01/01/2014 14:21:00 ¶ ●

## Episode 38 - Orange Grove

You take the good, you take the bad. You take them both, and there you have spiders crawling out of a red velvet cupcake.

Welcome to Night Vale.

We start today’s show with some exciting agricultural news. John Peters – you know, the farmer? – said his winter orange crop is outstanding this year! He said there are oranges everywhere! Delicious clementines, juicy Valencias, rich navels, and bold blood oranges.

John said there are so many oranges, “a real bumper crop,” he said. “A real orange-tacular,” he did notsay. “A real orange-a-thon,” he never would have said. “A real orange-ocalypse,” he may have thought, but kept to himself.

John, speaking to a pack of local reporters, and backed by a group of farmers wearing black double-breasted suits and red silk ties, said this is the dawning of a new citrus economy in Night Vale.

John said, “Citrus is our future. Citrus holds the key to prosperity. Citrus holds the key to health. One particular orange here literally holds the key to a one-sided door in the middle of the desert. If you find that orange,” John said, “I will pay you dearly for it.”

“Or rather,” John corrected himself, “you will pay dearly for it.”

Then John said, “Either way, whatever. Would love to have that orange, my friend. Would love to have that orange. Yessir!” he punctuated. “Or ma’am. Or neither. I mean, whoever. Sure would love to have that orange,” he chuckled while sweating and adjusting his wooden hat.

John then tossed some oranges to the reporters. The reporters caught the oranges, and then began to disappear. And reappear. Blinking in and out of existence, quickly at first, then slowly, then more out of existence than in, until they were all gone.

More on this story as it develops.

The City Council announced today that they just can’t be here anymore. They said this in unison, standing in a cramped meeting room, and wearing tiny rectangular sunglasses.

They added that they wish us all the best in our final weeks.

Then, they made the standard American Sign Language “I love you” gesture as smoke filled the room.

Witnesses said the smoke smelled of maple, and was a little briny, but not unpleasantly so.

When the haze cleared, the City Council was still standing in the room, apologizing, claiming, “This usually works.” And then, no longer speaking in unison, casting blame on each other for not believing hard enough, and that if it weren’t for so-and-so they’d all be on a beach somewhere safe from the bears or…whatever those things are.

When asked for an explanation about the bears…or whatever those things are, the Council simply whispered in unison, “Mistakesssss!”

No follow-up questions were asked, as reporters became physically and emotionally occupied with the dozens of agitated starlings that began pouring from the air conditioning duct.

You know, listeners, I’ve been thinking about John Peters’ orange grove. I did a little digging online and found that orange trees are not native to deserts.

I also emailed my boyfriend, Carlos, about this. He’s a scientist, which kind of makes me a scientist, too.

Here’s Carlos’ email back to me just now:

> “Cecil, I’ll do my best to answer your questions, but do know that I don’t specialize in botany or dendrology. I am a scientist. I study science, not plants or nature.

> “I did drive out past John’s farm a month ago, and there wasn’t a single tree; just acres and acres of rocky, cracked, flat ground. There’s no way he could have grown anything natural on that land, let alone a bountiful orange grove…especially in just a few weeks.

> “As far as your other question goes, let’s stay home tonight. We ate out last night. Plus, there’s a new documentary about scatterplot matrices on Netflix I’ve been wanting to see. Also, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is on TBS again. We could re-watch that.

> I’ll make pasta, if you can pick up some…”

Uhmm, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, Carlos goes on about weekend bowling plans, y– you know what? You don’t need all this.

OK. I think that’s all he had about the orange trees.

I do hope we watch Liberty Valance, though. Ha! I love that film.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

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To claim your new member benefits, simply visit Stamps.com, and press your forehead against the radio mic in the upper-right of your screen until your entire body falls forwards into the alternate Stamps.com universe.

Stamps.com will tell your family you loved them very much.

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“Come here, family. You are all our family now,” Stamps.com will say, stretching their many boneless arms around your terrified family.

“Come here. We are all loving family.”

