Rhett Kennedy | Professional Voice Actor for Audiobooks & Animation

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This was a Splash 7 Sword of Razor Shifting. It had an enchantment cast upon it by a 41st level necrophage, the all-powerful Darkseer.

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Dang it, I'm just sayin' you're a nidget. Why Momma didn't leave you at the bottom of the well, I don't know.

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Oh no! We can't let this happen! Someone has stolen all our daisy dogs!

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This reminds me of the time when I was a young man on second expedition to the Orient. I came upon a man with two heads Siamese chap wonderful fellow once you got to know him

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I, Dr. Von Kruthenhamer, will rule the world!

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10 meters tip of the snout to tail. It's dangerous, more venomous than a cobra, and looks like more than a bit cranky.

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Yes, I feel the spirit of the Lord upon me.

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Dude, I'm like soooo ready to have a dig at those waves.

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So how much would you pay? $30? $50? $100? If you order now, you can have the Deluxe Set for only $19.95! But wait! There's more! If you order within the next 30 minutes, we'll give you the double amount for free! Now how much would you pay? And if you order now and use the special secret code below, we'll throw in the Super Whopper Dopper Dizer! A $40 value! Absolutely free!

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You're welcome, citizen. Surrender, freeze-frame! Your days of terrorizing the citizens of Central City are over!

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We was friends, so I'm giving you a chance to turn tail and leave. You have until noon to get yourself out of these parks. Don't make me say it again, Clem. You get straight out of here, or I'm calling you out.

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This reminds me of a song from back in the day, written by a man by the name of Danny Fox Club. Woah yeah girl, you've got that feeling deep down inside. I know I got it too, it's blowing my mind, yeah!

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Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind, and another, and another. His mother called him Wild Thing, and Max said, I'll eat you up. So he was sent to bed without eating anything. That very night in Max's room, a forest grew, and grew, and grew until his ceiling hung with vines, and the walls became the world all around. And an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max. And he sailed off through the night and day, and in and out of weeks, and almost over a year, to where the wild things are. And when he came to the place where the wild things are, they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth, and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws, till Max said, be still, and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once. And they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all, and made him king of all the wild things. And now, cried Max, let the rumpus start. Now stop, Max said, and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper. And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all. Then all around from far away and across the world, he smelled good things to eat. So he gave up being king of where the wild things are. But the wild things cried, oh, please don't go, we'll buy eat you up, we love you so. And Max said, no. The wild things roared their terrible roars, and gnashed their terrible teeth, and rolled their terrible eyes, and showed their terrible claws. But Max stepped into his private boat and waved goodbye, and sailed back over a year, and in and out of weeks, and through a day, and into the night of his very own room, where he found supper waiting for him, and it was still hot.

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LOVE LETTERS FROM THE CIVIL WAR LETTER FROM HARVEY BLACK AND BRANDY STATION, VIRGINIA BRANDY STATION SUNDAY NIGHT, NOVEMBER 1ST, 1863 My dear Molly, I received a letter today from a very handsome lady to play Cupid. Although not accomplished by her likeness yet her image was so indelibly impressed upon my mind that the likeness itself could not recall the features more vividly than they are impressed. I first met her in a village in western Virginia when I was about seventeen years old, and she eight. I afterwards saw her frequently and occasionally was in her company, and notwithstanding the disparity of our ages, I became so favorably impressed with her fair face and gentle manners that I frequently said to myself that I wished she was older, or I younger. In three to four years she had grown so much that the disparity in age seemed to grow less. Never did a lady witness the budding of a flower with more requisite pleasure than did I the budding of that pretty little girl into womanhood. She made much of my thoughts while in Mexico and more upon my return home, while at the University of Virginia I not infrequently found my thoughts wandering from the dry textbook to contemplate by the aid of memory the features and form of this little girl. After I completed my studies I traveled in the West and expected to find a home in some western state, but not finding a place to suit me, together with the persuasions of that fair face, induced me to return. I entered, as you know, actively into the pursuit of my profession, with the determination to make at least a fair reputation, and tried to withdraw my thought from everything else, but I found this little fairy constantly and pleasantly intruding into all my plans, whether of pleasure or interest. At this period she met me politely and respectfully, but seemed to grow more distant, coy, and reserved, so that I frequently thought that even the ordinary attentions of calm and politeness and courtesy were no special source of pleasure to her. In a few instances, when she arrived at about the age of fifteen, this shyness and reserve seemed to be forgotten, and I would pass an hour or two in the enjoyment of her company, with great pleasure to myself, and I imagined with at least satisfaction, if not enjoyment to her. I began to think that my happiness was identified with hers. I began to pay her special visits, or at least seek opportunities by which I might be in her company. I sought her society on pleasure rides, and thought it not a hardship to ride sixty-five miles in twenty-four hours, if part of the time might be spent with her. She always exhibited or observed the decorum of modest reserve, which might be construed into neither encouragement nor discouragement. After deliberation and reflection, which I thought due to a matter which involved my happiness for life, I felt that her destiny and mine were properly intended to be united, and that all the adverse counsel which I could give myself could bring no objections. I felt that I ought both as a matter of duty and happiness to give my whole life to her, who for nine years had my attention and devotion through concealed love. After a few little billets and interviews, and with full declaration of the love I desired to bestow, I received a measured and loving response, and was made most happy in the anticipation of the celebration of the nuptials, fixed at some six months hence. This time glided nicely and happily, but not too rapidly away from me. The hours of leisure was spent with her, and my visits were always welcomed with that of cordial welcome, hat made in monasty, so much to be admired. Tis true that on one occasion she did rest her elbow upon my knee, and look with confidential pleasure in my face, and made me realize that indeed I had her whole heart. Suffice it to say, the happy day of our marriage arrived, and since then hours, days, and years of time, confidence, and happiness passed rapidly away, and only to make us feel that happy as were the hours of youthful days. They compare not with those of latter years, and perhaps even these may not equal to that which is in reserve for us. I don't know how much pleasure it affords you to go over these days of the past, but to me they will never be remembered as days of felicity, and how happy the thought that years increase the affection and esteem we have for each other to love and be loved. May it ever be so, and may I ever be a husband worthy of your warmest affections. May I make you happy, and in so doing be made happy in return. A sweet kiss, and embrace to your greeting. But maybe you will say it looks ridiculous to see a man getting gray-haired to be writing love letters, so I will use the remnant of my paper otherwise. Yours affectionately, H. Black.

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I struck another, and this time my throw was true. The wetness sputtered with blue flame, and the dark, tar-like shadow screeched and pulled away from the burning fur. It wasn't enough—not enough by far. The serpentine creature sensed me—knew what I was doing. For every one burned by the flame, four chewed their way from the monstrosity's ears or nose. Dark-like shadows slathered with gore and mucus. The ones on the ground scuttled toward me, their long, strange feelers on their heads reached for me as if they could smell the glamour of autumn wrapped around me. The darkling dreams boiled off them, hanging in the air like the scent of madness. Strange demons which pull out their own tongues, so that they may never accidentally insult their dark god. They crawl on the walls like insects, and eat the lost people that they find. They simply appear to be a human child, a girl, but she collects fingers which she keeps under her bed, far from the prying eyes of men. One day her mother was cleaning her room, and he found himself tied to a pole on the outskirts of town. They had stripped his skin in strange symbols all across his chest. By night the Trojan would come, come and hold his mouth open. They would push themselves inside him. I drew my bow, and in one fluid moment shot the closest horror, pinning it to the earth. It squealed and thrashed, but then its mass melted away into shadows, shadows that drifted and coalesced into the other squirming Shadeen creatures. I stepped back, my eyes wide. The creatures simply poured from the bear's carcass. Hundreds of them, their bodies most as long as I was tall, sported hundreds of spindly, seeking legs. They had strange feelers on their heads, and they reached about with them. They had wicked pincers on their faces that they slowly opened and closed, as if speaking some silent, forgotten language I could not comprehend. Coyote's words haunted me then. That's the reality of the thing right here, Tommy. Not Wendigo, nor Hungry Ghost. The darkness that burns cold, pours from them when dead, but reforms later, in another poor creature. It's never whatever you thought it was. They were moving toward me, eager, hungry, feckless, insatiable, inevitable, hopeless.

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She had enough information to share with Jack and made a call to the Gazette. Jack, it's Bella. I heard from my friend at the Foreign Office. Can you meet me in 20 minutes at the Blue Aster? Get a table in the bar. Bella, you sound kind of funny. Are you okay? I'm just tired. It's been a long day. I want to get the information to you right away, Jack. So don't be late. I can't talk anymore. I'll tell you everything when I see you. and put it inside her purse. The weight of it in the bottom of her purse was reassuring, and at the same time, frightening. She had never shot a gun before, but she was somehow sure she could if she had to. With every step she took, the sound of her heels against the sidewalk clicked and echoed behind her. She thought she heard the sound of heavy footsteps following her, and at one point turned around, only to see a cat run behind a garbage can and knock the lid over. She quickened her pace and was almost in front of the Blue Aster when she felt a hand grab her hard around the waist and pull her into a waiting car. A large, muscular man threw her into the back seat of a dark blue sedan with two other men she had never seen before. She was frightened, but was so far managing to hold her emotions in check. She tightened her grip on her purse and felt the outline of the gun inside the lining. Miss Bravo, sorry to interrupt your evening this way, but I'm afraid it could not be helped. Bella looked directly at the blonde-haired, blue-eyed man who sat next to her and tried to memorize everything she could about him. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You seem to know who I am, but I don't think we've met. Bella's eyes diverted to his hands. She was struck by the smoothness of them and concluded that this was a man who had never worked with his hands. And his expensive coat and hat led her to believe that he was a man of means. Could he be the person Percy Dunbar warned her about? Her mind started racing, and after what felt like a lifetime, the blonde-haired man with the gold-blue eyes answered her. You are quite right. I have forgotten my manners. My name is Reinhardt, Hans Reinhardt. I am a fan of your stories. My associates and I have been reading the Gazette for the past few weeks and are curious to know how the story ends. Well, Mr. Reinhardt, I guess you and the rest of our readers will have to wait until we publish the last story of the series. That is most unfortunate, Miss Bravo. You see, my friends and I have come a long way, and we would be grateful for a little special consideration for our efforts. Andine Bessette's death is newsworthy, to say the least, and it's my job to report the news. It's an ongoing investigation, and I have no idea where it will lead. Now, I'm late for dinner, and my colleague will be concerned if I don't arrive soon. Of course, Miss Bravo, but your job can be very dangerous, and I, for one, would not want to see such a pretty and talented young lady such as yourself become one of those terrible crime statistics fun reads about. Are you threatening me, Mr. Reinhardt? Bella could feel her heart beating so hard she could see her chest rising inside her coat. Threatening you, Miss Bravo? That would be quite uncivilized of me. Would you please hand me your purse? I assure you I will treat it gently and return it to you. Bella didn't respond to him right away, and he nodded to his associate who grabbed the purse from Bella and looked inside. After dumping the contents of the purse out into the seat, the gun and some cosmetics, comb and keys tumbled over one another before landing in a heap. Bella leaned forward to take her things and was quickly restrained by Reinhardt. Please, Miss Bravo, I advise you to remain quiet and sit still until Otto is finished looking through your things. I am impressed that you carry a pistol. I did not expect you to be armed. Would you be so kind as to pull the pockets of your coat inside out? Bella complied and pulled the pockets of her coat out to reveal a stick of gum in one and a tissue in the other. Will there be anything else? I really need to be on my way now. Bella started to feel the blood leaving her face and a wave of nausea overtake her. It took all of her energy to keep from becoming ill. Reinhardt put all of Bella's things back except for the gun. He took the gun and removed all the bullets, letting them drop one by one into the floor of the back seat. Guns are such dangerous things. You never know when they can accidentally discharge or be taken away and used against you. Reinhardt held the gun up in the air and slowly turned it as if he were inspecting it. He handed the empty firearm to Bella and she shoved it into her purse. Reinhardt signaled to Otto, who opened her door. Enjoy your evening, Miss Bravo. Remember to be careful. The city can be a very hazardous place for a young lady who does not have the right friends. As the car door opened, Bella felt her legs buckle a little as she swung them out and exited the vehicle. Her head was spinning and she was shaking all over. She was certain she had just had a conversation with the devil himself.

