Tags:
audiobook
young adult
middle grade
teen
Script:
Even the forest didn't seem large enough to contain the crackling, angry energy that poured through Anna. It turned out that Idlewood really was going to be another boring, don't touch anything kind of place, even with its themed suites and indoor garden of tropical fruits. She kicked at a tree, scuffing the dirt in an aimless furrow. She aimed her next kick at a mound of moss, reveling in the feel of dirt against her shoe. Yes, she knew she shouldn't have been in that room, not when other guests had claimed it. No, she wouldn't have wanted to find some stranger poking around her room without her permission, possibly stealing from her. But it wasn't like she was trying to hurt anything. She just wanted to see what the room looked like. She kicked at a raised tree root, all covered with grass. Her foot collided with the root, tearing the grass and revealing a stick about as big as a half-used pencil, wedged into the mud beside the root. But wait, it looked like it had a growth or knot on it. But what knot was so perfectly round and flat? Dropping to her knees, Anna touched the stick. It's not wood. Quickly, she found a twig and loosened the mud around the object, which was lying almost flat against the ground. It wasn't long before she was able to pry it free. She looked at the chunk of twisted black metal in her hand. An old nail? No, it wasn't a nail. It was so much better. Anna stared at the old key in her hand. It looked like something out of a story, with a long shaft and two prongs on the end. What was it doing there? The ground was at a slight angle. It rained a lot in Virginia, so perhaps the key had been dropped once and the rain had carried it here. But that could mean it belonged to Idlewood. Walking back to the house, Anna examined the key again. It was black, but not inherently. That came from a tarnish that covered the silver metal beneath. Its head, the flat round part that had attracted Anna's attention, had an ornate design on it that looked like a palm tree. Did that mean it belonged in the Pacific Islands suite? She hadn't seen any locked cupboards or dressers there, or at least none with keyholes. She would have remembered a keyhole big enough for this key. Old locks were especially inviting. What could it belong to? As Anna entered the grounds, she considered telling Mr. Llewellyn what she'd found. It was his house, and he might know what this key would unlock. Besides, it might make a nice peace offering after irritating him earlier. Yeah, no, he'd probably think she stole it. Besides, Anna didn't want to be told what the key opened. It was better if you found it yourself. A gaggle of elderly ladies of different races and heights, but all seeming to favor pastel-colored clothing and coconut-scented lotion, was entering the house. And behind them, another car pulled up the driveway, and a Japanese couple in their 30s got out, dressed in cargo shorts, t-shirts, and stylish sport sunglasses, ready for vacation. One of them carried a bundle of cloth in her arms. When she saw Anna, she cradled the bundle out of sight and hurried into Idlewood. Anna shook her head and peered up at the house, anger returning. Thanks to finding the key, she hadn't been out in the woods long enough to cool down. So stupid key, stupid Charlie, and his stupid vacation prize, stupid Mr. Llewellyn throwing her out just as things were getting interesting, stupid Idlewood with its weird everything. Yes, Anna thought, something about this house was very weird, and it wasn't just the guests sneaking who knew what in bundles of cloth into the house. Everything was just a little bit off.
Tags:
read by Laci Morgan
kid
child
funny
audiobook
young
little girl
Script:
The door of the baby's room was closed, I put my ear up to it. Mom was singing a lullaby to Will, but he kept crying anyway. I don't think he likes her singing. Mom traded her beach ball belly for him last week. I was hoping for a polar bear, but no luck. I can't play with Will yet. His wobbly, bobbly head could probably fall off. Mom and Dad should have gotten a baby with its head screwed on tighter. Or a baby polar bear. Then I could play with him like my teddy bear. Felipe Chung is a fun bear, much better than a baby. I found my sister, Sydney, at her desk. She was doing homework. I sneaked a peek at her book. There were pictures of stars and planets. Sydney is 10. Her homework is so cool. Much better than writing the same spelling words over and over. I couldn't wait until I was older. Just three more days until I turned seven. Sydney, can you help me decorate for my birthday? I want a space party, I said. Like that. I pointed to the planets and stars in her science book. No way, you got me grounded. Remember, Tattletail? I didn't know I wasn't supposed to say you got sent to the principal's office. The principal at my school is so nice. I'd love to visit her office. Sydney rolled her eyes. She thinks she is so cool. I sat down on the floor and opened my Ken Venter's journal. I tore out a sheet and drew a picture of Will. Above it, I wrote, free to a good home. I saw a poster like that for kittens. It was worth a try for a wobbly-headed brother like mine, too. Sydney, did my head wobble when mom got me from the hospital? I asked. Sydney got a weird smile on her face. Nope, your head didn't wobble at all. Mom didn't bring you home from a hospital. She did so, I said. Your space parents brought you here by spaceship. They're from Jupiter, and so are you. She turned her science book around. There was a picture of a huge planet with brown and white stripes. It looked like peanut butter swirled with marshmallow fluff. It said Jupiter underneath in big black letters. Sydney pointed at it. This is your home. Sometimes Sydney makes things up, but I'd find out the truth. I was ready for this.
