Third-Person Fiction Sample
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) North American (General) North American (US Mid-Atlantic)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Chapter one Dudley demented. The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close, and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of private drive cars that were usually gleaming, stood dusty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing. The use of hose pipes have been banned due to drought deprived of their usual car washing and lawn mowing pursuits. The inhabitants of private drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a non existent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flower bed. Outside. Number four, he was a skinny, black haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his t shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. Harry potter's appearance did not endear him to the neighbors, who were the sort of people who thought scruffy nous ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea bush this evening, he was quite invisible to passersby. In fact, the only way he would be spotted was if his uncle vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living room window and looked straight down into the flowerbed below. On the whole, harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not, perhaps very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth, but on the other hand, nobody was glaring at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news or shooting nasty questions at him as happened every time, he had tried sitting down in the living room and watching television with his aunt and uncle, Almost as though this started fluttered through the open window. Vernon, Dursley, Harry's uncle suddenly spoke, glad to see the boys stopped trying to butt in. Where is he, anyway, I don't know, said Aunt Petunia, Unconcerned lee. Not in the house. Uncle vernon grunted, watching the news, he said scathingly. I'd like to know what he's really up to, as if a normal boy cares what's on the news dot. Really. Haven't got a clue what's going on dot. He knows who the Prime Minister is. Anyway, it's not as if there'd be anything about his lot on our news, vernon said Aunt Petunia, the windows open. Oh, yes, I'm sorry, dear. The dirt sleaze fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about fruit and brand breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs Figg, a batty cat loving old lady from nearby Wisteria walk amble! Slowly passed. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased that he was concealed behind the bush. Mrs Figg had recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever she met him in the street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before. Uncle vernon's voice floated out of the window again. Daughter's outfit E at the pocus is, said Aunt Petunia. Finally, he's got so many little friends. He's so popular, Harry repressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursley is really were astonishingly stupid about their son Dudley. They had swallowed all of his dimwitted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere. He and his gang spent every evening vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, and throwing stones at passing cars and Children. Harry had seen them added during his evening walks around little whinging. He had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way. The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o'clock news reached Harry's ears, and his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight after a month of waiting would be the night. Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill the airport, says the spanish baggage handlers strike reaches its second week. Give him a lifelong siesta. I would, snarled Uncle vernon over the end of the newsreaders sentence. But no matter. Outside in the flowerbed harry's stomach seemed to unclench. If anything had happened, it would surely have been the first item on the news. Death and destruction were more important than stranded holidaymakers. He let out a long, slow breath, and stared up at the brilliant blue sky. Every day this summer had been the same, the tension, the expectation, the temporary relief and then mounting tension again and always growing more insistent all the time, the question of why nothing had happened yet.