01/08/2017 23:00:17 ¶ ●

## 111 - Summer 2017, Night Vale, USA

A friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we lay open-eyed, watching it all.

Welcome to Night Vale.

The City Council reiterated for the 1874th consecutive day that the Dog Park is off limits for both dogs and humans. The fence is electrified and highly dangerous, et cetera. Hooded figures and all that. Since its construction, we have shied from and feared the Dog Park. The Dog Park is neither a park nor for dogs, so what does it even mean to call it a Dog Park? Why do we use language that means one thing to describe something that is entirely else? I don’t know what the word for that place the City Council calls the Dog Park, but I do know it’s time to start searching for that word, and once found, to use it boldly.

The angels – who I can know say are angels and will say are angels because they are angels- held a memorial for Old Woman Josie in her house. Everyone in town came, overcome with the feeling that finally, they could look at these beings and recognize them for what they were. Even the City Council attended the memorial, but refused to make eye contact with anyone. Of course, this positive concrete identification only led to more mysteries. For if these are angels, then where did they come from, and what does that mean for us? Even now we find that we cannot voice these questions. Not because we are not allowed, but because we cannot find the words to ask. Instead, we ate cake and drank coffee in the living room of Old Woman Josie, which was once just that, the place she lived. Now, it is only a room. One by one, we laid our hand on the angel’s hands, and in that moment of contact, each of us in turn found ourselves weeping.

As the party wound down, we all heard a soft pop outside. It was the lightbulb on Old Woman Josie’s porch, burning out.

A man who I know very well came into my house today, which is also his house. He laid his head with its perfect and beautiful hair upon my shoulder and crossed his arms over his perfect and beautiful lab coat. I embraced him. We are creatures of touch, humans. And we retrieve so much meaning and happiness from contact.

“I’ve become too complacent,” he said. “When I came here, I understood this town as scientifically fascinating. And then, gradually, it became my day to day life. I could no longer see the strangeness, but only my home.”
“We are all guilty of that,” I said.
“But I’m a scientist,” he said.
“Well,” I said, “we have all been scientists at one point or another in our lives.”

Just a reminder to all the parents out there. Let’s talk about safety when taking your children out to play in the scrublands and the sand wastes. You need to give them plenty of water, make sure there’s a shade tree in the area, and keep an eye on the helicopter colors. I asked my best friend and brother, Steve, to talk me through which helicopters belong to which organizations. Obviously the black helicopters belong to the world government. Although I had not realized until Steve laid it out for me, how closely they are also associated with the lizard people. The blue ones are Sheriff’s Secret Police. The pink ones are the new Double Secret Police. And the ones painted with complex murals depicting birds of prey diving? [inhales sharply] Well, not even Steve knows what those helicopters are, nor what they want. On Steve’s chart, those are just labeled with the word “RUN”. And then a few hundred exclamation points.

A commercial airliner flying through local airspace disappeared today, only to reappear at the fifth hole of the Sagebrook Pines Private Golf Club and Bulk Supplier. This disrupted all golf activities badly, as well as scaring a family of four who were perusing bulk paper towels offered at a discount price in a nearby sand trap.

I feel, for the first time, that I can articulate that this airliner had flown into some other universe, those divisions being particularly thin here in our quaint little community. This also is the cause of things like dead relatives occasionally joining us for breakfast, or the shimmering skyscrapers and crowded cities that appear for flashing moments in the sky.

Of course, it also could be the handiwork of the East Night Vale Cacti, the basketball team at the new East Night Vale Elementary School. Those scamps are always pulling pranks. Could they transport a large plane through multiple universes? Who am I to say?
But probably yes. For shame, East Night Vale! For shame!

My husband and our town’s friend and protector Carlos called a town meeting. He thought we hadn’t checked in with each other in a while and wanted us to have a moment where we came face to face, and saw those faces, and remembered that we are all real and all affect each other. Erika and Erika of the newly acknowledged angels brought corn muffins.. which were inedibly salty. They explained that angels just can’t get enough salt. Dana Cardinal was there, not as our Mayor but as a citizen, one who is so young for the responsibility that has been thrust on her. Tamika Flynn was there, not as a City Council member, but as a citizen, one who is so young for the responsibility she has seized with an army of loyal and extremely well armed teens. Please see my upcoming editorial on why millennials are always joining armed teen militias. Ugh, millennials!