Tags:
audiobook
fiction
romance
Texas accent
teen
young adult
Script:
Well, well, well, look who we have here, murmurs a low voice at their backs. Jules turns, her gaze searching for the owner of the sultry tone. Her eyes hold on a tall brunette with thick hair, teased up into one of those messy ponytails that look like it took no effort, but in reality takes no less than 30 minutes to create. West Rutledge, the newcomer purse. She walks up to West, leaving scant inches between them, and places her palm on his chest. Hi, good looking. Nice to know something good is coming from this Mustang invasion. The girl's lips curl upward. Bree, West acknowledges warily, his fingers wrapping around her wrist and removing it as he steps back. Bree pouts and looks over the rest of the group. Her heavily lined eyes stop on Katie and Jules a tad longer than the guys, taking them in. So, my little loner does have his own little friends. Jules bristles, stepping forward as Katie chokes, and West shoots her a guilty look. Bree, this is Jeff, Tommy, and Katie. He points around the circle while he makes introductions before turning toward Jules, glued to his side. With his arm wrapped around her waist, he meaningfully adds, and this is Jules, my girlfriend. There's no mistaking the emphasis he put on the word girlfriend, and Jules smiles on the inside as Bree's eyes narrow. Girlfriend, well, that's unfortunate. For you, maybe, Jules replies. West pinches her side lightly, but she ignores his warning. Who is this chick? She looks like she should be walking into a nightclub instead of a school, with her smoky eyes, bright red lips, and skimpy little outfit. Most definitely for me. Bree nods and leans into Jules' space, the movement too quick to counter, before she whispers, I know all too well what I'm missing. Stunned, Jules' jaw drops as beside her, Katie pushes her way in with an angry, back off. Bree, West moves in front of Jules while grabbing Katie's arm. Her name is sharp and menacing on his lips, and Bree laughs and shrugs her indifference. Through her red hot anger, Jules notices the curious glimpses they're receiving, as everyone else makes their way to where they're going. Someone shouts, Parker, distracting their attention and giving Bree a window to walk away untouched. We'll catch up later, she says, like it's a promise, while wiggling her fingers West's way. Jules envisions breaking each of the girl's red nail-tipped fingers. She's not the overly jealous type, but with all the changes in her life lately, and so much uncertainty, her emotions are chaotic at best, especially when it comes to West Rutledge.
