British RP audiobook narration
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Not until the lizard flashed its cerulean tongue did she see it camouflaged on the sleeper? Her words etched into the paper in bold cursive, she heard an affirmative whisper somewhere inside it was a colossal accomplishment, from blank page to first sentence. She couldn't imagine coming up with anything better. She read over her words, rolled her pen between her fingertips, confidence slipping, determination still within her grasp, until that two fell away. When the first sentence flowed, she'd had it in mind to write a paragraph, but no phrase that came to mind could compete with the words on her page. Still, her sentence represented an achievement of another sort without question. A turning from the harried life and Salter had left behind in Willington with reptilian speed, she'd escaped the plumes of his wrath. She'd fled and fled, leaving home her job him the bruises where he held his fist at the wall and whacked her arm. Instead, One understanding and well connected travel agent, a taxi and a plane. And here she was, on the 29th parallel, recoiling on this land of young volcanoes. Lanzarote, e a breakaway chip of Morocco straining towards the mediterranean sea, a desert of basaltic ash and lava solidified mid flow the horizon, whatever the purview pimpled with volcanoes. Now she was here, her blood warmed to the thought that she might write a story. Turning into that most glorious if at times, prosaic dream. She knew of four colleagues at the Willington Hydrology Center at work on their memoirs. Most of the women in her mother's scrabble Club had at one time or another signed up to the writing workshops, held each term in the community hall, the lanky boy in the Willington North corner shop, spent all of his spare time crafting little bits of poetry next door. But one the haberdasher is son, was halfway through a creative writing course at the local further education college and just last week in the same parade of shops, the organic greengrocer, an erudite back to Earth to announced proudly as she weighed a pound of sprouts, that her daughter was set to have her first novel published before she had completed her creative writing degree. Half the world's population was at it also, it seemed baring themselves for therapy, for posterity for fun, and had no idea what was propelling her to join their ranks. Other than that her life had suddenly cleaved. She'd dabbled on and off since grade three scraps of ideas. Half written vignettes, a single short chapter of what might have been a novel. She had no grand ambition, although she couldn't deny the thrill that comes with reading one's work in print. She clasped her hands together in her lap and read over her sentence, lizard. She wondered where the word originated, Liz. Ard out of the depths of the unconscious in free form or guided by fate, her imagination. That extraordinary sifter trawled through how many thousands of new Orleans and extracted an animal a reptile old, even when young Low in the evolutionary scheme. Simple in Design and desire. Going about its business eating insects, laying eggs. A terrific survivor, descendant of the Mesozoic epoch of the reptile, Jurassic, Triassic noble little lizard sitting on a rock basking in the sun. Humankind came along. And as humans also want to do, we imbued the chap with mythic traits and a shovel full of symbolic significance. The literal and mused corresponding to some quality in us. Every single thing in the universe must somehow pertain to us. Humans are without equivocation, that self centered. Even if she dismissed the tendency, she couldn't resist the comparison. Once the lizard has outgrown her own skin, she sheds it and in a moment of extreme threat the lizard can divest herself of her tail, leaving it flailing about while the lizard escapes. Had an done that too.