Tags:
Non-fiction
Narrative
Narration
Military
Narrator
Storytelling
Audiobook
Publishing
Survival
Mental Health
Writing
Script:
As a child searching for heroic models to aspire to, I never cared about what came after the hero's journey. The Iliad ends with a warrior's funeral, battle looming on the next day's horizon. Homer never tells us what happens to the lowly grunt who must go home without the adulation of an Odysseus or Diomedes, the warrior who didn't have a kingdom waiting for him, only the monotony of life in the wake of bearing witness to the clash of the gods. This warrior would never have a poet to help him make sense of the sheer dumb luck of survival. Achilles and Hector died on the field, which in many ways is the easiest way for a warrior to expire. They got to die when they were still the ideal, before age and alcohol could deteriorate them into a faint echo of their armor-clad ferocity. No, Homer gets to skip the afterwards and stay in the throes of us versus them, where life is focused by the will to survive, do or die. But those of us left, who did but didn't die, are waiting for the Homeric spinoff of a peasant spearman who must go back to the fields after turning in his shield, who must raise a family when every thought eventually trails back to the gates of Troy. I focused on the contrast of my warm tears and the cold barrel pressed into my temple. My finger was straight and off the trigger when I pulled the hammer back. I heard my life's story in that metallic click. Here lies yet another victim. I opened my eyes, told myself that if I was going to do it, I was going to force myself to watch. I owed my old self the dignity. I was terrified by the image I saw in the mirror. I was terrified that I was holding the gun, that it wasn't some terrorist in a black ski mask but me. I had fought so hard to stay alive, and now here I was. I stared past the red-bearded civilian and searched for that Marine. He was a faint outline, but he was there. I focused on the eyes, which was where I could still see him. I picked my finger up, only for a moment, thinking of sliding it to the crescent moon that heralds the long night. I took a breath, made a decision. I removed the gun from the groove in my temple and looked at the red ring left there. I pressed the trigger and lowered the hammer, opened the cylinder and unloaded it, placing the hollow-point cartridge on the edge of the fake marble. I locked the gun in the safe and stored the ammo. The next morning, I began to put it all down on paper, first on a yellow legal pad and then on my computer. I made up the names but told our story. I'm not sure what mechanism was at work, but there was a change. I think just writing the memories down, trying to articulate the feelings, made it somehow more bearable. It gave me the opportunity to put my reality into a digestible narrative that I could make sense out of. I was once told that we all wear packs where we store our stress. Everything gets put in the pack. In the Marine Corps, I had a singular focus. My life. And for the most part, everything fit in the pack manageably. The problem was that I never unloaded it. I kept carrying it around. And when I got out and had to deal with the normal, everyday stresses of being a father and a husband, the added weight made my knees buckle. Every page I wrote felt like pounds being lifted from the pack. I told myself I would write a thousand words a day, I would lock myself in a room and peck at the keyboard until I had my thousand, and when I emerged, I was somehow better for it. My wife even noticed a difference, telling me that she didn't know what I was doing, but that I shouldn't ever stop. I began sharing my writing with her. It was easier for me to write than it was to talk. I was insecure when I spoke. I hated my voice. I struggled for words. I shut down. But when I wrote, I felt like I was my best self. When I wrote, I could be who I wanted to be. I could go back and be that Marine who thought he was invincible. I could go back to all my old selves, taking the good and trying my best to understand the bad.
Tags:
Audiobook
Serious
Suspenseful
Dramatic
Escape
Survival
WWII
Non-Fiction
Script:
20. Escape The next morning the march to Austria began. It was already mid-November, the air biting cold with heavy snows due any time. Frank and Irvine considered running off before the march began, but thought better of it. "'Maybe Ola didn't respect these papers,' Irvine said, referring to the protective passes Captain Kemeny had provided, "'but that doesn't mean they won't come in handy. If we have these on us, we have a credible excuse for being free.'" "'But are they even legit?' Frank asked. "'Doesn't matter,' Irvine replied, "'as long as whoever sees them thinks they are. And they sure look it to me.'" "'Okay,' Frank agreed, taking out a near-empty pack of cigarettes he'd been savoring and offering one to Irvine, who declined as he always did. As much as Irvine envied the pleasure smoking brought to Frank, he had no desire to develop an addiction, especially in the situation they were in where wants and desires were so out of reach. After savoring the first delicious taste of the nicotine-laced smoke, Frank asked, "'So when do we do it? If we don't take off tonight, when? Austria's just a few days away.'" "'We leave at twilight,' Irvine said, feeling confident. "'It'll be harder for them to see us in the dark. We just need to get far enough away to hide. We'll watch for the guards to be preoccupied, maybe when they're eating or someone's taking a leak. But it should be in an area with a lot of trees and bushes, places we can hide. But we won't be able to see at night, and we don't know this terrain. That's why I think twilight's a good time to go. We'll have enough light to see for twenty or thirty minutes. That's about how long it should take them to realize we're gone. As long as we move quickly and they really are preoccupied. We need to be up front where we can round a bend and not be seen. Supposing someone tells. Someone will. They all will once they're threatened. But they first." "'You're sure about that?' Frank wasn't quite as confident as Irvine, and knew that one slip-up could mean a punishment he didn't dare think about. It was likely they'd be hung. "'No one ever says anything unless it's their own hide on the line. Turning us in right away won't bring them any rewards. Besides, they'll be inspired. Maybe we'll give them the courage to do the same.' Frank stayed silent for a few long minutes as he finished his cigarette. Once done, he flicked the bud away and asked, "'What if twilight comes and the guards are watching, or we're at some barren place with nothing but birch trees to hide behind?' "'Then we wait another day. We've got three good nights before we reach the border.' Frank nodded but said nothing. "'One more thing,' Irvine added. "'What's that, boss?' Frank said, accepting Irvine as the mastermind of this plot they were hatching. As comical as Irvine could be at times, Frank trusted in his friend's clever mind. "'We run in different directions,' Irvine said. "'What do you mean we run in different directions? I don't get it. You go one way, I go another.' "'Oh, so this is it. To each his own after this.' The tone in Frank's voice showed the first seeds of doubt. Maybe Irvine wasn't such a friend after all, if he would dump Frank the minute he was free. "'We have to. It'll make it harder for them to find us, and if they do, at least they'll only catch one of us, and the other will be free. We can meet up in Pesht.' Frank agreed it was a good idea, and, after some discussion on where to meet up, Frank gave Irvine the name of a relative in Pesht where Irvine could leave a message for him. Then they agreed on a signal. Irvine would give it. A subtle countdown to three with his fingers. They were all set. All they had to do was wait for the right time. Then run like hell and pray they'd survive.
