Narration Reel
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General) North American (South West - Texas) North American (US General American - GenAM) North American (US Mid-Atlantic)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
chip. Davis voice real. Give me a voice something to believe in and I will follow you to the ends of my imagination. Give me a motion something to anchor to and I will sail the world with you. Story is not enough. I need characters, relationships, family of sorts. That is what I will allow into my life. Do not pander use cheap tricks or visual eye candy. If I can believe if I can feel a part of what you have created, then I will return like Herodotus or ponce de leon without the carnage. I need story that hangs on the ribs like meat waiting to be smoked overnight. Give me that and you will have done your job, whether as a creative business type politician or parents bifurcation theory. An excerpt by scott Douglas, a Texan in crisis in midlife heat he felt it through the soles of his boots, it handled up between the leather and denim pacing itself to besiege his calves and thighs. Vapor waves wobbled out in the distance, waters empty promise. He wasn't sure where it started. Forehead pits are growing but sweated, busted out all over, making movement uncomfortably squishy. His hatband was already slick and he'd only taken a few steps outside the cafe, damned if it wasn't going to be a miserable walk. The truck was bust. Cafes phone the same in his useless cell phone sitting nice and neat on his dresser, ******* might as well get started. So he walked, pacing his steps on the asphalt edge so as not to keel over from heat stroke, there was a bottle of pop shoved in his rear pocket, his *** cheeks, the only cool part on his body pop his mom's word in indiana immigrant more western than he and long dead. And after thought of memory now that thought saddened him. Gone long enough that I hardly think on her. Guess that will be the same for mine when worms have finished tearing me up leaving only dusty bug ship, He chewed on this idea, walking down the freeways alternate through the town's business district. He'd never given a **** about stuff like this. Death and memory and all, but it was a long walk ahead and there was nothing better to occupy himself. There weren't any traffic, so he let his thoughts fly out into the void of soaring temperature when I die. Will anyone give a ship? There was no answer at hand, Guess not. How do I feel about that now? That's a great question. Hunger. An excerpt by Judith Lindbergh, a true story of the Canadian arctic. Weeks passed. The old man's hunger clawed at the spaces of his rib cage, but the time had come for the hunters to chip holes in the ice to wait, bent in two for a seal to rise, to breathe all about the ice as the wind blew fiercely and the sled. Dogs slept curled tightly in snow caked balls. The men bent, waiting, their harpoons poised, their arms raised up, their elbows to the sky. Every day they bent the old man with him, all the hunters scattered across the ice. The old man's son in law Ulich leaned over his seal hole not far away, Eulex back was strong, the old man's back ache. After many hours leaning forward still, without a sound, his hunger grew hard with waiting like a fist pressed to a stomach. It twisted and turned finally, who to pealed across the ice sheet. All the hunters ran the old man and Ulich, leaping and shouting raced from their breathing holes, converging on the spot where one hunter held a thick fat seal on the end of his harpoon line. The hunter took a stone knife and sliced open the carcass, steaming blood melted a puddle about the hunter's feet. The hunter thrust in his hand and pulled out the thick dark liver, cut a slab and slipped it on his tongue. The next hunter did the same. So they celebrated the first seal of the season. They would not die! The old man knew he cut his wedge of liver and stuck it in his mouth, feeling the meaty mash between his teeth, Ulich there beside him smiled. The blood is slipped dripping at the corners of their mouths. The old man wiped the blood and licked it from his fingers. All the hunters left food had never tasted so good. The old man raised his stone knife, moving to cut a second slice, He felt the hunters kneeling beside him around him as they've always been together through all the years. He felt them watching as his knife slipped into the carcass. Their hands were fast when they pinned the old man down. The old man struggled, his face burning against the ice as they stripped him bare and dragged away his clothing. He slipped in the bloody puddle, reaching, falling, heaving up on bony knees! He shouted, but the wind blew against him as the hunters strapped the carcass and the old man's reindeer skins, still warm from wearing on the whale bone sledge.