Fiction Narration with effects and music for a storytelling podcast
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (US General American - GenAM)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
With a crusty gray rag. The tinker wiped as much grease off of his hands as he could before he ashed his cigarette. He grinned at the mechanical boy sitting on his workbench and leaned in closer to inspect his handiwork. The thin naked chassis exposed whirring servos and rough gears. The boy's wires were kinked or stripped in places mended with vinyl tape. The tinker had cannibalized them from other failures. He had hopes for the boy. If this one worked, he could probably hack it to some street performer and pay rent for the next couple of months. The cigarette crackled as the tinker took a long satisfying drag and nodded his head. Good, good. Everything appeared to be in order with a grunt and great effort. He hoisted the boy off the workbench and placed him on the ground. The legs were weak and the boy was top heavy because of the metal barrel inside his torso. The tinker cussed and shoved the nub of his cigarette between his lips. He flung his hands out to grab the frame on either side just as the knees buckled. The project had probably been a waste of precious time. He shook his head and glared into the shiny plastic eyes, catching a ghost of his reflection in the dark people's red wrinkled face, wild straw, dry hair, bloodshot eyes, the knee joints clacked when the tinkers smacked them back into place, letting go. But keeping his hands close, the tinker expected the mechanical boy to collapse like a newborn lamb under the weight of the steel barrel. It was heavy enough that if the boy fell, one of the parts might get damaged beyond repair. And there was only so much useful junk that he could scavenge from the dump. The tinker held his breath. The boy did not fall with a surprised scoff. The tanker clapped his hands. He walked around the boy and twisted the crank inside the mechanical boy's breast was a rectangular sheet of diamond aluminum shaped like a comb. The tinker had cut the teeth into the metal and then filed them down various lengths until the sound pleased him. He drilled screws into the metal barrel and placed it in the mechanical boy's gut as the barrel turned it plucked the teeth and played a song. A Tinker Grand. He had found the barrel at the dump years ago and had sat in his pile of scraps until he discovered the aluminum sheet. The previous week. Inspiration hit him as he knelt before the toilet heaving up his dinner of canned beans and whiskey. Now, as he lit another cigarette with the butt of the old one. The Tinker decided it had been a good idea. After all, the little boy sang a haunting wordless melody and swayed arms moving this way and that in a stiff dance, the blank plastic eyes showed no sadness nor joy. Only the comb at his heart felt anything as the pins plucked the teeth and made them vibrate with the tinker's sad song. Then the knees gave out again. The Tinker jumped back and cursed in a cloud of foul smoke with a growl. He sent a boot into the boy's face and broke the plastic eyes. The tinker kicked him again and again, every blow harder than the last, the violence was a concentration of all the loss, shame and fury of a lifetime. But inside the mechanical boy, the barrel kept turning, the comb kept vibrating and so he simply sang.