Scott Mullen.... Chapter 1.... Novel... Demo
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Chapter one. Drop the bottle. Scott ran his hand over his skull. His skin was warm. He left his baseball cap in the car, imagining this task before him would take less than a minute. But based on the thin film of sweat forming on his bare head, he must have been standing in front of his bosses fancy house for closer to 10 minutes. How could 10 minutes have passed? He felt the heat from his head transferred to his poem as he looked down at the pool of liquid at his feet. Do not move! The baritone voice filtered through. A speaker was forceful and severe. Scott started to turn freeze. He froze his left hand in midair above his head, his right hand holding the bottle of water remained at his side. He entered a siren earlier and wondered what crime had been committed. But he now made the connection. The siren had been headed to where he waas. He waited. He heard a car door open and slam, followed by another open and slam footsteps up the driveway. He didn't want to move his head, partly out of a fear of getting shot, but mostly because he was good at taking direction and had been told to freeze, although his eyes were peripherally scanning his environment. In front of him was the large, hand carved door flanking the door were matching manicured bushes in cobalt ceramic pots. Further to his right by the site of the house, he caught sight of two men gardeners based on their sweaty T shirts, large brimmed hats on a leaf blower peeking around and watching the action. They dipped back when he made eye contact with him. He scanned left and saw nothing but the White House and the large hydrangea bush that was blossoming blue it red. The color of the blossoms was based on the amount of aluminum in the soil. Useless information as he doubted he was being taken down by a band of demanding horticulturist. He presumed the men behind him were cops, and this would be sorted out with a question or two. One set of footsteps told him one person was approaching last. One cop was carrying the other cop. Scott almost laughed out loud. At this image, the footsteps in the sand thing. When you see only one set of footprints, it was then. Then I carried you. He felt both comforted and irreverent, imagining one cop carrying the other drop the bottle. The voice was still loud but no longer distorted as the guy was now standing a few feet behind him.