Audiobook Demo
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Teen (13-17)Accents
British (General) North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the nylon of her white coat made a sound, but she didn't say anything. She kept staring at me through her glasses. Even with her coat, I could see the rise and fall of her shoulders, and I knew she was breathing hard. Rapido. I said I couldn't roll the r, but I snapped my fingers. She knew what I meant. Come on, start talking. I just want to leave, she whispered. Or maybe, she said, I just want to live. I couldn't tell. What was clear was that she had some kind of accent, and it didn't sound Mexican at all. Once had come out like Vermont, like the way a German in a movie would say it. But I didn't think she was German. I looked at the bones of her face, the Hollows of her cheeks, her scared eyes. My heart started to pound. I knew where I'd seen her. She looked different within knit hat and more of her hair showing, and no lipstick now. But I knew I leaned away from her, a siren going off in my head. Caleb was right behind her seat. I pulled the pepper spray out and aimed it at her. She held up her gloved hands and surrender. I didn't care, Caleb. I kept my eyes on her hands. Get out of the car. Get out now! She's a criminal. They're looking for her. I just saw her on TV. Lenny poured at a mole on her cheek, which sprouted a single hair. I look so old these days, and I smiled at her in the mirror. I think you look lovely. Like a woman from a Rosetti or a Waterhouse. I don't know what those are. Rosetti. He was one of the pre Raphaelites Waterhouse as well. They were painters in Victorian times who painted these big romantic pictures of women from literature, all flowing locks and big, bold eyes and lips. It sounds pornographic. Well, it is. In a way it's very sexual, but I wanted so much to look like those women when I was younger. I bolt out of my apartment lock up and turned just in time to find my landlord, Mr Hall, pruning his herb garden across the covered pathway. He looks so innocent with those tiny shares, but I know better. Those damn herbs have already been trimmed to perfection. He's outside pretending to garden for another reason. Ah, Madeline, there you are, he says, removing his protective eyewear, as if stray rosemary clippings are the most under reported causes of gardening. Death in America. I rushed past him, waving as I go, after all, with my banana in place, I can hardly carry on a conversation. I need to talk to you about rent, he shouts. After me, I wave again and then add a thumbs up. Just for good measure. I hold out hope that he means rent the musical, but I'm reasonably sure it's about money.