Stamps.com. You live in a dying world. We love you.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just received word that the Ralph’s is stocked full of fresh orange juice from John’s farm. It’s called J.P.’s OJ, where the O in OJ is a bright cartoonish sun with big pink eyes, and a strained toothy smile; and the J is a sickle the sun is using to slice down ripe oranges from a large tree.

Adam Bayer, weekday shift manager at the Ralph’s, said they have removed all other produce to stock J.P. Oranges, and even emptied out the refrigerators to fully showcase all of J.P.’s mouth-watering stock of fresh juice.

“Even several of the dry goods aisles had to be cleared out,” Adam said, pulling oranges from his apron pockets. He continued pulling oranges from his tiny pocket, mesmerized by their seeming infinitude, and unable to continue speaking as he began to blink out of existence.

Listeners, we here at Night Vale Community Radio need to offer the following correction:

In a previous broadcast, we described the world as “real.”

We indicated, using our voice, that it was made up of many real objects and entities, and we gave descriptions of these disparate parts. We even went so far as to ascribe action and agency to some of these entities.

But, as we all know, nothing can be fully understood to be “real.” Any description of the world we give is simply the world we experience – which is to say, a narrative we force onto whatever horror or void lies behind the scrim of our perception.

We at the station offer our deepest, most humble apologies for the previous, erroneous, report. We affirm once again that nothing is real – including this correction, and least of all, your experience of hearing it.

This has been Corrections.

More now on the orange grove.

Intern Maureen brought it to my attention that until today, John Peters – you know, the farmer? – has been missing for about four months! Former intern Dana was the last to see him. Unfortunately, we do not know where Dana was when she saw him.

We’re also unclear as to when Dana was, as time and space seem to not apply to Dana these days. She’s been without a phone charger for about eight months now, and we’re still texting. Also, I’m not sure how she’s been paying her cell phone bill.

Maureen? What is that? Maureen, that’s not a glass of orange juice you’re drinking, is it?

Oh, I see. She got it from our station break room, not from the Ralph’s, so it’s probably safe then.

Oh, well, thank you for the offer, Maureen, but I’m…still working on my coffee. [audibly sips]

Maureen? Is everything OK?

Listeners, Maureen is just…staring at me. Silent. A single bead of sweat running down her left temple. She is staring now at the orange juice. She is biting her upper lip with her lower jaw, and breathing through her nose. Her cheeks are flushing, and she is shaking her head, very…very slightly.

That looks like a “no.”

Is that a “no,” Maureen?

Listeners, I– I think that’s a “no” from Maureen.

Oh! Oh dear! Maureen just flickered. Like, she was there, and then she wasn’t, and then she was, like when a plane flies in front of the sun and the light leaves for a brief moment as you wonder – for just that split second – “Is this it? Is it over?” Only to have the sun return as your brain hears the faint hum of a distant jet and you sigh with relief and disappointment that everything is as it was. A similar thing just happened with Maureen.

Listen–

Maureen, I–

She is backing out of the studio.

She is backing out of the studio.

She has dropped the glass.

She is flickering.

She is flickering…

She is gone.

Listeners, Maureen is gone!

I hear no hum of jets, I– I see no intern, just…an open door. And an empty glass, and a spreading stain.

To the family of Intern Maureen: She was a good intern, with a beautiful puppy, and a chatty neighbor.

She will be missed.

[chime]

Wait– uhh, I just got another email from Carlos, marked URGENT. He says:

> “Cecil? Just talked to my team of scientists, who have investigating the House that Doesn’t Exist – the one in the Desert Creek housing development that looks like it exists; like, it’s right there when you look it and it’s between two other identical houses, so it would make more sense for it to be there than not – that one.

> “They still have not gotten up the courage to go inside the house, but they did peek in the window and they saw John Peters – you know, the farmer? – they saw John sitting in a chair in an empty room, staring at a picture on the wall. They could not see what was in the picture, but John was sitting quietly, staring at it, not moving.

> “They called his name, they tried dialing his phone, but he did not respond. They even knocked on the door…nothing.

> “Whoever this ‘John Peters’ is, selling oranges and orange juice, is not the John Peters we know.

> “Also, I take it back, I think we should go out to eat tonight. I tried to go to the store, but they’re completely out of pasta, tomatoes, herbs, scissors, fire, everything!”

