Maria Makis | Professional Voice Actor for Corporate Narration & Narration

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Hello, Maggie Bird, she says. I don't believe we've met. Why did you choose that particular name? Why not? Let me guess. Bird, as in free as a bird? A girl can dream. She pulls out a chair, sits down at my kitchen table, and casually brushes aside the sugar granules I spilled at breakfast, seeming not to care that I'm one trigger pull from blowing her away. There's really no need for that, she says, nodding at my Walter. I'll decide that. Right now, I'm looking at someone who entered my house uninvited. I have no idea who you are or why you're here. Please, call me Bianca, real or alias. Does it matter? The police will need a name for the corpse. Oh, please. I'm here because we have a problem, and we could use your help. I regard her for a moment, taking in the relaxed shoulders and the long, lean legs, now lazily crossed. She's not even looking at me. Instead, she's casually picking at a hangnail. I sit down across from her and set my Walter on the table. She glances at the gun. Yes, I can understand why you might feel the need for that. You have a reputation for not trusting people. I have a reputation? That's why they sent me. They thought you'd consider a woman to be less threatening. If you know anything at all about me, then you also know I'm no longer in the game. I'm a chicken farmer. I like being a chicken farmer. There's not even a twitch of a smile on her lips. She has no sense of humor, but is all business, a woman on a mission. The agency has clearly stepped up its recruiting game since I worked for them. I don't know why they sent you, I say, but now that you've seen me, you know I'm no longer in my prime, and I'm also rusty. I'm not interested in doing any more work for them. There'd be a paycheck for you. I have all the money I need. It could be substantial. I frown. Really? That doesn't sound like my cheap Uncle Sam. This assignment will have special significance for you. Still not interested? I rise from the chair, and even though getting up that quickly makes my knee twinge, I'm too proud to let her hear me groan or see me grimace. I'll walk you out now. Tell them that the next time they send someone to talk to me, have that person knock on my door like any normal visitor would. Diana Wood has dropped off the radar. I go still. For a moment, I just stare at her, trying to read her face, but all I see is cool perfection and an utterly expressionless face. Alive or dead, I ask.

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In the firmament of history, Joan of Arc is a massive star. Her light shines brighter than that of any other figure of her time and place. Her story is unique, and at the same time, universal in its reach. She is, famously, a protean icon, a hero to nationalists, monarchists, liberals, socialists, the right, the left, Catholics, Protestants, traditionalists, feminists, Vichy, and the resistance. She is a recurring motif, a theme replayed in art, literature, music, and film. And the process of recounting her story and making her myth began from the moment she stepped into public view. She was as much an object of fascination and a subject of impassioned argument during her short life as she has been ever since. In outline, her tale is both profoundly familiar and endlessly startling. Alone in the fields of Domremy, a peasant girl hears heavenly voices bringing a message of salvation for France, which lies broken at the hands of the invading English. Against all odds, she reaches the Dauphin Charles, the disinherited heir to the French throne, and convinces him that God has made it her mission to drive the English from his kingdom. Dressed in armor as though she were a man, with her hair cut short, she leads an army to rescue the town of Orléans from an English siege. The fortunes and the morale of the French are utterly transformed, and in a matter of weeks she pushes on, deep into English-held territory, Thorem, where she presides over the coronation of the Dauphin as King Charles VII of France. But soon she is captured by allies of the English, to whom she is handed over for trial as a heretic. She defends herself with undaunted courage, but she is, of course, condemned. She is burned to death in the market square in Rouen, but her legend proves much harder to kill. Nearly 500 years later, the Catholic Church recognizes her not only as a heroine, but as a saint.

