Search
Hunt for a weird request worth doing. Keyword, category, price, or how soon it ends. Your call.
Showing 24 on page 2.
She told me, once, drunk, that she wrote it. She said she hid it in "one of the books". She has 2,400 books. I'm in her house this month, alone, settling the estate. I need a partner. Two days, methodical, every spine, every dust jacket. Photograph it if you find it. Do not read it.
They're on a 10-day cruise and I have a key. I supply prints of one generic smiling stock-photo guy. Swap every framed photo, document each one, put the originals back exactly where they were on my go-signal. NYC area. No damage, frames untouched, dust patterns considered. The longer it takes them to notice, the better.
I'll send the backstory. Warm. Vague. Deeply uncomfortable for two specific people in the room. Bring a wrapped gift (a slim book of poetry, I'll provide it). Stay twenty-three minutes. Leave when my mother makes eye contact. Don't come back. Don't accept her follow-up call.
The address is the woman my husband had an affair with eleven years ago. The envelope is empty — she'll understand. The rose is for closure. Mine, not hers. Buzz, hand it to her, walk away. Don't speak. Don't come back. Photograph the building from across the street after.
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.
I'll send the script, the address, the dress code. Two hours. Hold my hand the whole time. Be radiant. Be brief with strangers. We will both, by the end of the night, wonder why we never tried this for real. Don't say that out loud. Leave when I say "should we go?" — not before.
Your dress (thrift it, I'll cover), your roses (I'll ship them dead), your camera person (a friend, or set up a tripod). Four minutes of horizontal footage minimum. Don't smile. Don't talk to anyone who approaches. Don't break. Deliver one edited 60-second cut plus all the raw.
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.
I'll send the timeline, the screenshots, the receipts. You record from a parked car at night, into a phone, like a podcaster at the end of a long week. No music. No edits. You sound exhausted by my marriage by the end. So am I. Deliver one MP3.
I'll wear the dress. I bring the speaker. The song is mine. You're a stranger, I'm a 38-year-old finally going to my own prom. Phone footage, one continuous take, four minutes twenty-two seconds. We both go home alone after. That's the whole point. Don't make small talk.
He told someone, once, that it was "on the corner with the green light." That's the only clue I have. Probably five bars in central Edinburgh qualify. Visit each. Photograph each. Send me a ranked write-up of which one feels most like a place a man takes someone he shouldn't. I'll know when I see it.
I painted my mother. I needed rent. I want her back. The gallery still has her, I checked. Owner is named Maxwell, he's in the West Village. He will absolutely overcharge you. Pay it. Cab her home wrapped. I'll cover the buyback up to $3,800 plus your fee. Don't let him talk you out of it.
Don't name the hotel. Don't say what you found. Polite, slightly bored, like you've made a hundred of these calls this month. There was no hotel. Or there was — she just wants to see if he asks which one. Five minutes. Record his voice. Send the MP3.
She talks about him sometimes. Architect, lived in Lisbon, broke up with her in 2009. I know enough. Write the letter as him, twelve years later, postmarked from Lisbon. We mail it to her on her August birthday. She'll never know it wasn't him. Or she'll know exactly. Either way, I need to see her face.
He always said his mother sang Moon River a particular way. She's been gone twelve years. I'll pay you to learn it from the two recordings he played me, once, in 2014. Then I want a clean MP3. Don't ask why. Sing it like she did.
Old radiators. Indian food from downstairs. Leather couch with the rip. Cheap red wine. His cologne — I have the brand. Custom blend, 30mL spray bottle, one chance. I'll know on the first sniff. Ship it discreetly in a plain box. No branding. No notes. Just the bottle.
White background, black text. Big. Centered. Each refresh: same name, different font. Forty-seven fonts in the pool, weighted equally, no repeats until the pool is exhausted. No header. No analytics. No favicon. Just his name. I buy the domain. You ship the code.
I cover the meals and the casting. Different age, different style, every time. Don't speak to them. Don't acknowledge them. Just be a person they keep noticing at the corner table. Six weeks. They will absolutely lose their minds trying to find the pattern. There is no pattern. That's the pattern.
About 600 words. Tender, honest, mourning what's already gone without burying what's still here. I'll send the basics. He doesn't know I'm doing this. I might read it to him. I might not. I might just keep it in a drawer for the rest of my life.
You decide which ones. One dress per shot. No makeup, no captions, no music. Just you in front of a mirror with each one, somewhere between 6 and 12 dresses, 8-second clips each. Cut together into one continuous video. I'm making a series. You'll get a credit if I show it.
Everyone's in on it except my aunt, who swears she remembers "cousin Dave". Show up, commit to a vague but warm backstory we'll script together, eat a burger, dodge specifics. Two hours, no money changes hands at the event, harmless fun. Stay in character. She will absolutely tell you about your "shared childhood".
Your filters live in the URL. Copy it, share it, bookmark it.
fr