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Dead Air - Chapter One - Nova

“Subject: Welcome to Radiant Records! Let’s Build Something Epic!

Hey Nova,

Congrats — we’ve been vibing hard with your solo stuff, and we want you on board with Radiant Records! Your sound? Totally electric. Your energy? Next-level.

Here’s the deal: We want to help you build a band that can match that fire. Think: a crew that’s as tight and dynamic as your music — people you click with, who bring their own flavor but share your vision.

We know assembling the right band can be tricky, but don’t sweat it. We’ll back you every step of the way — from auditions to studio sessions. This is about creating something fresh, authentic, and loud enough to shake the scene.

Ready to make some noise together? Hit us back, and let’s get this show started.

Catch you soon, Casey Flinn A&R Coordinator, Radiant Records.”

Nova blinked and read the email again. What? This was wild. She must be still drunk from her pity party with Jamie, after convincing herself that no labels would ever sign her and she would be forever stuck as the struggling artist. Before she could spiral into doubt, her phone started loudly blaring the ringtone she’d assigned to Harper. 

Before Nova could speak, Harper’s calm but excited voice came through.

“Good Morning freshly-signed Superstar!”.

 Nova laughed, still in disbelief that today was real. “Uh, yeah.. Morning? Is it real?”

“100%! They’ve been watching you kill it solo! Its time to level it up. They want to build a band with you!”.

 There was a beat of silence on the line before Harper’s voice nudged,

“Hello? Nova? You still there?”

“Yes Harper, I- I’m still here. Build a band? Are you serious?! I don’t click with anyone!”

“That’s the fun- and the challenge.  It’s not about finding perfect musicians. It’s about finding people who get you. Chemistry over skill, every time.”

Nova took a deep breath, thinking it over. She didn’t know anyone who didn’t sing — just people she’d met at gigs, all aspiring singers. Finding a full band? That was going to be tough.

“Okay. Okay, before I chicken out. When do we start?”

“That’s the spirit! I have auditions lined up for this afternoon and the rest of the week!”

“Thanks Harper, Text me the details?” Nova ended the call and read the email again. 

“Guess it was real”.

_____

Nova found herself an hour later, sat in a musty room that smelled faintly of old cables and nervous sweat, waiting for the auditions to start. Her coffee had long gone cold beside her, untouched, forgotten. She was hunched over a battered notepad — the one Harper had handed her on the way in, all casual like "just in case inspiration hits."

Apparently, it had. Or something close to it.

Lyrics bled out in messy loops and scratched-out lines. Half a verse here, a fragmented chorus there. Her handwriting slanted harder when she was anxious — and right now, the whole page was at a damn 45-degree angle.

The quiet buzz of fluorescent lights overhead did nothing to calm her. Every now and then, a sound tech passed through the hallway, or someone coughed behind a nearby door, and she’d glance up like she was being caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.

She sighed, tapping her pen against the side of the pad, eyes darting to the clock. Almost time. Strangers were about to walk through that door. People who could become her band… or people she’d awkwardly avoid eye contact with forever.

“Please let someone decent show up,” she muttered, then shook her head. “No. Let someone right show up.”

There was a difference.

After what felt like forever, Harper strolled into the space like she owned it — a nervous red-headed boy trailing behind her, clutching a guitar like it might bite him.

“Uh—hi. I’m Wes. Big fan. Of you, I mean! Not me!”

He stopped short, cheeks already turning pink. Lanky and tall, he had the look of someone who tripped over air and apologized to furniture.

Nova raised a brow, amusement flashing across her face. “Hi, Wes. I’m Nova.” She nodded toward the guitar in his hands. “That your weapon of choice?”

Wes blinked, then looked down at the instrument like he’d forgotten it was there. “What? Oh! Yeah, totally.”

He smiled — wide, genuine, the kind of smile that could disarm a crowd if he ever let it grow into confidence.

Harper stepped forward, clapping her hands once. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Wes.”

Wes fiddled nervously with the amp knobs, the soundboard, his guitar strap — everything but his nerves. A sudden screech of feedback rang through the room.

Nova and Harper both winced in sync.

“Sorry! Sorry—got it,” Wes muttered, cheeks redder than his hair as he twisted a final dial into place.

Nova gave him a soft smile, trying to ease the tension. “Play whatever you want.”

He nodded, closing his eyes as he strummed a few chords to test the sound. A moment later, he launched into a piece — something mellow, almost wistful, with clean transitions and steady rhythm.

He was good. Really good.

But as Nova listened, her smile faded just a little. It was technically strong — polished even — but there was something missing. That raw edge. That gut-punch feeling. The je ne sais quoi she was hoping would slam into her chest and say this is it.

