MONOLOGUE: Alleluia

by Claire Booker

Setting:       A bathroom, Yorkshire.

Time:           Wednesday morning. The present.

Character:   BRIDGET, a 40-year-old housewife.

BRIDGET addresses the audience, her husband, Barry, is in the bathroom with her. He appears oblivious to her rambling thoughts. BRIDGET, in a towel, is getting ready for the day.

BRIDGET

Nineteen years in the same bed. Nineteen! (she observes her husband brushing his teeth) He thinks he knows everything about me. But do you? Do you know the half of it? (to husband) Don’t brush so hard, Barry; they’ll bleed.

(applying body lotion to her arms) All this flab. God, look at it—handfuls. I’ll have to keep my arms down. Or covered. Yes. Perhaps it’ll be one of those frenzied couplings where there’s no time to undress.

(irritated) Why does he have to brush his teeth that hard? It’s like a dog with a bone.

(pause) Habits. That’s what you marry. Regular as clockwork. Every morning: gargle and spit. Every night: nose whistling, chest pumping. And the snores, the snores! I could ram a pillow over his head and sit on it. Not to kill him, mind. Just to stop the breathing.

(she checks her face in the mirror) He never looks at me. Not a real “feel me over” look. Not anymore. Same as how you stop seeing the pattern on your curtains after a while, only the dirty fingers marks. Whereas Laszlo… (she sighs, then starts to sing an arpeggio) La di da Da di da da. (she raises the arpeggio by a tone and flunks the high note) La di da Da…  Continue reading

Advertisements

MONOLOGUE: The Restaurateur

by Les Hunter

Setting:
A kitchen in an Indian restaurant in Jackson Heights, Queen, NYC

Time:
Now

Character:
THE RESTAURATEUR, a young Indian man; a chef

(THE RESTAURATEUR is at work in his Jackson Heights eatery. He prepares a dosa.)

THE RESTAURATEUR

How to make, and serve, a Jackson Heights Dosa.

Step one: Be born. The importance of this step cannot be overlooked. New Jersey or Puducherry, a small town or large city; It makes no difference. But the best dosa comes from the south. So, say, be born in Ernakulam.

Step two: Grease the pan with cooking oil. Turn the heat on to a nice medium. That is the only time you will say the word “medium” at this restaurant. “Hot,” “Spicy,” yes; “Medium,” no.

Step three: Throw yourself completely into something imaginative as a child. Turn a tree into a far away castle. Become consumed with drawing butterflies. In certain cases, this can arise from some kind of trouble. For example: Have your parents die at a young age. Move in with your aunt in the country, who’s very kind and old fashioned. She’s a wonderful cook. You watch her in the kitchen. You watch her make step four of a dosa.

Step four: Pour half a cup of dosa batter into the pan like a pancake. Spread into pan. Do not be alarmed if the dosa develops tiny holes as you spread the batter. This is normal.

Step five: Fall in love. Feel rejection. Fall out of love.

Step six: Baste the dosa with oil. When the upper surface begins to look cooked, flip the dosa. By this time, ideally, the surface that was underneath should be light golden in color. Like me. Allow to cook for one minute after flipping the dosa. Become tired of dosas. Allow your mind to wander. Meandering, your mind guides you to…  Continue reading

MONOLOGUE: Griselda

by Richard Ballon

Setting:        A cluttered kitchen in a small apartment in Queens, New York City

Time:           The present

Character:    EVA SUCICH, 50-year-old lesbian, first generation American of Croatian descent.

EVA speaks to her lover.

EVA

I told you honey, this finger is off limits. You can’t put it in your mouth. I’ve got this sore that won’t heal. No, I’m not suggesting I’ve been messing around, of course we’re careful and everything. Will you get over that idea? I am not messing around. It’s kind of about my mother. What?  No I’m not sleeping with my mother. Eww.

She died a couple months ago just before I met you. You would have liked her. She was like a dancing bear. She enjoyed her food and liked to snag relatives in the paw of a good argument. She would shake herself awake as she turned her mattress every morning so her dreams wouldn’t sit there asking to be remembered. My Ma’s name was Griselda. You can imagine what I got as a kid to have a mother named Griselda with a foreign accent in her apron pocket.