Tags:
Fiction
Narrative
Narration
Gritty
Script:
McIntyre avoids going to his mom's house. He doesn't dislike her, but the newspaper articles about his burning car heroics are framed in the middle of the living room. It was 24 years ago. He stopped getting a Christmas card from the kid he saved about seven years ago. But what's she supposed to be proud of? His wedding band? He makes money from it, but... He uses his spare key to unlock her door. Her hearing's been gone for a while. She's asleep on the sofa, right under the framed page-three story. McIntyre realizes... She's not just asleep.
Tags:
Audiobook
Business
Leadership
Professional
Authoritative
Engaging
Adult
Personal Relationships
Script:
In Leadership as a Relationship, accomplished founders and authors Michael S. Irwin and Willis Duvall deliver an insightful collection of interviews with leaders who have succeeded by prioritizing the well-being of other people. Featuring fresh stories from leaders like Olympic legend Kerry Walsh Jennings, former Secretary of Veterans Affairs Bob McDonald, and visionary principal Dr. Virginia Hill, the book shows how you too can become a relationship-based leader and thrive in our chaotic digital world. By highlighting role models from different careers, backgrounds, skill sets, and schools of thought, the authors offer readers an inspiring antidote to one of the most serious and under-reported crises of our era—the damage that digital distractions have done to our personal relationships. The book offers concrete strategies for combating the depersonalization of the information age and strengthening our connections with other people. Real stories of how people from Olympic champions to small business owners have put people first. Takeaway tips for the busy reader who needs quick insight or hopes to use the book in a modular curriculum for their organization or class. This book is perfect for anyone who wants to lead both morally and effectively. Leadership as a relationship provides a concise and convincing argument that leaders who put people first have the best chance of succeeding in the 21st century. When leadership is understood as a series of relationships, no person is excluded from the privilege and responsibility of leading. You may or may not have a big desk in the corner office or make policy decisions that affect thousands of lives. You are, however, surrounded by people with whom you can form empowering bonds. You can inspire others with your passion, talent, and commitment. And you can improve others' lives by engaging their stories, emotions, and beliefs. That's all a way of saying something that seems so simple but is also rich, challenging, and full of urgent promise. Leadership is a relationship.
Tags:
Audiobook
Serious
empathetic
introspective
Adult
Military
war
immigration
friendship
loyalty
Script:
I hadn't heard from Zach for years until he'd reached out to me in 2016 on Facebook, seemingly out of the blue. He had been trying, unsuccessfully, to secure SIV visas for him and his family under a U.S. Department of State program for Afghan translators who had worked for the U.S. military. That Facebook message had been four years earlier, and ever since, I'd been trying, and failing, to help him navigate the Byzantine red tape of the SIV process. But I would keep pushing till one or both of us was dead. I owed him everything I could give. America had made a promise to him. He was as much a brother as the Marines arrayed about me at the funeral. Ever since Zach had first reached out to me, I'd known that there was an urgency. Zach was not one to leave Afghanistan without cause. He'd always believed in his country, in its prospects, and in its people. But he and I both saw what was coming.
Tags:
Fiction
Narrative
Gravelly
Gritty
Character
Script:
The complaints hadn't stopped for hours, but the drinks hadn't stopped either. It was a rather pro-piece-of-bar etiquette. The liquid stranger knew, from experience, that someone would listen if the vodka lubed the conversation. His complaints were mundane and nearly universal—money, infidelity, and a lack of appreciation. In the bar mirror, Ed could see his own chicken pox scar, but not the deep grooves where his uncle had taken out his eye with a salad fork. "'You know what I mean,' the stranger said. "'I know what you're saying,' Ed said. "'But I don't share your woes.'"
Tags:
Fiction
Narrative
Gravelly
Storytelling
Gritty
Script:
We sobered up together, mostly. A few smuggled in half pints and flasks. The place was called The Lantern. The after-bar crowd was The Moths. Walk in drunk and walk out full and sleepy. The girl with the haunted eyes wrote poetry in the corner booth. The scene was cinematic and felt sad, like she should have been at the bar with us having fun instead of scribbling alone, waiting for us to disturb her, flirt with her. The little diner is gone now. The poem she gave me is lost. But the bar is still there and always packed.