WRiting Contest #2

Monologue Examples

THAT kid.
By Leah Park

(LEAH walks onstage annoyed from an encounter with THAT kid. She puts her backpack down on the ground and faces the audience.)

LEAH:

To all the curious students out there, alright, alright, I hear you, okay? Some students need more explanation than others, but the line for dumb questions needs to be drawn somewhere and I just happen to draw it at that kid. [Points off stage.] You know, the one who seems to have an endless supply of inquiries that make you want to pull your hair out?? Seriously, it’s like they never run out of things to ask, and it’s starting to drive me crazy. [Pause.] I mean, don’t they understand that not everything requires an explanation? Sometimes, things just are what they are, and we don’t need to overanalyze every single little detail. It’s exhausting to constantly be on the receiving end of their never-ending dumb questions! And don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the curiosity, but there’s a limit!

Now, don’t make me sound like the bad guy; I’m not saying we should shut down their curiosity completely... but a little restraint wouldn’t hurt. Maybe they could save some of their questions for… I don’t know, later? Or find alternative outlets to satisfy their uh, what do you call it… [Clears throat.] thirst for knowledge. And maybe when that kid grows up, they will be more tolerable?

So, to that kid who just can’t stop asking questions, remember that there is a time and place for everything. Just, right now, I need to keep my sanity intact.

Halloween Scare
By Gray Dickson

GRAY:

Oh my god, what a great night to go trick or treating! I love Halloween, and check out this big candy haul! What was your favourite house we went to tonight?

[Beat.]

Really? Yeah, okay that house with all those zombies, that was a good house. My favourite was the one that had vampires hanging off the roof and the person pretending to be a statue holding a knife in the front yard!

[Beat.]

Oh, you were scared at that house? I wasn't at all, nothing scared me tonight.

Let's dump out our bags and see what treats we got. Check out these jumbo candy bars, they are as big as a water bottle! Oh Swedish Berries, love those! And Swedish Fish, so good! I definitely got the most Smarties this year, even though I don't really want them.

[Beat.]

Oh you like Smarties? Wanna trade for some Coffee Crisps? Great! That's a good deal.

[Sorts through a big pile of candy.]

What is this thing moving at the bottom of my pile? It looks kind of chewy. Ew, it's slimy though. And squishy. And it doesn't smell good at all. Is this… is this what I think it is!? A squid!? AHHHHHHHHHHH!!

[Throws the squid across the room.]

Do you have one in your pile too? NO? Just me?!??? Now I have to throw away all my candy cause it's covered in squid juice! Blech! I guess I am scared of something after all.

Hand of God
By Mars Chen

Sculptures start with wedging. Always start with wedging. Unless you’re starting with fresh clay, but who starts with that anyways? Correction: when have I started with fresh clay anyways? That’s surely a thought. When was the last time?

My name is Michael Angelo. First name Michael. Last name Angelo. And I am a sculptor. My uncle named me; the moment he found out his little sister would be marrying someone with the last name Angelo, he knew Michael had to be my name. He was also a sculptor. One of those really good sculptors. Really, really good. One of those who sculpted souls out of clay. Not literally, he wasn’t god, but I truly believe he was the closest earthly equivalent. So I had to be a really, really good sculptor, just like he knew I would be. Because when god graces your birth with a name like this, one worthy of a god, a god who sculpts souls, you don’t stop until you become him.

So, wedging. I slam the clay over and over into the table, creating visible damp spots in the canvas covering. Dust rises from previous patches of dried clay with each impact forming clouds in the air, some catching in my breath as I inhale and exhale with a cough. It’s a repetitive process that I can count on in something as unpredictable as art. I find comfort in any formulas and consistencies I can desperately grip onto.

I watched my uncle wedge once, a few times actually. It was one of the first things he taught me, rather one of the first things I learned by watching him. The summer I turned eight, I practically spent all three months of it melting in his studio. The heat of the kiln plotted against us with the Chicago sun, its partner in crime, yet there was nowhere else we’d rather have been. He was in love with sculpting, and I was in love with the way he loved sculpting. He had started a portrait that spring and knew he wanted it done before fall—he always complained how the cold made his old man joints ache, slowed down his workflow, so autumn and winter were his firing seasons—but he’d been working away at the left hand for weeks. I saw him cut off that piece of clay and wedge it twenty-nine times that summer. It made me realize something: art isn’t just a creative process. Each time he redid that hand, he started by wedging. It was consistent, algorithmic, comforting. It taught me that you—I —may not ever be creative, but I could get damn good at wedging. That was the year I enrolled in extracurricular sculpting classes.