MONOLOGUES MALE

Theatre II, 2013-14

BREAKING UP by Michael Cristofer. He, in a modern courtship.

HE. Its dull. Real dull. But Im not complaining. Im not. If this is the way it
has to be then this is what it has to be. I understand all that. I could never make
anything work with the ups and downs anyway. So why not try dull? Maybe dull is
the answer. Except that the truth is, you see, its going in the same direction. Its
just, when its this dull, its a little hard to see that its going in any direction, but
all this understanding, this is not going to last. A couple of words here, a couple of
words there, a couple of looks, a couple of wrong moves and all of a sudden
nobody understands anything anymore and you spend all your time trying to
explain what you meant and what you thought she meant and what you thought she
thought you meant . . .
It has to happen. The honeymoon is over. And then you break up and you go and
find somebody else and you start all over again. I cant do it. I did it with you. I
cant do it again with somebody else. It could take years. All that time to get
someplace with her that Im already at with you. And then it hit me.
We cant quit. You and me. We have something now. We cant throw it away. Its
a failure, okay, but its ours. And its not the end. Thats too easy. Its the place to
start from. Its two, two and a half years of our lives. Its an investment. All that
pain to get to zero; well, were here now, weve got nothing, nothing works, were
finished, total, complete, everything we had is gone, not a hope, not a prayer, not a
chance . . . . This is it. (pause) I think we should get married.

LIFE DURING WARTIME by Keith Reddin. Howard, talking to his mother

after he gets home from school.
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HOWARD. Hey, Mom, guess what happened today.

Barry and me after school, were driving around. Were driving on the Parkway
and were in the left lane, and Barrys going fast, maybe a little too fast I say Barry
slow down, but hes trying to pass this car in the passing lane and it doesnt move
over, so Barry puts on his lights, hes flashing his lights at this guy to pull over so
we can pass and I go Barry, take it easy, but now like Barry is pissed, and we are
tooling along and this other car it pulls alongside us and theres some guys in there
and they are very pissed off so we take off dueling back and forth like who can get
in front of the other and Barry he goes mental and tries to push this car onto the
shoulder and then he sort of bumps the car, well he crashes into the side of it, and
we both pull over and Barry is incensed but I tell Barry I just want to get the hell
out of here and we get out and the guys from the other car get out only theres four
of them and two of us, and this one guy the driver goes up to Barry and puts his
face close to Barrys face and says you messed with the wrong person today and
these guys push Barry and me up against their car and then from out of their trunk
they take this wire and they tie our hands behind our backs and they hit Barry in
the head and they put us in the trunk and say were going for a ride and they drive
us for about half an hour and then I hear this gravel crunching and we stopped and
they opened the trunk and these four guys push us out into these woods and Barrys
pissing in his pants and Im thinking were dead you know, so this guy with funny
teeth he pulls out a gun and he puts it to Barrys head and tells him hey, you
scraped the side of my car what are you going to do about it and Barry and me we
dont say nothing and these other guys say if we dont want to die we have to eat
dirt and so we do, we eat dirt and these other guys get real quiet and watch us eat
dirt and then they push this gun in Barrys face and then they smoke some
cigarettes and dont talk then they get in their car and drive off. And after a while
we get up and start walking down the road and look for a cop car but we couldnt
find one so we start hitching and we get a ride and we walk a ways to Barrys car
with this huge damage done to its side and he drives back to here and tells me not
to say anything about this ever, but its just too incredible, you know, so Ill be in
my room till dinner.

THE RABBIT FOOT by Leslie Lee. Reggie (talking to his wife about a fellow
soldier)
REGGIE. Id rather be in the ground than to live this way. (Beat) There was this
boy over there. His name was David Frames. We called him Little David. He said
he was seventeen, but he probably lied bout his age. Mightve been fifteen. From
Arkansas. One night, Im comin back from guard duty. And its cold and dark
and all I can hear is my feet crunchin on the ice. All a sudden I hear somebody
snifflin and cryin. And I gets close, and theres Little David, sittin in the cold on
some tree stump, huddled up to keep warm, and cryin his fool head off. And he
sees me, but its too late to pretend he aint crying. I done caught him! Whats
wrong, Little David? You done got bad news from home? He wouldnt tell me.
And I says, Come on, Little David yous a soldier in the Yew-nited States Army,
and you aint spposed to be cryin. Sppose some German soldier sneak up on you
and see you cryin? Theyll swear they done got the war won. And finally he tells
me. Hes cryin cause hes happy and sad at the same time. Hes happy to be alive
for the first time in his life, but hes scared to death a getting kilt by some German
bullet. Just like evrybody else he found out what it is to be a man. And he kept
talkin bout goin over the hill. Hes gonna desert. He aint gonna get kilt just
when he knows what livins bout. And I say, Little David, you cant, man. Aint
no way. Youre a colored man. And even if you do get a bullet, least you know
what its like to be treated like you spposed to. Anyway, he didnt run. He
stayed. Well a bullet did get him one day near the end a the war. Blam! He
didnt even know what hit im. Little David was gone. And thats what it was all
about. Wasnt white women, it was Little david and Kansas City Jimmy and New
York Billy. All of em gone! Done tasted a little bit a freedom, but a little bits
better n nothin. You all understand what Im sayin?