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SHOW YOUR WORK, TEN WAYS TO SHARE YOUR CREATIVITY AND GET DISCOVERED. Written by Austin Kleon. CHAPTER 2 THINK PROCESS, NOT PRODUCT TAKE PEOPLE BEHIND THE SCENES. A lot of people are so used to seeing the outcome of work, they never see the side of the work you go through to produce the outcome. Michael Jackson. When a painter talks about her work, she could be talking about two different things. There's the artwork, the finished piece, framed and hung on a gallery wall. And then there's the artwork, all the day-to-day stuff that goes on behind the scenes in her studio. Looking for inspiration, getting an idea, applying oil to a canvas, etc. There's painting, the noun. And there's painting, the verb. As in all kinds of work, there is a distinction between the painter's process and the products of her process. Traditionally, the artist has been trained to regard her creative process as something that should be kept to herself. This way of thinking is articulated by David Bales and Ted Orland in their book, Art and Fear. To all viewers but yourself, what matters is the product, the finished artwork. To you, and you alone, what matters is the process, the experience of shaping the artwork. An artist is supposed to toil in secrecy, keeping her ideas and her work under lock and key, waiting until she has a magnificent product to show for herself before she tries to connect with an audience. The private details of art making are utterly uninteresting to audiences, because they're almost never visible, or even knowable, from examining the finished work. This all made sense in a pre-digital age, when the only way an artist could connect with an audience was through a gallery show or write-up in some fancy art magazine. But today, by taking advantage of the internet and social media, an artist can share whatever she wants, whenever she wants, at almost no cost. She can decide exactly how much or how little of her work and herself she will share, and she can be as open about her process as she wants to. She can share her sketches and works in progress, post pictures of her studio, or blog about her influences, inspiration, and tools. By sharing her day-to-day process, the things she really cares about, she can form a unique bond with her audience. To many artists, particularly those who grew up in the pre-digital era, this kind of openness and the potential vulnerability that goes along with sharing one's process is a terrifying idea. Here's the author Edgar Allan Poe, writing in 1846. Most writers, poets in the special, prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy, an ecstatic intuition, and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes. But human beings are interested in other human beings and what other human beings do. People really do want to see how the sausage gets made. That's how designers Dan Provost and Tom Gerhardt put in their book on entrepreneurship, It Will Be Exhilarating. By putting things out there, consistently, you can form a relationship with your customers. It allows them to see the person behind the products. Audiences not only want to stumble across great work, but they too long to be creative and part of the creative process. By letting go of our egos and sharing our process, we allow for the possibility of having an ongoing connection with us and our work, which helps us move more of our product.

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COMMON SENSE EXCERPTS By Thomas Paine I shall conclude these remarks with the following timely and well-intended hints. We ought to reflect that there are three different ways by which an independency may hereafter be effected, and that one of those three will, one day or other, be the fate of America, viz. by the legal voice of the people in Congress, by a military power, or by a mob. It may not always happen that our soldiers are citizens, and the multitude a body of reasonable men. Virtue, as I have already remarked, is not hereditary, neither is it perpetual. Should an independency be brought about by the first of those beings, we have every opportunity and every encouragement before us to form the noblest, purest constitution on the face of the earth. We have it in our power to begin the world over again. A situation similar to the present hath not happened since the days of Noah until now. The birthday of a new world is at hand, and a race of men, perhaps as numerous as all Europe contains, are to receive their portion of freedom from the event of a few months. Our reflection is awful, and in this point of view, how trifling, how ridiculous do the little, paltry cavilings of a few weak or interested men appear, when weighed against the business of a world. Should we neglect the present favorable and inviting period, and in independence be hereafter affected by any other means, we must charge the consequence to ourselves, or to those, rather, whose narrow and prejudiced souls are habitually opposing the measure, without either inquiring or reflecting. There are reasons to be given in support of independence, which men should rather privately think of than be publicly told of. We ought not know to be debating whether we shall be independent or not, but anxious to accomplish it on a firm, secure and honorable basis, and uneasy rather that it has not yet began upon. Every day convinces us of its necessity, even the Tories, if such beings yet remain among us, should, of all men, be the most solicitous to promote it, for as the appointment of committees at first protected them from popular rage, so a wise and well-established form of government will be the only certain means of continuing it securely to them. Therefore if they have not virtue enough to be wigs, they ought to have prudence enough to wish for independence. In short, independence is the only bond that can tie and keep us together. We shall then see our object, and our ears will be legally shut against the schemes of an intriguing as well as a cruel enemy. We shall then, too, be on a proper footing to treat with Britain, for there is reason to conclude that the pride of that court will be less hurt by treating with the American states for terms of peace than with those whom she denominates rebellious subjects for terms of accommodation. It is our delaying it that encourages her to hope for conquest, and our backwardness tends only to prolong the war. As we have, without any good effect therefrom, withheld our trade to obtain a redress of our grievances, let us now try the alternative by independently redressing them ourselves, and then offering to open the trade. The mercantile and reasonable part in England will be still with us, because peace with trade is preferable to war without it, and if this offer be not accepted, other courts may be applied to. On these grounds I rest the matter, and as no offer hath yet been made to refute the doctrine contained in the former editions of this pamphlet, it is a negative proof that either the doctrine cannot be refuted, or that the party in favor of it are too numerous to be opposed. Wherefore, instead of gazing at each other with suspicious or doubtful curiosity, let each of us hold out to his neighbor the hearty hand of friendship, and unite in drawing a line which, like an act of oblivion, shall bury in forgetfulness every former dissension. Let the names of Whig and Tory be extinct, and let none other be heard among us than those of a good citizen, an open and resolute friend, and a virtuous supporter of the rights of mankind and of the free and independent states of America.

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Aliens, three miles, turn left. By Stephen A. Shrum. And then one night last spring, they came. I was just coming home from one of our poker nights, and it was pretty late. As I came up the driveway, I saw something out in the field. There was this weird greenish light. I didn't know what it could be, so I turned off the truck and drifted to a stop. As I pulled out my rifle, I keep in my gun rack, and I snuck out to the field. And there, I saw it. Right then, I knew it was all true. I'd read about it in the National Enquirer and the Weekly World News, but here it was right in front of me. Space aliens. There were three of them, about four or five feet tall, with long arms and legs, wearing some strange clothes, with these funny helmets that look sort of familiar, but I couldn't quite figure it out. They were walking around outside of their ship, picking up rocks and weeds and stuff, and checking them out with some kind of small box they had, just like on Star Trek. But they didn't see me. They just kept on doing what they were doing, and I just kept watching them moving around, picking up rocks and weeds and stuff. After a couple minutes, two of them walked over to the ship and started staring at some kind of crystal thing, and it starts turning purple. It was the weirdest thing. Them just holding this big crystal, and it starts glowing. This was kind of interesting, so I just kept watching them staring at this thing. Then all of a sudden, out of the corner of my right eye, I see this third one standing next to me, staring at me. He's got some kind of little box pointed right at me. Hell, I don't know if it's a gun or what, so I take the butt of my rifle and knock it out of his hands. But he doesn't do anything. He just stands there, staring at me with these big, weird eyes. And I look over, and the other two are running toward us, and the crystal's glowing brighter, and I figure I'm in some kind of deep shit now. So I shot him. I shot all three of them. First, I shot the two running at me, and then the third. It must have scared the crap out of him, because he started singing some sort of high-pitched opera thing. It gave me the shivers. So I shot him too. Man, that was weird. It was easier than shooting deer. I just shot him. So there I am, out in this field, with three dead aliens in an alien spaceship. And I'm trying to figure out what to do next. And then, it hits me. I gotta hide this. I mean, I read these articles about when people call the government about crashed ships, and they come in, and they take it all away, and you can't even prove that it really happened. And everybody thinks you're nuts.

