English YA Audio Book
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Teen (13-17)Accents
North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM) North American (US Midwest- Chicago, Great Lakes)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
It's raining the day. They bury my father. Thunder rumbles in the distance and the clouds are heavy gray and wet black umbrellas glisten like beetle backs over the heads of the Mourners streaming into the funeral chapel. My mother abigail and I approached the front door carefully. She slips her cold hand into the crook of my elbow and squeezes my arm. I can't believe how small and strong her hands are. We share a silent understanding. We don't want to be noticed. I push open the door and the sweet organic smell nearly makes me gag. There are roses and carnations everywhere. Heavy curtains frame the tall windows and the walls are covered with golden velvet wallpaper. I think the ambiance is supposed to be muted and peaceful, but there isn't any sunlight coming through the windows and the up lighting is throwing crazy shadows all over the floor. I'm surprised at the size of the crowd. The Staunton name is well respected but few people really knew my father, distant family members are practicing their grief faces in front of the room. They look pretentious in their tailored black suits and expensive shoes. I hear hushed voices. Throughout the room. I catch phrases such as late onset and rapid progression. So far, no one has recognized us as we slip into the two empty seats in the back row at the front of the room is a large portrait of my father in a heavy gilded frame. His hair is as black as tattooing and his eyes are a startling blue. I wonder if the artist enhanced the eye color. Jason has a carefree spontaneous grin on his face on a pedestal. Next to the portrait is a sleek silver urn with an ornate monogram on the front. In a different setting. The urn might be mistaken for that special teapot that's only used when company comes over next to my father's ashes are massive floral arrangements on stands. The first one with a glittering banner marked son is surrounded by a wreath made from a million blood red roses. Maybe it's just the lighting but the tips, the buds look like they were dipped in black paint. The next arrangement has a banner marked grandson in fancy script. These roses are softer red color and there's a lot more greenery and some small puffy white flowers mixed into the bunch. A smaller wreath near the back catches my attention. The ribbon is marked father and the font is very simple. The arrangement is a mixture of roses, incarnations in the very light yellow of a winter sunrise. Your father liked the yellow roses best I 10 says. Abigail whispers those words into my ear. I'm sure she can read my thoughts. Sometimes I turn to answer her when the organ music crashes through the ancient loudspeakers. As much as I crane my neck. I can't find the source. The poor organist must be hidden in some curtain alcove somewhere. I recognize the melody of some dusty old him from Sunday school. A solemn looking minister shuffles to the front of the room and introduced himself as Dr so and so I try not to fidget as he drones on about gardens and flowers and blooms that are picked too soon. When the minister asks if anyone would like to speak, the barometric pressure shifts. A fork of lightning races across the sky and flashes through all the windows simultaneously. It's like every molecule of oxygen is suddenly sucked out of the room. A microsecond later, a loud clap of thunder rattles the windows and everyone jumps. The minister chuckles dryly and make some inane comment about God's eulogy. A few people laugh uncomfortably but the rest just look queasy mercifully. The sermon is soon over and the organ music wheezes through the loudspeakers again.