I HAD A JOB I ILKED. ONCE. By Guy Vanderhaeghe. Les, talking to

police during an interrogation).
LES. It only came to me this summer, you know? That I was invisible. (Laughs)
I mean, I thought I was flesh and blood and solid but certain people, certain kinds
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of people, were looking right through me. Not all people, like my old man sure as
hell sees me because who else is he always yelling at? And Mike, he sees me, and
the girls who have to work at the Dog n Suds and the old ladies who shop at the
Saan Store these kind of people can see me. But the other kind the ones that
live in the nice houses, the ones that drive the Chrysler New Yorkers and Buick
LeSabres, you know, the ones who sit on the Recreation Board, the fat old farts
who waddle around the golf course and tip you a dime for hauling their golf bags
around after them for three and half hours when youre thirteen years old, and
blame you because they hit a duck hook, you were supposed tove moved or
something they look right through you, to them youre invisible. (pause) Like
Tracy and her crowd at the pool. I stood right up to the grill but they never saw
me. Didnt have a clue I was there. (pause) I studied them. I even knew whose
beach towel was whose. I spot an empty beach towel and I knew whod jumped in
the pool. The girls they never swim they just jump in when they get too hot
from tanning. And the music going all the time, full blast. When the pumps are
shut down I hear the music. (pause) Nights they had parties. Teen parties, I mean.
Somebody would bring a barbeque to do hamburgers and hotdogs. And thered be
dancing. All the floodlights shining down and the underwater lights in the pool
turning the water a beautiful green and the sky pitch black, or sometimes a big
yellow moon, and everybody dancing in their bathing suits. (beat) I used to sit in
the dark and watch them. Soon as the party started Id turn the lights out in the
pump room. If Id have had a light on they could have seen me watching at the
window, right? So I sat in the dark. I held my cigarette like this. (He holds up a
cupped hand.) So they couldnt see the tip burning red in the window. My old
man said thats the way they did it in the war, so they didnt give themselves away
to the enemy. (beat) They didnt even know I existed.

THE LARAMIE PROJECT, by Moises Kaufman. Aaron Kreifels, on finding

Matthew Shepard.
AARON. Well, I, uh, took off on my bicycle about five oclock PM on Wednesday
from my dorm. I just kinda felt like going for a ride. So I I went up to the top of
Cactus Canyon, and Im not super familiar with that area, so on my way back
down, I didnt know where I was going. I was just sort of picking the way to go,
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which now . . . it just makes me think that God wanted me to find him because
there was no way that I was going to go that way.
So I was in some deep ass sand, and I wanted to turn around but for some reason,
I kept going. And, uh, I went along, and there was this rock on the on the ground
and I just drilled it. I went over the handlebars and ended up on the ground.
So, uh, I got up and I was just kind of dusting myself off, and I was looking around
and I noticed something which ended up to be Matt, and he was just lying there
by a fence, and I I just thought it was a scarecrow. I was like, Halloweens
coming up, thought it was a Halloween gag, so I didnt think much of it, so I got
my bike, walked it around the fence that was there. It was a buck type fence. And,
uh, got closer to him and I noticed his hair and that was the major key to me,
noticing it was a human being was the hair. Cause I just thought it was a
dummy, seriously, I noticed I even noticed the chest going up and down. I still
thought it was a dummy, you know. I thought it was just some kind of mechanism.
But when I saw the hair, well, I knew it was a human being.
So . . . I ran to the nearest house and I just ran as fast as I could . . . and called
the police. There was nothing I could do. I mean, if there was anything that I
couldve done to help him, I wouldve done it, but there was nothing.