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Both Smaug is weary and asleep, he thought. He can't see me and he won't hear me. Cheer up, Bilbo. He had forgotten or had never heard about dragons' sense of smell. It is also an awkward fact that they can keep half an eye open watching while they sleep, if they are suspicious. Smaug certainly looked fast asleep, almost dead and dark, with scarcely a snore more than a whiff of unseen steam, when Bilbo peeped up once more from the entrance. He was just about to step out onto the floor when he caught a sudden, thin, piercing ray of red from under the drooping lid of Smaug's left eye. He was only pretending to sleep. He was watching the tunnel entrance. Hurriedly Bilbo stepped back and blessed the luck of his ring. Then Smaug spoke. Well, thief, I smell you and I feel your air. I hear your breath. Come along. Help yourself again. There is plenty and to spare. Bilbo was not quite so unlearned in dragon lore as all that, and as Smaug hoped to get him to come nearer so easily, he was disappointed. No, thank you, oh Smaug the Tremendous, he replied. I did not come for presents. I only wished to have a look at you and see if you are truly as great as the tales say. I did not believe them. Do you now, said the dragon somewhat flattered, even though he did not believe a word of it. Truly songs and tales fall utterly short of the reality, oh Smaug the Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities, replied Bilbo. You have nice manners for a thief and a liar, said the dragon. You seem familiar with my name, but I don't seem to remember smelling you before. Who are you and where do you come from, may I ask? You may indeed. I come from under the hill, and under the hills and over the hills my paths led, and through the air. I am he that walks unseen. So I can well believe, said Smaug, but that is hardly your usual name. I am the clue finder, the web cutter, the stinging fly. I was chosen for the lucky number. Lovely titles, sneered the dragon, but lucky numbers don't always come off. I am he that buries his friends alive and drowns them and draws them alive again from the water. I came from the end of a bag, but no bag went over me. These don't sound so credible, scoffed Smaug. I am the friend of bears and the guest of eagles. I am the ring winner and the luck wearer. I am the barrel rider, went on Bilbo beginning to be pleased with his riddling. That's better, said Smaug, but don't let your imagination run away with you. This of course is the way to talk to dragons if you don't want to reveal your proper name, which is wise, and you don't want to infuriate them by flat refusal, which is also very wise. No dragon can resist the fascination of riddling talk and of wasting time to understand it. There was a lot here which Smaug did not understand at all, though I expect you do, since you know all about Bilbo's adventures to which he was referring, but he thought he understood enough and he chuckled in his wicked inside. I thought so last night, he smiled to himself. Lakemen, some nasty scheme of those miserable tub-trading lakemen, or I'm a lizard. I haven't been down that way for an age and an age, but I will soon alter that. Very well, old barrel rider, he said aloud. Maybe barrel was your pony's name, maybe not, though it was fat enough. You may walk unseen, but you did not walk all the way. Let me tell you, I ate six ponies last night, and I shall catch and eat all of the others before long. In return for the excellent meal, I will give you one piece of advice for your good. Don't have more to do with dwarves than you can help. Dwarves, said Bilbo in pretended surprise. Don't talk to me, said Smaug. I know the smell and taste of dwarf, no one better. Don't tell me that I can eat a dwarf-ridden pony and not know it. You'll come to a bad end. If you go with such friends, thief, barrel rider, I don't mind if you go back and tell them so for me. But he did not tell Bilbo that there was one smell he could not make out at all, hobbit smell. It was quite outside his experience and puzzled him mightily. I suppose you got a fair price for that cup last night? He went on. Come now, did you? Nothing at all? Well, that's just like them. And I suppose they are skulking outside, and your job is to do all the dangerous work. And get what you can when I'm not looking. For them? And you will get a fair share? Don't you believe it? If you get off alive, you will be lucky. Bilbo was now beginning to feel really uncomfortable. Whenever Smaug's roving eyes seeking for him in the shadows flashed across him, he trembled, and an unaccountable desire seized hold of him to rush out and reveal himself and tell all the truth to Smaug. In fact, he was in grievous danger of coming under the dragon spell. But plucking up courage, he spoke again. You don't know everything, oh Smaug the Mighty, said he. Not gold alone brought us hither. Ha ha! You admit the us? Why not say, us fourteen, and be done with it, Mr. Lucky Number? I am pleased to hear that you had other business in these parts besides my goal. In that case, you may perhaps not altogether waste your time. I don't know if it has occurred to you, even if you could steal all the gold bit by bit, a matter of a hundred years or so, you could not get it very far. Not much use on the mountainside. Not much use in the forest? Bless me, have you ever thought of the catch? A fourteenth share, I suppose, or something like it, those were the terms, eh? But what about delivery? What about cartage? What about armed guards and tolls? And Smaug laughed aloud. He had a wicked and wily heart, and he knew his guesses were not far out, though he suspected that the lake men were at the back of the plan, and that most of the plunder was meant to stop there in the town by the shore that in his young days had been called Eskeroth. You will hardly believe it, but poor Bilbo was really taken aback. So far all his thoughts and energies had been concentrated on getting to the mountain and finding the entrance. He had never bothered to wonder how the treasure was to be removed. Certainly never how any part of that might fall to his share was to be brought back all the way to Bag End, Underhill. Now a nasty suspicion began to grow in his mind. Had the dwarves forgotten this important point, too? Or were they laughing in their sleeves at him all of the time? That is the effect that dragon talk has on the inexperienced. Bilbo, of course, ought to have been on his guard, but Smaug had rather an overwhelming personality. I tell you, he said, in an effort to remain loyal to his friends and to keep his end up, that gold was only an afterthought with us. We came over hill and under hill by wave and wind for revenge. Surely, oh Smaug, the unassessably wealthy, you must realize that your success has made you some bitter enemies. Then Smaug really did laugh, a devastating sound which shook Bilbo to the floor. While far up in the tunnel, the dwarves huddled together and imagined that the Hobbit had come to a sudden and a nasty end. Revenge? he snorted, and the light of his eyes lit the hall from floor to ceiling like scarlet lightning. Revenge? The king under the mountain is dead, and where are his kin that dare seek revenge? Geryon, lord of Dale, is dead, and I have eaten his people like a wolf among sheep. And where are his sons' sons that dare approach me? I kill where I wish, and none dare resist. I laid low the warriors of old, and their like is not seen in the world today. Then I was but young and tender. Now I am old and strong, strong, strong, thief in the shadows, he gloated. My armor is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath, death. I have always understood, said Bilbo in a frightened squeak. Dragons were softer underneath, especially in the region of the chest. But doubtless one so fortified has thought of that. The dragon stopped short in his boasting. Your information is antiquated, he snapped. I am armored above and below with iron scales and hard gems. No blade can pierce me. I might have guessed it, said Bilbo. Truly there can nowhere be found the equal of Lord Smaug the Impenetrable. What magnificence to possess a waistcoat of fine diamonds! Yes, it is rare and wonderful indeed, said Smaug, absurdly pleased. He did not know that the Hobbit had already caught a glimpse of his peculiar undercovering on his previous visit, and was itching for a closer view for reasons of his own. The dragon rolled over. Look, he said. What do you say to that? Dazzlingly marvelous, perfect, flawless, staggering, exclaimed Bilbo aloud. But what he thought inside was, old foal, why there is a large patch in the hollow of his left breast as bare as a snail out of its shell. After he had seen that, Mr. Baggins' one idea was to get away. Well, I must really not detain your magnificence any longer, or keep you for a much neater rest. Ponies take some catching, I believe, after a long start, and so do burglars. He added as a parting shot, as he darted back and flat up the tunnel. It was an unfortunate remark, for the dragon spouted terrific flames after him, and fast though he sped up the slope, he had not gone nearly far enough to be comfortable before the ghastly head of Smaug was thrust against the opening behind. Luckily the whole head and jaws could not squeeze in, but the nostril sent forth fire and vapor to pursue him, and he was nearly overcome, and stumbled blindly on in great pain and fear. He had been feeling rather pleased with the cleverness of his conversation with Smaug, but his mistake at the end shook him into better sense. Never laugh at live dragons, Bilbo, you fool, he said to himself, and it became a favorite saying of his later, and passed into a proverb. You aren't nearly through this adventure yet, he added, and that was pretty true as well.

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For Nias Korsson, The Idea Man Written by Heath Stalkup and Benjamin Bouts As the vehicles shut off their engines, the occupants stepped out, dragging Steve with them. For the love of God, don't kill me! he sobbed. I swear to you, I wasn't lying! They dragged him to what appeared to be a metal bed frame and zip-tied him to it. Steve's eyes probed the darkness, seeing shapes and shadows moving all around him, but he couldn't make out anything in the near-perfect blackness of the warehouse. A spotlight thumped to life on him, temporarily blinding him, the heat from the bulb heating his skin almost instantly. Let's try this again, shall we, Mr. Wilson? Tate asked. I'm going to ask you once more, very nicely, and you're going to tell me the truth. His words sounded polite, but his tone was menacing. If you try to pass off the story of an old man planting the story in your head, then we'll have to do it the hard way. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! Steve muttered under his breath. I swear to you, that is the truth, every word of it, I swear! His voice cracked and his breathing came in short, panting gasps. I'm no hero, I can't take pain, I don't want to die! Please don't kill me! He begged in rapid-fire pleads. Oh, we're not going to kill you, Starnes breathed in his ear. Not yet, not until we've gotten the truth from you. I swear to God, that is the truth! Steve screamed, his voice breaking down into sobs. What more can I do? He felt a warmth spread across his groin and down the inside of his right leg. He had pissed himself from absolute fear, with no dignity left and fear of dying. Steve hung his head and cried.