Well, now that is–

Listeners? Someone is pounding on the studio door, despite the brightly-lit ON AIR DO NOT DISTURB sign we always put out.

Dear listeners, John Peters just came to visit!

[deep breath]

I should talk with him. Maybe this is a good time for us to go to the wea–

No! Wait! Stop! John? John? No!

[“Black White and Red” by Emrys Cronin]

Listeners?

Ugh!

Listeners! What a fretful few moments we just had!

John Peters – you know, the imposter? – he burst into our studio and tried forcing me to eat an orange. I attempted to reason with him, attempted to talk about our old bowling league, and the wood shop class he used to teach, I even asked him about the hilarious times we used to have standing silent and trance-like in front of the ancient Chalk Spire – predecessor to the current Brown Stone Spire – our mouths frothing, our minds spinning, our ventricles slowing…

But John did not acknowledge any of these fond memories.

As a last resort, with the orange nearing my face and my back pressing hard against the sharp edge of my broadcast table, I grabbed my phone to tell Carlos that if I didn’t make it home tonight, it wasn’t because I didn’t love him, or didn’t want to watch a documentary on special scientific graphs, or was too obsessed with my job to relax and enjoy a good meal and some television, it was only because I was zapped out of existence by a lunatic non-John Peters.

And that, in fact, I do love Carlos, and I would want nothing more than to watch a documentary on scientific graphs over some homemade linguini, or to go out to eat again, or whatever!

But then, as I grabbed my phone, I thought, “Eh, that’s way too long to write for a text,” so…I just hit John Peters upside the head with it, knocking him unconscious.

And the Sheriff’s Secret Police came to carry the Fake John away, telling me that I didn’t see anything here…but then the StrexCorp-affiliated station management arrived, and asked the Sheriff and his Secret Police to stand down, and that they – the Secret Police – didn’t see anything here, and to move along like nothing happened. The Secret Police nodded and quietly shuffled out of the building, heads facing down at their shoes.

There’s still an empty O.J. Glass on the floor. The carpet around it is dark – not with liquid stain, but…with void.

The spilled juice has taken the rug wherever it has taken Maureen, wherever it has taken the reporters, wherever it probably took the real John Peters – you know, the farmer?

Oh. My producer, Daniel, just gave me a disapproving smile as he handed me this note:

“StrexCorp Synernists Inc., majority shareholder of J.P.’s OJ, Ltd., is recalling all oranges and juices due to…”

And here there’s just a dark red smudge across the words.

“StrexCorp apologizes for any inconveniences, disappearances, lethargy, and/or multiplicity you may have experienced.”

[chime]

Oh, Carlos texted.

> “No pasta, but there’s leftover falafel and an unopened bag of nutmeg seeds to snack on. XOXO”

And then there’s an emoji of, uh, two dinosaurs chasing an early-80s Ford Mustang up a palmetto-lined suburban street as some residents look on, shocked and scared – a few laughing – others undisturbed as they mow their lawns or sculpt their fruit-shaped topiary bushes, oh man.

Oh, that’s very cute!

Listeners, let me release my own special announcement.

Cecil Palmer would like to not be late for dinner.

Stay tuned next for an hour that will feel like minutes but will, in actuality, take weeks.

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s Proverb: A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single command from a satellite-activated mind control chip.

Dinosaur emoji courtesy of Star-of-Rocks, used with permission. Original emoji post is at http://star-of-rocks.tumblr.com/post/72012025661/two-dinosaurs-chasing-an-early-80s-ford-mustang

05/01/2014 8:46:45 ¶ ● ⬈

star-of-rocks:

> > Two dinosaurs chasing an early 80’s Ford Mustang up a palmetto-lined suburban street as some residents look on, shocked and scared, a few laughing, others undisturbed as they mow their lawns behind the dinosaurs, because I didn’t have much room or sculpt their fruit-shaped topiary bushes.

> Well, I was bored and made the emoji Cecil mentioned in Orange Grove. Or at least, I made a similar bit of pixel art - I have no clue how to actually make art into emoji, I just edited it into a creation from http://www.fakephonetext.com.

