VOICE DRAFT ONE

My voice wears ripped jeans and dark colored shirts. My voice is a young person, maybe in their late teens or twenties. They always have a spark in their eyes no matter what. My voice is a fantastical and geeky person. My voice likes to skip and walk, not particularly running, unless they absolutely have to, and maybe not even then. They like to keep talking about everything in detail, to the point where someone would be uncomfortable with all the unnecessary information. My voice gets off topic in conversations but somehow ends up back to the original topic. My voice likes old cars but prefers to drive the newer models. They are very much not conservative when discussing politics and may not seem to know what they’re talking about but in reality know much. My voice tries to be the funny one but ends up being everything else except that, whether it’s creepy, weird, or awkward. My voice is the kind of person to silently add input in someone else’s conversation and accidentally end up saying it out loud, making it awkward for them and the other people. They also are over-dramatic and can be a drama queen at times and then gets upset when you end up being dramatic back. My voice is normally a care-free, laid-back person but can get really serious very quickly.

Voice Exercise 5

She took a walk in the park. She walked alone as she no longer had anyone to walk with her. The woman, as she kept along the path, hits the ground beneath as her legs give out from her. She is humiliated as if it wasn't bad enough already to be alone in the world. Everything is bad for her at the moment, that is, until a man nearby catches her eye with his smile.

Voice Exercise 4

She shouldn't have walked alone in that park. She tries to continue as she normally would but amidst her time alone, she trips. She hits the ground and she hastily checks to see what's around her, hoping that nothing out there would hurt in this state. Her focus centers on a figure. It's a man.
   And he's smiling at her.

Voice Excersise 3

Well, gee, if it weren't for that nasty foot cramping her style. She was so dandy on that walkway in the park. If only she had someone with a shoulder she can use to prevent her dastardly stumble. The whole dang world rises up to greet her as she trips. To make matters worse, there was this man who did not offer her his shoulder; he only smiled at her. Jerk.

Voice Excersise 2

One ordinary day, a woman walks solo in a park. Everything went as it normally would until her feet betrays her and sends her nearly hitting the path below. Looking around, face red, eyes darting through the scenery around her, she sees something, or rather, someone, that catches her attention. It's a man some distance away from her, he smiles at her, which doesn't help the situation.

Voice Exercise 1

The woman talks a gentle stroll through the park. She walks alone down the path. All is well. All is calm. Her footing fails her as she walks in the park. Arms thrust out before her, she trips, nearly falling on the path. Face flushed, she looks around her to see if anyone saw her. A man is smiling at her.

Script work

(It’s Sundown at the office, and Detective Quinn analyzes clues about a recurring murder in Austin, Texas. Detective Quinn is staying late to work on the case. )

(Quinn sits at his desk, rummaging through papers, running his hands through his hair. Quinn finds pictures of the arms that have been found throughout the city and upon further analysis discovers something new.)

QUINN: Wait...That's… That's a tattoo.  

QUINN: That wasn't in the file.

(Quinn calls his partner, Emily Almond)

QUINN: Emily? (inquisitively)

EMILY: What, Quinn. (irritated)

QUINN: Did you mean, “Hi Quinn, you sound like you've found something, is there something I can help you with since i'm your partner of three years and we’re practically siblings?

EMILY: (clearing her throat) Hello Quinn, you sound like you've found something-

QUINN: Anyway, It turns out one of the arms that was found on South Congress has a tattoo that matches one of our two prime suspects, Dante Antiman.

EMILY: Are you serious?

QUINN: No, Emily, why would I be serious? It's not like we've just had a major breakthrough on this case or anything like that.

EMILY: Quinn?

QUINN: Yah?

EMILY:Shutup.

QUINN: Anyway… I suspect that our prime suspects must have either been working together or, Mr. Dante Inferno over here got caught up with some knowledge that our killer didn't want him to know, and here he is, well here his arm is, in our squeaky clean morgue-

EMILY: Quinn...If this arm truly came through our morgue, do you really think that we wouldn't notice a tattoo?

QUINN: Wait...Emily, how many arms do we have?

EMILY: Well you've got your scapula attaching the one on your left, and then you've got on your right as well.. and-

QUINN: Emily! Im serious, how many do we have?

EMILY: They’ve found 13 so far..

QUINN: This is the 14th.

EMILY: Quinn?…

(Phone clicks)

QUINN: Emily?...Emily!

(Quinn sets his phone down looking somewhere in between concern and panic, he leans back in his chair and anxiously runs his hands through his hair,covering his face. a message pops up on his computer screen. It's an email that Quinn anxiously reads aloud.)

QUINN: To whom it may concern, I kid. I know it’s you, Detective Quinn. Emily Almond is safe with me. For now at least. If you dare tell your fellow officers about this email, She dies. Don’t worry about finding us. You’re the detective here. Good luck.

(Quinn grabs his hair, stressed at the whole situation. Shaking, he rereads the email from the Killer on his computer, searching for something that could give him clues about their location. With a eureka moment, Quinn rapidly types into the computer and traces the email.)

QUINN: Gotcha!

(Quinn prints out search results and runs offstage.)

(Quinn barges into the room where the Killer holds Emily in a choke-hold. Both the Killer and Quinn draw their guns.)

KILLER: So you got my message. How wonderful. (Killer tightens grasp on Emily.)