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BITTER BIERCE by Mack Wellman Things livened up a bit in early 1896. Hurst wired me from New York. Railroad combination so strong in Washington that seems almost impossible to break them up, yet it is certainly the duty of all having interests of coast at heart to make the most strenuous efforts. Will you please go to Washington for the examiner? I replied. I shall be glad to do whatever I can toward defeating Mr. Huntington's funding bill, and shall start for Washington on Monday evening next. Collis P. Huntington was the sole surviving appendage of a Bay Area Big Four, tycoons and swindlers, that had included Mark Hopkins, Charles Crocker, and Leland Stanford. By 1896 the latter three all mercifully dead. The Southern Pacific and Union Pacific railroads had been built using public monies loaned out at a reasonable rate of interest. The railroad men had enriched themselves enormously at public expense, and had failed to make anything more than token repayment of either interest or principal, an amount conservatively estimated at seventy-five million dollars. Mr. Huntington's funding bill was a ruse not merely intended to delay repayment for another thirty years, but in effect to assure that the issue of repayment would never be forced. The chief lobbyist for the corrupt and depraved railroad contingent in Congress was one John Boyd, whom I referred to as Huntington's tapeworm. My first article began. Mr. Huntington is not altogether bad, though severe he is merciful. He tempers invective with falsehood. That is, although he says ugly things of the enemy, he has the tenderness to be careful that they are mainly lies. Mr. Huntington appeared before the committee and took his hands out of all pockets long enough to be sworn. The spectacle of this old man standing on the brink of eternity, his pockets loaded with dishonest gold, which he knows neither how to enjoy nor whom to bequeath, was one of the most pitiable it has been my lot to observe. He knows himself an outmate of every penal institution in the world. He deserves to hang from every branch of every tree of every state and territory penetrated by his railroads, with the sole exception of Nevada, which has no trees. I called him an inflated old pigskin. I called him a veteran colluminator. I called him a promoted peasant. I called him the swine of the century. Of our modern forty thieves, Mr. Huntington is the surviving thirty-sixth. One day I encountered Mr. Huntington on the steps of the Capitol. Initially I had declined Huntington's hand at committee session. It was once more offered. Met with stony rejection, Huntington finally shouted, Well, name your price. Every man has a price. My price is seventy-five million dollars, and you may make it payable to my good friend, the Secretary of the Treasury. Later on, someone asked the old reptile why he had approached me. Oh, I just wanted to see how big he was. And then added, Now I know. But that was the moire of decade. Once at the home of a western family who had recently acquired a vast fortune, I was admonished by the hostess to notice her spinal staircase. In January 1897, the funding bill was defeated, and I returned to San Francisco.

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I have one thousand beginnings. No, that's not right. Nigh a thousand thousand, each stranger than the last. This one began with me naked on my back, against the cool earth. The last traces of a dying summer floated on the wind and wisps of summer grass. Of laughter and of dappled shade. It was the perfume of warm twilight, and nights sleeping under the singing moon. Soon the turbulence of my awakening would pass. For now the world remained blurry. Still tired, I felt as if I should not be awake yet. I tried pushing myself up, but felt weak. The sun had not yet set. That was important for some reason, but I couldn't focus. My mind was shadows, was fog. I blearily peered around the clearing, trying to figure out why I felt so strangely. Something was wrong. Like a note sung out of tune. Then he spoke. Tommy Maple. My heart pounded in my chest. I hadn't seen him. I hadn't even known he was there. My name burned like a star in my mind. His speaking it had rung a great bell at the center of all things. It was thunder under my skin. Panic told behind my mind. Well, here you are, the voice resounded, ringing from everywhere at once. His voice, like the sun's hammer, was brilliant and burning and stark. It sounded smug, laughing the laughter of someone who was already won, who already knows the answers to questions I had never even thought of. Who? How did he? I tried to look, but heavy as stone, my head hardly lulled in the grass. My red hair hung in my face, dazzling in the slanted light. The voice continued. The thing to remember is, I found you. You're lying there, weak as a puppy. I found you, and I have you here. He laughed again. I finally managed to face him, but could only make out a blurred shape. I tried to speak, but only croaked through the cotton and sand that seemed to fill my mouth. So later, when you're playing the part of a young buck, all wild and free, rearing to hunt what ails the world, you just remember, remember that I found you, just like this. I did it once, and I can do it again. He leaned in. I could see him now, barely make out his stone-weathered face and the light of the dying sun. Oh, no! Terror tore through me as soon as I realized who he was. Frantically, I reached around myself. Where was my bow? I only felt bare earth and tufts of grass. No, I couldn't risk drawing my bow. Not yet. I took a breath and focused upon the old man's face. He wore his long, gray hair pulled back in a simple queue. It matched the salt and pepper of his beard. His face looked as if it had seen the years dance by hundreds of times. He was strong and powerfully built. His eyes gleamed and flickered, utterly mad. How had he gained my name? He held me like a hawk held a rabbit. My heart sought to burst from my chest. My fingers grasped at the ground again, seeking my bow, though I didn't know if I could lay him low, even if it did come to my hand. Danger be damned! I would not lay here, helpless and afraid. We won't be having none of that. His boot found my hand, and I gasped. He didn't crush or grind, but held firm. Almost instinctively, I began to gather glamour about myself. It was all I had that might hold his strength at bay. It was the glory of autumn, changing leaves, frost on pumpkins, apples ripe in an orange afternoon, the full moon on a chill night, and the distant howling of wolves. They all answered me. I felt his grip on my name shudder the smallest bit. For the briefest of moments, my breath came with September frost. He grinned, gritting his teeth. Not just now, O Herald, he winked. The setting sun still shines. Summer hangs on yet.

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I don't know how you're going to get there, all broken up, like a bunch of kindling." Oh, I've got that taken care of. I called the paper and they're sending me someone to help out. He lifted his broken left arm in a sling and continued, I can't very well type in this condition, so I'm going to work with a partner on this one. Does that make you feel better, Colleen? Better? No. It makes me more worried. If the girl is with you and there's any danger, you'll try to be a hero and get yourself killed for sure. You give me too much credit. I hardly know the dame. Her name is Betty or Bridget something. And I'm not about to get whacked over some skirt who I don't know from Adam. No, be a good girl and help me on with my coat. Colleen complied and then put on her coat and headed for the door. Where are you off to? Not that it matters to you, you heathen. I'm going to St. Patrick's. I'm going to pray for you not to get your stubborn Irish head blown off while you're busy interviewing royalty. Jack and Colleen left the building and separated on the street. Colleen headed to St. Patrick's Cathedral and Jack waited for his assistant to pick him up in front of his apartment. Within ten minutes, a pretty blonde pulled up in a 1937 maroon Chevy coupe, stopped in front of where he was standing, opened the passenger door and beckoned Jack in. Get in, Kelly. Jack approached the car with some caution, peeked in and slid in to occupy the seat next to the driver. How'd you know it was me? You know, a girl could get herself in a bunch of trouble letting strange guys in her car. Thanks for the safety lecture, but pardon me if I don't get all starry-eyed over advice from a guy who looks like he was tossed in a cement mixer and spit out the other side. You got a name to go with that attitude? Belladonna. Belladonna Bravo. Belladonna? Like the poison. Only if you get on my nerves. Oh, I can see that this is going to be an interesting afternoon. Okay, sister, have it your way. But I have a deadline, and for time's sake, I'll just call you Bella. You weren't my pick either, Kelly. I just go where the paper sends me and I guess I drew the short straw. Look, we're stuck together on this assignment, so I guess we're just going to have to try to make the most of it and try to stay out of each other's hair. Jack ignored Bella's last comments and gazed out the window. Soon his attention was diverted back in Bella's direction as the car began to accelerate. Hey, what gives? I know I said we needed to get there fast. I didn't say we had to go like a rocket. Do you want to get stopped by the cops? It might be better than letting them catch us. When Bella moved the rear-view mirror to the right in Jack's direction, he could see a black Lincoln coupe tailing them. Somehow I don't think they want to ask us out for a steak. Could they possibly be the gorillas that did a dance on your arm and face? Never mind the chit-chat doll. Step on it. Listen, Kelly, let's get a couple of things straight. First of all, I'm not your doll. Second, stop waltzing me around on what happened to you and give it to me straight. Why are those gorillas on our tail? The goons in that car are the ones that paid me a visit a few days ago, and believe me, we don't want to see them again, especially the quiet one. He gets a kick out of playing football with people's ribs. Before everything went black, they introduced themselves with a couple of guns and what felt to be like a pair of brass knuckles. I believe they said they were associates of Eldo Dellafina. At least that's what I remember while I was getting my brains beat out. Now you know as much as I do. Bella looked back in the rear-view mirror and saw the black Lincoln coupe gaining on them. Her eyes moved to the speedometer, and then she hit the gas pedal and took the first sharp right into an alley and stopped. They looked behind them and saw the Lincoln pass by the alley at a high rate of speed. Bella took a deep breath and then slowly backed out of the alley. They had lost them. Jack looked impressed, and Bella looked relieved. Wow, where did you learn to drive like that? Watching gangster movies, you know. Bogart, Cagney, Edward G. Robinson. I just may have underestimated you, Bella. You might be useful after all. Good looking, with plenty of brains, and a good wheelman. Never mind the compliments, Jack. What's the deal on this upper-crust type we're going to be interviewing? I hear he was having an affair with a dead girl. I guess when your mistress shows up murdered dating a guy like that, it's bound to put a crimp in your social register. Where do you get this stuff, Bella? Elford Hughes is a wealthy man who is one of Ondine's admirers. We're interviewing him because he's on the list and I want to do a thorough job. I don't think Hughes is our guy, but you never know. He could be a closet psycho, one of those eccentric millionaires who likes to carve up beautiful women for kicks. All I know is we won't find out anything if we don't get going, and we have about a day's head start on the other reporters in this town. After that, it's anyone's game.