Tags:
read by Laci Morgan
young adult
Irish
audiobook
tense
Script:
Clutches of reeds slide around the Vick's wagon, but leafy branches cluster and mount against sideboards, unable to dive beneath. When the wagon is a quarter way across the swollen river, Augustus Vick swerves to avoid a gnarled root ball barreling downstream. Hericoot, his wife's piercing cry carries across the muddy ribbon of water. Vick grimaces, pulls tight on the reins. In the chaos of managing auxin and detritus and screams, and with what he himself would have termed rotten luck, Augustus Vick mistakes a tree bowling down the middle of the big blue for a dark shadow on the face of the river, Ada gasps. She can't form any words that resemble prayer, so she's left to watch and worry. To the left, someone yells from the near shore. Too late, Vick cannot change course midstream when the trunk is upon him. Mama, papa, Ada screams. Seconds slow to hours as the monstrosity broadsides the wagon. Even above the whoosh of the river, Ada hears desperate bellowing as auxin thrash in their futile attempt to right themselves. Tree, wagon, and auxin entangle and spin, and then the wagon rolls, driven by the river into deeper water. Quick, men, one of the teamsters yells. Ada can't recall if his name is Foley or Dolan or Moran. Panicked men run down the banks after the Vicks. You on the ferry, take us back across. We'll pay your damn fee, another teamster hollers. Ada stands, rooted like an oak, eyes wide and wider, dry and drier, until everything blurs. In what could have been two minutes or two hours, Ada feels a gentle tug on her arm. It's Margaret Breen, a stout Irish woman in the Russell party. This way, Ida, come and sit. There's nothing to be done standing there. I've got coffee on. My mules, Edward, now. Mrs. Breen yells to one of her sons as she leads Ada to a three-legged camp stool. Rosie and Bert follow the Breen boy to a shaded spot away from camp. Ada sips black coffee and waits and waits. My mama always says, our vays are the best vays, Ada. Ada does her best imitation of Inger's Norwegian. I'm not so sure of that now. Don't give up hope, Mrs. Breen says. St. Jude is always with us. Edward Breen ambles into camp and loiters by the campfire. Ada estimates he's 12 or 13, all arms and legs and fine looking, like his black Irish brothers. You got a notion of why your folks didn't wait, Edward asks. Enough, his mother scolds. Give the girl her piece. Hell bent for leather, I guess, Ada answers. I got no other idea. She looks down, shakes her head. Our vays are the best vays. She eats what's offered. And thankfully, she'd eat anything, she's that hungry. She mops up juices with a heel of bread. Thanks for the fixings, ma'am. Ada hands Mrs. Breen her plate and holds out her mug. Mar, Ma Breen asks. Ada nods. By now, she's downed seven cups of strong bitter coffee. At nightfall, the Breen's teamster strides into camp. They're gone, I'm afraid. What do you mean gone? Where have they gone to? Ada asks. Scoured both banks of the river, the Irish teamster reports. Found the, you found them? Ada sits forward on the stool, her eyes crazed. No, miss, found the wagon about a half mile downstream snagged on a sandbar. He accepts coffee from Mrs. Breen and nods his thanks. Wagon was half above water, on its side, tangled with that giant of a tree, he continues. Sorry to say the oxen were still snarled in their harnesses. We put them out of their misery. But what about my papa and my mama? Couldn't get to the wagon, miss. Water's way too high. We called and called but got no answer. Maybe got knotted in the bonnet or penned underneath, might never know. Ada drops her head into her hands and rocks back and forth. Mama, papa.
Tags:
read by Laci Morgan
comedy
kids
warm
wry
audiobook
mom
Script:
Monsters vs. Kittens by Dani Jones This is a monster. This is a kitten. Monsters are big. Kittens are small. Kittens are clean. Monsters are messy. Monsters smell weird. Kittens don't, usually.
Tags:
audiobook
thriller
teen
young adult
Script:
I started to scream. The car came to a stop after a few minutes. Great, I'd gotten their attention. My whole body shook. I didn't know how much longer my voice would hold out anyway. I made myself ready to strike, to find a way to escape. The door opened and I kicked in the direction of the sound over and over, never meeting anything solid. Someone grabbed my legs, and then a familiar voice sounded in my ears. Calm down, you're safe. It was John's voice. Sit. I felt him sawing away at the ropes on my legs while he talked to another man. Nothing, absolutely nothing. It was the easiest abduction ever, really, a different male voice answered. John sighed loud and long as he cut my hands free and lifted the hood off me. I closed my eyes tight against the bright sunlight, blinking away dark spots. I finally saw John standing before me. Let's go. He acted bored. He turned and walked away. Let's go? That was it? Someone had taken me under his supposedly watchful eye. And he gave me no, I'm sorry I didn't protect you, or how did it happen? No questions at all, only let's go. Wait, what just happened here? I held on to the side of the van and saw John headed for his car. My gut ached. I thought, just get in the car, he yelled back. I headed for the driver's side. It had become a habit. No, no, no, I'm driving. And he climbed into the car and we drove away. John must have sighed 20 times before he spoke. His words rushed out like a flood. You barely even struggled? You had no idea they were there? I just stared, not sure what he wanted from me. They stood behind you for five minutes, Michelle, moving about, just to test you, and you didn't even sense them. This was a test? A lousy test. Look, John, I said, I was watching that stupid movie, concentrating, trying to understand why it was considered funny, and trying to memorize the especially funny lines. I had to concentrate. You should have warned me this could happen. Don't be so dramatic, Michelle. You, dramatic? I could hardly keep my voice low. I thought one of those competing factions you told me about had kidnapped me. I wasn't about to let them use me to get the power they wanted. I was planning my death. So don't lecture me about being dramatic. What do I have to live for anyway? I guessed I had him, because he didn't speak the rest of the way home. It made me feel sick to think he believed I didn't have anything to live for either. He didn't even speak to me once we went inside. He disappeared, just like I seem to have done.