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Nobody knew where the toy had come from, which great-grandparent or distant aunt had owned it before it was given to the nursery. It was a box, carved and painted in gold and red. The latch, unfortunately, was rusted shut and the key had been lost, so Jack could not be released from his box. It sat at the bottom of the old toy box, which was the same size and age as a pirate's treasure chest, or so the children thought. The Jack in the Box was buried beneath dolls and trains, clowns and paper stars, and old conjuring tricks, and crippled marionettes with their strings irrevocably tangled, with dressing up clothes and costume jewelry, broken hoops and tops and hobby horses. Under them all was Jack's box. The children did not play with the Jack in the Box. And when they grew up and left the great house, the attic nursery was closed up and almost forgotten, almost, but not entirely. For each of the children separately remembered walking alone in the moon's blue light on his or her own bare feet up to the nursery. It was almost like sleepwalking, feet soundless on the wood of the stairs, on the threadbare nursery carpet, remembered opening the treasure chest, pawing through the dolls and the clothes, and pulling out the box. And then the child would touch the catch, and the lid would open, slow as a sunset. And the music would begin to play, and Jack came out, not with a pop and a bounce, he was no spring-heeled Jack, but deliberately, intently. He would rise from the box and motion to the child to come closer, closer, and smile. And there in the moonlight he told them each things they could never quite remember, things they were never able entirely to forget. Years have passed, and owls and bats have made their homes in the old attic nursery. Rats build their nests among the forgotten toys. And deep within the box, Jack waits and smiles, holding his secrets. He is waiting for the children, he can wait forever.

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I'm not going to say that he's dead, Aunt Hannah, till I know he is, but I'm certain he is, all the same. I think that he was already dead when the man phoned, and that he couldn't bear to tell me, and I don't blame him. I'm grateful he didn't. It ought to come from a man in the family. I think Andrew was pretty sure what was up, but all the time he was hoping against hope, and when he saw Jay, it was more than he could do to phone, and he knew it was more than I could stand to hear over the phone, even from him. Hannah's eyes were burning, because she felt she must not blink, and after some moments a long crying groan broke from the younger woman, and in a low and shaken voice she said, Oh, I do beseech my God that it not be so, and Hannah whispered, So do I, and again they became still, and it was thus that they were when they heard footsteps on the front porch. Andrew did not bother to knock, but opened the door and closed it quietly behind him, and seeing their moving shadows near the kitchen threshold, walked quickly down the hall into the kitchen. He came straight on, his mouth a straight line and his eyes like splintered glass, and without saying a word he put his arms around his aunt so tightly that she gasped, Mary, Hannah whispered close to his ear. He looked. There she stood waiting, and before he could speak he heard her say thinly and gently, He's dead, Andrew, isn't he? And he could not speak but nodded, and his sister said in the same small and unearthly voice, He was dead when you got there, and again he nodded, and turning to his sister took her by her shoulders and said more loudly than he had expected, He was instantly killed, and they embraced, and without tears but with great violence he sobbed twice his cheek against hers, while he stared downwards through her loose hair at her humbled back and at the changeful blinking of the linoleum.

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Stop your yelling, I don't know what the heck you're carrying on about this time, but we got to get out of the rain. The goddamn plow is busted, it hit a damned rock. The plow didn't hit a damned rock, you hit a damned rock with the plow. It ain't the Lord's fault you weren't paying attention, so stop shouting at him. Benjamin looked down at the broken plow and mumbled, damn newspaper, damn government, damn war. Man, I don't know what you're talking about, but we both got to get out of the rain. Let's get the horses to the barn, you can finish your cursing up there where it's dry, rain never hurt me before. Maybe it ain't, Hiram said, but that lightning will sure kick your ass, especially with you standing out here in the middle of an open field during a thunderstorm, what the hell are you thinking? Come on, let's get these horses back to the barn or we won't need no war to kill us, Benjamin turned toward Hiram and pointing his finger at him said, I don't pay you to scold me, he turned back toward the horses and plow. Hell, you don't pay me to bear you either, but that's what I'm gonna be doing if the good Lord takes it in his mind to bring you home riding a lightning bolt. That's right, sure, he takes your soul on up through the pearly gates and leaves the rest of your raggedy ass here for me to clean up. Well, maybe the pearly gates. With that, they led the horses to the barn. The crippled plow was left to fend for itself.