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Dirty rain fell in sheets from the sky, tracing pale lines through the filth on Misha's face. He paused in his work and looked up. The teen hoped that the rain would extinguish the forest fire that burned near the edge of their farm. It had burned for over a week this time, and the thick clouds of smoke hung low to the ground, covering everything in ash and soot. Misha was sick of the way it made his lungs fill while he mixed manure into the soil to fertilize the ground around his home. He'd always been sickly and bookish in his father's eyes, but the constant exposure to the fire had turned his cough into a phlegmy bark, which threatened to shake the home's rafters and irritated Papa to no end. The elder farmer noticed his son's lack of movement and asked, What's wrong with you, boy? The word stirred him from his thoughts. Nothing, Papa, I just want the smoke to go away. Buck up, son, it's not that bad. Your grandfather went years without seeing the sun after the final war. I was just a little younger than you are now, the first time that we went an entire day under the full sun. Misha grimaced. His father had told him this story many times. Yes, Papa, the damn commercialists will just set the trees on fire again. The only thing that we can do is to work hard and nurture our crops for the guild. Papa, if the activists burn the forest, what stops them from attacking the crops? We do, the man replied with a nudge to Misha's shoulder. The people tolerate them because their antics are directed at the guild. If they started burning food, they'd lose the loose support that we give them. Misha grunted with the effort that it took to break up a particularly hardened chunk of shit while he contemplated his father's explanation of the activists that plagued the region. It made sense to the boy that the residents of Denver would support the efforts to overthrow the oppressive guild government. But he wasn't sure that burning the trees so far from the city did anything except to affect the farmer's ability to grow crops. It seemed counterintuitive that they'd be allowed free reign to hinder the livelihood of the people. Come, let's finish this. I'm already hungry and we actually have some meat for tonight's soup. Yes, Papa, and so it went. Misha and his father worked on the small patch of ground that surrounded their home. They lived in Firestone, a community 20 miles north of Denver. The sprawling metropolis governed by the guild. Once, long ago, it would have been called a suburb. But the loose collection of ragged homes that remained didn't rate that distinction. Misha's teachers had taught him that the guild started out as a group of well-meaning city leaders who believed in an egalitarian society. They gradually introduced more restrictive laws and ordinances that residents of the city accepted without complaint. Then, when the old government collapsed about a century prior and the wars out east began, the guild sheltered the residents of Denver. The conflict spread globally, and millions died as a series of high-altitude EMP blasts had effectively destroyed most of the world's electronic equipment. Although Misha had seen a radio that worked once, mesmerizing him with the sounds that came from the small box. The guild had asserted itself as Denver's new government, intent on providing for everyone in the population, not just the wealthy, as some of the other emerging societies had done. The two men finished their task and went inside to dry out before Mama provided them with a bountiful meal of kale and raccoon. It had been weeks since they'd been able to find any meat, and by the time the meal was over, Misha felt full for the first time in as long as he could remember. We're going to Denver tomorrow, son, Papa said. He looked up rapidly from the book that he'd brought to the table. We are? Can I get a new book? His father looked to his mother, and she inclined her head slightly. Yes, you'll have to trade a few of your others, but I'm sure that the bookshop will take a trade of three or four for one. Misha smiled, even though that wasn't what he'd meant. It was foolish of him to think that the family had enough money to waste on books when they were barely scraping by after another long winter. But he knew better than to protest. Thank you, Papa. May I be excused? Of course, dear, his mother answered. He was gone before she had a chance to finish her short reply. Misha pulled aside two boards and slid between them. They lived in a two-story home, but years ago, Papa's father had walled off the stairs to keep the heat from escaping the first floor. The youth kept a collection of his most precious possessions in the upper floor, including his own small library of books that he'd collected through various means over the years. He had to choose which ones he would take with him to the city to trade for a new book. His books were the only thing that he really owned. Neither his mother or father had any use for reading, but the teen enjoyed the worlds that they described. Most of his books were older than any living man, but one or two had been written since the collapse. Those books tended to be much harder to find and were less entertaining, since the writers often wrote about societal ills of the day instead of telling the stories that Misha liked to read in the older books. He reluctantly picked four books that he'd read several times each and walked back down the staircase to his room, where he lay down on his bed. Going to the city was a rare event, and it took him quite a while to fall asleep.

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Letigo escorted Grith and I down a side set of stairs to a large double door. The scent of wood grew stronger, almost glowing. The door was thick, black wood with brass handles. Behind it I could hear the faintest tune being plucked out on a git. Yes, this would be Santiago. The same year, it's quite busy, Judica, important matters. Grith gave me that predatory grin again. All you sudden you won't come back another time? He shot Letigo a warning glance as the large man chuckled. I said nothing, simply fixing my gray eyes in the sternest glare I could give. Scoundrel stretched her wings. Grith guffawed, no harm in asking, now he's there. He opened the door. In that moment, I lost any faint hope I might have had that Santiago didn't know I was in the Scarlet Cellar. No, of course Santiago knew everything that happened in his own alehouse. He had probably arranged every person I had met, every sight I had seen. Tainted night, the man had probably made certain that I had seen half-naked women with their bed partners, just to see if I'd react. Trickling from the room was a tune that every child in the city had learned while still young enough to be playing throwstones in the street. Accompanying it was a soft male tenor. Santiago's esperant accent softly curled the edges of the words, making them smooth, poetic. In a lost and darkened alley, when the ocean wind sings, the judica watches to see what night brings. The woman who loves him will wait up in the night, her heart ever praying that he'll come back when it's light. For the black bird is hunting, he's always away, he can't make her his, his ocelot bae. Yet her heart will still ache as she sits all alone, and ever she'll wish that she could be his home. Black Bird's Oath was truly a mournful song. I cleared my throat. That one has a bad ending, if I remember. At the end of the song, the judicard died a painful and mysterious death. I had no doubts that this was Santiago's subtle message to me. Santiago looked up from his kit, absentmindedly strumming as a smile spread across his handsome face. He gave a casual shrug as he spoke. That depends on the side you're looking from, I am thinking. He set the kit aside and pulled his feet from the top of the desk. He gave me a friendly smile, but something lurked behind it, something sharp hidden in his eyes. Do come in, Tomas. I stepped into the room. It did not lack for comfort. Santiago sat behind a large mahogany desk, where his cedarwood git was leaning. Several large candles illuminated the desk, and the large plush chairs for guests. An aromatic cinnamon and myrrh incense wafted in the air. That's quite the toy. I nodded behind him at the wall. Santiago looked up at it and smiled. She is genuine, Tomas. A true relic from the once days, yes. Hanging on the wall behind him was an actual pistol. It was a three-shot of Gabion make. The thing was iron in ancient wood with a flared end to the muzzle. It must have been five hundred years old. I'd wager that each shot from your relic would use enough firepowder to cost two days of my time. He gave that cat's grin again. If this is so, then the city is paying her judokas more than I'd guessed. A smile danced across the corners of his mouth. A woman stood at either side of the room, each with sharp and wary eyes. They wore dark leathers and had their hair tied high. Each had a long slender blade at her hip. Each was a study in readiness. Students of the Annoim. I knew it from the shape of their graceful swords and the gallant script tattoos winding around their arms. These women were deadly practitioners of a martial art that was older than our city. Each tattoo was the mark of a year in training. They held cool, glittering eyes on me. Beneath their gaze, I felt like a mouse. Despite my combat training, just one of these women could cripple me without breaking a sweat. But of course, they weren't mere women. They were Santiago's weapons. I nodded at the lean man. I was hoping we could have a moment to speak.

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Letigo escorted Grith and I down a side set of stairs to a large double door. The scent of wood grew stronger, almost glowing. The door was thick, black wood with brass handles. Behind it I could hear the faintest tune being plucked out on a git. Yes, this would be Santiago. The same year, it's quite busy, Judica, important matters. Grith gave me that predatory grin again. Are you certain you won't come back another time? He shot Letigo a warning glance as the large man chuckled. I said nothing, simply fixing my grey eyes in the sternest glare I could give. Scoundrel stretched her wings. Grith guffawed, no harm in asking, now is there? He opened the door. In that moment, I lost any faint hope I might have had that Santiago didn't know I was in the Scarlet Cellar. No, of course Santiago knew everything that happened in his own alehouse. He had probably arranged every person I had met, every sight I had seen. Tainted night, the man had probably made certain that I had seen half-naked women with their bed partners, just to see if I'd react. Trickling from the room was a tune that every child in the city had learned while still young enough to be playing throwstones in the street. Accompanying it was a soft, male tenor. Santiago's esperant accent softly curled the edges of the words, making them smooth, poetic. In a lost and darkened alley, when the ocean wind sings, the judicar watches to see what night brings. The woman who loves him will wait up in the night, her heart ever praying that he'll come back when it's light. For the blackbird is hunting, he's always away, he can't make her his, his oh, silhouette. Yet her heart will still ache as she sits all alone, and ever she'll wish that she could be his home. Blackbird's Oath was truly a mournful song. I cleared my throat. That one has a bad ending, if I remember. At the end of the song, the judicar died a painful and mysterious death. I had no doubts that this was Santiago's subtle message to me. Santiago looked up from his kit, absentmindedly strumming as a smile spread across his handsome face. He gave a casual shrug as he spoke. That depends on the side you're looking from, I am thinking. He set the kit aside and pulled his feet from the top of the desk. He gave me a friendly smile, but something lurked behind it, something sharp hidden in his eyes. Do come in, Tomas. I stepped into the room. It did not lack for comfort. Santiago sat behind a large mahogany desk where his cedarwood git was leaning. Several large candles illuminated the desk and the large plush chairs for guests. An aromatic cinnamon and myrrh incense wafted in the air. That's quite the toy. I nodded behind him at the wall. Santiago looked up at it and smiled. She is genuine, Tomas. A true relic from the once days, yes. Hanging on the wall behind him was an actual pistol. It was a three-shot of Gabian make. The thing was iron in ancient wood with a flared end to the muzzle. It must have been five hundred years old. I'd wager that each shot from your relic would use enough firepowder to cost two days of my time. He gave that cat's grin again. If this is so, then the city is paying her judicars more than I'd guessed. A smile danced across the corners of his mouth. A woman stood at either side of the room, each with sharp and wary eyes. They wore dark leathers and had their hair tied high. Each had a long slender blade at her hip. Each was a study in readiness. Students of the Annoeim. I knew it from the shape of their graceful swords and the gallant script tattoos winding around their arms. These women were deadly practitioners of a martial art that was older than our city. Each tattoo was the mark of a year in training. They held cool, glittering eyes on me. Beneath their gaze, I felt like a mouse. Despite my combat training, just one of these women could cripple me without breaking a sweat. But of course, they weren't mere women. They were Santiago's weapons. I nodded at the lean man. I was hoping we could have a moment to speak.

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Dave's Baby Backs are back at Famous Dave's. Try Dave's Original Baby Backs, seasoned, smoked for hours, then slathered in Dave's very own Honey Sweet BBQ Sauce. Try Dave's Memphis Style Baby Backs, dry rubbed with herbs and flame kissed to lock in the flavor. Hurry in to Famous Dave's. Dave's Babies are back, but only for a limited time.

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Hey, it's us! The Ben & Jerry's Freezer Fairies! That's what we said. Ben & Jerry's Freezer Fairies! You know some people don't believe in freezer fairies. Doesn't bother us. We know we're here. So listen up. Here's how it works. Do something good out there in the world and bang! We stick a pint or two of Ben & Jerry's in your freezer when no one is looking. Now I do something bad and boom! No Ben & Jerry's. Plus we stick something really weird in your freezer like frozen clams. Hey, we ain't no lightweight fairies that tap dance on moonbeams and stuff. Yeah, we work for a living. We got bills to pay. Just like you guys. Okay, settle down you guys. Us freezer fairies can be sensitive too. So where were we? Let's review. Do something good. We sneak some Ben & Jerry's into your freezer. Maybe some Cherry Garcia. Or some Junkie Monkey. But do something bad. And no Ben & Jerry's in your freezer. Plus we mess with your head a little bit. Okay, till next time. We wish you a freezer full of love and surprises. Be good out there. Or else.

