SHORTS ON AIR

SHORTS — ON AIR

The little studio room buzzed softly with electricity. The radio host in the neighboring room was finishing up their hour with smooth, slow jazz music. There was about ten minutes left before the next host. Well…hosts plural.

Alastor leaned against the table that had the switchboard, arms crossed and presence domineering. I sat awkwardly in his chair, trying not to hold the script too tight. His eyes were on me, watching me, studying me, and passing judgment on me.

His studio was so unlike the others, both in this station and other standard ones. Most had empty, dreary rooms with scattered papers, binders, books, and CDs. Fortunately, most vinyls were kept safely tucked in a hallway closet.

Alastor, however, didn’t allow disorder. The wall in front of his desk was lined with studio and personally owned CDs, cassette tapes, and Vinyls—properly labeled on the shelves—and all papers were put away in manila folders and filed away in a cabinet. A calendar, notepad, collection of fine pens and pencils, headphones, microphones and papers related to the current hour were the only things allowed on any open surface.

In the other corner of the desk, away from the switchboard, was an old green lamp that gave the room a soft, orangey glow. A worn leather chair sat in the remaining corner of the room with a tall lamp perched behind it. On the floor, covering the wires that ran along the tile, was an old rug that likely looked as bright as his hair in its prime.

I never took him for someone to create such a homey vibe but, at the same time, it wasn’t exactly surprising. Most stations had gone digital but Alastor refused to let this station do such a thing, claiming that switching to digital disconnected the host from his work and people. I didn’t understand it but I didn’t need to in order to do my job as the Marketing Director.

My role expanded, though, when Alastor himself asked me to join him as his radio partner. The Alastor Hartfelt had asked me to partner with him. He was fully aware of my lack of radio experience. My resume clearly showed my time and degree in the marketing field, while he had been at the same station since he was a boy.

Alastor unfolded his arms and took a single step behind me. He leaned his hands on the arm rests as he looked over my shoulder. His breath was loud in my ear dispite the normal distance—which felt anything but normal—and his hair brushed against mine. I was already nervous about this ordeal but that just made it worse.

“Relax,” he said softly, voice humming in my ears and melting into my skin, “You can’t see them but they’re there. They’ll hear every little change in your tone.”

“R-Right,” I nodded. My eyes looked over the words but I wasn’t actually reading. How could anyone read with Alastor being so close? I was too busy trying to keep my hands from visibly shaking.

“Read it,” he instructed. His warm breath ghosted my ear, making my stomach tighten.

I took a deep breath and cleared my throat, willing my heart to slow. I knew as soon as I started speaking that I wasn’t going to be able hide the tremors, “Good evening, good people of New Orleans. I’m joining Alastor—“

“No,” Alastor cut me off, voice sharp but not unkind, “You’re speaking at them. You need to reach out. Speak to one of them, not all.”

I felt him lean closer, his chest almost touching my shoulder but not quite. I could see his chin in the edges of my vision.

“Inspire them. Control them. Make them hang on your every word. You’re here to control the night. So take it.”

That didn’t seem like him at all. Alastor had always been about control and sipping on an ego far larger than should be allowed. Alastor would never give someone else that control. He didn’t ever share his little world in this tiny radio station. Yet here I was, sitting in it.

I swallowed with a dry throat. “Good evening people of New Orleans. I’m joining Alastor on this special occasion.”

Better, but still wobbly; still so unsure. He noticed the the white in my knuckles from gripping the paper. He could see the bend and crease from my unmoving hands. To be honest, my muscles were stiff from refusing to move an inch in the last twenty minutes.

He leaned further in, chest finally connecting with my back like a magnet. His voice was deep, gravely yet smooth and like warmth spilling into one’s ears. “Stop trying to gauge reactions. You’re used to watching other people but now there’s no faces. Pick your tone and go through with it, pushing away those intruding thoughts with every breath.”

He shifted his weight, hands creaking the leather of the armrests, and lowered his voice. “You’re more capable than you realize.”

I didn’t really know Alastor to be the comforting, teaching, or encouraging type. I rarely heard him give out compliments, either. So how was he so good at it?

Alastor was truly a different person when it came to stepping into his radio persona. He was different in this little room. It felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist, only the music and his sugar-coated words.

He never shared this world with anyone. Sure he spoke to his listeners and enticed them into a world of his design, but this was different. He had pulled me into his world with just his voice. We had always been proper and professional but this felt casual, as if we were too friends just having a late drink. Dare I say it actually felt intimate.

His red tipped hand moved from the armrest to splay across the papers, pressing them down into my lap. “Don’t read the script. Find yourself.” His voice was louder. I hadn’t felt him shift so when he spoke directly in my ear it made me flinch. “Now…do it again.”

He leaned away, still encasing my body with his, and waited. I took another, stabilizing breath and tried to push him out of my mind. It wouldn’t do to make him upset the first time I tried this new partnership. He needed someone as strong and as confident as him.

