Monologues

Blood Relations by Sharon Pollock

Did you know Papa killed my birds with the axe? It's alright. At first, I felt bad,
but I feel better now. I feel much better now.

Do you know something Mrs. Borden? I am a woman of decision. When I

decide to do things, I do them. Yes, I do. How many times have you heard Papa
say; ' When Lizzy puts her mind to a thing she does it'. And I do. It's always me
that put the slug poison out because they kill all the flowers. And you don't like
that, do you?
You see not all life is precious, is it?

Mrs. Borden, wait a minute!

I would like you to look into my eyes. Look right into them. Tell me. What do
you see?
Can you see anything? Yes. When someone dies, retained on her eye is the
image of the last thing she saw. Isn't that interesting?
Spur of the Moment by Anya Reiss

I lie, all the time. I haven’t done any of my essays for uni. I’ve cut myself before
and I don’t even know why I just…I just did it. And Leonard thinks it was
because of him, but it wasn’t. So he feels like he has to stay with me even
though, even though he isn’t the problem. He’s the best person I have ever
met, and he loves me but I can’t love him. I’ve tried. I am trying…but he…he’s
just so fucking irritating. I say I don’t believe in God, but I actually think I do, I
just say it to be different… I can’t afford your parents rent. I… I…And for some
reason I can’t stop myself. Just like your Tourette’s thing, and I keep thinking I
don’t care anymore, so I kiss you even though I feel sick and it’s so
wrong…and…you don’t love me so much now do you?
CIGARETTES AND CHOCOLATE by Anthony Minghella

When you stop speaking, it’s like stopping eating.

The first day there’s something thrilling, and new, before the pain begins.
The pain where you want to give up, where you can think of nothing else.
Then the second day, you feel wretched, the third delirious, and then suddenly
there’s no appetite, it shrinks, it shrinks, until the prospect of speaking, the
thought of words retching from the mouth, how ugly and gross it seems.
Nothing changes.
How to stop people in their tracks, and make them think. Only if you’re
starving, if it’s your son lying in your arms, and all the while skirts get longer,
skirts get shorter, skirts get longer, skirts get shorter, poetry is written, the
news is read, I buy a different butter at the store and all the while my hair
keeps growing, I throw away all my skirts, I’ve covered my wall with postcards,
with posters, with postcards, with posters.
Yes, those.
No this.
Out them.
In these.
Yes, those.
The rows. The rows with my friends. What were they about? What did they
change? The fact is, the facts are, nothing is changed. Nothing has been done.
There is neither rhyme nor reason, just tears, tears, people’s pain, people’s
rage, their aggression.
And silence.
Kiss Me Like You Mean It by Chris Chibnail

Listen … I need to…Um…say…. I mean…I know we only met earlier…and I nearly

set you on fire… and we’re both going out with people. Obviously that’s quite
tricky. But… well… you’re the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes on in
my entire life. I saw you and my heart leapt. You make me want to change my
life. To…participate. I know it’s not possible and we’re not…compatible or
whatever but…I just…I know it’s stupid.. but maybe just hear me out for a
second and then you can tell me I’m an idiot and we’ll go back in and pretend
this never happened but… I want to write crap poetry about you, lay my coat
over puddles for you, always have a handkerchief available for you. I want to
get drunk and bore my friends about you. I want to feel the tingle of our lips
meeting, the lock of our eyes joining, the fizz of our fingertips touching.
I want to fall in love with you. I think I could. And I think it would be good. And
I want you to say yes. You might feel the same.
Beat
Could you? Maybe?
THE COMEDIANS by Trevor Griffiths

It’s not the jokes. It's what lies behind 'em.

It’s the attitude. A real comedian—that's a daring person. She dares to see
what her listeners shy away from, fear to express. And what she sees is a sort
of truth about people, and about their situation, about what hurts or terrifies
them, about what's hard, above all, about what they want. A joke releases the
tension, says the unsayable, any joke pretty well. But a true joke, a comedian's
joke, has to do more than release tension, it has to liberate the will and the
desire, it has to change the situation. (pause)
There’s very little won’t take a joke. But when a joke bases itself upon a
distortion – a stereotype perhaps – and gives the lie to the truth so as to win a
laugh and stay in favour, we’ve moved away from a comic art and into the
world of “entertainment” and slick success. (pause)
You’re better than that, damn you.
And even if you’re not, you should bloody well want to be.
Heroin by Grace Dyas

That was the moment when we got rich. And you might say, if you weren't
there, that this was when we split. Before we were all together, and some of
us were poorer and less well off than others. But now this is the part were we
all succeeded, and everyone else has fucked it up for themselves.

This is the moment before the end of the war. The bot where most people die.
The bit where the most irrational choices are made. The camera pans out and
all the causalities are lying in the street.

This is when we'll feel like we can't take it anymore. Where we'll declare that
we want to die. Where we'll decide the situation is inevitable and that change
is impossible.

Things have just been getting worse for a long time.

