Public Domain Playhouse The Narrator

The Martians are on the march and London is just waking to the news. It's all manner of confusion; police knocking on doors warning everyone to leave, carts and wagons loaded with our lives. But where are we supposed to go? A city this size... all moving at once. What's to become of this? What' to become of us?


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Scorched from my surfing expedition, riding the boiling hot waves of destroyed Martian, I crawl away with just my pants. How am I going to explain this to the wife, wherever she is? And now I wake to this mumbling man of God questioning everything. Very unlike a Curate. Where do we go from here? What's to happen next?


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I've decided to throw caution to the wind and reach my wife. Myself and the artilleryman have packed some snacks to sustain us. Time to venture forward! Good lord! Are we the only ones left alive?? Hopefully there is a smashing good fight scene as our brave British military gets their shot at these Martian brutes! And how does the sound man get so close? It's like a death beam right in your own living room for those listening at home. 

Also, we discuss Orson Welles and his presentation of War of the Worlds.


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Since I crashed my cart and killed the horse, I don't know how I'll get home with those... giant, Martian heat ray tripods stalking the countryside. I know... I'll just crawl to the house. And when I get there, I'll just stare furtively out the window. I just hope company doesn't stop by. The place is a real mess!


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I wish my chimney hadn't gotten blown apart right in the middle of tea. That's really quite rude of those... those... giant, storm-making, Martian-made machines! I know, I'll go rent the horse and cart and get my petrified wife out of this village. Giant tripods that are now co-mingling! There goes the neighborhood!


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It starts as a slow news day. Chatting with the neighbor over the fence, a jaunty breakfast with tea and crumpets. Nothing really to report. Besides, the military has got the Martians surrounded. Perhaps I can chat with them and get some news. But, just as I figured, they know less than me. Ah, well. Time to stroll back for dinner. I hear it's supposed to be a good night for artillery fire...


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