Narrators needed for readings of short stories (Varied)
Project Overview
Welcome! Over the past year, I have been writing several flash-fiction short stories ranging in genre and tone. I am in need of some lovely voice actors and actresses to perform my short stories for use on my YouTube channel (DARKTREEAUDIO). The roles are wide and varied, so audition and have a go, there's something here for everyone. Will be providing links to all the stories (PDFs on Dropbox) within each of the roles below.
Cheers - Matt.
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The problem was staring him right in his mud-washed rural face. The greatest thing to happen to him or his small country village, and he couldn’t share it, with anyone.
Buk was a man of simple thinking, most would ask questions in a moment like this, Buk had one, what next? He recognised it as something ‘not-everyday’, although he couldn’t be sure if it had been designed or not. He knew that neither he nor anyone he knew had made it. But was this a case of pareidolia or had nature really, intentionally, produced THAT WORD? Buk lacked the words to describe it and wondered if anyone possessed the words to truly describe THE WORD on the wall.
Careful to not burn down his cottage, Buk placed small dabs of gasoline across the canvas of the wall, struck the match, and watched in terrored amazement as the fire consumed. It burned all night. He reflected back to the fire, to the wall, to the events that followed. Had he made the right choice? He remembered the wall, THE WORD, the fear. Fire was the only sensible option. It was primal, a panicked response. Buk was a man of simple thinking.
The family of a former police officer, are demanding that charges be filed against the Sun. This comes after speculation that the Sun may have been involved in the former police officer’s death, early Tuesday morning.
According to reports, the Sun has been uncooperative with the investigation and as a result, the Ghastefield Constabulary have classified the Sun as ‘At Large’ and ‘Extremely Dangerous’ with advice to not approach nor even look in the direction of the Sun, if spotted.
Cellphone-footage has now surfaced online of several local Ghastefield officers attempting to apprehend the Sun for questioning, earlier last night. They are shown to be running towards the horizon, but failing to catch up with the fleeing, setting sun.
Amethyst. It had started out as a joke, something stupid to be discarded. An idea birthed from nights of excess drink and deficient thought. It should had stayed a bad piece of wordplay. The joke had been along the lines of a shower-thought, something about the potentiality of snorting crystals the same way you’d snort crystal meth, if crushed down into fine powder.
In the multimedia player of his mind, Rohan played the scenario out uncompressed and unfiltered: mortar and pestle - a single amethyst crystal - eminence quartz ground against pestle and polished bowl - shades of scarlet and azure mix and blend over a lengthy timelapse - excruciatingly manual - broken down fine – lined straight with razor-blades – rolled up twenties – polymer over paper.
Prepped, all had gone as intended. Rohan completed his first and only line of amethyst. 8.5cm long by 0.3cm wide. Deep inhale – Irritated cartilage – coughing fit. He’d lined up some tourmaline, kunzite and rose quartz to try, should the kick…lack. They wouldn’t see use. Rohan, laid back on his couch, eyes lids heavy, tongue dry. He necked the remainder of his Coors light and stared off to the ceiling waiting for the rush.
Podcaster Pepper Fields stood before the loud and odd-looking crowd of protestors. Mic-in-hand, she pressed REC on her field-recorder, put on her most personable smile and said the words that would become her podcast’s next episode, “Who’s first?”
“WE SPEAK FOR THE HALLS, HALLS WE HEAR YOU!” said 212-FP. Without missing-a-beat Pepper raised the mic to mouth-level. “VOBAH! Voices Of Buildings and Houses. We represent THEM”. 212- FP gave off the air of self-righteousness, but that could’ve been the deodorant.
“VOBAH demand the film-industry stop using hallways as settings for fight scenes. For too-long they’ve been represented only as places to fight. No longer!” This felt rehearsed. “They want better representation, maybe some romance scenes, between two hallways perhaps. Skies the limit. VOBAH!”.
Haven’t slept. Can’t. Not yet. She’s gone. Her fault. Hate that I’m blaming myself. A daughter is dead, and her mother sits alone in her room, eyes as dry as deserts. There’s something wrong here.
Should be a mess, it’s expected, expected of most mothers. Most mothers didn’t have Elissa. Their daughters loved them, wanted them, chose them over their fathers. Elissa wasn’t like those daughters; she chose Hopper. She put her love into something as pointless as a stuffed hare. Gave it more hugs than I ever got. More kisses. It could never love her back.
A little ritual. A let go. A release. Cleanse myself of this shitty parent guilt. Cleanse myself of the reminders, of Hopper. It won’t completely satisfy, nothing will. She isn’t coming back.
It is here, in the small countryside village of Gholston, where we find the strangest of what Infectious Britannia has to offer: Lingua Relinquens, the ‘Leaving Tongue’.
As we observe the members of Gholston, one cannot help but call attention to one member of the community: thirty-five-year-old local job-seeker Remy Johntey-Morgan.
Remy has chosen to participate in, that is to be willingly infected, with Lingua Relinquens - oral infection and mysterious and ancient custom. One might wonder why someone would subject themselves to illness? In Gholston, to suffer from Lingua Relinquens is to avoid more extreme forms of behavioural correction. An alternative punishment, given to those seeking re-acceptance by the community.
Sierra looked upon the leaves and wept. Aged and autumnal, brittle to the touch, they lay spread across the root of a tree. A shallow and wildly-carved line tipped-with-an-arrow pointed down to them. She knew what the leaves had said were true.
She remembered being in the forest, but not for how long. Spring ’97. The forest lush with shadesof-green, yet there were autumnal leaves. “THE TREES, THEY LIE” read one of the brittle leaves as she bent down to inspect them, the warning scratched haphazardly into one-side by a fingernail or other sharp object. “THEY WON’T LET YOU LEAVE”, “DON’T TRUST YOUR EYES” “THIS IS HOW THEY FEED”. Who had authored these warnings?
Where were they? Where was she? She still couldn’t recall how long she’d been there. Sierra felt the rising of paranoia within. What did it mean that they wouldn’t let her leave? Was the forest watching? She remembered how she felt its pulse beneath her feet, smelt its earthy scents. No sound, only a suffocating silence. Her watch read; 11PM; The sun remained fixed-in-place high above her. A sharp wind from all directions pinned Sierra in-place. Too cold for the current season. There was no warmth from the daylight. “THEY CAN CHANGE THE LIGHT.” She took in the panorama around her. The trees repeated, endlessly. An infinity mirror of wood and daylight. “THIS IS HOW THEY FEED” what did this mean?
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