My Ma didn’t walk, she lumbered, and things she touched burned bright and shame on the foreheads of the few she gave a piece of her mind. She spread wide as a hen over two bus seats and she would cluck a comment to someone she was bound to overhear, though she claims her hearing was going. She used to tell me, “These ears only fill up with good news.”

Well, give her a bit of gossip and she would peck at it, passing it on, politely, like she was apologetically offering a piece of day old cake.  Continue reading

MONOLOGUE: Her Career Talk

by Natalie Smith

Setting:       An office in a university careers department, England.

Time:          Morning, present day

Character:   CYNTHIA, age 54, soon-to-be-redundant careers adviser.

CYNTHIA wears voluminous flared trousers and a tee-shirt bearing the words: “Loose Cannon.”  She sits on a chair talking to a student.

CYNTHIA

Don’t be formal. Call me “Cynth.” I’m here to guide. To advise. I will literally help you in any way I can. Relax. It’s only a short appointment. And I know all about those.  But you. Let’s find out about you. You are the most important person in my sphere.

(She waves her fingers in a circular motion starting over her head until her arms are at the side of her chair.)

Besides my husband, Joe, of course.

(Pause)

Did you have a good weekend? I did. Well, we did. The family. I suppose you don’t get the same warm experience living in halls of residence. Halls of decadence more like! I know what you get up to. I was young once. Mentally, I still am. They don’t appreciate that here. And look at my skin. Ding, dong, Avon calling!

(Spins slowly once on chair)

Anyway, me and mine were busy. First we went to my sister’s who’s literally almost a cordon bleu cook. Her husband, Roger, says, ‘her mashed potatoes are that watery you can squeeze them out.’ Doesn’t appreciate good food. What about a career in catering? We get lots of books here from the book man. Comes once a month. Dirt cheap. I’ve just bought Jamie Oliver’s. I love Jamie Oliver. His lips. So full. So generous. You say you’re doing psychology? Deary me.  I worked for a psychologist once. As his receptionist. He’d always ask me how I was when he arrived in the morning. That made me suspicious.  Continue reading

MONOLOGUE: Bunny-Boy

by Marijana Cosic

Setting:     Children playground in the local park

Time:        Daytime

Character: BUNNY-BOY, 28 years old

A silent girl is playing in the sand somewhere in the back of the playground. She is building a sandcastle and she doesn’t take notice of her surroundings. Centre stage is BUNNY-BOY, with rabbit ears attached to his head, a puffy bunny tail to his bum, he plays randomly with playground’s attributes.

BUNNY-BOY

I have been a furry for a while… (looks at the silent girl) Unfortunately my girlfriend over there is not. Which is hard… (sighs) yeah…

(Looks right, left. Speaks in confidence.)

You know what a furry means? No? Yes? …It’s a fetish… a silly game… sure it is. Although, it depends sometimes. I’m a human, that’s obvious. But my character is a white rabbit, my so called animal spirit. I don’t have a full suit you know, but I have 3 tails and a set of ears, all handmade. Kind of proud of it… And I don’t really participate in the furry culture, but… I am one. (sarcastically, annoyed) And no, I am not a giant muscular man-beast in the body of fat 30-year-old living in your parent’s basement.

(Looks at the girl.)

I want to tell her but damn it, don’t know how… You see her? Such a beautiful creature, isn’t she? Right there…love of my life… playing… Maybe if her mom was an animal rights activist, then it would be like…politically correct…and…she could like accept me…or…

(Grins, imagines.)

She would look great in fur… as a huge sexy Fox. I bet she’d like that.

Should I just tell her?

I think she just doesn’t want to be known as the girl going out with the freak… Few of people at my work told me it could turn out that way… No worries, I was smart enough to tell them a story about a “friend of mine.”

(Winks.)

And NO, I couldn’t ever imagine finding Bugs Bunny sexually attractive. That’s like finding a second cousin sexually attractive.

(Shrugs his shoulders.)