We might come together for the very first time. We might organize effectively
for change. We might use our fists. But when it comes to tell the story, we
won't be able to remember.
The Art of Swimming by Lynda Radley

In the open sea you have no idea of what is coming next. You must make your
piece with currents and tides. You must learnt to track them. You have to swim
straight, but you can’t waste too much energy on looking up, so you learn blind
how to navigate a straight, liquid line. You must learn how to swim in the dark.

You can think only miniscule thoughts - Stroke. Pull. Stroke. Pull. Stroke. Pull. -
Don’t think and there is nothing to distract you from the cold. Think too much
and your mind will find a way to convince you to stop. So you focus on
direction, navigation, drinking, urinating, pacing, hours, minutes and seconds.
Your inner engineer must travel internally: monitoring each temperature
change, feeling each fluctuation, assessing the quality of each breath. Each
stroke. Stroke. Pull. Stroke. Pull. Stroke.

You speak to your lungs and say ‘You are bigger than this’

You speak to your heart and say ‘Don’t beat faster, Slow down’

You speak to your legs and say ‘Keep kicking’

You speak to your arms and say ‘Keep pulling’

Each time your mind wanders towards the pain you have to pick it up and
pluck it away like a wayward child.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard

Do you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it?

Nor do I, really.... It's silly to be depressed by it. I mean one thinks of it like
being alive in a box, one keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one
is dead ... which should make a difference ... shouldn't it? I mean, you'd never
know you were in a box, would you? It would be just like being asleep in a box.
Not that I'd like to sleep in a box, mind you, not without any air - you'd wake
up dead, for a start and then where would you be? Apart from inside a box.
That's the bit I don't like, frankly. That's why I don't think of it....

Because you'd be helpless, wouldn't you? Stuffed in a box like that, I mean
you'd be in there forever. Even taking into account the fact that you're dead,
really ... ask yourself, if I asked you straight off - I'm going to stuff you in this
box now, would you rather be alive or dead?
Peepshow by Isabel Wright

You smell different.

You smell the way you used to smell when we first met.
Your hair is different.
I don’t know how.
Don’t know about hair.
You smile to yourself.
Hum a tune as you wash up.
Never used to.
You’ve lost weight.
Why would you want to lose weight?
You get every Monday off work.
You don’t call me every lunchtime any more.
We negotiate round each other at breakfast.
I ask what you’re thinking.
I ask what you’re thinking.
You say, I’m tired. That’s all, baby, that’s all.
You lie differently in bed.
Turned away.
You don’t curl your arm around my waist.
You don’t kiss me awake.
I ask what you’re thinking.
I ask what you’re thinking.
You say, I’m tired. I’m tired of… I’m tired, baby, that’s all.
I watch you when you don’t know I’m watching you.
Follow you from work.
A glimpse of your life when you’re not with me.
You’re ordinary.
Extraordinary.
Asking myself.
How do I
Know if I
Know you at all.
Asking
How do I
Know if I
Know you at all.
BREATHING CORPSES by Laura Wade

I’m Ok.
Just – you’re dead and I’m going to get sacked I think, so – Not very – not very
good, is it?
What’s your name Mr Man?
Oh, you did a letter. Nice.
You know, you look – I bet you were lovely. I bet you were really – really kind.
Not a person I’d ever really talk to but, but you look lovely.

Do you mind if I - it’s just you’ve not sealed it, so no one’d know, cept you and
me and I won’t tell anyone if you don’t?

Jim. Hi Jim. Oh my God. A woman in a box. Like a cardboard box? God. Yeah,
that’s really hard. Hard enough finding you, can’t imagine if I found one in a
box. Didn’t you wonder about who was going to find you?
That’s a really nice letter, Jim. I mean, you know... For that kind of letter its
nice. Not too long, you don’t blame anyone. Wouldn’t seem fair, really, they
never get chance to say anything back. Good you haven’t blamed anyone.
D’you mind if I open the window? It’s just you smell a bit.
Cold out there Don’t want to smell nasty when they come in, do you?
DNA by Dennis Kelly

Apparently, bonobos are our nearest relative. For years people thought

they were chimpanzees, but they’re not, they are completely different.

Chimps are evil. They murder each other, did you know that? They kill and

sometimes torture each other to find a better position within the social

structure. A chimp’ll just find itself on the outside of a group and before he

knows what’s happening it’s being hounded to death by the others, sometimes

for months. For years we’ve thought that chimps were our closest living

relative, but now they saying it’s the bonobos. Bonobos are the complete

opposite of chimps. When a stranger bonobo approaches the pack, the other

bonobos all come out and go ‘Hello, mate. What you doing round here? Come

and meet the family, we can eat some ants.’ And if a bonobo damages its

hand, whereas the chimps’ll probably cast it out or bite its hand off, the

bonobos will come over and look after it, and they’ll all look sad because

there’s a bonobo feeling pain. I saw it on a program. Such sadness in those

intelligent eyes. Empathy. That’s what bonobos have. Amazing really, I mean

they’re exactly like chimps, but the tiniest change in their DNA… The woman

was saying that if we’d discovered bonobos before chimps our understanding

of ourselves would be very different.