THE LARAMIE PROJECT, by Moises Kaufman. Dennis Shepard, making a

statement to the court after his sons death.
DENNIS. My son Matthew did not look like a winner. He was rather
uncoordinated and wore braces from the age of thirteen until the day he died.
However, in his all too brief life he proved that he as a winner. On October 6 th,
1998 my son tried to show the world that he could win again. On October 12 th,
1998, my first born son and my hero, lost. On October 12th, 1998 my first born son
and hero, died, fifty days before his twenty-second birthday.
I keep wondering the same thing that I did when I first saw him in the hospital.
What would he have become? How could he have changed his piece of the world
to make it better?
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Matt officially died in a hospital in Fort Collins, Colorado. He actually died on the
outskirts of Laramie, tied to a fence. You Mr. McKinney with your friend Mr.
Henderson left him out there by himself, but he wasnt alone. There were his
lifelong friends with him, friends that he had grown up with. Youre probably
wondering who these friends were. First he had the beautiful night sky and the
same stars and moon that we used to see through a telescope. Then he had the
daylight and the sun to shine on him. And through it all he as breathing in the
scent on pine trees from the snowy range. He heard the wind, the ever-present
Wyoming wind, for the last time. He had one more friend with him. He had God.
And I feel better knowing he wasnt alone.
Matts beating, hospitalization, and funeral focused worldwide attention on hate.
Good is coming out of evil. People have said enough is enough. I miss my son,
but I am proud to be able to say that he is my son.
Judy has been quoted as being against the death penalty. It has been stated that
Matt was against the death penalty. Both of these statements are wrong. Matt
believed that there were crimes and incidents that justified the death penalty. I too
believe in the death penalty. I would like nothing better than to see you die Mr.
McKinney. However this is the time to begin the healing process. To show mercy
to someone who refused to show any mercy. Mr. McKinney, I am going to grant
you life, as hard as it is for me to do so, because of Matthew. Every time you
celebrate Christmas, a birthday, the Fourth of July remember that Matt isnt. Every
time you wake up in your prison cell remember that you had the opportunity and
the ability to stop your actions that night. You robbed me of something very
precious and I will never forgive you for that. Mr. McKinney, I give you life in the
memory of one who no longer lives. May you have a long life and may you thank
Matthew every day for it.

AUGUST: OSAGE COUNTY, by Tracy Letts. Beverly, opens the play by

describing the relationship with his wife.
BEVERLY. Life is very long. T.S. Eliot. I mean, hes given credit for it
because he bothered to write it down. Hes not the first person to say it . . .
certainly not the first person to think it. Feel it. But he wrote the words on a sheet
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of paper and signed it and the four-eyed jerk was a genius . . . so if you say it, you
have to say his name after it. Life is very long: T.S. Eliot.
Absolutely goddamn right. Especially in his case, since he lived to be seventy-six
or something, a very long life, especially in those days. And he was only in his
thirties when he wrote it so he mustve had some inside dope.
Give the devil his due. Very few poets couldve made it through his . . . his trial
and come out on the other side. I admire the hell out of Eliot, the poet, but the
person? I cant identify. (We hear Violets voice off stage)
Violet. My wife. She takes pills, sometimes a great many. And they affect . . .
among other things, her equilibrium. Fortunately, the pills she takes eliminate her
need for equilibrium. So she falls when she rambles . . . but she doesnt ramble
much. My wife takes pills and I drink. Thats the bargain weve struck . . . one of
the bargains, just one paragraph of our marriage contract . . . cruel convenant. She
takes pills and I drink. I dont drink because she takes pills. As to whether she
takes pills because I drink . . . I learned long ago not to speak for my wife. The
reasons why we partake are anymore inconsequential. The facts are: My wife
takes pills and I drink. And these facts have over time made burdensome the
maintenance of traditional American routine: paying of bills, purchase of goods,
cleaning of clothes or carpets or crappers. Rather than once more assume the
mantle of guilt . . . vow abstinence with my fingers crossed in the queasy hope of
righting our ship, Ive chosen to turn my life over to a Higher Power . . . (hoists
his glass) . . . and join the ranks of the hiring class. Its not a decision with which
I am entirely comfortable. The place isnt in such bad shape, not yet. Ive done all
right. Ive managed.