Carlos reminded us that we are by far the most scientifically interesting town in the country, and we joined hands and nodded, because boy, don’t we know it!

We have clear eyes now. We see ourselves for who we are, but more importantly, we see each other. We are still a community.

The Night Vale Business Association is proud to announce the refurbishment of the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area. Now you might remember that these facilities have always been absolutely beautiful, eco-friendly, and with a pedestrian-focused design. However, they have suffered poor attendance due to the complete lack of water in the desert. But this is where things have changed. The Night Vale Business Association said, in a press release that they drunkenly sung in unison out in my yard last night.

The recent problems we had with other universes intruding on our own resulted in a great deal of pain and loss. But it has left us with an ocean. This ocean is only visible from the Waterfront Recreation Area’s boardwalk, and viewed from any other angle, the area still appears to just be the usual sagebrush and rocks. Carlos said he doesn’t understand how this window into another world works, and warned that no one should attempt to touch the ocean, for we do not know what lurks within it. But, he said, there could be no harm in a sunset stroll along the boardwalk, listening to the soft hiss of the retreating waves.

The local chapter of the NRA is selling bumper stickers as part of their fundraising week. The stickers are made from good sturdy vinyl, and they read, “We genuinely do not value human life.” Cute!

Carlos and his scientists, like Louisa and Nilanjana, are renewing their investigation into the house in the development of Desert Creek, out back of the elementary school. The house that doesn’t actually exist. “It seems like it exists,” muttered Carlos, “like it’s just right there when you look at it. And it’s between two other identical houses, so it would make more sense for it to be there than not.” But he says, it is actually a doorway into another world, a world he himself was stuck in for a year. There seem to be secrets about that year he’s keeping to himself. Maybe some day we will learn what they are.

Lights seen in the sky above the Arby’s. Not the glowing sign of Arby’s, something higher and beyond that. One night years ago, two people scared and vulnerable and loving and ready came together for a quiet moment under that sky, and I pretended at the time to understand the lights. But a big part of recognizing the world for what it is is recognizing when you have no idea. Invaders from another world? Harbingers of future terror? A fragment of other universe, fading into our own above reasonably priced lunchmeat? Maybe any. Maybe all. Maybe none.

But here is what I do know: the lights are, among other things, a part of my memory and a part of my marriage, and a part of my love. They are a piece of my past and I don’t need to understand them to understand that. Ladies and gentlemen, the past is here, and it’s about a hundred feet above the Arby’s.

Carlos and Louisa say that the monitoring station near Route 800 is recording wild seismic shifts, even as our ground reminds completely still. He suspects that this might be because multiple universes are colliding, creating earthquakes that are undetectable in the third dimension. “Picture our worlds intertwining,” he said. “And here we are in the coil, the friction of every possibility coming into contact, shaking the very structure of chance and fortune,” he said.
Well, submit an insurance claim anyway and see what you can get, right?

Listeners, the traffic. Police are issuing warnings about the ghost cars out on the highways, those cars only visible in the distance, reaching unimaginable speeds, leaving destinations unknown for destinations more unknown. It seems that the ghost cars have taken to drag racing on weekends, which poses a hazard to both pedestrians and other drivers. The police indicate that they will be arresting whatever beings drive these cars, as soon as they can figure out how to pull one over.

And now –
The weather.

[“Andromeda” by Airospace soundcloud.com/spairoace or on Spotify]

The sun didn’t set at the correct time today or any other day, Carlos and Nilanjana reported. They are quite certain about that. They checked several blocks. But, they said, the sunset was really beautiful, so at least there’s that.

Carlos still does not have any explanations, but he did suggest that while time is especially weird in Night Vale, time is weird anyway. Mostly people don’t notice in the rest of the world, because while time is weird there, it’s always weird in the same way, and so is mistaken for being remotely understandable.

It’s easy to forget in this hot, hot, desert climate, but things would actually be slightly harder for us without the sun. We know this because there was a version of Night Vale in some other universe in which the sun did not exist. And that version of Night Vale was teerrible. Ugh, just no good at all! Their street plan didn’t make a lick of sense, for one thing. There was no flow to any neighborhood!
I’m glad I live in my sunny Night Vale, and not any other.

