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Sometimes Carlos comes across flyers for community events in Night Vale. Sometimes they're stuck to the scrawny tree outside his shabby rental place, with staples or tape or things he can't identify. Sometimes they're slid under his door, or shoved in the cracks between an outside wall and window-frame. Or even with a brick wrapped around them, tossed through his living room window, inexplicably leaving the glass unshattered but green.
They advertise things like, Bake sale fundraiser for our little league team!, or, An evening of fun and nuclear fission at Big Rico's!, or, Classic movies night at the library: BYOV (bring your own viscera)!
He gets sale flyers for the Ralph's, too (oranges half-off, find matching halves and get both free), along with municipal announcements, all photocopied so poorly as to be illegible.
Today he wakes up to a new sort of flyer on his front doorstep. CARLOS, it says. DEAR, SWEET CARLOS. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THE INSIDE OF A BEAR? WOULD YOU LIKE TO?
Its paragraph breaks there, perhaps in a thoughtful pause. Although it's not a particularly scientific way to approach his study, it's hard to not anthropomorphize Night Vale sometimes. THAT WAS NOT A THREAT, the flyer's next line says. CERTAINLY NOT. IT WAS A FRIENDLY QUESTION IN THE SPIRIT OF SCIENTIFIC INQUIRY.
This seems like an inefficient way to write an advertisement, Carlos thinks. He scratches at the back of a knee with his other foot. The cement of the doorstep is rough against his calluses, but not unpleasant.
WE HAVE NEED OF SCIENTIFICALLY INQUIRING MINDS SUCH AS YOURS, CARLOS, continues the flyer. BEARS ARE ONLY THE BEGINNING OF WHAT WE COULD PROVIDE FOR YOU, SHOULD YOU PROVIDE FOR US YOUR MIND.
The print continues for long paragraphs more, point size and margins shrinking the closer it gets to the bottom, as hurrying to make all its pleas and demands and varied imprecations before it runs out of space. Carlos flips the page over idly, and finds a few glyphs on the verso. Illegible, unrecognisable. Par for the course in Night Vale.
Carlos returns inside, to the kitchen still cool from the long night. He drops the paper conscientiously into his blue recycling bin; he has not yet had cause to use the other, yellow bin provided by the municipality. He has been told he will know to use it when the time comes. He has been told to pray that the time will never come.
"Anything interesting today?" Cecil asks, smooth radio host's voice still rough with sleep. He looks up and smiles, and the motion pushes up the skin around his eyes.
"Just spam," says Carlos, and sits back down across from him at the table he picked up cheap second-hand at an estate sale. It's old enough its varnish is mostly gone, but it's a good, solid piece of furniture, made from wood and not particle board. Sometimes Carlos wakes up in the middle of the night and hears it moaning.
Carlos' coffee, poured before he went to check the mail, has cooled to the perfect temperature. He sips and sets the mug back down. He reaches across the table; Cecil's fingers tangle with his own. Cecil's thumb strokes against the back of Carlos' palm, warm and dry.
Outside, the sun is rising, more than ten minutes late. The glow cloud rises with it, eclipsing its yolk-orange surface in green, dropping small carcasses onto asphalt and sand as it goes.
One of Cecil's coworkers announces the weather over the radio, tuned loyally to NVPR. The sun crawls in strange-coloured beams across the kitchen tiles.
It's going to be another beautiful day.