Solo Artist

The crackling of the loudspeakers echoed through the small town. A voice, full of optimism, followed.

“Good mornin’, y’all! How’re you folks doin’ this fine mornin’? I hope yer doin’ well!” A smile was almost audible from the tower’s loudspeakers.

Shopping carts, cars, debris from buildings littered cracked and desolate streets. Brass casings, covered with dust and dirt rolled with the wind. Fallen powerline poles, their sagging lines devoid of current, lined dry ditches along highways.

How was that voice being broadcast?

Andy, they called themself, leaned back in the worn office chair. The reels around them spun quietly, well-oiled and maintained, their music filling Andy’s headphones. Though, they did not know that the music - 90s Rock as the label read on the shelf - was falling on dead ears.

Andy loved their little studio box.

Fires burned for years after the world blew itself up.

“Hot off the press, folks! That’s right - it’s time for your daily news!” Andy grinned as they spoke.

A fact that Andy had reluctantly accepted was that the newspapers they read from were dated at the “Rise of the Atom,” as the papers called the pre-war nuclear era.

Of course, Andy knew nothing about before the “Rise” - they barely knew anything outside of their studio. All they remember is waking up this studio, in this very chair. All Andy knows is in their little box of no windows or conceivable doors.

The strange voice bounces in between buildings, through dead woods, across prairies and streams.

The globe resonated with this alien voice, giving any live or dead thing outdated newscasts.

Andy took off the headphones and set them on the hook on the soundboard. It was time for the nonstop music broadcast, Andy decided, so they rolled back in the chair and smiled at the solitary light dangling from the ceiling.

Slowly, though, their smile faded as their thoughts began to wander. They cared not if others were actually alive - they recalled no connections to anybody besides themself. In fact, they didn’t even know other people had existed prior to reading the newspapers.

Nevertheless, Andy did feel lonely from time to time. They found solace in the wiritings of the studio’s previous occupant, buried under equipment manuals and scripts.

Gasps and light moans punctuated the 1990’s rock ballads.

After cleaning up their mess, Andy notices that the light beside the microphone was still lit - their moment of pleasure was broadcast to the empty world below. Their face grew flushed and heated as they hastily flicked the switch on the soundboard.

“Shit,” they whispered.

Their rosy cheeks pulled up in a smile and they hid their face in their hands.

“I can’t believe that just happened. Oh god, surely someone heard.”

It was rare for Andy to be so bashful, but they finally found out what makes them blush - being heard in a moment of self-indulgence.

But also, who would blame them? They have been living in a box for gods know how long, and without any company whatsoever, so it would only make sense to let a few rounds go.

In their shame, Andy decided to just play music for much longer than usual that… day? night? They weren’t sure what time of day it was, but it doesn’t really matter much then, they thought.