Audiobook Sample

Not Yet Rated


A clip from an audiobook narration project.

Vocal Characteristics



Voice Age

Young Adult (18-35)


North American (General)


Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
she grumbled to herself as she buzzed the office and checked her phone two o'clock right on time. She knew she'd get bonus points for punctuality and that they'd both be keeping score. The office was one of those dark, below ground level residences dotted all over Manhattan that are a favorite of doctors. Shrinks especially. This one, was on 78th Street between West End and Riverside, a much classier neighborhood than her Lower East Side apartment, a suffocating studio that measured exactly 12 paces from front to back. With peeling plaster walls, radiators that went bump in the night and long tailed whiskered creatures trying to claw and chew their way in. Mindy controlled the purse strings of the trust fund. Daddy Dearest had seen to that, as if that would wipe his filthy slate clean. Brenda winced, but she needed money for rent for food for the subway. Now that she was jobless, she had no choice but to agree to her sanctimonious older siblings. Loathsome conditions. She would go along with the whole therapy thing for now. She had played this game plenty of times before and knew the rules by heart. The therapist would sit there looking all calm and together while excavating the darkest corners of your psyche. Strip mining your emotions for fun and profit. Then he would go home, have a good laugh over dinner and a glass of wine and titter about the weird chick who was in his office that day. Maybe none of them revealed names and phone numbers, but they all served up the details of your ****** up life as cheap entertainment. A pleasant enough looking woman, maybe 45 with shoulder length kinked up, graying hair greeted Brenda. She smelled of lavender. Hello. You must be Miss Benton. I'm Dr Kincaid. Such a pleasure to meet you. Come in. She stepped aside better than the last one who was a disturbing reincarnation of Freud before That was Dr Ed Opus, when Brenda shouted at him. You think I have an Oedipus complex? He informed her that she was mistaken. Ed IPASS referred only to mothers and sons. Electra complex, he pointed out, was specific to fathers and daughters. But Dr Electra sounded like a superhero or a seventies rock star. So she called him Dr Edifice behind his back. Then came Doctor OECD. The books on his bookshelves, the files on his desk, the plants, the knick knacks in the display case. Everything in his very crowded office was arranged, alphabetized and organized by date, by size, by height, by function. But, uh oh, his voice, a muted Aussie accent, the edges worn down from years in the States. That's what kept her coming back. He said he wanted to help, but if he couldn't help himself, how the **** was he going to help her? Not that she needed help. Mind you, have a seat or lie down on the couch if you're more comfortable that way. Kincaid's voice was like a deep tissue. Massage. It down shifted her senses, but Brenda wouldn't be lulled into that game. They all played forming alliances, us against them. She would show up, talk on cue, appear introspective when appropriate, have a ******* emotional epiphany. If it was called for all set, Thanks. Would you like some tea? Can? Kate asked. Got coffee? I'm sorry. I only have tea figures, Brenda mumbled under her breath. Kincaid's psychological torture chamber, which consumed most of the bottom floor of the building, boasted original architectural details, including transoms above the doors six inch cherry baseboards and hardwood floors with more than a century of wear and tear. Each nick each darkened plank was a testament to the secrets of all who had passed there. Their pain seeped through the soles of her shoes. Brenda had no intention of adding to the floors. Rich patina. She took inventory of Kincaid's office. A small, Uncluttered desk held neatly stacked mail. An ornate sterling silver letter opener engraved with the initials MK, a journal for note taking and a mug filled to the brim with steaming hot green tea, the tea bag still steeping.