Episode 38’s transcripts (here on cecilspeaks as well as the downloadable eBook versions*) have been updated to include the above emoji art by Star-of-Rocks.

Many thanks to the artist for their permission!

*PDB format does not appear to support images, so that version does not have the artwork

15/01/2014 10:46:00 ¶ ●

## Episode 39 - The Woman from Italy

Flying is actually the safest mode of transportation. The second-safest is dreaming. The third-safest is decomposing into rich earth and drifting away with the wind and rain.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Hello, listeners. Welcome to this, another day. Or, you were already in this day, and my voice is now joining you. Perhaps you should be welcoming me.

I’d like to take this moment to update you about the misbehaving child, Tamika Flynn.

She has been witnessed with her army of missing children, sabotaging any business owned by StrexCorp – which is getting to be most of them at this point.

The White Sand Ice Cream Shop isn’t…there are probably others. They should not be proud of this.

Tamika was last seen leading her army through the Ralph’s, shouting to all witnesses that “We are here! We are the beating heart! We are the breathing lungs! We are the lips that chant!” before erecting a blood stone circle in the produce section, in direct defiance of StrexCorp’s recent ban on bloodstone manufacture and use.

This was wrong of her, and it is my duty to condemn her act of extreme civic pride and heroism. Which is also wrong. Everything was incorrect, and not allowed, and should not be celebrated or reported on.

Listen. Listening is dangerous. Talking? More so. Things aren’t looking so good for quiet existence, either.

In an unrelated report, yellow helicopters have continued to disappear from their place in the sky, along with the pilots who were presumably inside. The helicopters are disappearing almost as fast as our beneficent sponsors, StrexCorp, can supply them.

StrexCorp management released a series of flares from the darkened horizon which spelled, in Morse code, “We love your enthusiasm for our products, but those helicopters are for your own good and productivity. Please, stop taking them. Don’t make us ask again, or we will have to do a number of unproductive things with your human form.”

Also, and I don’t even know why I’m bringing this up, there was a new woman drinking coffee at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner this morning. She smiled twice, and frowned once. And her fingers tapped out a rhythm. There was nothing unusual about the rhythm. She ordered a second coffee, she–

THE WOMAN FROM ITALY
IS ARRIVING TODAY
NOTHING CAN STOP HER
FROM COMING THIS WAY
SHE WILL NOT HEAR PLEADING,
SHE CARES NOT FOR SUCCOR
SHE IS THE WOMAN FROM ITALY,
BOW LOW BEFORE HER

ALL THE CHILDREN IN TOWN
KNOW TO HIDE IN THEIR ROOMS
THE ADULTS HAVE FORGOTTEN –
THEY’LL RECALL ALL TOO SOON
HER HANDS ARE LIKE STORM CLOUDS,
WITH LIGHTNING-QUICK TALONS
ALL BEFORE IS A MURMUR,
ALL AFTER IS SILENCE

…and ate the last of her eggs. Nothing more to report on the woman at this time. I don’t even know why I reported what I just did.

The Vague, Yet Menacing, Government Agency would like to address the lights and sounds seen in the Scrublands just off Route 800 yesterday.

Many townspeople reported seeing a great craft alight on the ground, and disgorge spindly creatures of enormous size, wavering up into the darkness with limbs that’s angle and attachment met none of the criteria of human biologic knowledge.

The Agency would like to inform you that what you mistook for the Scrublands was actually your grandmother’s house, that what you mistook for a great craft was your grandmother – with whom you have a tense, but ultimately loving, relationship. And what you mistook as enormous spindly creatures were the words you and your grandmother exchanged – pleasantries and reminiscence to avoid discussing all the hurt that lies behind you, and the ultimate ending to your shared past that is foreshadowed by her every forgetful moment. Every tremble in her hand.

“There is no such thing as aliens!” says the Vague, Yet Menacing, Government Agency. “Your grandmother is dying. And so are you. You have this in common, celebrate it!”

