The Ashwood Home
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Senior (55+)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Adam gazed across the yard toward the woods. In the dark he could barely make out the tree line, except for a craggy ripple against the navy sky. He thought of the ash woods house, standing in the thicket of trees slumbering, or perhaps like a wolf. It came alive at night, watching and waiting. He shuttered and closed the door. As he turned back to the counter he heard a wrestle behind him, marshmallow coming back. Maybe he needs a doggy door for once, Adam had lured him through it by offering sausage streets, but marshmallow refused to use it without an incentive. Marshmallows, fluffy white head did not appear through the little door. Instead, a slimy white hand snaked through the plastic flap, dirt caked fingernails clawed against the floor. Adam gasped and stumbled back, crashing into holly, who held a battlefield muffin tin. She yelped and dropped it. The chin hit the floor with a quack and battered, splattered across both of their legs. Adam spun and grabbed holly's waist, afraid she'd fall, but she'd managed to grab onto the counter. He looked back at the door, but the hand was gone. The doggy door sat still as if nothing at all. It comes through it. Damn! Those were the ginger carried ones, Holly murmured. She took a rag from the counter in crouch to wiping batter. She glanced up at him. What happened? Lost your footing! He blinked at her, his mouth dry and tried to find words. Instead. He nodded. Here, let me do this. He pulled her to her feet. I'm sorry I killed the ginger muffins. She shook her head no big deal, I guess the universe was trying to tell me. I've made too many mildred, peeked through the crack door in the nails bedroom. Now sat on her bed, legs bent, her diary prompt on her knees. Her silky dark hair cascaded over her shoulders. Mildred, felt a tremor of jealousy. Now, look at the stone I found, mildred announced, pushing into the room and opening her furled fingers to reveal a glittering blue pebble. Doesn't it remind you of the sea? I've only seen the ocean and pictures. Of course, I've heard Coco into the ocean as a child, but I've never seen any photographs, so it may not be true. Have you seen any photographs? Do you think this is the exact color now, barely looked up from the journal she wrote in with a lovely gold pen. After mildred, continued. Nel shot her an exasperated look mildred. Can't you see him writing? I would like some privacy, please, mildred, wounded, smiled brightly. Oh, sure, yes. I didn't even realize you had your journal. They're all tucked up behind your knees, like a secret treasure. Why do you write in there anyway? Letters home or are you amusing about your hopes and dreams? I'd like to write to. But sometimes my thoughts spill so quickly. I can't catch them with my hand. All right. Like the devils of my tail for an hour, and then I go to read what I've written, and realize that the scribbled bits and pieces of my thoughts, and it's hardly a story at all, simply a big mixture of half words and exclamations, now sighed loudly, but didn't meet mildred's eyes.