Audio Book Demo 2019
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
Irish (General) North American (Canadian-General) North American (General) UkrainianTranscript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I'm Leonard Scott Collins, and you're listening to my audio narration demo for 2019. This is a chapter of Gross By Dave Procter Frank expected that the paint on the sign would still be peeling. The gold gold of Maggie's Bakery betrayed its secrets of press board. The bricks were a soft and hurt red in the building with dark inside. No Alice, no John. To make a sarcastic greeting at the door, he thrust his hand into his pocket and grab his keys, staring forward into the glass. At his hollow reflection, he looked thinner still, his cheeks were blush and his hair particularly messy and the rest of him distorted by the reality of the bakery. Through the glass, his thumb pressed into a car key house key in an orange storage locker key. That bakery key and it's familiar twin mountings, flat Massa and Spirit End was nowhere to be felt. Frank should his eyes. He could see it alone on the kitchen table that catch to a green Caribbean er. He shook the door in frustration and yelled at the idiot in the reflection. His heart sank and he thought of Alice and John waiting outside with him. The days bread going on baked the neighborhood, having to substitute their buns for something else, the glass door buckling at the weight of pounding fists, and he the one to blame. He disappeared within quickly and opened his eyes to find the door still locked, another deep breath, and he went there again, further losing business Tomorrow, the day after no more customers, he opened his eyes. The cracked corner of the bakery laughed at him. Another finger had to fix. He picked up an errant square of concrete no bigger than a digestive cookie, and placed it on his tongue with one hand while shaking the door fruitlessly with the other. He closed his eyes once more homeless, begging his daughter for a place to stay. He suddenly tasted blood. Imagine her saying no laughing at him. Hold up in the corner of a men's mission. Ah, faceless failure with chipped teeth, a sweater wearing reject, picking up pennies for a place to stay, a bloated shadow and wool pants and Salvation Army shoes. Despair, key in the flowerpot. Frank chess laid his fingers, pushed aside. The soil, the feeling of metal somewhere in the Earth felt like gold. Before he knew it, he had unlocked the door and licked the fingers on his right hand, clean than his left. Coming off the black dirt with his tongue, he kicked aside the doormat and tapped the frame picture of his mother on the wall morning, he said to No one. Some mornings were harder than others. This is an Irish accent for Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll towards Belykh and the slightly toasted Geir and Gimble in the wabe All mimsy, where the border groves and the mom routes out braved. But where the jobber walk, my son, the jaws that bite the claws that catch. But where the job job bird and shun the few minutes Bandersnatch. He took his Vorpal sword in hand a long time. The maximum four he sought so rested he by the Tom Tom tree and stood a while and thought Andi has an or fish thought he stood. But Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came waffling through the tug Leawood on barbell. As it came. 1212 and through and through, the Vorpal blade went snicker snack. He left it dead on with its head. He went galumphing back Hasta slain the Jabberwock Come to my arms, my Beamish boy or function is day callow color Hey, he chartered in his joy twist Brill IQ and the slyly Toft did gyre and gimble in the wabe all mimsy where the border groves on the mom round So great! And this is a Russian voice for loud twos. Dowty King A translation of the malign to Manu Scripts by D. C. Law. I attend to the utmost emptiness and they keep to extreme stillness the myriad creatures always together and I've watched their by their return. The teeming creatures are returned to their steppers roots. Returning to one's roots is not the stillness. Stillness is VAT is called returning to one's destiny. Returning to one's destiny is normal knowledge of the normal His discernment not to know the normal to be without basis to innovate bizarre basis boards ill to know the normal is to be tolerant. Tolerance lead to impartiality, Impartiality to Qinglin. Scaling goes to heaven heaven to they have a to perpetuity. Until the end of one's days, one will meet with no danger