Hi! My name is Tom and I'm a University Film Student. I'm currently looking for narrators for a personal project, currently titles "Small Lives."
While you are the narrator (not the character) I would really like you to be a sympathetic voice. Not overly cooing or syrupy, but definitely on the wife's side.
“Busy day?”
She half smiles in response, so tired that she can barely force her face into any state other than neutral. Her silk nightgown shimmers purple in the soft glow of the bedside lamp and she floats to her side of the bed and melts into the duvet, curling up in it’s warm embrace. At the end of a long day there is nowhere she would rather be, nestled in a cotton-polyester womb as her eyes begin to close.
“Do you think it’s too late for us to have kids?”
A beat. She wants to recoil, vomit and flee. Her eyes dart open and she stares at the far wall, unable to look at her husband. The question that she has so dreaded for years; finally freed from the darkest recesses of her soul. It begins oozing out of the darkness of the room, demanding to be heard. She stares into it, horrified, and attempts to kill it with an answer.
“It is for me”
As before, be on Sarah's side. But it's up to you what tone you want to take. Make it funny, make it serious, make it sad, whatever you think fits best.
Sarah put her head into her hands and sobbed. Not a loud, attention-grabbing bawl or snotty, vocal crying. No. Crying was just that thing you do when an “oh fuck” just won’t cut it. In fact, if Sarah had ever been ask to describe what crying was, she may well have said “A wet ‘oh fuck’” but then become embarrassed about how strange that sounded, blushed and gone home to do some of the crying she had been asked to describe. She was used to crying. But in her entire 23 years, this was almost certainly the first time she had ever sobbed. She sobbed the kind of quiet, deep, gulping sob that only the truly wounded can. And she didn’t even really understand why...
Sanford is in his office, alone and drunk. This section describes his attempt to stand. Again, hit whatever tone you feel is best! Is it funny or sad? Up to you!
He made his first step. The door was miles away, at the end of an endless trek across a bitter wasteland of carpet and copy machines. He avoided mountains of unsorted papers and deep trenches of used toner bars as he fought with gravity to reach the lift. ‘Out of order.’
“Well thas’ jus’ fuckin’ perfect” he garbled to nobody as he tottered carefully down the single flight of stairs towards the exit, holding onto the handrail as the world did somersaults.
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