The City Council would like to remind you about the tiered heavens and the hierarchy of angels. The reminder is the council is grumpy that all of this is not forbidden knowledge, but due to the new laws, they are required to inform you that the angels have made all of that information available. Stop by the house where the angels live if you want to pick up a free packet outlining exactly how all of that is organized. While the packet itself is free, it is likely the angels will ask to borrow five dollars. They tend to do that.

Over at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, Terry Williams, its owner, reported the startling news that there is nothing under the pin retrieval area of lane 5. As you may remember, there has been a tiny city of warlike people under the bowling alley for several years now. Which has caused some trouble, although not a lot of trouble, because they were very tiny people. But now there is just a hole in the earth under the pin retrieval area, an empty space containing only my own memories of a night that someone I loved almost died, before I had a chance to truly love him. So good riddance to whatever that town was.

Carlos, perfect and beautiful, came into our studio during the break earlier and we ate lunch together out of Tupperwares. He had some sort of blinking box in his hand, covered with wires and tubes. When he put it close to the microphone it sounded like – well, like a bunch of baby birds had just woken up, really went crazy. He asked if I remembered it. He had brought it by on the first day we had met. He had told me that it tested for materials, but he wasn’t actually sure what materials it tested for. He had just wanted an excuse to come by and talk to me. “Anyway”, he said, “I thought it was a nice memento back when we were fumbling awkwardly toward this life we share.” “But,” he added, “it’s a real instrument that is detecting some actual materials of some kind, so there is a good chance that everything about this studio is deeply dangerous. Please, be careful.”
Then we fed Khoshekh, the cat floating in one of the bathrooms here at the station. Carlos pointed out cats don’t float. I stared at Khoshekh, having never really thought about that. After a bit I said, “This one does.” Carlos smiled, petted Khoshekh between the eyes and went back to his work, and I went back to mine.

This is my work, listeners. My work is to speak to you all. To talk you through the day, to murmur you into the night. Settling in to be another clear and pretty evening here in Night Vale, this weird, weird, town. I hope all of you out there have someone to sleep through it with. I know I do.

Good night, listeners,
Good night.

Today’s proverb: There is no proof you exist, only evidence.
.

16/08/2017 22:36:11 ¶ ●

## 112 - Citizen Spotlight

If you see something crawling across your floor in the dark,
don’t worry.
It’s probably just a tarantula.
Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, in this fast-paced world of community radio and local news, I think we’ve lost sight of the truly important thing: the individuals who make up our diverse community.

So today, I want to try out a new segment I’ve put together called Citizen Spotlight, in which we will profile a randomly selected citizen, diving deep into who they are, and maybe discovering some things about ourselves along the way.

Oh, here’s an intro I’m working on for it.

[very deep, menacing voice] Spotlights, roving in the night. Hunting. Closing in. But everything is backwards. The night is hot and bright. The spotlights are deep and black. Everything they touch turns to darkness. They are searching for the light. They consume it.

[chipper voice] That’s a rough draft. I’m open to notes. Anyway, today’s inaugural spotlight was curated by closing my eyes and pointing in the phone book. And so today, we will talk about Sigrid Borg. She’s a brand new citizen who has just arrived in Night Vale. I have hear this classified dossier, we had a team of heist experts – thanks, Janice – steal from the Hall of Public Records. The dossier says that Sigrid was relocated to Night Vale as part of a witness protection program, and that Sigrid is not her real name. Nor is she of the Scandinavian origin her name might suggest. Thus all of the information we managed to obtain on Sigrid for this segment is fictional, created by a government software program to ensure her total anonymity, and in no way represents who she really is as a person. In all probability, it is in most ways the opposite of her true identity, but for safety, it’s important that we all believe this made-up biography is absolute fact. It is extremely, extremely important. She would be in great danger if anyone from the outside world started to doubt who she claimed to be.

We’ll get to our Citizen Spotlight momentarily, but first, as a way to make Sigrid feel more at home, I’ve asked other Night Vale citizens to reveal a dark secret that they’ve never shared. I will be reading those throughout today’s broadcast. The first comes from Susan Escobar, second grade teacher at Night Vale elementary school. She writes: “One night, I was at school late grading homework, and I heard strange sounds coming from the cafeteria. When I looked inside, I saw a giant mandala on the floor made entirely of frozen fish sticks. It seemed to be undulating and alive. When I blinked, it vanished. But every night I dream of flying toward a cloudless sky, and in the center of that sky is that fish stick mandala. And I wake before I reach it, but each dream a little closer. And the night that I reach that mandala in my dream is the night I will die.”
Thanks Susan! Sounds fun.