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They wanted to take her babies away, wanted to seize them by court order and deny her access to them, as if she were some welfare mother smoking crack in the ghetto, as if she couldn't nurse and doctor them herself, though she'd been doing it all these years. And when had there ever been a complaint, even the rumor of a complaint? She was furious, but she was scared, too, scared in a way that tugged at her bowels and made the roots of her hair ache, as if she'd been suspended by her ponytail in some hellish high-wire act. Even her babies couldn't comfort her, not at first, not after the door slammed behind the officer and all the gloom of the uncaring world rushed in to fill the house with the dismal fog of defeat. And the day had begun so promisingly. That's what made it all the worse. After two days of overcast, Grace had woken to a kitchen suffused with a sun so ripe and mellow it was as if she were standing inside an orange and looking out. And she just knew that Rudolfo would take his medication without a fuss and that Brigitte's temperature would have come down during the night. And she was right. She was right. Even Phil seemed better, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at breakfast, and nodding his cunning little head in time to the music on the radio as she cleaned up the dishes. And then the UPS man came, and that was a blessing, too, because the copy of Suradai in history she'd ordered from a mail-order house in Connecticut had finally arrived. And she was just sitting down to leaf through it, already fascinated by the pictures of mummified squirrels dug out of the ruins of Pompeii, when the bell rang again. She opened the door on a nervous-looking young man with a pale, clean-shaven expanse of upper lip and a puff of tawny beard clinging like plumage to the very tip of his chin. He was wearing a beige uniform with some sort of piping on the left shoulder and a circular patch over the breast pocket. His eyes, a dull, watery blue, stared out of his head in two different directions, and his feet seemed to be working out the steps of some intricate dance routine on the doormat. "'Mrs. Gargano?' he said, lifting his eyebrows and tightening the flesh round his mouth so that the flag of his beard seemed to stand at attention. "'Yes,' Grace said, with just the right blend of caution and hospitality. No matter how rude and venal the world might have become, she was always prepared to be gracious. The young man seemed to be looking beyond her at the knick-knack shelf and her collection of ceramic figurines, though it was hard to say with those roving eyes. Suddenly she was overcome by a wave of pity. What must his mother have thought when she pressed him to her breast for the first time, and she saw herself offering him a cup of tea and a slice of banana-nup-bread she'd baked for her daughter, Jet? "'I'm Officer Craybill,' he said. "'A fishin' game? We've had a complaint.'"

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Hi, my name is Maria, and I'm a cheese-a-holic. But you can't blame me. I got home and there was a new bag of Jumping Jack Doritos. I just lost control.

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Some women would rather die than call an ambulance. So that's exactly what they do. Heart disease is the number one killer of women. Don't let it happen to you.

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New Nest Tea Raspberry Iced Tea. It's in bottles. It's in stores. It's in!

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Honey, I spent $5,000 on leopard skin pumps. Great. He hasn't listened to me since he got his new app, Texture. Hey, I've been thinking about getting one of those sex changes. Okey-dokey. I'm running away to Mexico with that hot cabana boy from the club. Sounds good. Jeez!

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At KitchenAid, we love everything about the kitchen. That's why we make everything for it. And for people who love to cook.

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What do you want most when you visit a hospital? To get better at Southwest General UWill.

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At J.P. Morgan, we develop smart, strategic solutions that help our clients and communities thrive. We are trusted advisors and thought leaders. We are the corporate and investment bank, making a difference in the communities where we live and work.

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Nestled into the lush green hills overlooking the historic Hudson River Valley, the Ben Marl Winery's 37-acre estate lays claim to the oldest vineyard in America.

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Meet Pickles, the Brown family's resident cat and ruler of the living room. Lately, Pickles has had a few too many feasts and has become a bit too opulent to climb his towering cat throne. The Browns veterinarian recommended Hill's Science Diet for weight management and healthy digestion. Now Pickles can once again rule from his mighty throne. All hail King Pickles, long may he reign.

