Teach a man to fish and he will feed himself a lifetime, teach a fish to man and he will spend that lifetime questioning his existence. -Unknown
Welcome To Nightvale.
Hello Listeners, it's Nightvale history week again, can you believe it's been a year already? The City Council has released a statement as per the usual: "Poke about in the black recesses of the past until it devours our fragile present." I, personally think it's time that the city council takes a more active role in the History Week, however, considering the recent reenactment of the ban on time travel I doubt this will happen.
In that vein I've got some wonderful news for you folks, Anthony Harris, you know, the owner of the bookstore on the corner of Fifth Street and Main Ave? Anyway, he's seemingly an amateur archeologist who focused on the history of Nightvale, how wonderful! "About 4,000 B.C," he says, "Was the first time that humans settled Nightvale, we know this because of cave paintings which depict their hunting practices, and of dark shapes that would watch them in the distance." More on this later as details emerge.
I'd like to take a moment and discuss a serious issue. Now, you all know I don't like to discuss personal issues, but this is something we can no longer ignore. As a community we have to come together and put a stop to this: The infestation of mice is out of control! Many residents report that the rate of pregnancy, eviction, and violent crime is on the rise. Now, I don't know about you, but I for one can not stand idly by while these mice drive not only themselves, but their families to the ground.
In other news, the City Council has released another statement about the noises accompanied by shifting hues of gray and gray at the Orphanage on Summercrest near Petunia's Pottery Shop. Bystanders claim that the sound was something like that of a child screaming, but somehow not, like it was an attempt by someone, or something, to emulate the sound of a child's unbridled moaning echoed back through a cavernous not-space such as the deep immovable void of space.
Many members of the community have reported an increased sighting of Angels, and the City Council has put out a reminder about the Tiered Heavens and the Hierarchy of Angels. As always they would like to remind you that you should not know about any of this. Well, dear listeners, When asked for comments the angels refused on the grounds that they don't actually exist. Old Woman Josie however said that the Angels told her "...they would like their rights as citizens of Nightvale to privacy…" she then disappeared into a cloud of pure darkness, which I would assume is the work of the angels, if in fact, angels did exist. Which they don't.
Intern Kristy has just handed me a memo, dear listener, it is marked with a red serpent which seems to constantly shift and devour itself infinitely, no one's really sure where these letters come from, but I feel they're something that should be read so, here it goes: "The Universe loves you. Mostly. There is one galaxy, impossibly far away, that thinks you are terrible. Don't fret. It's an asshole galaxy. No one ever listens to it, and soon, it will be sucked into a black hole."
Anthony Harris, you know, the bookstore owner? More details on his poking around in "black recesses of the past", it seems the shadows that were depicted in the early cave paintings aren't, exactly, dead. How can anything be dead when death itself will one day die, and if so if death can die then who's to say that any of us really live? Anywho, Harris says that he's barricaded himself in his home, which eyewitness reports say is now covered in archaic runes that resemble Sumerian Cuneiform with spray paint.
And now for a message from our sponsors.
Night is not what it seems. Day is not either. The sun is not your friend. It does not smile. It does not feel. It does not protect. It does not love. You are not your friend. You do not smile. You do not feel. You do not love. You are not you. The darkness is your friend. It does smile. It is the lighter shade of void where there exists normally darker voids. It does love. The darkness throbs in an undulating motion much akin to the heart of a drowned god. It does feel. Every inch of the darkness is burning, efflorescent, and painfully alive, the same however cannot be said for yourself.
Eat at Wendy's.
I hate to welcome you back with bad news dear listener, however, it appears as if I should not have read that letter: Station Management is now roaming the building, this is the second time in my memory, or at least my memory that I am certain of remembering, this has occurred, both involving letters. It seems station management does not like letters and I can only hope they aren't listening as they would now know that I am hiding under the desk of intern Kristy. If you are related to Kristy Capel, Traffic Director at Night Vale Community Radio, I am sorry to inform you that she is probably dead or at least corporeally absorbed into management permanently.
Let's go to intern Kristy with the Traffic…
Well, how about that... Why not an update on the community calendar?
This Saturday, Miss Kara Saunders will be holding an informational session on the proper maintenance of books. She hopes to avoid an instance such as last year where all books malfunctioned on the same day and we were left reeling from this tragedy. She recommends bringing a few items for proper book maintenance: at least a twenty-ounce bottle of accelerant."Lighter fluid will do swimmingly, but a bottle of cologne will serve even better in an impromptu situation." she said in a statement. She went on to recommend bringing a piece of flint to strike light the fire as the City Council's recent ban on matches is in full-swing.
It would seem, dear listeners, that intern Kristy, was not, as I previously surmised: Absorbed into Station Management, or killed. She is now seemingly a disembodied soul, hopping from utensil to utensil in a desperate bid to find what once was hers: a body.
That being said listeners, Spiritual relationships are far more precious than physical. Physical relationships divorced from spirit is a body without a soul. Much like intern Kristy who is now a disembodied spirit forever trapped within the station's kitchen.
Now mind you I'm not sure what type of experience exists without a body, but like they say, don't knock it til' you try it, so with that I will attempt to transcend my mortal form, in the mean time I'll leave you to a pre-recorded advertisement from one of our sponsors, thanks for listening.
Ever feel alone? Inadequate? Unloved? Feel like no matter what you tried or did you were nothing more than an arrogant, small-minded creature with delusions of grandeur made manifest in the form of supposed self-determination standing on a planet hurtling through the dark chasm that houses the planets which while being infinitely larger than yourself are but the tiniest speck of the grand scheme that is existence?
Good.
Shop Target.
Dear listeners, my attempt at astral-transcendence did not go as well as I would have liked. However, after I had given up and went to the bathroom I saw something very interesting: In the men's bathroom, hovering as ever was the station pet, Khoshekh, not because he was hovering, he always does that, but because of what was in his mouth: what appeared to be the finger of a woman, probably in her twenties, who may have been an intern at a radio station. To the parents of Intern Kristy, we are very sorry for your loss, three times in one day is however a new record here at the station so she will always be in our memory, at least so long as memory is a thing, at least as long of a thing as we are, if we really are a thing, who knows?
However, to address the probable nonexistence of memory we will have a plaque commissioned in the air quotes "memory" of intern Kristy. This plaque will be thrown into the hole in the floor of the cubicle on the fifth floor, as is customary. Where it goes after it enters this trans-dimensional wormhole is the guess of anyone, except myself as I've learned not to question these things, lest I incur the wrath of my own embittered subconscious.
A, presumably final update on the amateur archaeologist, Anthony Harris, you know, the owner of the book store. After being driven to a gelatinous gibbering glob Mr Harris ran screaming from his home into the center of the road and according to eye-witness accounts the street lights then began to flicker, not in a way that would suggest electrical failure, but in a way that would suggest a formless, shapeless, subjectively evil entity flying to and fro in a frantic back and forth. Peters then disappeared with a blood curdling scream. No one has heard from him since this incident, however his brother has put out an ad in the classifieds looking for someone to work the counter at the book store.
That's it for me, Dear listeners, Stay tuned for the sound of orphan children being fashioned into a pinata then being beaten open for the prize they hold inside.
Good night, Night Vale.