When he finished, the final chord hanging in the air, Nova clapped politely, exchanging a look with Harper that said: close… but not quite.

“Thanks, Wes. We’ll be in touch. Harper rose, walking him out. 

Wes gave a sheepish smile, unplugging his guitar with a small nod. “Thanks for listening.”

“Thank you,” Nova said, still warm but already drifting into her thoughts as Harper escorted him out with a polite pat on the back.

___

Harper smirked, nudging Nova. “Remember when you tried to teach me guitar and I just invented a new way to hit all the wrong strings?”

Nova rolled her eyes but grinned. “Yeah, and you called it Harper’s special chord. I’m still traumatized.”

Harper laughed. “That’s why you’re the musician and I’m the hype crew.”

The door had momentarily shut behind him before it creaked open again — but this time, the energy shifted.

Boots thudded confidently into the space, and in walked a person with shaggy dark curls, silver rings on nearly every finger, and a hoodie half-zipped to reveal a band tee that had definitely seen some pits. They dragged a well-worn drum pad case behind them and gave the room a once-over like they were sizing it up for a fight.

Harper’s face lit up. “Nova, meet Knox Vale. Drummer. They use they/them pronouns.”

Knox dropped their case in the corner and popped the lid. “Hey,” they said simply, but there was a weight to it — like they didn’t need to say much to own the room.

Nova arched a brow, intrigued. “Got anything you wanna show us?”

Knox shrugged, cracking their knuckles. “Not much of a talker,” they said, pulling out sticks and settling into the practice kit set up in the corner. “But I’ll make noise.”

And they did.

From the first strike, it was clear they weren’t just keeping rhythm — they were commanding it. Each hit was crisp, each fill bold without being showy. The beats had this pulsing undercurrent of control-meets-chaos, and Nova felt her chest tightening in the best way — like something in her bones had been waiting for that sound.

Harper grinned knowingly at her.

Nova blinked, stunned, then nodded once, slowly. “Okay,” she said under her breath, almost to herself.

That was it. That was the spark. Noticing Nova’s silence, Harper spoke up.

“Thankyou, Knox. We’ll be in touch” Knox just nodded, walking towards the door. After the echoing bang of the door, Nova blinked, stunned, then nodded slowly. Her chest felt tight — in that good, electrifying way. Like Knox had just plugged into something inside her she hadn’t realized was waiting to be sparked. “Okay,” she whispered, almost to herself. Harper caught her eye and winked. “See? Told you the perfect weirdos are the ones to watch.”

___

AN: This is the first crack at a story I've come up with, please feel free to leave feedback and such!

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So this is a little something I’m working on. I’m used to creating art, not stories, I thought I’d jump into something that I’ve not ever thought about doing, writing. Nova’s proper introduction to come soon!

“Subject: Welcome to Radiant Records! Let’s Build Something Epic!

Hey Nova,

Congrats — we’ve been vibing hard with your solo stuff, and we want you on board with Radiant Records! Your sound? Totally electric. Your energy? Next-level.

Here’s the deal: We want to help you build a band that can match that fire. Think: a crew that’s as tight and dynamic as your music — people you click with, who bring their own flavor but share your vision.

We know assembling the right band can be tricky, but don’t sweat it. We’ll back you every step of the way — from auditions to studio sessions. This is about creating something fresh, authentic, and loud enough to shake the scene.

Ready to make some noise together? Hit us back, and let’s get this show started.

Catch you soon,

Casey Flinn

A&R Coordinator, Radiant Records.”

Nova blinked and read the email again. What? This was wild. She must be still drunk from her pity party with Jamie, after convincing herself that no labels would ever sign her and she would be forever stuck as the struggling artist. Before she could spiral into doubt, her phone started loudly blaring the ringtone she’d assigned to Harper.

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"Hi, my name is Tairn. This is my scary wife, Sgaeyl, my idiot daughter, Andarna, and my other idiot daughter, Violet."

–Tairn for the entirety of Iron Flame, probably

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i love animals where your first impression is "oh this is a PUPPY!" and then it opens its mouth and you realize you're looking at a living weapon that, if domesticated, would commit war crimes. repeatedly.

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“what are you doing” how the fuck should i know?

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I hope you find someone who always be there for you even when you lost yourself.

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“She says, ‘See? Don’t you feel better?’ And she does not know that I tried to drown myself accidentally on purpose for the second time today.”

—

RJ Walker, “My Mother Explains My Depression to Me”

Performing at Button Poetry Live, June 2018. Become a member! Support Button Poetry.

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