3, 2, 1....Soundoff.
WHO: Emiliana and John Paul Key
WHEN: Thursday afternoon
WHERE: A cute little mom and pop cafe in the center of town
WHAT: "Now let me peer into your soul..."
RATING: A for Anything goes
Dented, dingy and two decades too old. That was the recorder John wished he had to supplement the sleek little thing clipped to the inside of his garishly patterned shirt pocket. A part of him just wanted the challenge of working with older equipment. The rest...honestly just needed a reason to gripe his frustrations away. Leave it to that Ashfield intern to turn the shipping of props from overseas into an absolute disaster. One morning, the day is fine, fine, fine- barring an incident with mum's mailed in Herald- and the next, phone calls endlessly ringing in. His ears still buzzed with the sound of 'White paper, brown paper, stick it together with the tape, the tape of love...' and if his cell, damn the thing, tried appealing to him one more bloody time-
John Paul readjusted his posture, curving his ramrod straight spine to fit the delicate shape of the chair, letting his legs stretch rather than bend ninety degree angles at the knees.
Fanfare started up from another pocket 'white paper, brown-' and John snagged the thing, angrily jabbing keys until it silenced. He'd warned Vinny about calling during interviews but on the off chance the man made a breakthrough with permission to shoot in an off-limits to the public domain...
The phone stayed on.
Now, if he'd sent that email to the right individual, she should have been arriving soon. Very soon. Hopefully.
Dimly came the curiosity if she was the sort to enjoy tea or coffee.
WHEN: Thursday afternoon
WHERE: A cute little mom and pop cafe in the center of town
WHAT: "Now let me peer into your soul..."
RATING: A for Anything goes
Dented, dingy and two decades too old. That was the recorder John wished he had to supplement the sleek little thing clipped to the inside of his garishly patterned shirt pocket. A part of him just wanted the challenge of working with older equipment. The rest...honestly just needed a reason to gripe his frustrations away. Leave it to that Ashfield intern to turn the shipping of props from overseas into an absolute disaster. One morning, the day is fine, fine, fine- barring an incident with mum's mailed in Herald- and the next, phone calls endlessly ringing in. His ears still buzzed with the sound of 'White paper, brown paper, stick it together with the tape, the tape of love...' and if his cell, damn the thing, tried appealing to him one more bloody time-
John Paul readjusted his posture, curving his ramrod straight spine to fit the delicate shape of the chair, letting his legs stretch rather than bend ninety degree angles at the knees.
Fanfare started up from another pocket 'white paper, brown-' and John snagged the thing, angrily jabbing keys until it silenced. He'd warned Vinny about calling during interviews but on the off chance the man made a breakthrough with permission to shoot in an off-limits to the public domain...
The phone stayed on.
Now, if he'd sent that email to the right individual, she should have been arriving soon. Very soon. Hopefully.
Dimly came the curiosity if she was the sort to enjoy tea or coffee.