medical care, I wasn’t having to comfort a sobbing mother. And Steve took all that away from me. You can read that two ways. Steve relieved me from stress or, Steve relieved me from duty. I interpreted it as the latter. It’s hard to forgive him for simply being a responsible father and stepfather but… I’m learning to let my anger go.

I’ve said terrible things about Steve. And he’s been nothing but supportive of me, of my sister, of my niece. He is a good father, and brother-in-law, and a good citizen of Night Vale. He is a patient friend, and I love him for that. I think, I even think his arrows in the sky theory might be right.

Did you- did you ever have one of those dolls that opens up, and inside is another doll, and inside that another? I, uh… I sometimes think we are one of those dolls, inside a similar doll and outside a similar doll. Each one nestled in another, infinite possible dolls all in one visible doll. But all of the dolls have been opened and removed from one another. They’re split halves strewn across the floor. Which parts go together? And which doll are we? Did our doll have the blond hair or the brown hair? The red bow or the one with the green-laced trim, the headscarf with the floral print? Or the dotted print?

The angels hearing is completed, and the Hall of Public Records has officially recognized the existence of angels as Night Vale citizens. The angels celebrated with poorly aimed high-fives, which were warmly reciprocated by fellow non-angel citizens, now legally allowed to see the angels as real.

The recognition and acknowledgement of angels seems a small victory, in light of our ending world, but as I speak to you now… [softly] part of the sky has returned.

Ah, as has Hiram McDaniels. Out in the Scrublands, the gathered dragons welcomed back one of their own. Hiram had left town to be alone, to gather himself. His Violet head was executed by Night Vale officials last year – the incident that sparked this entire conflict. Hiram spoke to the other dragons. “A great injustice has been perpetrated upon me,” his Gold head announced in a quiet, tired voice. “We’ve been trying to make sense of why it happened,” his Blue head said. “We’ve been very emotional,” his Grey head said, “but we are learning to let go of our anger,” his Green had shouted hoarsely. Hiram asked that the dragons leave Night Vale and all return back to their world. “We have truces to uphold. They attacked me only because they are scared of me,” his Gold head said. “We cannot find forgiveness in relentlessness.” There was a grumbling in dissent. But the dragons have called off their attack for now.

But it was not the dragons who tore open our sky and split our relaities. We are not safe merely because there is peace. We are the ones who tore apart our realities by refusing to see them for what they were. Our years of denial, carefully cultivated, has made our reality fragile. Look at the angels, Night Vale, they are real. They always have been, right there in front of us they are – our protectors and we denied them. We loved Old Woman Josie so much and yet, we couldn’t accept those whom she loved as her own family. Look what we did to Hiram! He conspired to kill our Mayor, but the one head that tried to stop the others? Was the one we executed. And in the throes of our town’s iron-clad denial, we could not own up to our mistake.

It’s one wooden doll inside many similar wooden dolls, and if we don’t notice the little details… we won’t know which one we are when they are all dismantled. As the dragons began to leave our town, Mayor Dana Cardinal approached them and asked for forgiveness for the death of Violet. “The destruction of our town did not bring Violet back, it did not fix anything. I remain fearful and angry at you for this,” she said. “But that does not change the fact that I made a grave error. Hiram. I am sorry.” The dragons paused to hear her words, and when she finished, they left Night Vale without reply.
And a bit of the sky returned.

Following the hearing, Allondra Ortiz said she was incredibly moved by the angels’ case, that she had never really thought of them as anything but imaginary freeloaders. But now that she had taken time to see how much love and effort they put into Josie’s health, life, and artistic endeavours, she plans to rework her claim on her mother’s estate to include only personal items and heirlooms. She also said she would like to stay in Night Vale a little while longer, spend time with her mother’s friends.
And a bit of the sky returned.

Members of the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency resumed their routine of following people and recording private conversations, and those under surveillance waved hello at the agents. “Have you ever noticed,” we all asked each other, “that we are being watched by secret agents? That’s not normal, that doesn’t happen in normal places.”
And a bit of the sky returned.

The librarians slithered - or possibly skittered? – back into the library, ready to devour book lovers. The City Council returned to their chambers after a much needed vacation in the Catskills, except for their newest member, 16-year-old Tamika Flynn who, instead of vacationing amassed a disturbing amount of weaponry. “Most towns, I think, aren’t run by literal monsters and heavily armed teenagers,” we said to each other.
And a bit of the sky returned.

The radiation-sick man in my home named Cal is gone, once again. As are the countless layers of people walking our streets, but existing in some other streets.

As the angels were acknowledged as truly existing, the other realities began to fade, as we began to accept the full reality of our world. As Mayor Cardinal remembered that her father had died years ago, and the father she was with was not her reality. As we looked each doll over carefully, we began to truly notice the fine details of what made ours particular and special. We could nestle them all back together into a single doll, each multitude safely contained.
And the last bit of the sky - returned.

Now our reality is badly damaged, and the only thing keeping it together is our acknowledgement. Finally, this –strange- town that we live in, no more denial. We must see ourselves clearly, or risk losing ourselves forever.

[gleefully] Angels are real. Our town is a deeply weird place. We know and acknowledge that it is a deeply weird place. There are dotted lines and arrows in the sky, and I love my family. And I love my brother Steve, he was right about everything, he always has been.

So stay tuned next for eye contact and breathing, in unison. And as always, and for as long as I can keep saying it:
Good night,
Night Vale,
Good night.

Today’s proverb: If you only read one book this year, then you have reached your approved book quota.