Now let’s talk about Sigrid. Though new to town, Sigrid Borg was born in Night Vale and has lived here her entire life. Her parents were immigrants from the picturesque Swedish port city of Halmstad. She tries to go back at least once a year to visit her grandparents, a retired grade school teacher and a retired timber farmer, who have a lovely cottage overlooking at the mouth of the Nissan river, where it meets the North Sea. Sigrid has always been close with her grandparents, though in recent visits, has become distressed at her grandmother’s increased mental confusion and grandfather’s drinking habits. She doesn’t call them as often she used to and feels guilty about that. She’s torn between the desire to take more responsibility for their health and well being and the desire to block the situation out of her mind completely, as it has become a signifier of the irrevocable loss of her own childhood, and a direct confrontation with morality itself.

Sigrid’s favorite food is smorgåstårta, a Scandinavian layer cake that is made of sandwiches and fish paste. Ask her to make it for your next big event. She’s been carefully drilled by her witness protection handlers on the foods of her childhood, and has almost got the hang of making them, although she has failed to acquire a taste for fish paste.

Some fun facts that you may not know about Sigrid, despite having lived in the same town with her all your lives. She has a degree in marine hauntology from an online university. She has a disorder that makes it impossible for her to sweat or cry. She has served on the board of the Sand Wastes Conservation Fund for six and a half years. She is deeply embedded into our community and way of life.

And now, another confession from a local resident about a dark secret. This one from my dear friend Earl Harlan. It reads: “On a Boy Scout training maneuver near the old dirt road, I witnessed the apparition of my 10-year-old self wearing the scout uniform of my youth. He trained with us all afternoon, and I tried not to give him any preferential treatment. As the afternoon passed, new memories appeared in my mind of training at 10 years old with a group of strangers, one of whom seemed familiar and stared at me constantly in horror.” That’s adorable! Thanks, Earl!

Back to Citizen Spotlight. Sigrid spent her childhood in the Hefty Sycamore Trailer Park near downtown. She didn’t have many friends; she was shy in school. One year, she tried out for a solo in the school holiday pageant. For the audition, she sang a Flakey-O’s jingle that was very popular at the time, but no one took her seriously. They all thought she was making a joke. She apologized and faded back into the bleachers. She truly loved that jingle. It spoke to her soul, it made her feel something. She recorded it off the radio and listened to it often, rewinding and replaying it out at the picnic table on summer nights, when the rest of her family was asleep. But she never listened to it again after the solo tryouts, because it only brought back the sound of the other kids laughing, of her teacher’s scolding voice lecturing the class to take themselves seriously, or no one else would. And it made her feel ashamed. She eventually recorded over the tape with audio from a TV special about orphaned lion cubs. But sometimes, under the hungry sucking sounds of giant kittens drinking from baby bottles, she thought she could still hear the song.

In 7th grade, she finally made some friends during the unknown creature dissection unit in science class. She wasn’t squeamish, and her ability to identify and extract misshapen internal organs without flinching made her an attractive lab partner. Everyone thought she was new in town because they had never noticed her before. She still has that effect on people. In the spring of that year, someone asked her to to the junior high dance. The team was “heat death of the universe”. The boys spent a lot of time licking the crepe paper decorations to dye their tongues bright colors and impress the girls. The girls were not impressed, but laughed anyway. Sigrid’s date tried to lick her hand to see if the dye would come off on her skin. This caused Sigrid to feel a surge of strange tingling panic, and she fled to the bathroom for 30 minutes. Her friends eventually found her and dragged her back into the gym. She danced with them for the rest of the night, hiding from the boys with the blue tongues.

There were bountiful crops that year. Some say this was not a coincidence. Some say the junior high dance is a secret crop fertility ritual outlined in the town charter, but kept secret from the children who participate. When the dance was cancelled in the following years, due to the crepe paper dye related poisoning incident, Night Vale experienced extreme drought and locust plagues. Some say this, too, was not a coincidence.

A quick bulletin board reminder: the reinstated junior high dance is coming up! May all you young citizen make lush and plentiful memories, and have a cornucopia of fun.

More Citizen Spotlight soon, but first,
The weather.