So why the hell did he pick me?

“Good evening,” I tried, punctuating it first just to be different from the script. “And thank you. Tonight, Alastor has allowed me the wonderful opportunity to speak with you.”

Alastor’s breath hitched ever so slightly but I caught it. I felt the shift in the air, the plucked frequency spiking for a beat then simmering back to normal. My eyes jumped around the wall, head perfectly still, as I waited for his next words.

But he didn’t say anything.

His hand that was on the papers in my lap moved to the edges, brushing my fingers. His touch was light yet sent sparks of electricity buzzing up my arm. It caused my own breath to hitch, my stomach tightening as he rested his hand on my wrist.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips practically brushing my ear. “That’s the voice I want. Now keep it.” He removed his hand from my wrist and reached forward to grab the vinyl from the counter. The smell of cologne and dulled spices filled my nose as his shirt brushed my shoulder.

I glanced at the clock. Two minutes left.

My nerves buzzed under my skin, daring to resurface if I gave them an ounce of my attention. I could do this. I just had to pretend like what I was saying and doing was perfectly fine. No reactions to gauge. I had given plenty of presentations and speeches. I could do this.

And the only reaction I cared about the most was the one I could see.

Alastor handed me a set of headphones and I put them on, keeping one just slightly off an ear. He plugged in a second set and placed them on his head, careful not to crush his red ears.

He gave me a smile. Not one of those manipulative or fake ones. This…this was a genuine one.

The air of intimacy carried over as he plucked the vinyl needle and gently placed it on the record. His fingers gripped the counter and his legs were lazily crossed at his ankles. My eyes found every crease and fold in his outfit, appreciating the way his button down clung perfectly to the bend of his body. I rarely saw him without his jacket.

The first song began to play, an easy yet upbeat 80s tune to transition between the hours. He picked up the secondary microphone that had never been used and adjusted the screws.

I turned the chair and leaned on one of the armrests. His eyes flickered up to mine and it felt like a crackling silence hung between us despite the tune playing in our headsets. We were separate and at a distance, but our souls were connected through the frequencies. I felt warm. Not hot, bust just warm enough like a steady fire on a cold winter’s day. Alastor was right there with me.

His smile widened and he gave me a thumbs up, arm stretching across the motherboard, giving me a full display of his finely tailored chest, and turned on the microphones.

We were On Air

HI HI

for the ask game (i randomly picked the numbers):

12, 16, 36, 41 & 74

:3

12: fun fact I don't dream. Or I very bad at remembering. Kinda just turn off and on. BUT to say I didn't tell you, the last dream I did remember was when I was "having fun" with my favorite character until I realized it was a dream. It was... 3 years ago I guess?

16: Hardcore Henry. I fucking hate how nobody knows about this movie, I like the opposite gatekeeper finding obscure shit and trying to share with everyone I know lol.

36: overwhelmed. Idk why it's fancy I guess there's not a word in Portuguese for it.

41: I believe so, like I can lie pretty good only when I want to, when I don't I very bad.

74: yes, very much so.

Thank you for asking!

"You know the drill."

I actually do not know the drill. I have no idea what drill we are talking about. I can use a drill but didn't bring my own, on the account that I do not own one and if I did, it wouldn't have occurred to me to bring it with me. I am, however, holding a screwdriver. That's not mine either, but since I have no idea how I got it or whose it was in the first place, I guess I'll accept that I accidentally stole it and it's mine now. But all in all, I have no idea what we are supposed to be doing now.

Johnnytober 4°: Dear Diary.

"Hello diary, day... I can't recall. It's been so long since I wrote one of these. I mean I have tried in this mean time but the pages kept going missing. Hope nobody saw what ever I was going through, ha. Well, things have gotten... Stale? I don't know if it's for the better or worse. At least time seem to be normal, instead of how days before passed in a blink of a eye. I can look at the trees and hear the birds sing, instead of before where my only company was the chamber of a gun. Violence. That's something I had not done recently. Only thing not repetitive. My drug, or prescription to a live of monotone color, is what I believed. I mean I am a death machine after all. Death wish like a emo kid and the courage of a American soldier. Maybe not the pride of neither, but oh well.

At least it's my birthday. I think. 24 years. Forget the other 200, nobody cares for them. Thinking of going original with soda and cake at some chuck and cheese, if they exist anymore. To be fair, if I actually went original I would go back to my land. To my beaches and trees nowhere else has. But it's the same violence and despair as everywhere. That's life, as Sinatra would say.

Uh, I hope this page doesn't go missing, planning on continuing tomorrow if the sun doesn't explode... Which I hopping it does.

With all but love, Jonathan."

I said it would be random as hell.

Have nothing better to do.

I mean I probably have but I not doing it-

new ask list post!!!! feel free to ask whatever