Tags:
audiobook
classic fiction
kid
child
Script:
But who are you, questioned Pollyanna. You don't look a bit like a lady zater, Timothy laughed outright this time. I'm Nancy, the hired girl. I do all the work except the washing and hard ironing, Miss Sturgeon does that. But there is an Aunt Polly, demanded the child anxiously. You bet your life there is, cut in Timothy. Pollyanna relaxed visibly, that's all right then. There was a moment's silence, then she went on brightly. And do you know, I'm glad after all that she didn't come to meet me. Because now I've got her still coming, and I've got you besides. Nancy flushed, Timothy turned to her with a quizzical smile. I call that a pretty slick compliment, he said. Why don't you thank the little lady? I was thinking about Miss Polly, faltered Nancy. Pollyanna sighed contentedly. I was too, I'm so interested in her. You know she's all the aunt I've got, and I didn't know I had her for ever so long. Then father told me, he said she lived in a lovely great big house, way on top of a hill. She does, you can see it now, said Nancy. It's that big white one with the green blinds, way ahead. How pretty, and what a lot of trees and grass all around it. I never saw such a lot of green grass, seems so, all at once. Is my aunt Polly rich, Nancy? Yes, miss. I'm so glad, it must be perfectly lovely to have lots of money. I never knew anyone that did have, only the whites. They're some rich. They have carpets in every room and ice cream sundaes. Does Aunt Polly have ice cream sundaes? Nancy shook her head, her lips twitched. She threw a merry look into Timothy's eyes. No, miss, your aunt don't like ice cream, I guess. Least ways I never saw it on her table. Pollyanna's face fell, doesn't she? I'm so sorry, I don't see how she can help liking ice cream. But anyhow, I can be kind of glad about that, cuz the ice cream you don't eat can't make your stomach ache like Mrs. White's did. That is, I ate hers, you know, lots of it. Maybe Aunt Polly has got the carpets, though. Yes, she's got the carpets. In every room? Well, in almost every room, answered Nancy, frowning suddenly at the thought of that bare little attic room where there was no carpet. I'm so glad, exulted Pollyanna. I love carpets. We didn't have any, only two little rugs that came in a missionary barrel, and one of those had ink spots on it. Mrs. White had pictures, too, perfectly beautiful ones of roses and little girls kneeling, and a kitty, and some lambs and a lion. Not together, you know, the lambs and the lion. Of course, the Bible says they will sometime, but they haven't yet. That is, I mean, Mrs. White's haven't. Don't you just love pictures? I don't know, answered Nancy in a half-stifled voice. I do, we didn't have any pictures. They don't come in the barrels much, you know. There did two come once, though, but one was so good, father sold it to get money to buy me some shoes with. And the other was so bad, it fell to pieces just as soon as we hung it up. Glass, it broke, you know, and I cried. But I'm glad now we didn't have any of those nice things, cuz I shall like Aunt Polly's all the better. Not being used to them, you see. Just as it is when the pretty hair ribbons come in the barrels, after a lot of faded out brown ones. My, but isn't this a perfectly beautiful house? She broke off fervently as they turned into the wide driveway. It was when Timothy was unloading the trunk that Nancy found an opportunity to mutter low in his ear. Don't you never say nothing to me again about leaving Timothy Durgeon. You couldn't hire me to leave.