[“Try Try Try” by Rachael Sage]

Another secret confession. Ah, what a treat! This one comes from iconic local celebrity and recent donut food truck entrepreneur, Lee Marvin. It says: “There is a void. Within that void a light. Within that light, a hand. Within that hand, a movement. Within that movement, a potential. Within that potential, everything that ever was.” Thank you Lee, and of course, a happy 30th birthday to you today!

Citizen Spotlight time. In high school, Sigrid’s left hand started to itch below the pinky finger. A small lump appeared which grew slowly over time. She became self-conscious about this and wore bulky sweatshirts with long sleeves pulled over her hands, which was luckily a fashionable look then. The nurse at the health clinic assured her that it was nothing to be concerned about, but it kept growing. Eventually, it took the shape of what appeared to be a second, smaller pinky finger. She was even able to wiggle it if she concentrated very hard. As you may know, the Hefty Sycamore Trailer Park was built on the dried-up shores of the old pesticide waste river, and Sigrid’s father felt there might be some connection between this and the extra finger. They decided to relocate.

They moved into a two-story house by the train tracks, a fixer-upper that shook on its foundation twice a day when the train came through, and once or twice erratically every night when the secret night trains passed, with their nameless and unspeakable cargos. Sigrid’s parents began to fight often, never having the money to fix up the fixer-upper, and they both spent as much time as possible away from home. Sigrid had a complicated relationship with her extra finger at this point, partially blaming it for the rift in her parents’ relationship. Once, when Sigrid was alone in the house, she heard something creeping up the stairs. She hummed the Flakey-O’s jingle til she couldn’t hear it anymore, and then she started spending a lot more time away from home also.

There was a small group of kids who hung out around the train tracks at night, so she started hanging out with them to avoid going home. They liked to smoke cigarettes and light off fireworks and dare each other to look at the secret night trains, although none of them ever did, as they all knew that to look at one of those trains meant an instant and painful death. They would talk and gossip about kids and teachers she’d never heard of before, and she began to wonder if they even went to her school. When she was hanging out with them, she would often glance up at the dark windows of her own empty house just down the tracks and see movement behind the glass. Or soft white eyes staring out.

During one of these movements, while she looked at the house, all her friends disappeared and she found herself alone on the tracks. No sign of the teenagers that had been there mere seconds before. She never saw those kids again, but she often heard their voices in portable radios on the wind, and she spent her evenings wandering up and down the tracks, looking for them.

At the end of senior year, the high school yearbook featured fun awards for each student, voted on by the class. Smartest girl and tallest boy and most likely to survive a mass extinction event, and best smile. Every single student received a commemorative award, except for Sigrid. It wasn’t intentional or out of spite. Everyone forgot that she existed. She was inexplicably absent during every school picture day throughout the years. Never participated in any extracurricular activities, didn’t speak up in class, got average grades, and ate lunch alone. Which some say contributed to her lack of memorability. But she was there, and is here, and always has been. She belongs here. It’s totally normal to forget someone you know, but you do in fact know her. Some of you know her very well.

One time you went thrift store shopping together, and she picked out a jacket for you that was too big, but she said it looked great on you. It was fuzzy and resembled furniture upholstery. Royal blue with gold stripes. The lining was ripped. She bought it for you. You found that old jacket recently, royal blue with gold stripes, you put it on. It almost fits now. You felt something that you hadn’t felt before, sticking against your ribs, tucked into the ripped lining. You reached inside and you pulled out a piece of notebook paper, folded into a hard little square. It was from Sigrid. It described a thing that she shouldn’t have seen, and couldn’t speak about. It instructed you to burn the note immediately, and you did. It instructed you to never acknowledge to her that you even received it. You can never tell anyone what the note said.

If you do run into Sigrid, remember that she is a real person filled with blood and misshapen internal organs, just like you and me. Everything I have told you about her is completely true. Well, none of it is technically true, but it was crafted by state of the art technology to evoke a range of 1-4 feelings in the listener. And as we all know, feelings are real, and truth is in the mind of the beholder. And the beholder lives out in the scorched orchard under the floorboards of the old cherry-picking stack.

Stay tuned next for a mysterious distress signal that requires urgent action, but is impossible to locate.

On behalf of everyone here at Night Vale Community Radio, welcome to your new town, Sigrid – the town where you have lived your entire life.

And to everyone else:
Good night, Night Vale,
Good night.

Today’s proverb: Be yourself. As if you had any choice in the matter.