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When it comes to working out, you need the best. The best equipment, the best personal trainers, the best bang for your buck. And Rough Cut has it all and more. Check us out at Stone Lake Park, Wallingford, and our new location in Eaglesport. Rough Cut, a cut above the rest. Call us about our special introductory offer. www.stonelakepark.com

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When you have to choose an electric plan, you have to think through a lot of variables. Will you go month-to-month, off-peak, on-peak, nights, days, weekends? It's enough to make one's head spin. Thankfully, one company has a fixed low-price structure. SNL offers low, fixed electric rates that are straightforward and easy to understand. All day, everyday low-cost savings. At our website at slenergy.com, you can see for yourself. Compare rates and then sign up and save. Low fixed rates. It's that simple. SNL. A green resources company.

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All my life, I've lived and worked in the big city. Which now that I think of it, is kind of a problem since I feel uncomfortable around crowds. I mean it. I have this fear of enclosed spaces. Everything makes me feel trapped all the time. You know, I always tell myself, there's gotta be something better out there, but maybe I think too much. I think that everything must go back to the fact that I had a very anxious childhood. You know, my mother never really had time for me. When you're the middle child of a family of 5 million, you don't get any attention. I mean, how's that possible? And I've always had these abandonment issues, which plague me. My father was basically a drone, like I said, and you know, the guy flew away when I was just a larva. And my job, don't get me started on it, because it really annoys me. I was not cut out to be a worker, I'll tell you that right now. I feel physically inadequate. My whole life, I've never, never ever been able to lift more than 10 times my body weight. And when you get down to it, handling dirt is, you know, ew. It's not my idea of a rewarding career. It's this whole gung-ho super-organism thing that, you know, I can't get it. I try, but I can't get it. I mean, you know, what is it? I'm supposed to do everything for the colony? And what about my needs? What about me? I mean, I gotta believe there's someplace out there that's better than this. Otherwise, I will just curl up in a larval position and weep. The whole system makes me feel insignificant. Excellent. Excellent, you have made a real breakthrough. I have? Yes, Zee. You are insignificant. I am?

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I thought about what you said to me the other day about my painting. Stayed up half the night thinking about it. Something occurred to me and I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep and I haven't thought about you since. You know what occurred to me? You're just a kid. You don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. You've never been out of Boston. So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo? You probably know a lot about him. Life's work. Political aspirations. Him and the Pope. Sexual orientation. The whole works, right? But I bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. Seen that. If I asked you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus on your personal favorites. You may have even been late a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. If I asked you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right? Once more into the breach, dear friends. But you've never been near one. Never held your best friend's head in your lap and watched him gasp his last breath, looking to you for help. And if I asked you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell, and you would know what it's like to be her angel and for that love for her to be there forever. Through anything. Through cancer. You wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital for two months holding her hand because the doctors could see in your eyes that the term visiting hours don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss. Because that only occurs when you love something more than you love yourself. I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. I look at you, I don't see an intelligent, confident man. I see a cocky, scared, shitless kid. But you're a genius, Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine and you ripped my fucking life apart. You're an orphan, right? Do you think I'd know the first part of your life has been how you feel? Who you are because I read all of her twists? Does that encapsulate you? Personally, I don't give a shit about all that. Because you know what? I can't learn anything from you I can't read in some fucking book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. And I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that, do you, sport? You're terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.

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There be a chest. Inside be the gold. And we took them all. We spent them and traded and frittered them away on drink and food and pleasurable company. The more we gave them away, the more we came to realize that drink would not satisfy, food turned to ash in our mouths, and the pleasurable company in the world could not slake our lust. We are cursed men, Miss Turner. Compelled by greed we were, but now we are consumed by it. There is one way we can end our curse. All the scattered pieces of the Aztec gold must be restored and the blood repaid. Thanks to ye, we have the final piece.

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I know what you're thinking, did he fire 6 shots, or only 5? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself, but being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, would blow your head clean off. You've got to ask yourself one question, do you feel lucky? Well, do you punk?

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My name is Lieutenant Aldo Rain and I'm putting together a special team and I need me eight soldiers. Eight Jewish American soldiers. Now y'all might have heard rumors about the Marta happening soon. Well, we'll be leaving a little earlier. We're gonna be dropped into France dressed as civilians. Once we're in enemy territory, there's a bushwhacking guerrilla army. We're gonna be doing one thing and one thing only. Killing Nazis. Now I don't know about y'all, but I sure as hell didn't come down from this goddamn Smoky Mountains, cross 5,000 miles of water, fight my way through half of Sicily and jump out a fucking aeroplane to teach Nazis lessons in humanity. Nazi ain't got no humanity. They're the foot soldiers of a Jewish hating mass-murdering maniac and they need to be destroyed. That's why any and every son of a bitch we find wearing a Nazi uniform, they're gonna die. Now I'm the direct descendant of the mountain man Jim Bridger. This means I got a little engine in me and our battle plan will be that of the Apache resistance. We will be cruel to the Germans and through our cruelty they will know who we are. They will find evidence of our cruelty in the disemboweled, dismembered, and disfigured bodies of their brothers we leave behind us. And the German won't be able to help themselves but imagine the cruelty of their brothers endured at our hands and our boot heels and the edge of our knives. And the German will be sickened by us. And the German will talk about us. And the German will fear us. And when the German closes their eyes at night they'll be tortured by their subconscious for the evil they've done. It will be with thoughts of us they are tortured with. Sound good?

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And gold in the mountains, I tell ya! Gold! Now I don't know much about big citadels. That'll be two bits, sir. And from around here, all ya lords... You're gonna wanna get yourself some Justice Southern style. Well, you're talkin' about a feller who's about as old as the mountains... ...and about as stubborn as him, too. Oh, shucks, ma'am. There's nothin'. Well, take yourself a gander down Frog Hollow Road. You'll meet yourself some real good folks down there. Well, if you want the job done right, it's gonna cost you about $1,200. Her fun you'll rehear most asterns. I challenge you to a duel.

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Beautiful, isn't it? It took me half a lifetime to invent it. I'm sure you've discovered my deep and abiding interest and pain. At present, I'm writing the definitive work on the subject, so I want you to be totally honest with me on how the machine makes you feel. This being our first try, I'll use the lowest setting. As you know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old. Well, really, that's all this is. Except that instead of sucking water, I'm sucking life. I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five, but I really don't know what that would do to you. So let's just start with what we have. What did this do to you? Tell me. And remember, this is for posterity, so be honest. How do you feel? Interesting.

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I can't do this, Sam. I know. It's all wrong. By rights, we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, the shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back. Only they didn't. Because they were holding on to something. What were they holding on to, Sam? That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for.

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In breaking news this evening, literary maverick and handsome supervillain, J.M. Guion is claiming responsibility for a daring infiltration into the Missouri offices of Amazon.com. We go live now to Trina Jensen with the story. Lance, I'm standing in front of the Missouri distribution hub for Amazon.com, where tonight an ambitious raid was carried out by a small group of criminals. Police now have evidence that the purpose of this infiltration was the theft of sensitive data. Do they know exactly what was stolen, Trina? Does the public need to be concerned that this suave genius has taken possession of their Amazon wish lists? Lance, it seems as if the target of this theft was, in fact, the secret Amazon ranking algorithm. Interesting, Trina. What exactly could the brilliant and svelte author do with that information? Lance, with the algorithm in his possession, J.M. Guion could easily publish anything he wanted and practically guarantee he would hit the hot new release lists. In this way, it would be possible for a person to not only subvert a culture's concept of storytelling, but also expose more people to radical ideas. That's just shocking, Trina. Police found the following recording left at the scene of the crime. My producers have insisted that I inform you that the following content may not be suitable for all viewers. People of Earth, against the wishes of those who rule you through greed and fear, I have succeeded in phase two of my greatest scheme yet. The Obsidian Conundrum. Now I shall launch my newest objectively amazing work of literature, An Oath of Wintersteel. Not even those fools at Amazon will be able to stop its success. Soon, storytelling as you know it will change forever. Scary stuff, folks. We'll be right back after this. Yuck! Peas and sauerkraut again? I just don't know what you kids want. Have you tried Pacos? The greasy Mexican meat product you keep in your pants? Yay, Pacos! What are Pacos? Dad, you're so lame. Pocket tacos come in three flavors. Bacon, lard, and now cashew chicken! Don't you need some greasy Mexican meat in your mou...

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Thomas Hood, I remember. I remember. The house where I was born, Little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day. But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember, The roses red and white, The violets and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light, The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday. The tree is living yet. I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing. My spirit flew in heavens then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high, I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, But now tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy. I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing. My spirit flew in heavens then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high,

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Louis Carroll, Jabberwocky Twas brillig, and the slithy toes, Did gyre and gimble in the wab, All mimsy were the bowler-groves, And the moom-raths outgrab. Beware the jabby-wok, my son, The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the jib-job-bird, And shun the fruminous bandersnatch! He took his vorpal sword in hand, Long time the monk's own foe he sought, So rested he by the tom-tom tree, And stood a while in thought. And as in oofish thought he stood, The jabber-wok, with eyes aflame, Came whiffling through the tulgy wood, And burbled as it came. One-two, one-two, and through and through, The vorpal blade went snicker-snack. He left it dead, and with its head, He went glumping back. And hast thou slain the jabber-wok? Come to my arms, my beemish boy, O'frabjore, stay, callow, callay! He churtled in his joy. Twas brillig, and the slithy toes, Did gyre and gimble in the wab, All mimsy were the bowler-groves, And the moom-raths outgrab. © BF-WATCH TV 2021

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Smear campaigns, mudslinging, twisting the truth. Why do politicians resort to such underhanded tactics? Do they really think it helps their campaign? It's ugly, uncalled for, and deceitful. So why do we allow them to continue? It's time to level the playing field. If you want our vote, then focus on the issues that affect all of us. This election season, advocate for a clean election process. Paid for by the Committee for Cleaner Elections.