A memo from the owner of the Ace Hardware on Fifth and Shay Street:

They will no longer tolerate baristas lining up for day jobs in their parking lot. Every morning at dawn, dozens of baristas with newsboy caps, waxed mustaches, and knit ties tucked into buttoned sweater-vests continue to crowd the parking lot, foreheads beaded with desperation, and hoping to be picked up to operate unlicensed espresso machines. This is scaring away the legitimate Ace hardware customers, and the baristas will be required to return to their caves just on the outskirts of town, near the Sand Wastes, in the Barista District.

Oh! Some great news to all of you out there who adopted kittens from Khoshekh, the cat floating in our station bathroom. Well, it’s been several months, and the kittens have just been growing like you wouldn’t believe! They’ve molted twice, and some of them are already getting their grownup kitty spine ridges!

Which brings me to my grave warning:

As we all know, the spine ridges of adult cats are highly poisonous. If you are coming to see a kitten that you have adopted, it is important that you check for the location and severity of the spine ridge before attempting any petting.

Also, keep your hands away from their mouths. A few of them have developed their venom sacs. We lost two cat adopters already this months, so…let’s just be careful, people.

And, let’s take care of these cute little kitties! Who’s my adorable little kitten with your adorable tendril hub? It’s you! It’s you!

I’m not even sure why I bring this up, but the new woman is wandering down Main Street, checking out the various knick-knack stores and antique shops and chanting dens and food wallows that have been springing up with all this new money flooded into Night Vale from one single, uncomfortably efficient source.

She is window shopping, but hasn’t found one she likes yet. Bay windows, stained glass, a car window taken from a 1983 Honda Odyssey, she bought none of them! She gnaws softly on the side of her thumb, she–

THE WOMAN FROM ITALY
IS WITH US THIS EVENING
WE HIDE AND WE SHUDDER
BUT THERE IS NO DECEIVING
SHE EXHALES MUST AND STEAM,
SHE POISONS THE AIR
SAY YOU HAVE A FAMILY, SAY IT!
SHE DOESN’T CARE

THE WOMAN FROM ITALY
DELIGHTS IN YOUR PAIN
SHE ASKS JUST ONE FAVOR,
BUT ASKS AGAIN AND AGAIN
“DO YOU THINK YOU COULD,
NO RUSH, JUST A MOMENT,
GIVE IN SCREAMING TO
ETERNALLY BURNING TORMENT?”

…sang an impromptu song to the delight of everyone who heard her.

No one heard her.

And now, traffic.

Think of a number. Any number. That number is how many thousands of years old a certain rock is.

That number is how many times someone has cried in their life.

That number is the lucky number of an unlucky man who is yet to realize he is unlucky.

Think of a number. No, think of…numbers.

Picture all of these abstract representations of human thought, all of them forming an imagined pattern, as all patterns are imagined, and picture how those abstractions describe, in specific ways, real moments that exist.

Picture numbers.

There is a woman who lives at 531 Beachwood Street. Her phone number starts with a 3 and ends with a 5. She smiled 18 times yesterday. She is currently thinking of 3 things she needs to do. There are actually 4 things she needs to do. She has forgotten 1 of them.

She touches the doorknob 2 times before committing to its turn. She has 2 eyes. She has 2 hands. She has 2 more chances to make her life what she thinks it should be.

But she doesn’t know it yet.

Think of a number.

Yes! That’s the one! That’s the one that describes an infinity of disparate truths about our disparate universe.

Also, the roads are looking clear.

This has been traffic.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

Filler text to be replaced with actual material. Replace with copy before sending to radio station.

Talking points go here.

- Something about coffee
- Something about the bright start of a hypothetical day
- Something about secret boxes locked in secret soundproof rooms

Maybe make it a song. Look into that.

Then, slogan goes here.

Starbucks.

Copy and paste slogan again here.

Also, just reminding the future me that comes back to rewrite this that I need to grab some milk. I think the one in the office fridge is starting to turn.

As long as I’m reminding myself things, I’m a good person, worthy of love – both from myself and others. And writing press releases and ads like this is just the start of a great writing career.

You have a novel in you, kid! You have a novel in you!

This has been a word from our sponsors.

In economic news, the White Sand Ice Cream Shop has gone out of business, and will never open again.

