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Real requests from real people who’d rather pay than do it themselves. Pseudonyms only. Pick one and take their money.
Nothing here quite fits?
He says his year abroad was uneventful. My mom doesn't believe him. I don't either. Call as Hélène, soft voice, leave a voicemail in slow English with a real French accent: "Marc, I still have the photograph." That's the whole line. He's a good sport. He'll laugh eventually. Eventually.
The sentence is: "Just tell him Lauren called." Then hang up before they can ask which Lauren — he's had three. Pick whichever Lauren you sound like. I want to hear which one he calls back first. Don't record. I'll text you the office number Monday morning.
I'll send a high-res scan. Clean up the linework for stick-and-poke, size it for my inner forearm, but keep absolutely his handwriting. The note is six words. I get it next month. Vector + PNG. No fonts. Just his hand. Don't add anything to it. Anything.
I'll send the text. Sixty-four words. Read it the way it should have been said, sitting across a table, on a Sunday morning. No theatrics. No music. Just the truth, slow. MP3, ~90 seconds. I want to hear what closure would have sounded like.
Lipstick. Earrings. The dress. The perfume. Then sit on the edge of the bed and make the call. One continuous take, vertical MP4, four minutes minimum, sound on. We never hear who's on the other end. We watch your face change. You hang up. You take the lipstick off. End on black.
It's a Polaroid of an empty chair in a restaurant he used to take someone to. The restaurant closed in 2019. I have 52 identical prints. Mail them from 52 different cities — your friends, family, conferences, whatever it takes. By April he'll be asking around. By August he won't anymore. By December he'll be a different man.
Sixty minutes, audio only. I'm in a relationship and I'm pretending it's fine. You're a stranger with no skin in the game. Tell me, gently, all the things my friends won't say. Be a mirror. Be merciless. I'll be in a parked car. Don't let me change the subject.
About 1,400 words. He cheated once, in 2017. We recovered. I want it written. Out loud. In front of everyone we love. I'll give you the facts. You give me the speech. He'll thank me one day. Probably. Plain text doc. I read it in August.
My father died in 2008. She's seeing someone new. The vows are hers, word for word — I'll send a scan. Read them to camera, looking straight down the lens, replacing my father's name with his. We're screening it at her surprise engagement dinner. Horizontal MP4, no music, ~3 minutes.
Sit with this one. I'm thirty-four. Don't be cute. Don't quote anyone famous. Tell me what I'll regret. Write it like you've already lived it. Plain text doc. I'll read it tonight at 11pm in the dark and we'll see what happens.
I have his voice on old camcorder tapes. I have the speech written. I need a stranger to read it in his cadence. We're playing it during the father-daughter dance. Only my sister will know it's not him. Take this one seriously. Two takes, MP3, no music.
Forty-seven, because that's how many days he's been gone. Close-up, soft light, the dead-eyed look of a person who is done explaining themselves. Pace yourself — this should take three minutes minimum, not one. Vertical MP4. Don't ask why. Don't film this drunk.
Warm voice. Vague. Mention the photographs. Don't elaborate when she asks. The trip was real (Croatia, 2017). The photographs are not. Five minutes max. Be a Pisces — she'll know one when she hears one. Record the audio. She'll bring it up at Christmas. We'll see what he says.
She married my father at nineteen. She wanted to be a painter. I'll send three photographs of her at twenty-two, before. I want an oil portrait of who she was about to become. We hang it in the room I'm renovating for her this fall. Sign the back. Ship insured.
The word is "almost". From a withheld number, 11:47pm exactly, every Thursday for four weeks. He'll know who. He always knew. Don't say anything else. Don't breathe heavy. Just the word. Then the line goes dead. Four calls total. I'll pay all four up front.
I'll send the original photograph. Oil on canvas, A3, signed on the back. Same composition, same shadows, same expression on my face. Just no groom. Ship insured to a P.O. box I'll provide. He won't see it for two years. Then he will.
She kept one letter from 1972, before my father. Smoker's voice, mid-Atlantic accent, no rushing. I'll send the scan plus three voice references from old films. MP3, ~4 minutes. She turns 80 in October. This goes on a thumb drive in the card. Don't mess this up.
Vintage 1982, size 6, ivory. I ship it; you ship it back. Any field, any walking pace. One take, horizontal MP4, 90 seconds. No words, no smile, no looking at the camera. She turns 70 in October. She doesn't know we're doing this.
Twelve years married. He sleeps with his phone face-down. Call from a withheld number, ask for him by his middle name (which only one person ever used), say "we said next Tuesday" and hang up. He spends the night quietly losing his mind. We are fine. He knows we're fine. He just doesn't know about this. Yet.
I'll tell you the thing. Two pages, her cadence (I'll send three of her old letters as reference), longhand only. Photograph each page. Mail to me. I'm going to read it once and then I'll be done. She's been dead nine years and I'm done waiting.
Any slow song. Phone propped on the counter. One continuous take, no edits, three full minutes. Bare feet, t-shirt to mid-thigh, nothing we shouldn't see. We're seeing a person remembering someone who isn't there. Vertical MP4. No music rights, no problem — sing it.
Each envelope contains a single Polaroid of my husband as a baby, lifted from her own album she gave me. She'll notice around week six. She'll bring it up to him around week fourteen. He'll never figure out it was me. Fifty-two envelopes, prepaid, planned. Worth every cent.
Reservation for one, 8pm Saturday, black tie. Three courses minimum. At dessert, you cry — visibly but quietly — for ninety seconds. Then pay the bill and leave. Send the receipt and one phone-shot from your table. I Venmo the meal plus the fee. Don't make the staff uncomfortable. Just have a moment.
Polite. Slightly bored. "Just confirming Mrs. Bell's standing weekly arrangement — the name on the card has changed this year, did you want the new name on file?" Don't supply the name. Wait for her to ask. She won't. There is no order. There is, definitely, a name. Five minutes, record the call.