Tags:
audiobook
non fiction
funny
sarcastic
mom
Script:
One of the biggies is Dr. Sears' school of thought, which is, in essence, that kids sleep better in bed with their parents. Yeah, well, the babies may sleep like babies, but the parents sleep like they're taking the bar exam the next day. We'd already tried this method, without knowing it was a method someone makes money from. In the first few weeks home, our new spawn refused to sleep anywhere but in bed with us. She was having none of the adorable bassinet decorated in the pink étoile, a word I'd only recently learned the definition of. I'd so carefully chosen. She screamed the second she was placed down onto its plush sixteenth of an inch of plastic padding, like she was being lowered onto hot coals, which inevitably forced us to bring her into bed as a last-ditch option. But despite Dr. Sears' opinion, having a seven-pound baby in a bed with two adults was far from relaxing. It was like trying to snuggle with a mingboz. We kept an all-night semi-conscious vigil, petrified of falling fully asleep and mistakenly rolling over onto her. After a few nights and zombie days of this, we were ready for any alternative. P.T. Barnum says there's a sucker born every minute, and I'd bet most of those are gullible parents trying to get a newborn to sleep. Endless pricey appliances are perched on the shelves of every baby store, simply waiting for sleepy parents to stumble into range. My husband, on a desperate run to Babies R Us, took the bait with something cloyingly named the Snuggle Nest. This thing is basically a postal service crate that shamelessly retails for $50. It fit into the middle of our queen-sized bed, leaving each of us a leftover place about the size of a post-it note to sleep. That item lasted until the opening credits of Conan O'Brien, and has been collecting dust under our bed ever since. I seriously think we narrowly escaped at least one of us needing back surgery. Okay, to be fair, some people who aren't me swear by the family bed. I think that's great if you can and want to sleep that way. But if I may, a word of caution. Once your child gets used to sleeping in your bed with you, they won't want any part of their own room. And own crib. So you need to be committed to doing the family bed at least until your baby's a teenager. Or until it destroys your marriage.
Tags:
audiobook
childrens
storyteller
kid
Script:
Then, as the sun rose in the sky, a biplane dipped low over Littleville and dropped hundreds of handmade flyers. Rally on the village green and save your history, each one read. No one rallied. Finally, little Abner Pitt pedaled over on his tricycle. Don't you understand, Emmy? Shoelaces are gonna put this town on the map. It was the last straw. In the immortal words of Chief Joseph, she sobbed. My heart is sick and sad. She ran home to her father. All too soon, it was Friday. Imogene wandered through her beloved society. Goodbye, photographs, she sniffled. Goodbye, fossils and four-poster bed. Goodbye, old letters. A yellowed parchment caught her eye. October 16, 1789. Dear sir, thank you again for the hospitality you showed me last Tuesday. The oxtail soup was delicious, and the four-poster bed soft as angel clouds. Indeed, I have not slept so well since leaving Mount Vernon. Your humble and obedient servant, G. Washington. Imogene gasped, George Washington? Had he really slept here?