What are they Like by Lucinda Coxan

Y’lie t’them - of course - don’t you? Right from the start! You’ve got to. You
don’t mean to, but really…
As soon as they’re born, y’ start lying. It’s like when they’re little, you say… -
‘there’s nothing to be frightened of’. But there is. Of course. There’s plenty.
I remember, when Alex was – what was she? – three, maybe? She got
obsessed – I don’t know where that came from – obsessed – with the idea of
death. The idea I was going to die. She’d wake up screaming… some terrible
dream: ‘Hey – hey!’. I’d tell her: ‘I’m not going to die! I’m not going t’die!
Not ever!

She borrows things. I don’t mind. Well, I do. A bit. Not really, you know, but…
She’s always wanted to wear my clothes. But then her brother was the same!
The high-heels – they called them ‘clip-clop shoes’… Shoes, bags, bracelets…
you name it. I think that’s just normal. Kids like dressing up, don’t they?
But now it’s different. At least… it seems different. I mean, there’s an element
still, of dressing up, but…
She’ll try things on of mine, and she’ll look in the mirror… and…
The way she looks…
It’s cold.
So… critical.
And part of me thinks: good for you - not kidding yourself. Not making that
mistake.
And part of me thinks:
Please… Don’t be so hard on yourself.
Don’t be so hard on me.
Hannah: Heart in the Ground by Douglas Hill

Bill is not your family—I am. And Catherine is. And this farm. This is where
we—We don't belong in there. We're out here. In the ground. We're out here
eating away at all your time and attention. And you don't even want to touch
us. Lee, this is your family. We're swallowing up all your prayers and begging
you to come out here and dance barefoot with us in the dirt and watch the
moon take care of everything! And don't you look at me like I'm stupid! I'm
not. I know how lucky I am to be here! And you better not forget how lucky
you are too! [Beat.] I got a second chance after Marshall Valley to come back
here. Because this is where I belong. And you got a second chance after your
parole because you belong here too. And so does Catherine. There are all
those traps out there but they can't keep us away. They can't tie us down
anywhere else. That moon keeps pulling us back to this place. All of us. We
belong here watching the moon raise that corn right out of the ground. And if
the moon can pull me up out of the hospital and pull you out of prison, then
it's gotta be able to pull Catherine right up out of the ground, too. And I'm not
fourteen anymore, and you're not gonna give my child away like Momma did..
I'm twenty-two and I'm married, so Catherine is legitimate this time. If you
have to send something out to that graveyard, send flowers, or a promise, or
an IOU. I don't care. But don't take away my baby. I just want her back. That's
all. I want my little girl.
Gallows Humour, by Jack Richardson

My life was formless, a tiny piece of chaos. What was left of me that couldn’t
be hiccuped out of existence? Right and left, buy and sell, love and hate –
these now meant nothing to me. I found myself on the wrong trains, in the
wrong beds, with the wrong people. And my neighbourhood, my
neighbourhood that I had helped zone to perfection, became a carnival of the
lowest sort, and my neighbours, whom I knew inside and out, danced about
beneath layer on layer of holiday masks until I couldn’t tell one from the other.
And then, God knows where or when it happened, I found a mirror sending
back at me a face that I had never seen before – a face with wild eyes, bristling
hair and a heavy growth of stubble – a face I would have crossed the street to
avoid had I seen it coming at me in happier times. Oh, I'd been cheated, Lucy,
and gradually I began to grow angry – mad in fact – until one morning, with
everything spinning about me in complete disorder, I struck back. My poor
wife happened to be closest at hand, and for all I know I might have thought I
was on the golf course until I felt the club make contact with her skull. I
remember it sounding as if it were a good shot, and then I looked up to follow
the ball's flight and found...
Lovers Winners Losers by Brian Friel

I can see the boarders out on the tennis courts. They should be studying. And
there's a funeral going up High Street; nine cars and a petrol lorry, and an
ambulance. Maybe the deceased was run over by the petrol lorry - the father
of a large family - and the driver is paying his respects and crying his eyes out.
If he doesn't stop blubbering, he'll run over someone else. And the widow is in
the ambulance, all in plaster, crippled for life. (she tries out a mime of this -
both arms and legs cast in awkward shapes) And the children are going to be
farmed out to cruel aunts with squints and moustaches. Sister Michael has a
beard. Joan O'Hara says she shaves with a cutthroat every 1st Friday and uses
an aftershave lotion called Virility. God, nuns are screams if you don't take
them seriously. I think I'd rather be a widow than a widower; but I'd rather be
a Bachelor than a spinster. And I'd rather be deaf than dumb; but I'd rather be
dumb than blind. And if I had to choose between lung cancer, coronary, and
multiple sclerosis, I'd take the coronary. Papa’s family all died of coronaries,
long before they were commonplace. (She sits up to tell the following piece of
family history) He had a sister, Nan, who used to sing at the parochial concert
every Christmas; and one year, when she was singing Jerusalem - you know,
just before the chorus, when the piano is panting Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh,
she opened her mouth and dropped like a log. . .