We are only accepting auditions from Indigenous narrators for this particular role. All genders welcome. Please see our other roles below for general auditions.

This anthology features dark fiction, so we want to hear your ability to guide the listener's emotions--whether the appropriate emotion is dread, shock, horror, terror, or disgust.

Please audition with the following excerpt: 

I swallow. Right now, I’m not worried about the theft or the probable jail time or whatever could feasibly happen. Right now, I’m more worried that Chris is gonna set fire to the whole damn place. 

I’m in this now. There’s no way out. 

We trample down weeds and cattails, nearing the tent. It’s illuminated from the inside, lights flickering like it’s full of drunken fireflies.The number of vehicles parked nearby is scant and I wonder about attendance. But there’s a din of crowd noise, a booming microphone voice saying something like, “Ash-a-ramalama-rama-nikola-hendo” over and over in different variations. There are spouts of “Amens!” and “Yes!” There’s no music, just the faint silhouettes imprinted on the tented walls, writhing with fervor.

Chris’s pocket buzzes, he slides his phone out.

“SA.” the text reads. The SA stands for “straight ahead” as in, burst through those tent flaps and make a beeline straight for the offering chest. 

Chris looks over at me, slides his mask over his face. It’s a giant paper wasp nest, punched out holes for eyes, pits of blackness. Looks like a formed burlap bag. His hair is in a bun, so nobody can clock him by his braids.  

He hands me a mask, a dried gourd that’s been halved and painted. Rubber band straps keep it over my face.

Red’s on the inside with a booger mask of his own. A big fake brown beard. Thick rimmed glasses. Giant mole on his cheek. A Wal-Mart fedora. Satchel and suspenders. “Make sure your tattoos are covered,” we told him. 

Chris talks, his voice a muffled echo. “Remember, things go south, Red has the firepower in his satchel. Rendezvous at my place.”

I nod my booger gourd face.

We’re hunkered down behind a white pickup truck, dressed in masks and waiting to rob a church service. All we’ve gotta do now is wait for the fireworks.