He Who Wanders
Description
Read MoreVocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Hello there. My name is Joshua, and I'll be reading a short story for the mystery and thriller category. My voice can be adjusted. There is going to be another file that will show you the variety of different pitches and tones Aiken do. If you'd like me to cover anything or sending examples, you could go on, message me or email me directly. I'll be reading a short story. No Nas. He who wonders I missed the scorching wind of Australia, how it pours sunlight into your face to ing with eyelashes, flattening dry sand against cheeks and mulling around hair. I miss the smell of the valley in the ripening softness of muskrat fluffed, lessening in the afternoon breeze. From here, I could see the house where I grew up. I could see the white chapels tucked into the great Richard's like pond scattered on a chess board. I could see patches of asphalt on El Dorado Road hauling from the old town through dappled rocks, then waiting behind the horizon with erratic headlights of upbeat trucks cruising along one of the pit stops along L Toronto or truck drivers stopped to relieve themselves. What's the starting point of this wavy trail, all covered in blotches of spiny grass, stocks and flax and seeds. The trail is barely noticeable at first. Truth is, that won't even cares to notice it. Why would truckers taking a break leak care to check on a monkey trail leading to God knows where? But I do. This is where I got here, to the top of this hill where I'm standing now. I've climbed all the way up here so I could finally end it all. All these years of frequency and fugue, exile and fear. This is where all that is going to come to in it. But for now I am enjoying the view of the valley and folding below. I am sipping the air of what could be my final memories. We will show up soon. He always does like a shadow. He's been a phone me right on my footsteps, always there behind me. And there he is. His limping figure appears behind the sharp bend off El Dorado. He looks up and sees me, then stops for a moment to catch his breath and leans on his cane as if assessing the remaining trajectory for his final stretch. Then he resumes his walk. Or should I say resumes? His agonizing treading Years of endless chase took a toll on his body. Mhm. No wonder How long has he been tracing? May 10 2030 years. He is slow, methodically slow. But for once, I will not run. I will wait right here behind this rock. I will finally come face to face with him. This sharp, swift knife blade that I am holding in my hand will soon lancer right through his neck. Bone. Yes. That's what I'm going to do. This ends here at the end of this sandy trailer topped the hill overlooking the valley with its white chapels and muscat orchards. Funny after all these years, I still don't know the real name of my chaser. I always called him with Master Borg's called He who wanders. He who wonders. Listen, I will kill you.