Project Main Details
We are looking for someone who can record and edit or punch record in protools and upload the sessions to an ftp site.
These titles pay $50 per finished recorded hour delivered. I estimate the titles as being somewhere between 4-8 hours each depending on how many pages.
Here are the titles:
1) ******************* – 165 pgs – 1st person gay Male read – Locale England with multiple British characters.
2) ********* – 285 Pgs – 3rd person gay Male read – Locale Puget Sound – Ex FBI agent turned professor gets involved w/ undercover agent investigating multiple murders.
3) *********** – 310 pages – Period Piece/1880’s Congo – gay Male read- reimagining of Tarzan Legend – British Anthropologist main character.
4) ************** – 100 pages – gay Male read- 1st person British (Northern) – man tries to pick up after being dumped by his lover.
5) **************** – 80 pages – gay Male read – “Savage” Shape shifter growing up on streets of Charlotte SC is finally rescued from scientific experimentation finds… sanctuary.
6) ************ – 110 pages – Period/ England 1176- gay Male read – British and French characters in 3rd person – Knight wannabe goes to any length to protect his Lord.
If interested please choose one of the scripts attached and send in a 2-3 min audio clip for audition.
2010-08-12 09:59:55 GMT 2010-08-16 09:00:00 (GMT -05:00) Eastern Time (US & Canada) Yes (click here to learn more about ) Closed 0 0 0 direct invitation(s) have been sent by the voice seeker resulting in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far. Voice123 SmartCast is seeking 50 auditions and/or proposals for this project (approx.) Invitations sent by SmartCast have resulted in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
***Excerpt from *******************
– 165 pgs – 1st person gay Male read – Locale England with multiple British characters.
The sound of a man crying was the first shock. Deep, racking sobs echoing off the smooth walls of my showroom. The whole gallery was usually deserted and cool at this late hour, despite the urban truth that London never slept. Yet tonight something in the air resonated with tension. And huddled in the far corner was a slender, pale young man. Arms clenched around his drawn-up knees, his eyes hot and wet, staring at me through a fringe of bedraggled dark curls. He looked angry and scared, and for the first few seconds it was all directed at me.
Without thinking, I dropped my bag. I heard the thump as it hit the floor.
I’d never seen anyone who wasn’t a woman cry like this. The sound was strange, astonishingly loud and ugly, his breath rasping with each hiccup of anguish. His shoulders rose and fell awkwardly, the bones a shadowy silhouette under the thin fabric of his shirt, his knuckles white against the black fabric of his jeans.
How beautiful he still looked, how miserable yet how utterly fascinating. My thoughts disgusted me, yet at the same time I couldn’t deny them. As I stared back at him, the aggression in his eyes started to fade. Hope glinted there in its place.
Then I registered the blood on the floor around him. How the hell could I miss it? So much blood. It ran along the base of the far wall and pooled out over the floor, a shocking, plum-red stain on the pale wood. It was thick2 Blinded by Our Eyes and unnaturally still, an occasional patch of it glistening under the dimmed overhead lights. Coagulated; no longer flowing. I had no idea how long ago it’d been fresh. The residue puddled around his bare feet and under his legs and arse, then slithered along the edge of the wall again, diverting around the base of a display case.
I barely glanced at the case. It stood upright, but crooked as if broken, and the objects inside had been knocked over.
I just stared at the blood. Funny how these things strike you when you’re in shock; it was only after I noticed the mess that the smell hit me. Thick and putrid, seeping into my throat, daring me to gag. Why didn’t blood smell like this domestically? When I cut my hand, when I sliced meat? This was human blood in quantity, human life as it spilled. It had its own unique horror. Some of it had oozed between the young man’s toes—the dark crimson colour stark against the pale skin of his feet, a gruesome parody of piano keys. He sat like an island amongst a grisly sea, a pale shadow within the dark, viscous surround. When he put a hand out to the wall and started to ease himself up, I wanted to cry out, to tell him to stay still. I wanted to stop him spoiling the perfect, limpid surface around him, breaking the seal.
It was the shock made me think that way. Of course it was.
“Charles?” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been shouting. “God, I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.” He took a couple of shaky steps toward me. His shoes and socks lay in a discarded pile against the wall, soaked red with the blood. I couldn’t take my eyes off the print left by his foot, a dark smudge on the area of clean floor behind him.
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