The Boy Who Couldnt Fly ZD3030803
This book is about a teen boy who is realizes that he is gay and discovering that he is also a witch! He must face internal challenges and external ones from other evil witches. Need a voice that has the following qualities: Voice sounds age between early and late twenties. Can offer a range of inflections. Would like a mid-range pitch voice to higher vs low and deep. Should be warm and friendly. There are more books planned for this series.
2017-06-26 19:11:39 GMT
2017-08-11 12:00:00 (GMT -08:00) Pacific Time (US & Canada)
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Closed13120 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 100 auditions and/or proposals for this project (approx.) Invitations sent by SmartCast have resulted in 12 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
The Voice Actor should be located in:
To be defined
English - USA and Canada
Young Adult Male
• Audio files must be delivered via FTP/Dropbox/Google Drive/cloud
• Deliver edited and finished voice tracks
The voice seeker is willing to hire either union or non-union talents for this project
SIERRA NEVADA FOOTHILLS, LATE AUGUST — Charlie Creevey sat in the back seat of Mrs. McMeniman’s minivan as she drove along the state road toward his house. His friend, Mike McMeniman, sat next to him. Mike was trying to get his mom to change the music. “But, Mikey! I love this song. It’s so hip-hoppy. I thought you did too!” “Yeah, Mom, but not every single day on the way home from school! Plus it’s embarrassing. Moms aren’t supposed to like what their kids listen to. And don’t say ‘hip-hoppy.’” “Whaddya think, Charlie? Should I change it or leave it?” Charlie looked up at Mrs. McMeniman’s face in the rearview mirror. He knew she didn’t expect an answer. It was just her way of trying to include him in conversation. For nearly four years now, she and his own mother had been trading off driving the boys to and from school. Charlie was well aware of the fact that Mike’s mom had long given up expecting him to be social. He smiled back at her and shrugged his shoulders. “Charlie, do you know how easy you are? You know how to compromise, something that your friend Michael over there doesn’t. That, combined with your blond curls and your hazel eyes, wowee! You’ll make some girl very happy one day.” Charlie ducked his head and pretended to look out the window at the passing scenery, wishing he could hide the deep red burn, probably bordering on nuclear, that was invading his cheeks as his shyness spread over him. Not soon enough, the minivan pulled off the county road and stopped at the head of the lane leading to Charlie’s house. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you to the front door?” Mrs. McMeniman asked. It was the same question every time. “Mom,” said Mike, answering for Charlie, “why do you always have to ask him that? You know he likes to walk.” “Thanks for the ride!” Charlie yelled over his shoulder as he slid open the minivan door and stepped onto the dirt. The cool air from inside the van disappeared as he was hit with the intensity of the late afternoon heat. “Dude, can I call you if I get stuck on geometry?” Mike asked through his open window. “Yeah. Give me a call,” he said, already having slid the car door closed, already walking down the long lane. He heard the tires spin in the gravel behind him, then the heavy base of the car stereo fading away. And then, nothing. Or at least, no one’s voices. He could hear the dry-paper squeak of the afternoon cicadas, the rustle of brown grasses as a welcome breeze blew across the fruit orchards that sat between the road and his house. Faraway birdsong followed the breeze. Charlie liked it when it was quiet, when there was no one around. He wasn’t put on the spot to have an opinion; he wasn’t expected to do or say anything specifically. And most importantly, he did not have to suffer his shyness and blushing in the presence of anyone else. He looked around at the trees, full of apples and pears needing picking, at the brown hills rolling off in the distance, at the hot sky without a single cloud marring its wide stretch of blue. This is my home, he thought. This is where I live. This thought was followed by his own admonishment: Well, no, duh, Sherlock, where else would you live? And so, a familiar battle began in his head, the one where he chastised himself for his thoughts, his actions, his lack of thoughts and lack of actions, and all he could do was sigh and walk down the long lane, flanked by black walnut trees, to his house.
Please note that you should only use the script or your recording of it for auditioning purposes. The script is property, unless otherwise specified, of the voice seeker and it is protected by international copyright laws.
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