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Remembering is difficult, but even more difficult if you have Alzheimer's disease. A disease that affects the brain, erases memory, and eventually takes life. The Alzheimer's Society is fighting back. It provides support, information, and funds research into finding the cause and a cure. Until then, remember this.

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There's not enough art in our schools. No wonder people think Louis Armstrong was the first man to walk on the moon. Alas, the arts are dismissed as extravagant in today's schools. This despite all the studies that show parents believe music, dance, art and drama make their children much better students and better people. If you feel like your kids aren't getting their fair share, make some noise to find out how. For more information about the benefits of arts education, please visit us on the web at americansforthearts.org. Just like the great Louis Armstrong, all you need is a little brass. Art. Ask for more.

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Hi all, I'm here to talk about my first voiceover seminar that I attended. That being with Rob Paulson. On Saturday, January 23rd, 2016, I enrolled in my first voiceover seminar through the yearly San Francisco Sketch Fest that is held for two weeks every year in January. As a bit of an aside, I have been to this festival almost every year since I moved to San Jose five years ago. I would heartily recommend attending it if you are anywhere nearby, doubly so if you are an actor or comedian. From a practicality standpoint, the hours of the events are evenings and weekends, with prices that fit nearly every budget and schedule. Although I wanted to go to several events this year, the other most important to me would have been the cast of Futurama. I had a choice to make. I could only go to one event because of budgetary and time constraints. I chose Rob Paulson's voiceover seminar. Why this over others, you may ask? I chose his seminar because after listening to his Talkin' Tunes podcast, a review of which can be found on my website, I felt I had a sense of the man and his methods, since he had spoken at times about the way he teaches. I admired him for both his growth as an artist and his willingness to try new methods in both his craft and business. He was, and is, a very busy working voice actor in a field that I would like to branch out to, animation and video games. The portfolio of his work is astounding, well chosen and well rounded. His voice is on my side of the spectrum, for both tenors and voice range. I also like that a little bit of Mr. Paulson bleeds through what he does in much of his voice work. He exudes a gentle snarkiness that makes you comfortable. At the same time, you get the sense that he chooses to use his considerable vocal and mental elasticity for good, not evil. Kinda like a badass Jedi, that when you see his lightsaber work, you're glad he's on your side. I have a feeling that like a fine-tuned comedian, one doesn't want to get on the wrong side of an argument with him. It would be like trying to use a knife against an A-bomb. Another reason I chose Mr. Paulson is I wanted something more personal. I thought one celebrity instead of several in one venue would mean potentially less people trying to vie for his time. I wanted, if possible, to get his input on, A, whether what I was doing was viable, and B, to see if my own working methods, how I craft characters were similar to his, and if not, possibly modify what I was doing. There is a danger, of course, to meeting those monadulates. More so, this was my first seminar, so it had the potential for ongoing miscarriage if I happened to observe Rob striding in with his posse, petulantly demanding the double mint cherry fro-yo instead of the mint fro-yo, and snapping his fingers at everyone to fix his celebrity woes quick-quick. I would have to try to slink off with my twitching eye, and try not to retch while my working-class psyche would be wrestling in inner turmoil whether chill time would be worth my forthcoming outburst. My concerns were luckily and brilliantly allayed. Mr. Paulson was nothing but kind, humorous, communicative, and gracious to his audience. He answered everyone's questions with candor and attentiveness, and readily talked with people personally and in small crowds back and forth. My sense, and the sense of others in attendance I spoke with later, spoke of how genuine and pleasant he was. His demeanor gave the sense that he was speaking to you like an old friend. He did this to everyone he met. Gave this sense of genuine encouragement, concern, and reality. He wasn't there to sell anything. His genuineness is a powerful trait, more so since at times we looked and acted a bit like the crowd from the Mos Eisley Cantina. But kindly he spoke with a calm and adulation to his audience and fans. In the end, he was a bit like Springsteen in the 1970s. He practically had to be dragged away from his admirers by his driver to catch his flight. It was as if he liked us as much as we liked him. That, my friends, is beyond cool. I say this even though Mr. Paulson rocks the cool black cowboy boots he wears, that couture cannot come close to match the sense of kind belonging he exuded to us. People will be back to see him, for sure. People might come for the voice, but they'll show back up for the person. I got around 15 minutes of his time between breaks, but I wasn't the only one. He took the time to talk to everyone that wanted his attention. I had the feeling he would have stayed later if he could. Even so, he was there early to talk to his fans, and he stayed an hour later after his seminar speaking with people. This was after he spoke for four continuous hours. People, myself included, wouldn't leave the man alone. As for his seminar, while it was entertaining, just through the sheer force of his personality and humorous demeanor, it was also very informative. About half of it was his personal story, his experiences, peppered with some light Q&A, while the other half, actually more than half considering he stayed so long afterwards, was heavy Q&A, where he answered everything people threw his way. This included, but was certainly not limited to, his own personal approach to preparing for a role, vocal care, how a session works, how the paradigm has changed in voiceover and his views on it, how he has learned from others, how to generate original characters through pitch, vocal location, cadence and accents, and physicality, and a lot more. All of this he gave thorough examples on the nuts and bolts of his techniques. Personally, I knew most of what he spoke of. His talking tunes has most of the content of his seminar. Then again, you'd have to listen to the whole podcast, which I recommend, by the way, to get this high octane version in just half a day. That wasn't the true value for me, although the value would have been wonderful for those not familiar with his podcasts. The true value was being able to engage with him both as an audience member and for him to give us a bit of light mentoring when he spoke directly to us on breaks or Q&A. When I heard him speak about how he works in voiceover, I smiled knowingly and was nodding readily. He affirmed that what I do, the mocking and emulation of people, doing voices and accents when I'm alone spontaneously, the constant play I somehow can't stop doing since I was a kid, was the right thing to do. I wasn't crazy after all. Okay, maybe I am crazy. However, there is a niche for people like me. And it's not necessarily in the local asylum. Some people even get paid for it. The other value I found in attending this seminar was the people in the audience. Seeing 75 or 100 people so stoked, so intense in this aspect of voiceover was validating in itself. Hearing their intelligent and heartfelt questions and talking to some of them in between our merciless after event peppering of Mr. Paulson was enlightening. People from all walks of life, actors, comedians, engineers, this is Silicon Valley after all, were there because they have these delightful little demons forcing these characters and voices out of them. God help us. It's okay. We were all at different skill levels, ages, genders and backgrounds. And that was what was so spectacular for me. The diversity of our experiences bound by the commonality of our humanity. I thank Mr. Paulson for being such a gentle guide on my first voiceover seminar. I will now go on to other seminars, more education, much more readily since this was such a rich and dynamic experience. And even if I have less than stellar teachers and coaches in the future, at least I'll know that one of them, my first, was wonderful. And that will be the fuel to keep me seeking others of Mr. Paulson's caliber going forward.

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Hello folks. This is VO Review number 2. Today we're going to talk about E.G. Daly's Up Close and Personal Voice Over Acting Seminar. E.G. Daly's Up Close and Personal Voice Over Acting Seminar starring E.G. Daly, Bill Farmer, Debbie Derryberry, and Jeff Danis has a run time of 2 hours and 39 minutes and sells from $2.99 for rent or $9.99 to buy off of Amazon.com. The short and sweet. A solid introduction to voice over by a top notch voice over artist. Worth at least as much for its practical life survival skills as well as voice over. The seminar resonates with a combination of realism and hope for people entering the profession. In-depth. If you don't know E.G. Daly, you probably should. Your childhood or your children's lives probably heard her voice every week for years without knowing it. If you read her IMDB entry, one can't help but wonder at her accomplishments in voice over. She's the voice of Buttercup in the Powerpuff Girls, Tommy Pickles from the Rugrats, Mockingbird in the Avengers animated series, as well as weaving in and out of hundreds of cartoons in roles large and small, and also an on-screen actress. Have I mentioned she's also a very accomplished singer? In short, this woman has done a lot. Through this video, she shares the wealth of her life experience through the lens of voice over. Although the seminar is somewhat organic and conversational, it is roughly broken into two parts. Part one starts with an introduction to E.G.'s work and how her career started. From her time as a singer who couldn't afford her own band to being a voice over superstar, the actress many times noted that her being open to new experiences, or offshoots as she calls them, pushing one's edges and following one's passions has led to her life and career blossoming. Throughout the seminar, you also get to see the ways that E.G. and her associates, headed up by Bill Farmer and Debbie Derryberry, come up with voices and the techniques they sometimes employ to bring them to fruition. Even though this seminar is full of great introductory advice for voice over, a significant amount of time was spent on E.G. discussing her battle with depression and anxiety, and how she learned to manage and overcome it. I personally found it very interesting, as the discussion gave the conversation a unique perspective and gravitas. The tale she weaved of her life had a somewhat cautionary tone, but ultimately she emerged from it and took the listener to a place of hope. This isn't a place of juvenile happiness, though. It's an adult place of a woman that radiates strength and understanding of herself through much contemplation and analysis. Her time in the psychological crucible in turn allowed her to gain a powerful empathy for others, who also have had similar issues. I found myself admiring a person who could give a frank discussion on the topic in such a way that it invoked neither pity or sadness in the telling. Her tale was simply honest and true, and by shining a light on her depression, the ghosts of the past had nowhere to hide. I think her story also lent the listener a sense of her humanity. We often see celebrities as monolithic people who can't or shouldn't have problems given their status amongst us. Knowing that even a person as skilled and full of humor in life as E.G. could still have feelings of doubt and anxiety, and the very real reasons behind it, shows a humanity that rings through her speaking style the whole time. After discussing the root causes of her depression, she then talks about how she figured out how to overcome her fears and anxieties, a topic she applies through her seminar. This isn't tedious subject matter, because it's very important. She is telling people because she doesn't want them to forget. You can tell she wants her audience to succeed in their voiceover careers in general, and life in particular. After discussing this topic, she talks briefly about how some other voiceover actors got started. She then has a live discussion with Bill Farmer, the voice of Goofy, and how he got started. This is only a few minutes, but a delightful time, with his, and later E.G.'s other guest speakers, perspectives on the subject of voiceover. The wrap-up of Part 1 deals once more with fostering feelings of positive outlook, and how to do this for life in general. Part 2 covers the bare bones of voiceover. This section was more what I expected when I purchased this video. Not that Part 1 wasn't useful. Far from it. In this section, E.G. not only used her considerable knowledge to enlighten us on this topic, she also had the fortune to call on her fellow voiceover actor, Debbie Derryberry, as well as her agent, Jeff Danis, to lend strong assists and perspectives to the subject. E.G. and Debbie then proceeded into actual voiceover techniques. Everything from rudimentary home studio creation, to how to use the mic, and studio etiquette are covered. These methods are useful, but more interesting, I thought, is how the listener might then start to think of other ways to make interesting voices that they may not have otherwise considered before. E.G. then gave several lists of coaches, demo producers, voiceover agents, and books to read to help the beginning voiceover actor develop his or her craft. Jeff Danis, E.G.'s agent, then took the stage to give a common-sense discussion on what agents look for when signing on talent. His advice, in a nutshell, was uniqueness, great acting skills, diversification of skills, and patience with one's self. With E.G. standing beside him, it's not a surprise he signed her early on in their careers, as she exhibits all these skills and traits he looks for in someone. Afterwards, primarily open-ended and candid Q&A followed. Sometimes it was a clarification from the audience about the above topics, and sometimes new questions on voiceovers were asked. There were also new and interesting analogies from E.G.'s personal life that reinforced her advice on the subject matter. Finally, the wrap-up was a reiteration of hope, and telling people to go for it, no matter your age or circumstance. Coming late into this game myself, I found it resonating with me, and I hope it will for you too. I would highly recommend this to new voiceover actors, as well as people who would be interested in an illuminating biopic of a top-notch talent in the field.