And yes, I’m prepared to be called a “Furvert”. Have you heard that one? I’ve heard pretty much everything you can call me…  Continue reading

MONOLOGUE: The Perfectionist

by Katherine Burkman

SETTING:            A room or an empty stage.

TIME:                 The present.

CHARACTER:      ROGER, a man in his 20s or 30s

ROGER speaks to the audience. He is dressed to perfection.

ROGER

I have heard that one is allowed to make 26 mistakes a day. On bad days, one is allowed to make 50. Who has given this permission? I attend a 12-step program for perfectionists—I am a recovering perfectionist—and they provide these statistics at one of our meetings. I don’t know how many mistakes I make a day, but I don’t want to make any.

Needless to say this perfectionism has caused me numerous problems, probably about 26 a day and 50 on a bad day. When I was in school, I could never get myself to write or hand in papers that weren’t perfect. They had to be dragged out of me by the brute force of my mother, my father, my teachers, and finally even my shrink. Imagine a Jungian shrink dragging papers out of me. I don’t think so. But I was under a lot of pressure to produce.

I have found a job that allows me to enjoy my perfectionist tendencies. I sort things. Big things in this pile, small things in that pile, blue things in the other pile, etc. And I make the piles impressively neat. It doesn’t pay much, but at least I don’t lose sleep over my job.

It’s my social life that’s at risk, and this is where I need your advice. See, I met this really neat girl, well woman I suppose. And I want to ask her out. I met her at a party, a disorderly one where people were drinking a lot. I was very uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take a drink of wine, but only one glass and I sip it. Well, this girl and I got to talking but she was slurping a glass of beer. Slurping. I liked what she was saying but I didn’t like the slurping. I had only just met her, so I could hardly say, “Look, I think you are attractive and intelligent and the right height, but I can’t abide the way you slurp.” I began thinking that if I married this girl, I could wait until we were married maybe six months and then tell her, but I don’t think I could hold out beyond a first date. There are other girls I haven’t taken out because of their slightly sloppy attire, their slightly too loud voices, or their slightly too big feet. You can see how perfectionism can inhibit one’s social life. I saw that movie recently, someone or other and the Real Girl. It was about a shy guy who bought himself a doll and got her organized. But that didn’t work for him and I don’t think it would work for me since I want some real love. Haven’t you found that when you criticize a date, she doesn’t usually want to go out a second time? I certainly have.  Continue reading

MONOLOGUE: Revelations

by Lucas J.W. Johnson

SETTING:           Hell

TIME:                Armageddon

CHARACTER:      SATAN, a.k.a. the fallen angel Samael, a.k.a. the Devil, a.k.a. the Adversary, a.k.a. the Crooked Serpent, a.k.a. the Prince of this World, a.k.a. the Dragon, a.k.a. the Accuser, a.k.a. the King of the Demons, a.k.a. the Ruler of Hell, a.k.a. the Antichrist

SATAN’s throne sits centre, and a side table holds a tattered old book and a pair of tongs. Satan sits in his throne, fuming. Through the monologue, he may stand, pace, etc.

SATAN

You know, the least they could have done was give me a warning. I mean, there I am, minding my own business, torturing the sinful and plotting the downfall of man, when suddenly, pow! These four horsemen go riding across the world heralding the beginning of the end and bringing war, pestilence, famine, and death in their wake. I mean, come on, that’s totally supposed to be my thing. Not the riding, though, I get horrible wedgies. I just mean the destruction and doom.

And you know where they come from? Scrolls. They spring out of scrolls. He’s sitting up there on His glowy throne like He’s so much better than everyone else, having praises sung to Him night and day, and He holds up these seven scrolls, and four of them turn into horsemen and go riding off. What’s up with that? I mean, what are they supposed to be? Angels? Hardly. Demons? Not mine, anyway.

And don’t get me started on the singing of praises. Talk about inferiority complex, if He needs people telling Him how great He is all the time. I know I’m great, I don’t need people telling me. The screams of the damned are all the proof I need. I mean, you gotta admit, Scientology was a stroke of genius. Got so many suckers with that one…  Continue reading