THE PILLOWMAN, by Martin McDonagh. Ariel, a police officer in an

interrogation room.
ARIEL. Well, yknow, Ill tell you what there is about me. There is an
overwhelming, and there is an all-pervading, hatred . . . . a hatred . . . of people
like you. Of people who lay even the littlest finger . . . on children. I wake up
with it. It wakes me up. It rides on the bus with me to work. It whispers to me,
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They will not get away with it. I come in early. I make sure all the bindings are
clean and the electrodes are in the right order so we wont . . . waste . . . time. I
admit, sometimes I use excessive force. And sometimes I use excessive force on
an entirely innocent individual. But Ill tell you this. If an entirely innocent
individual leaves this room for the outside world, theyre not gonna contemplate
even raising their voice to a little kid again, just in case I hearem and dragem in
here for another load of excessive force. Now, is this kind of behavior in an officer
of the law in some way questionable morally? Of course it is! But you know
what? I dont care! Cos, when Im an old man, you know what? Little kids are
gonna follow me around and theyre gonna know my name and what I stood for,
and theyre gonna give me some of their sweets in thanks, and Im gonna take
those sweets and thank them and tell them to get home safe, and Im gonna be
happy. Not because of the sweets, I dont really like sweets, but because Id
know . . . Id know in my heart, that if I hadnt been there, not all of them would
have been there. Because Im a good policeman. Not necessarily good in the
sense of being able to solve lots of stuff, because Im not, but good in the sense of I
stand for something. I stand for something. I stand on the right side. The childs
side. The opposite side to you. And so, naturally when I hear that a child has been
killed in a fashion . . . in a fashion such as this . . . You know what? I would
torture you to death just for writing a story like that, let alone acting it out! Cos
two wrongs do not make a right. Two wrongs do not make a right. So kneel down
over here, please, so I can connect you to this battery.

RABBIT HOLE, by David Lindsay-Abaire. Jason, writing to the parents of a

boy who died in a car accident.
JASON. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Corbett, I wanted to send you my condolences on the
death of your son, Danny. I know its been eight months since the accident, but
Im sure its probably still hard for you to be reminded of that day. I think about
what happened a lot, as Im sure you do, too. Ive been having some troubles at
home, and at school, and a couple people here thought it might be a good idea to
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write to you. Im sorry if this letter upsets you. Thats obviously not my intention.
Even though I never knew Danny, I did read that article in the town paper, and was
happy to learn a little bit about him. He sounds like he was a great kid. Im sure
you miss him a lot, as you said in the article. I especially liked the part where Mr.
Corbett talked about Dannys robots, because when I was his age I as a big fan of
robots, too. In fact I still am, in some ways ha ha. Ive enclosed a short story
thats going to be printed in my high school lit magazine. I dont know if you like
science fiction or not, but Ive enclosed it anyway. I was hoping to dedicate the
story to Dannys memory. There arent any robots in this one, but I think it would
be the kind of story hed like if he were my age. Would it bother you if I dedicated
the story? If so, please let me know. The printer deadline for the magazine is
March 31st. If you tell me before then, I can have them take it off. I know this
probably doesnt make things any better, but I wanted you to know how terrible I
feel about Danny. I know that no matter how hard this has been on me, I can never
understand the depth of your loss. My mom has only told me that about a hundred
times ha ha. I of course wanted to say how sorry I am that things happened the
way they did, and that I wish I had driven down a different block that day. Im
sure you do, too. Anyway, thats it for now. If youd like to let me know about the
dedication, you can email me at the address above. If I dont hear from you, Ill
assume its okay. Sincerely, Jason Willette. (Beat.) P.S. Would it be possible to
meet you in person at some point?

WATER BY THE SPOONFUL, BY Quiara Alegria Hudes.

Ladders, about his rescue from drowning.

Chutes and

CHUTES AND LADDERS. Ah, the ocean . . . Theres only one thing on this
planet Im more scared of than that big blue lady. LOL, truer words have never
been spoken. You know I was born just a few miles from the Pacific. In the fresh
salt air. Back in those days Im at Coronado Beach with a few friends doing
my thing and I get sucked up under this wave. I gasp, I breathe in, and my lungs
fill with water. Im like, this is it, Im going to meet my maker. I had never felt so
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heavy, not even during my two ODs. I was sinking to the bottom and my head hit
the sand like a lead ball. My body felt just like an anvil. The next thing I know
theres fingers digging in my ankles. This lifeguard pulls me out, Im throwing up
salt water. I say to him, Hey blondie, you dont know me from Adam but you are
my witness: Todays the day I start to live. And this lifeguard, I mean he was
young with these muscles, this kid looks at me like, Who is this big black dude
who cant even doggy paddle? When I stand up and brush the sand off me,
people applaud. An old lady touches my cheek and says, I thought you were done
for. I get back to San Diego that night, make one phone call, the next day Im in
my first meeting, sitting in a folding chair, saying the Serenity Prayer.