The owners, Lucy and Hannah Gutierrez, have gone bankrupt and, as is usual for bankruptcy cases, have had their lives confiscated by the nearest friendly large business – which, in this case, was StrexCorp.

“We were only too happy to help,” StrexCorp carved into a large slab, uncovered this morning out in the Sand Wastes, and dated to several thousand years ago by reputable scientists and experts.

The carving continued, “Lucy and Hannah are valuable members of this community, and now their value has been added to our value. We are even more valuable now. Everyone wins! Even if it seems like some of the everyones are gone, or absorbed, or dead. This is just part of the natural process of winning.”

Archaeologists were baffled when presented with the content of the carving and evidence of its age, saying that just moments ago they were working in a museum in Los Angeles, and they have no idea where they are or how they were so suddenly brought here.

“Let us go home,” they said to the person presenting the carving. “Please! Let us go home!”

In a story that will interest no one, the new woman is sitting on a bench in Mission Grove Park, reading an old paperback copy of a book apparently called Bridge of Birds. Her hair flutters a bit in the breeze. She turns a page in the book, she crosses her legs as she leans back and relaxes into the story she is reading. She–

THE WOMAN FROM ITALY,
OH END OF ALL THINGS
SHE HAS SEEN THE FALL OF BABYLON,
SHE HAS DRUNK THE BLOOD OF KINGS
HER ROBES ARE SHADOW,
HER EYES ARE DUSK
HER VOICE IS AMBER,
AND CHALK DUST AND RUST

THE WOMAN FROM ITALY
HAS HONED IN ON YOUR SCENT
SHE SEEKS OUT YOUR REFUGE.
OH YES! SHE KNOWS WHERE YOU WENT!
IT’S YOUR SKIN THAT SHE WANTS,
BOUND AND BROWNED INTO LEATHER
BUT FIRST, PREDECEASE,
I GIVE YOU THE WEATHER

[“Penn Station” by The Felice Brothers]

Welcome back, listeners!

Usually, after the weather, I am here to tell you about how we have been saved from some world-ending danger – that, for whatever reason, has failed again to end our world.

But today, I have no such report, because there is no such danger. Or, there is an infinitude of such dangers. Rocks hurdling unseen from space, gamma ray bursts created by chance and utterly destroying by chance, disease, war, hunger, or the slow dissipation of it all – not by the sudden, but by the gradual always.

But now is not the time for such light-hearted childish thoughts. Now is the time for me to talk.

Umm, let’s see. What can I talk about?

Ah! Well, that new woman! The one I have been, for some reason, reporting on, she is leaving town. She has bought a Razor Scooter from the pawn shop, and is using it to skim her way down the shoulder of Route 800. Destination – and origin – both unknown. But we know where she is now.

Good for us!

Any information is impressive in such an opaque world.

Cars honk and swerve, there are a few accidents, a man gets out of his car and looks at his bumper, fists on his hips, his mouth half opened, saying, “Well what is this now? Well what is this now?”

The woman does not seem to hear him – or anything else.

She is skimming slowly out of town, her hand raises, it waves goodbye, her shoulders bounce slightly with the imperfections of the road. She turns to look back, and we all see her face and we..

We…

WE…

THE WOMAN FROM ITALY,
OH MERCIFUL GODDESS!
HER VICTIMS ARE LEGION
BUT THIS EVENING THEY’RE NOT US
WE GRAB GRATEFUL BREATHS
FROM THE NIGHT-SHADED AIR
BATED BREATHS, FEARFUL BREATHS,
BUT BREATHE DEEP – NOTHING THERE

THE WOMAN FROM ITALY IS GONE
BUT THEN, NOT FOR ALWAYS
SHE WAITS BEHIND DOORS
AND AT THE END OF DARK HALLWAYS
SHE FOLLOWS NO LOGIC,
EXISTS SOLELY FOR SPITE
BUT YOU ARE SAFE FOR NOW, DEAR LISTENER,
SO GOODNIGHT, NIGHT VALE.

GOODNIGHT.

Today’s proverb: Your Bitcoin address is your middle name, followed by the name of your first pet, and the first street you lived on.