Tags:
read by Laci Morgan
fantasy
adventure
young adult
audiobook
teen
Script:
I slide around the boulder and tiptoe toward the cave entrance. The ogre has his back to me, turning the spit. Up close, I can tell the roasting animal is some type of mountain goat or cow or something. At least I hope it's one of those animals and not a unicorn or one of the sentient creatures of Avarel. At the entrance, I pause. This is crazy. What do I think I'm doing? I should leave. I should go back to the castle and get help. That would be the smart thing to do. But I can't quit now. Not after I've gone this far. I have to get Brett and do my best to correct my mistake. This is all my fault and I have to fix it. I ease into the opening. I can do this. I have to do this. If I don't, then I'm no better than the stereotypical princesses in the stories on earth. The ones who always need to be saved and can't do anything for themselves. I don't want to be that kind of princess. I want to be the kind who saves the day. Who faces the dragon herself. Who fights alongside her prince, whoever he may be. Or perhaps saves her high school crush once in a while. With another deep breath, I force myself a step. Two. I can't stop now. I can't go back. The cave is warm inside, with the fire blasting heat at the far side. The ogre still has his back to me. This ogre's clothes are still made from hides, but they appear clean. His orange-brown skin is shining in the firelight, not grimy like the other ogres had been. Perhaps this ogre has discovered the meaning of the word bath. Doesn't matter if he's a clean ogre or a filthy one. I ease along the wall, looking before I place each foot for loose pebbles that would give me away. Inside the cage, Brett is still. He's curled on his side. His shirt and jeans are ripped. Even in the faint light, his skin appears paler than usual for a Michigander in spring. When I take a step closer, I catch a whiff of the putrid stench of vomit. Brett must have tried to eat something the ogre fed him, and it didn't agree with him at all. I have to get him out of here and get him to drink some water with unicorn horn powder in it. First things first, rescue Brett. I take a step forward. Something shifts beneath my feet. The whole side of the cave is slick here, and before I can catch myself, my foot slides out from under me, along with a cascade of dirt and pebbles. I tumble onto my rear end. I try to scramble to my feet or scoot into a hiding place, but it's too late. The ogre turns and peers into the darkness. He trundles toward me. Ah, good. Another one. With two, I might have enough for a decent dinner. Talk my way out of this. That's the plan, isn't it? I take a deep breath, stand, and brush myself off. I shoot a glance toward the entrance and catch sight of Trigg in unicorn form, poised to charge inside. As subtly as I can, I shake my head and motion for him to stay back. It isn't time yet for him to charge in. I face the ogre and force myself to smile. Hello, I'm Princess Amurrani Koryantha. What's your name? Grundle. The ogre scowls. Princess, huh? No, I can't eat you. Um, no. Not without offending my father, which isn't a good idea. He's just spent the last three days in conference with the dragons and the unicorns. I clasp my hands in front of me and concentrate on adding brilliance to my smile, which mostly involves thinking happy thoughts and flashing my teeth in best princess fashion. And I'm afraid you can't eat him either. I half turn so that I can see both Grundle the ogre and Brett. Brett has pushed himself to his knees. He clasps the bars of his cage. The firelight casts deep wells of shadow beneath his eyes. He blinks. Amy? Hearing English, and my English name, nearly sends me reeling. It is too surreal having Brett here, in Averell. My two worlds are never supposed to collide. Never. I can't let it rattle me now. I have to get the two of us out of here without being eaten.
Tags:
audiobook
non fiction
historical
narration
Script:
Disney first explored the possibility of using The Little Mermaid as part of a Hans Christian Andersen biography, or a compilation of his tales in the early 1940s. But Samuel Goldwyn's Hans Christian Andersen, 1952, with Danny Kaye, beat him to it. Years later, as Ron Clements was wrapping up work on The Great Mouse Detective, he wanted his next project to be The Little Mermaid. The studio turned him down. After all, they explained, they'd just released Splash. Why did they need another mermaid picture? Clements kept pushing and finally got the go-ahead. In 1985, he wrote a two-page treatment, adding a few characters such as the bespectacled crab Clarence, a stuffy English conductor who leads the mermaids at an undersea concert. Lyricist Howard Ashman, who had done some work on Oliver and Company, suggested that Clarence become a Jamaican crab. That allowed Ashman and his partner, Alan Menken, to incorporate a range of calypso and reggae styles, which they hoped would give the film a bouncier, more contemporary feel. Similarly, Clements and partner John Musker tried to make the story more contemporary, identifying with the dreamy, misunderstood teenager instead of the father who thinks he knows best. Unlike Pinocchio, who is punished for his wanderlust and rewarded for returning to his family, Mermaid Ariel runs away from home, never comes back, and lives happily ever after. From now on, Disney would leave the helpless kidnapped waifs to Don Bluth. Clements and Musker wrote a 20-page treatment, making the unnamed sea witch more of a villain and shaping the personalities of the prince, the out-of-touch Father Triton, Sebastian the crab, Flounder the fish, and Scuttle the seagull.