WATER BY THE SPOONFUL, BY Quiara Alegria Hudes. Fountainhead,

about his struggles with addiction.
FOUNTAINHEAD. Me and crack: long story short. I was at a conference with
our C.F.O. and two programmers and a not-unattractive lady in H.R. They snorted,
invited me to join. A few weeks later that little rock waltzed right into my hand.
Ive been using on and off ever since. One eightball every Saturday, strict rations,
portion control. Though the last three or four weeks, its less like getting high and
more like trying to build a time machine. Anything to get back the romance of that
virgin smoke. Last weekend I let myself buy more than my predetermined
allotment I buy in small quantity, because as with food, I eat whats on my plate.
Anyway, I ran over a curb, damaged the underside of my Porsche. Now its in the
shop and Im driving a rental Mustang. So, not rock bottom but a rental Ford is as
close to rock bottom as Id like to get.
Last night we ran out of butter while my wife was cooking and she sent me to the
store and it took every bit of strength I could summon not to make a wrong turn
to that parking lot I know so well. I got the butter, and on the car ride home, I
couldnt help it, I drove by the lot, and there was my dealer in the shadows. My
brain went on attack. Use one more time just to prove you wont need another hit
tomorrow. I managed to keep on driving and bring the butter home. Major
victory. And my wife pulls it out of the plastic bag and says, This is unsalted. I
said salted. Then she feels guilty so she says never mind, never mind, shell just
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add a little extra salt to the pie crust but I insist. No, no. no, my wife deserves the
right kind of butter and shes gonna get it! I mean, I bark it, Im already halfway
out the door, my heart was racing all the way to the parking lot and raced even
harder when I sat in the car and smoked. So, Michael Jordan is benched with a
broken foot. But hell come back in the finals.

BLUE STARS, by Stuart Spencer. Freddy, a taxi driver.

FREDDY. I could lose my job, maam. I told them Id be there when they call.
Please try to understand. I need this job. It was the only thing I could get, the only
thing Ive been able to hold onto. And theres competition for this kind of job,
believe it or not. Theyd fire me in a second if they had any trouble with me.
Theyve told me so. Theres plenty more where I came from thats what they
say. Im not what youd call highly employable. About the only thing I know how
to do is fly a plane and they wont let me do that anymore on account of my injury.
I caught some flak on the left side here and I havent got any strength on my whole
left side, see? So I cant fly. But I can drive all right. Its not the same, but
sometimes I use my imagination and it almost seems like Im flying again. Thats
why I need this job it keeps me from going nuts. See, with any other job, itd be
impossible to even use my imagination; but driving a car, see, I pretend like its my
plane. My old plane. That old Ford out there. In my mind, while Im tooling
down East Main with the sunlight coming through the trees, I imagine Im back in
my little baby. Corsair. Best damn flying machine they ever built. And the
treetops, the branches hanging down covered in leaves, theyre the clouds. With
the sunlight flickering through them. And the sky over me. And if I squint a little
bit, I can imagine its the whole earth below me, not just Main Street. (Looks out
the window.)
Youd never think, looking at that old Ford, that anybody could use their
imagination and make it the best little fighter plane they ever saw. But Ive got a
powerful imagination. Thats one thing about me ever since I was a kid, I had a
powerful imagination. I never lost it.

