Song of the Cicada
Description
Read MoreVocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM) North American (US South) North American (US Upper Midwest - Fargo, Minnesota)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
a deep, comfortable sleep was gone with a sudden, bright red flash of pain. A punch into his back ignited a series of lightning flashes through his confused thoughts. His back throbbed as he felt more punches, repeatedly hitting him. He heard the dog, Ansel, somewhere off in the house, howling his lungs out. The room was black as ANC, and any sounds being made by his attacker were lost in the howling and yipping by his terrified golden retriever. He rolled away from his attacker and off the far side of the bed. He bounced to the floor and came up in a defensive stance the military had once taught him. He shivered. The room was ice cold. The damn thermostat was acting up again. His thoughts were muddled and confused. Was it a break in home invaders, maybe? Or who? His eyes began to adjust to the dim light from an outside street lamp shining through the window. The room had a dull silver sheen that reminded him of moonlight on a frozen midwinter's night. The steam from his breath floated before him. The attack had stopped. They're on the far side of the bed, stood a dark figure just barely discernible in the deep shadows. He wasn't that tall, maybe 55 or 56 But he was broad and appeared to be chiseled out of grey stone in the dim light, thick shouldered with heavily muscled arms. Pain in Jaws is back and tested to that. The man's hair was dark and thick and hung down to his shoulders. His hands were still clenched into tight fists. He stood there, unmoving, tensed up like a coil spring push near its breaking point. The arms were Harry, more like the for on an animal's back than a human being. Glowing tattoos seemed to crawl up and down the man's arms like living creatures. A long red scar ran down the left side of his face. It glowed in the dim light like a burning red hot ember, fresh from the fire jaw stared back at him, locked into a gaze, not sure who were what he was seeing behind. The unknown man just thought the faint outline of the window on the street beyond were still visible. His mind was frozen like that of a rabbit facing down a large dog with cruel, ferocious fangs. His body was still struggling to fight off the remaining vestiges of sleep. He rubbed his eyes, but the strange vision before him was unchanged. He was not seeing behind the man, but was seeing through him. The man stood there like a mystical creature composed of smoke and mist. The odors in the room were nauseated to his fear. Heightened senses. Sweat, dog ****, stale cigarettes, old beer. They almost made him throw up. But a stronger smell dominated everything, something primal. He knew in his gut what it waas but did not recognize it at first. Adrenaline, fear, hate. Those were the overwhelming smells of a predator ready for a fresh kill. The air reeked in the room around him. A less intense, coppery sweet smell of blood danced among the stronger odors. Just wondered if it was his or Ansel's Fleer fight. His more basic instincts for survival were raging. A war inside his head. But there was something else a smell wrong for this time and place a mix of ozone and sulphur fumes like wires and matches burning in synchronicity. It was a smell from ****. He felt this more than I thought. He thought of going for his gun but realized the invader would be able to reach him before he could reach the drawer where the gun was stored. Joss moved to step away from the man. The stranger slowly turned his head and stared at him. Jaw stared back, now frozen and completely incapable of moving even the slightest bit. The man still just stood there like a Greek statue, poised, intense, like a potential killing machine but not attacking. He kept staring at jaws, and pure hate radiated from those eyes. It felt like the heat from a blast furnace upon Josh's face. Joss wiped sweat away from his eyes, but the burning and his eyes on Lee grew worse. The man began to waver like a heat mirage. On a sweltering August afternoon, he appeared to be fading out of existence.