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We invite you to step into a Voco Hotel and experience something different. A place to indulge and relax. Here's to just five more minutes. No, wait, ten. Where each hotel has its own character and style.

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During the Crimean War, more soldiers died from infection than in battle, until a nurse introduced sanitary practices still in use today. Nurses change lives, and that changes everything.

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The responsibility has never been greater for business to step up and help sustain a healthy planet. That's why, at ConEd, we're introducing our new Sustainable in a Generation Plan. This goes well beyond our own operations. We're assessing our impact on greenhouse gas emissions throughout our entire value chain.

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This is Jane. She keeps your web enterprise running smooth. And this is Jack, who needs a web app for a pitch on Friday. Friday? Now Jane's good, but not that good. That's when SAP's low-code, no-code solutions save the day. Now your teams can build and collaborate on solutions that are more drop and drag than bits and bytes.

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Is it possible to teach a baby's heart to repair itself? Will microscopic robots revolutionize medicine? Not to mention the human race? Amid a thousand maybes and a million no's, we believe in the profound and unstoppable power of YES!

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At times, you may conscientiously object to a patient's request to withdraw life-sustaining treatment. Nevertheless, you must acknowledge the patient's authority over her body and her right to refuse unwanted interventions.

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The infantibulopelvic ligaments are identified, clamped, and transected. We continue lateral anterior dissection and open the paravesical space. Ureterolysis is continued step by step.

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At Pfizer, we have before us the opportunity to become an enduring leader, contributing more to human health than any company in history. It is up to each of us to find a way to lead, bringing our principles to life through action. Together, we can meet this challenge.

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Most human cancer cells sustain mutations that alter the functions of the tumor suppressor gene or the retinoblastoma tumor suppressor protein by direct mutation of gene sequences or by targeting genes that act epistatically to prevent their normal function.

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The rising cost of health care is the number one crisis in America today. And what's worse, we don't even know how much will be charged before a procedure is performed. And then we're forced to pay crippling health care bills. Why are medical prices such a mystery?

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Are you planning a wedding? Well, no one does it better than Pinehurst Inn. With our mountain forests and quiet lake waters as a backdrop, we provide a unique and romantic setting that will make your special day truly unforgettable.

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Are you at the fountain yet? Walk toward the vast green lawn and look around. No matter who you are, Bryant Park is the place for you.

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American Sign Language is a true language, with its own structure and its own rules. What's called a slip of the tongue in spoken language is, in sign, a slip of the hand.

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Congratulations! You have just completed the Interactive Conflict of Interest training course and the post-course mini-exam. Just click the Show Results button to see how you did.

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Our best scientists and engineers have just finished the most super-fantastic spaceship ever. Good luck, Captain!

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The hurt that George Feck inflicted knew no bounds. He didn't just force himself on them. He forced his way inside their marriages. He forced his way inside their heads. But if there's anything good to come out of this story, and sometimes it's hard to see it at all, maybe it's this. You might be hurting. You might never stop hurting. But you don't have to hurt alone. You don't have to hurt alone.

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Jackie Rosen represents common-sense Nevada values in the Senate, has stood up against MAGA extremists, and Jackie Rosen has the backs of Nevada small businesses voting for tax bills that target billionaires, not entrepreneurs. So this is just one way that we can help families all across this country immediately put more money in their pocketbook. On Election Day, vote for Nevada's common-sense senator. Vote to re-elect Senator Jackie Rosen.

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We need a middle ground. Defunding the police is going too far, but we hire them to protect us, not to treat citizens like ATM machines and roam around like an armed gang. And we can start by getting rid of things that protect bad cops, like qualified immunity. Call your congressperson and tell them qualified immunity needs to go. Paid for by LeftPath.

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We shouldn't have to keep fighting the same battle over and over. Voting rights are set of law and everyone's vote should count equally. I'm voting yes on Prop 386, the Fair Districts Act, and so should you.