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THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES, by J.P. Miller. Joe Clay, a recovering
alcoholic.
JOE. My name is Joe, and (He clear his throat.) and Im an alcoholic. (He
takes a deep breath ad lets it out, relieved. Then he smiles broadly.)
Ive never said that in public before. Ive said it to Fred, in private. But hes my
sponsor, as you know, and I was in a straight-jacket at the time, and I thought that
telling him that I was an alcoholic just like him, whether I meant it or not, was a
nice way to thank him for putting cigarettes between my lips and lighting them for
me. I also told my wife Im an alcoholic, but she says Im not, because Im just
like her and shes not. But thats another story . . . My mom and dad were a nightclub actstill are, somewhere Im not sure where at the moment. When I was a
kid, everything they did had to do with booze. Get a booking? Celebrate.
Meaning get drunk. Close a split week? Forget by getting drunk. Cant pay the
rent? Get drunk and forget it. Have a birthday? Get drunk and laugh. A friend
dies? Get drunk and cry. After the last show they always had a few to relax.
Not me. Too young. I had to relax by watching them get drunk. You can get pretty
tense, believe me, relaxing that way.
Then, when I was fourteen, they were playing a small room in Vegas and bombing
out and my mom entered a beautiful legs contest and won. They stuck a big sexy
picture of her outside the lounge with Mrs. Las Vegas Legs emblazoned on it,
and we started selling out and were held over. To help them celebrate, they let me
have a drink a nice icy stinger my first drink ever. It was delicious. All I could
think was how could I have wasted all those years? Well, I continued to
celebrate my moms election as Mrs. Las Vegas Legs from that day on with great
enthusiasm.

WHEN A DIVA DREAMS, by Gary Garrison. Lipton, a man doing his best to
help a friend in need.
LIPTON. Theres nothing tender bout that woman, and when someone walks
through your life with no trace of tenderness, people are gonna get hurt. And if
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youre family, youre gonna get hurt bad, cause family is the spoon that stirs your
pot like nobody else.
I had an old hound dog. His name was Buster. Loved that dog like a wife.
Anyway, one early morning me and old Buster was down at Colemans Gully
fishing for Busters favorite, crawdads. Never knew a dog to eat shellfish, but
Buster could make his way through a pound and a half of shrimp or crawfish for
hed stop. Well, we were having a good day that day. I bet I caught five pounds of
crawfish for the sun broke over the horizon. Old Buster was lickin his chops and
waggin that tail ninety-miles an hour. He knew there was a feast in that bucket.
Now for some reason, on this particular morning, Buster wasnt in a sharin mood.
He wanted every one of them crawfish. Every time I reached for the bucket, hed
snarl and snap at me. So I let him have it the whole bucket. And he ate every
crawfish in there, that tail just a-waggin. He died about an hour later . . . Some
familys are like that. Theyre greedy, and theyll take everything you offer them
and youll always give them everything you got. But sooner or later, someones
gonna croak on the excess.
Dont give her everything you got. Its the best thing for the both of you.

MOLLYS DELICIOUS, by Craig Wright. Jerry, a young soldier on leave

from the war in Vietnam.
JERRY. Can I tell you something? Was thinking in town, you know: Im brave
about everything but you. Yeah. I had a whole ship run over me once when I was
working in a buoy cage in the Marshall Islands, and I wasnt half as scared then,
bouncing and clanking around underneath that ship as I am whenever I get around
you. And darlin, believe me, I know exactly what you mean about me being gone
all the time, I know its not a good way to be married. My Dad was a Coastie and
he was never around, and when my Mom died, I had to keep her casket in the
house for two weeks waiting for him to get clearance to come home and see her.
So I know its not ideal. I do. But darlin, I gotta be honest with you. When I die,
when my mind flips back through the pages, trying to find what really mattered? If
I had to pick which moments to look at right before I slipped away, I know that
every one of those moments would be on a ship in the middle of the ocean, because
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thats the only place my soul is really satisfied. I mean, I can talk a good game
back here in polite society, and I do like a pretty girl well, one pretty girl in
particular but at heart? Im a sailor. And like my Daddy used to say to me,
Sailors belong on ships, and ships belong at sea. And its true. I love you SO
much darlin. . . but I dont know what Id become if I left the service probably
some sort of monster. And that wouldnt be good for you or Junior.
I wont get killed, I promise. Look, you want this war to end? Le me go. Send me
back. Let me do my job and I guarantee you in six months time there wont be one
American soldier left over there. And Ill come home in three years to you and
Junior and well be stationed in San Francisco or who knows where its just three
years away, darlin. Every kind of happiness you ever dreamed of us having is just
three years away. Cant you hold on til then? Please? I love you so much.
Please?