QUINN: *growling* Let her go. ( Quinn adjusts grip on the gun.)

EMILY ALMOND: Are you serious? Of all the things you could possibly say, you say that.

QUINN: Hey, i’m trying to rescue you. At least be grateful i’m here.

EMILY ALMOND: please don’t mess this up.

QUINN: I’ve been trained for emergency hostage situations. i’m very well qualified. (to KILLER) I’d let her go or else this bullet goes through your thick, monstrous head.

KILLER: *smirking* No need to be rash. How about this? We are both well-respected civilized men. Hear me out.

QUINN: I know one of us is civilized.

KILLER: Whoa whoa whoa. let’s take the salt down a notch. I may be a killer but i’m not a savage.

QUINN: You leave severed arms on the street.

KILLER: Yeah but have you found a body yet?

QUINN: Well, we saw some bodies in a barber shop above a restaurant but that’s none of my business.

KILLER: (seriously)how did you find out so quickly?

QUINN:That’s not the point though i will lead a thorough investigation about that later with my partner Emily Almond, safe and sound and by my side.

KILLER: Which is why you’ll find my offer pleasing. If you shoot your beloved Emily Almond, I swear  I won’t murder again. If you attempt to shoot me, I’ll shoot her. How’s that sound, Detective? One life for the survival of countless others.

QUINN: did you not listen to what i said?

KILLER: Sorry, that made sense in my head, but that was before you decided to bring up Sweeney Todd.

KILLER: Anyway, what do you say detective? i’m a man of my word

QUINN: How about you give me Emily whatsherface and you stop murdering people and then I could take us all out for pizza afterwards?

KILLER:But even if i do have some pizza, i’ll still murder. And besides, that takes the fun out of this little game we’re playing.

QUINN: ah man. i hate games.

KILLER: How did you get from being a cop to a detective? No, scratch that, how did you make it past the first grade?

EMILY: He does have a point.

QUINN: EMILY! I DONT DO WELL UNDER PRESSURE OKAY, IM TRYING HERE!

KILLER: let’s make this easier on both of us and shoot her. Last one to put a bullet in her head has to pay for the pizza!

QUINN: (*looks distraught*shifts glances between EMILY ALMOND and the KILLER**has an angry look on his face)

(QUINN and the KILLER both pull their triggers at the same time.)

(Emily Almond collapses in KILLER’s grasp.)

Dramatic Dialogue- re-edited

“What do you mean ‘this doesn’t work’?

This painting is fine the way it is,”

Said the young artist, arms crossed and perplexed

To her professor domineering and stern.

“Fine? No, darling. I think not.”

He scanned the canvas, colored and brushed

With eyes that scoffed each little stroke.

“This painting’s a mess.

So childish, immature.

No, darling. This simply won’t do.”

He spat as he marked

Her final score with an ‘F’,

Boring holes in her artwork and into her worth.

“I disagree. With all due respect,

I have to tell you you’re wrong.

Spending countless hours and many nights

Getting the contrast, the shades,

The strokes, the tone

The way I see fit.

This painting’s full of effort

No matter what you say.”

She stood next to her work,

Eyes afire, mouth drawn to a line.

He tsk-tsk’ed and shook his defined face.

Standing over her as a statue in a park.

He patted her back and told her this:

“I’m not telling you that it’s so bad.

I’m simply stating the facts. It’s not good.

I’ve seen scores and scores of awesome works

And you’ll get there one of these days. I hope.

But right now, you paint like a child

Not so great. Understand?”

His smile full of pity, his eyes like a victor’s,

He tried to make her see his way

Since his way is the best way.

Still she disagreed. She knew she was right.

Arms by her side, she looked him in his eyes.

“My work is not childish. It’s so mature.

This represents heartbreak and that shows hope.

These strokes show emotional turmoil and rest.

Those colors bring out the depth of this feeling.

Don’t tell me this painting is immature.

It may not be the way you’d paint it, but still,

It’s the way I paint and I like it a lot.”

She spun a paintbrush in her stained grasp.

Delicate at first, but now tense.

Her once ‘messy’ bun was now truly messy

As time drew long and hard

During the night since she

Touched up what need to be fixed swiftly.

The painting, she gazed as a mother would her baby

And the paintbrush she grasped to hold her tongue.

“Be professional but don’t back down,”

She told herself.

He tapped his foot. Impatient was he

With this whole situation. Why must

She be so difficult to deal with?

The others aren’t like this. He

Guessed it was because the others

Were more mature like their art.

“Listen, ma’am. I understand.

I used to be an amateur, too.

But soon, I developed a more

Grown-up style. Please grasp the fact

This painting needs improvement.

You’re in college. Please act like an adult.”

Her knuckles turned white

As she squeezed the brush.

She feigned a smile and

With a firm grasp shook his manicured hand.

Letting go, she removed her work

From the easel with pain.

He smiled like a cat

That ate the canary, and

He watched as she left the classroom.

Before she was gone entirely

She turned around told him this:

“We might paint differently.

We might see the theme in a different light.

But this painting is not worthless.

It’s just as good as the others.

Mark my words.”

With that, she left and closed the door.

He knew he won that whole dispute.

He saw yellow. She saw green.

They did not see all eye to eye.

Artists they were nonetheless

But her painting they just could not agree.