Voice AgeTeen (13-17)
AccentsNorth American (General)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
already, guys. So I did a voice act for, um, a little short story in a British accent. So I'm going to do my normal English accent. I might see it is really act. It is really easy to slip into my Australian or British accent. You can call it whatever you want, but, um, anyways, I'm going to be saying this in my English accent. So, uh, yeah, number two. I hate it when my brother Charlie has to go away. Bye, ***** Whore In pure form, I hate it when my brother Charlie has to go away. My parents constantly try to explain to me how sick he is that I am lucky for having a brain where all the chemicals flow properly to their destinations, like undammed rivers. When I complain about how bored I am with a little brother to play with them, they try to make me feel bad by pointing out that his boredom likely far suppress his mind. Considering his confined to a dark room in an institution, I always begged for them to give me one last chance. Of course they did. At first. Charlie has been back home several times each shorter endure irritation than the last. Every time without fail, it all starts again. They know the neighborhood cats with gouged out eyes showing up in his toy chest. My dad's razors found dropped on the baby's slide in the park across the street. Mom's vitamins replaced with ***** bits. Sorry, not ******* by bits of this watch. Have fun with bits of this dishwasher tablets. My parents are hesitant now, using last chances bearing Lee. They say his disorder makes him charming, makes it easy for them to fake normal ISI and to trip the doctors who care for him into thinking he is ready for rehabilitation, that I will just have to put it with my boredom if it means staying safe from him. I hate it when Charlie has to go away. It makes me have to pretend to be good until he is back. So I'm going to read another one. Number three Guardians by Doc Ali Gator. He woke to the huge insect like creatures looming over his bed and screamed his lungs out. They hastily left the room, and he stayed up all night shaking, wondering if it had been a dream the next morning, there was a tap on the floor gathering his courage. He opened it to see one of them gently place a plate filled with fried breakfast on the floor, then retreat to safe distance. Bewildered, he accept the gift. The creatures chitter excitedly. This happens every day for weeks. At first he was worried they were flattening him up, but or sorry, not flattening, fattening him up. But after this particularly greasy breakfast, they left him clutching his chest from heartburn. They were replaced with fresh fruit as well as cooking. They poured hot, steamy, best for him and even took him in. When he went to bed. It was bizarre. One night he awoke to gunshots and screaming. He raced downstairs to find a decapitated burglar and being devoured by the insects. He was sickened but disposed of the remains as best as he could. He knew they had just been protecting him. One morning, the creatures wouldn't let him leave his room. He laid down, confused but trusting as they unshared him back into bed. Whatever their motive is, they weren't going to hurt him. Hours later, a burning pain spread throughout his body. It felt like his stomach was filled with razor wire. The insects chattered as he spasm and and moaned. It was only when he felt terrible, squirming in a feeling beneath his skin that he realized in sick had been hadn't been sorry. It was only when he felt a terrible squirming feeling under under beneath his skin. He realized the instinct sects, insects had been protecting him hadn't been protecting them. They had been protecting their young Jesus. Oh, my God, That's brutal. That is Oh, my God. Jeez. All right, bye.