ECHOES FROM THE STREET, by Corey Tyler. The Father, a man whose
son has been murdered.
THE FATHER. People ask me how? How can I do it? How can I forgive? How
can I love my life from day to day and not hate the ones that took my son away
from me? And I tell them, by the grace of God. Theres no more room in my life
for anger. No more room inside of me for hate. I wanted so much to be angry at
the ones who killed him. But I spent so much of my life that way for all the things
I thought God had done to me . . . that I forgot how to live. So many years I
wasted angry. So much time I let slip past . . . all because I didnt know the way
God works. Because I didnt know that heartache and pain arent in our lives to
cause us pain but strengthen our faith. That loss and hardship . . . and even death,
arent meant to punish us . . . but bring us closer to his will.
He was such a beautiful boy. Mo matter what they say about him . . . he was
precious to me . . . to both of us. The first time I ever held him I knew what all the
pain in my life was for. Every burden Id ever carried brought me to that moment.
Standing in the delivery room . . . holding everything Id ever hoped for in my
arms. He was all the proof I needed that there was a God . . . and that there had
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been a plan for my life all along. That I wasnt suffering all those years for
nothing.
I realize that we are all just as beautiful in Gods eyes as my son was to me. In that
moment, I found the answer to every question I ever screamed at God. He was the
reason why. I had to be ready for him. So I cant be angry now, because I know
the way God works. I know that this was his plan for my sons life. And I know
that God in all his wisdom doesnt give us what we cant handle. And whatever he
does give us, he uses to make us stronger. Even if it means burying your only son.
Although I have the burden of living without the sight of his smile or the sound of
his voice, I know that day will come when I will see my son again. And it will
happen . . . in the twinkling of an eye.

ECHOES FROM THE STREET, by Corey Tyler. The Murderer, a young

sociopath who reveals his barren soul.
THE MURDERER. I am what you think I am. I am everything you think I
should be. You speak of me in circles, in fear or in disgust. I am the embodiment
of your judgment or compassion, your dreams or your disdain. Your fondest wish
or your deepest fear. For you see, I am a murderer.
I was born into the world a bastard. Stripped of the natural crown of a fathers
name. Nursed through infancy by a mother no more than a child herself. The
common traits of warmth and safety were absent in my childhood. In their place
were stripped walls and shattered windows. Burned out cars in empty lots.
Sidewalks cluttered with empty cans and corners draped with haggard men. Their
young faces hardened from lives lived without purpose . . . To be hungry meant to
eat and to eat meant to steal. To live meant to survive and to survive meant to
fight. I began to wander the streets of my neighborhood at night. Meeting with
others who were as bruised and weakened by that force we could not explain, the
aching pulse of the worlds disgust. We began to travel in something of a pack . . .
like stalking wolves in the hours past dusk. Running from the hate the world had
to offer toward the destruction it assumed. We were mercenaries without purpose,
villains without cause. Pillaging the world that wronged us. We would write our
names in spray paint on the sides of buildings long abandoned so that the world
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would know that we were here and had lived. When the need was fit to warrant we
robbed the handbags of women old enough to have nursed us. Using our earnings
to purchase delusions. Drugs, drink . . . anything to drown the voices in our heads
The voices telling us our lives were being wasted running from what we could not
escape, the truth of our worthlessness.
And as the pain of my life continued, my heart began to swell with a rage without
regret. An anger that turned my thoughts toward Vengeance. Vengeance for those
who damned. Vengeance for those who scorned . . .for those who left me with so
little that was right and wondered why so much I did was wrong. And then, that
night, I saw him. The boy . . . That night, that need, that lasting thirst for
vengeance of the worlds denial I quenched in the instant of a gunshots echo.
Leaving in the boys body on that corner in the night what was left as my birthright
. . . nothing.

JUST TAKING UP SPACE, by Nancy Gall-Clayton. Frank Owen, a juvenile

offender whose future is in question.
FRANK. Lets see, I was telling you about my dads birthday. I was nine or ten.
It was about a year before my dad disappeared on us. I got every fishing pole out
of the cellar and managed to get them down to the riverbank. I laid those poles out
on the big rock where we fished and put little rocks on top of them so the poles
wouldnt roll in. Then I just waited. Figured Id have a mess of catfish for my
dad. Surprise him real good, only guess what? I fell asleep, and while I was
asleep, a breeze came up, and those lines got all tangled up and not one of them
with a fish on it!
I woke up with my dad standing over me hollering at me. He said my mother was
worried about me and no one knew where I was and why did I think I could take
other peoples fishing poles. Then he tells me, Franklin, -- he always called me
Franklin when he was mad. Im going back for my birthday supper but you,
you stay right here until you untangle those fishing lines! And he left in a big
huff. It was hard to do, real hard, and by the time I finished my stomach was
growling, my fingers were bleeding, and it was almost dark.
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When I got home, no one was there. I found out later theyd gone to a movie. The
cellar door was open, so I put the poles down there, and then I went in the kitchen.
The cake plate was sitting next to the sink, but there wasnt a single piece left. I
scraped some frosting off with my finger, but the dirt and the blood got mixed up
with it. I had to spit it out. Then I went to bed in that empty house. (pause) Ive
never told anybody that story. I never even told my dad what I was trying to do,
that it was all meant for a birthday gift.