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Hello, this is Rhett Kennedy and welcome to my first VO review. Twitter Marketing That Doesn't Suck. Volume 1. Punk Rock Marketing. By Michael Clark. First, a brief explanation to the method of my madness. This is my first review for voiceover and voiceover related topics. So why am I posting a review on social media first? I believe many voiceover artists, myself included, at least know the basics of their craft. That is to say, voice acting. It is, after all, the product that they are selling. What they don't know is the business side of the coin. In general, many of us know little about self-promotion, either through ignorance or apathy to the process. Learning marketing and self-promotion needs to become at least as important as auditioning and even the acting part of the profession. People can't hire you if they don't know who you are. Even if you are, in one's mind at least, a voiceover deity. But don't despair. I have many other books, webinars and videos that pertain directly to the craft of voiceover that I'll be posting about in this series. I have found Twitter to be a very easy and engaging social media platform, even with the meager marketing instincts I have. And without any education on Twitter, I found it useful to spreading the word about my business. Twitter has already boosted engagement on my website from nothing to several hundred unique hits a week. However, I knew I was just starting to understand its capabilities, and it was time to learn more. Overview of Contents The short and sweet. Simple, easy to read and informative. And the price is a sweet deal. In Depth Mr. Clark starts with a simple introduction on what Twitter is and the bare bone basics. In here, I found a few interesting bits and pieces. If I would have read his intro before I took up Twitter a few months ago, I would have saved myself a few initial headaches. When I started, I didn't realize direct messages were a bad thing, for instance. He also explained in brief a few of the tools, but still I didn't know what their purpose was. This was just the first few pages. So I think first time Twitter users would appreciate this part right off. The chapters that followed were short, sweet, and full of information. Each chapter built upon each other and easily read and understood. I was able to enact changes to my Twitter account within minutes. Chapter 1 covers a boiled down explanation of direct and indirect marketing. This is information that can be applied to any platform or marketing idea. Chapter 2 covers how to set up a well-made Twitter profile. This looks like how to pick a Twitter name and what to put in one's bio. Chapter 3 gives solid ideas on what to tweet about, how much to tweet, where to get the information, and how to tweet in proportion to your other tweets without ticking your readers off with too much spam and salesy stuff. A nice bit of advice. Chapter 4 indicates when the best and worst times to tweet are. It's worth paying attention to, because otherwise your tweets might just get lost in the other feeds coming through much more easily. This is useful as a gauge only, and the author admits different times might work better for different businesses. At the very least, an excellent starting point. Chapter 5 speaks about how to construct a well-made tweet, the size of the tweet, and use and placement of hashtags. Also how to say things in a tweet. I found this very interesting and useful. Also it made sense. Many times I would read his words and think, Of course! Why didn't I think of that? I found this very useful one bit that makes this chapter useful and worth the price of the book on how to make tweets as short as possible so people have room to retweet. I never thought of that. Chapter 6 talks about how to gain followers fast without doing anything that would anger the Twitter gods. Mr. Clark talks about how to follow, who to follow, and also ways of making yourself appear to be an established expert of your field. This is a chapter in which the author states it will still take some work on your part to grow your followers, but it is logical and consistent and makes total sense. Chapter 7 delves into ways to engage followers through contests, chats, and streaming. The author gives solid information on what to use and how to use Twitter-friendly sites. This is something I never thought of, and the information can be used for other kinds of social media. Really, a lot of the book has principles that can be applied to other forms of marketing. Finally, chapter 8 gives information on making many of the skills taught in the previous chapters automatic through various websites. This is especially useful to the time-crunched business person. And who isn't? All in all, I found this a great introductory read that gets you up and moving quickly. It is a short, 76 pages in length, easy-to-read book with lots of information, told with tongue-in-cheek humor by the author that keeps the reader awake through the grind of the technical aspects of Twitter. And at $2.99 on Kindle, well worth the small investment of time and money.

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I'm singing in the rain, just singing in the rain, What a glorious feeling, I'm happy again. I'm laughing at clouds, so dark up above, The sun's in my heart, and I'm ready for love. Let the stormy clouds chase, everyone from the place, Come on with the rain, I've a smile on my face. I walk down the lane, with a happy refrain, Just singing, just singing in the rain. Let the stormy clouds chase, everyone from the place, Come on with the rain, I've a smile on my face. I walk down the lane, with a happy refrain, Just singing, just singing in the rain. I walk down the lane, with a happy refrain, Just singing, just singing in the rain. Thanks for watching!

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I said nothing, simply fixing my gray eyes in the sternest glare I could give. Scoundrel stretched her wings. Gryth guffawed, no harm in asking, now is there? He opened the door. In that moment, I lost any faint hope I might have had that Santiago didn't know I was in the Scarlet Cellar. No. Of course Santiago knew everything that happened in his own alehouse. He had probably arranged every person I had met, every sight I had seen. Tainted night, the man had probably made certain that I had seen half-naked women with their bed partners, just to see if I'd react. Trickling from the room was a tune that every child in the city had learned while still young enough to be playing throwstones in the street. Accompanying it was a soft, male tenor. Santiago's Esperan accent softly curled the edges of the words, making them smooth, poetic. In a lost and darkened alley, when the ocean wind sings, the judicar watches to see what night brings. The woman who loves him will wait up in the night, her heart ever praying that he'll come back when it's light, for the blackbird is hunting. He is always away, he can't make her his, his oh soul obey, yet her heart will still ache as she sits all alone, and ever she'll wish that she could be his home.

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Snails, how many I think that do see the rainbow of the heart. Don't you see? The spotless dogs are all laughing at us. Laughing at us, I say.

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So you'll be thinking of sailing with our crew, would you? Well, if you be contemplating that, I think it be time to see what your worth is to us. If you don't do too badly, I may leave you with a bruised pride and a few scars to remember us by.

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Ұңғыңғ гұртақ жек ұнұң бұңдай. Ұңұң ұңұң ұңұққ ұңұңүн ұңғүң ұңұңүн ұңұңүң պұңүң. Үұқ, Ұұқ, ұұқ, һұңүң ұңұң ұңұңүң.

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I'm so confused. That's Guile Birthed Gum today!

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These creatures were once men, as you and I, but they sacrificed their immortal souls for more time upon this world. They should be pitied, but only after their destruction.

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You are my life, my flower, my tender rose. I cannot live without you, my love. Stay with me, and I shall cherish you until the end of our long years together.

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Lieutenant Sathar, engage evasive maneuvers. Fire thrusters at G-Vector 78. On my mark, unload all cobot phasers on their primary engine nacelles. If the Vorthorns want a fight, they've got one. Steady... Aim... Fire!

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Claire, please. I don't want you to stay. Please, you can't help me. I don't want to hurt you. Please leave before it's too late. Thank you. I can't hold it much longer. Claire!

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Such a fragile thing, this mortal life of yours. A trip or a fall really can end your short existence. Or worse yet, you recover, but never fully. You linger on, injured in body and who knows. I, however, will change that. Tonight, my sweet, you will either join me in eternal life, or I will drain you of blood so I can continue. One way or another, it ends tonight. Take your time, think about it. But not too long, I grow weary of all games.

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Heed my words, young warrior. Your defeat of the great wyrm Skythrax was only the beginning of your trials. You must now seek and find counsel with the gorgon Maitreya. Beware her powerful countenance, for she is of such terrible beauty that her mere reflection can cause a man to become lifeless stone.

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Sons and daughters of Tirion, it has now come to this, the doom of our age before us. We hear the drums, the drums that foretell of the greatest, last battle. And now it seems that they are many, and we are few. I say this, it is not time to lose heart. Instead, take courage, for this is now the day our strength is truly tested. We now shall show them what happens when men are pushed beyond their limits and found that there is strength that they never knew. We are tempered through fire and iron and blood, and through this great temperance we shall emerge victorious. When the wolves of Briderham bear their crimson fangs, we shall crack their necks and crush their jaws. When the worms of the East dare to claim us as prey, we shall smite their scales with divine fire and make their carcasses our shields. Axe and sword shall clash, spears will shatter, black blood shall be spilt upon this plain ere the sun wanes. It is true, some of us will fall, but I say to all, we fight for the coming dawn. We fight for friend and family, for pride and love, for all that is dear to us in this world. We shall persevere, we shall not slow, nor stop, and even death itself will not hinder us. We are the Wraithsguard of Clan Norgard. Arise with bright steel and eyes of white flame, to clash and crash upon this wave of darkness and break their hold. Ride to black doom and white death, silver warriors, to wrath and rage and ruin. Arise with bright steel and eyes of white flame, to clash and crash upon this wave of darkness and break their hold. Ride to black doom and white death, silver warriors, to wrath and rage and ruin. Arise with bright steel and eyes of white flame, to clash and crash upon this wave of darkness and break their hold. Arise with bright steel and eyes of white flame, to clash and crash upon this wave of