THRENODY, by David-Matthew Barnes. Jake, a guilt-ridden drug addict

talking about his girlfriend.
JAKE. You know what I was thinking about? How we met at that club . . . you
were a city girl in a black skirt, sipping on a Sloe Gin Fizz . . . and then I asked you
to dance . . . I gave you my number and it took you two days to call me . . . but you
did. Then it was back and firth for us. Me going to the city. You coming out here.
We just kept going . . . back and forth. Like marbles. I was supposed to get
married when I met you. Monica still hates me. She came into the hardware store
the other day and she just stared at me with these icy cold eyes, like she wanted to
spit on me. Just like my old man. She looked at me, just the same. I just stood
there, like an idiot. And I smiled at her. I was kinda hoping she would have
forgiven me by now. No such luck. She wishes that I was dead.
Dana, I remember the first weekend that you and I spent together. I had to drive
you to the bus depot. Right there, in front of God and everybody, I kissed you. I
could feel your heart . . . ba-boom . . . ba-boom . . . like a heart attack. Then you
looked at me. And I thought you were gonna cry, because you usually do. But I
knew that you loved me. Nobody ever looked at me the way you did that day..
Your eyes . . . they were so warm to me. I could tell you were sad, Dana. In fact,
when I first saw you . . . I knew. I knew it was going to be this. Living together
and making spaghetti. Getting wired and staying up for days. I wasnt going to
marry a rich girl named Monica. No way. I got me a Dana. She wants to write
herself a best-seller. She wants to go to Paris someday because when she was a
little girl, her grandmother sent her a postcard and she wanted t crawl inside of the
picture. And she makes those crazy wishes on those glow-in-the-dark stars I put up
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on the ceiling above the bed. She sees herself up there. She is higher than high.
She wants to be famous and take me with her on the ride, but she feels like shes
got to hurry. Shes scared I might get bored with it all and just say forget it.

THE ENDS OF THE EARTH, by Morris Panych. Walker, a man suffering

from paranoid delusions.
WALKER. People dont go through my garbage for no reason. Interview my
neighbors. Publish secret messages in the press. Taunt me with mocking tongue
gestures. Throw salad. These are no accidents these little events in my life.
From that day I was struck by lightning, three years old, charred and dazed, staring
up into the sky and wondering what happened, I began to sense a certain something
about myself: that I was a sort of a conductor of bad things. You know? That
all the ill will that could exist in the universe was somehow attracted to me, drawn
down through me like a kind of lightning rod. Just this lone tree on the
landscape. An orphan from birth, left standing, just waiting for bad luck to strike
me. Sometimes it only happened in little, quiet ways. The way ice cream falls off
the cone. Just another dream lying on the ground. Melting in the gutter. Or
sometimes in ways more excruciating. Those prospective parents at the
orphanage? Looking at me. Ugly. Ridiculous. Standing at the other end of the
room. Theyd never pick me. But how many times did they bring me out anyway,
just to let me know. How many teachers would ignore my raised hand? How
many prayers at night go unanswered? How many women charitably smile at me
at bars. Hoping I wouldnt come over to chat. How many years pass me by and
how many chances before I realized there was a kind of pattern to all of this.
Of course, I shouldnt expect people to really care. After all, isnt life complicated
and difficult enough? Yeah maybe. But why is it so complicated and difficult?
Well. Thats just the way the numbers come up, you think. Bingo. Nobody
bothers to think about it. And then by chance, one day standing at some bus stop,
you happen to notice a stranger who somehow seems connected to something.
Something of which you are a part. However unwittingly. He seems to be alone.
Acting on his own. You might almost believe that hes just some nobody just like
you working away at some pointless kind of life. Maybe this isnt about
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anything, you begin to think, waiting for your bus. Maybe there is a higher order
to things. No conspiracy of any kind. Just some runaway machine were part of.
Pistons wildly pumping, the speed accelerating, and no one at the controls. But
then, out of the corner of your eye you may suddenly catch a glimpse of the truth.

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