Great Monologues

for Young Actors

Volume III

Craig Slaight and Jack

Sharrar
Copyright © 2008, Craig Slaight and Jack Sharrar
SMITH AND KRAUS PUBLISHERS
MONOLOGUE ANTHOLOGIES FOR YOUNG ACTORS

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Multicultural Monologues for Young Actors
Monologues in Dialect for Young Actors
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The Ultimate Audition Book for Teens Volume 7: 111 Monologues from Classical Theater, 2
Minutes and Under
The Ultimate Audition Book for Teens Volume 9: 111 Monologues from Contemporary Literature, 2
Minutes and Under
The Ultimate Audition Book for Teens Volume 10: 111 One-Minute Monologues for Teens by Teens
The Ultimate Audition Book for Teens Volume 11: One-Minute Monologues by Type
The Ultimate Audition Book for Teens Volume 12: 111 One-Minute Monologues — Just Comedy!
The Ultimate Audition Book for Teens Volume 13: 111 One-Minute Monologues — Active Voices

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 Contents
•••

Introduction

Monologues for Young Women

A Bird of Prey, Jim Grimsley

A Preface to the Alien Garden (2), Robert Alexander
After Juliet, Sharman Macdonald
The Automata Pietà (3), Constance Congdon
Be Aggressive (2), Annie Weisman
Breath, Boom (3), Kia Corthron
Broken Hallelujah, Sharman Macdonald
Buried Child, Sam Shepard
Changes of Heart (2), Marivaux [Trans/adpt. Stephen Wadsworth]
The Confessions of Max Tivoli, Andrew Sean Greer
Crumbs from the Table of Joy, Lynn Nottage
Dust (3), Sarah Daniels
Finer Noble Gases, Adam Rapp
The Less Than Human Club, Timothy Mason
The Miss Firecracker Contest, Beth Henley
Moontel Six, Constance Congdon
Nightswim, Julia Jordan
None of the Above (2), Jenny Lyn Bader
Quint and Miss Jessel at Bly (2), Don Nigro
Rock Scissors Paper, Deb Margolin
Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
Saint Joan, George Bernard Shaw
Schoolgirl Figure, Wendy MacLeod
Second Class (2), Brad Slaight
Six, Timothy Mason
Smoking Lesson (3), Julia Jordan
The Spider Men, Ursula Rani Sarma
Time on Fire, Timothy Mason
War Daddy (2), Jim Grimsley

Monologues for Young Men

A Bird of Prey, Jim Grimsley
The Actor, (2), Horton Foote
After Juliet, Sharman Macdonald
A.M. Sunday, Jerome Hairston
The Automata Pietà, (2), Constance Congdon
Baby with the Bath Water, Christopher Durang
Broken Hallelujah, Sharman Macdonald
Buried Child, Sam Shepard
Celebration, Tom Jones
Curse of the Starving Class, Sam Shepard
La Turista, Sam Shepard
Moontel Six, Constance Congdon
Old Wicked Songs, Jon Marans
The Play About the Baby, Edward Albee
Playboy of the Western World (2), John M. Synge
Quint and Miss Jessel at Bly (2), Don Nigro
Second Class (3), Brad Slaight
Six, Timothy Mason
The Straits, Gregory Burke
Time on Fire (2), Timothy Mason
Tyler Poked Taylor, Lee Blessing
War Daddy (4), Jim Grimsley

Song Lyrics as Monologues

Introduction

Lyrics by Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan’s Dream
A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall
Chimes of Freedom

Permission Acknowledgments
Editors’ Bios
 Introduction
The Monologue Audition
•••
[Note: Although many of the speeches in this book are appropriate for
auditions, not all the material in this collection will be suitable for
auditions. Some selections are meant for study and exploration in acting
techniques. In any audition situation, the first thing to ascertain is what is
required. You must carefully seek the exact nature of the audition before
selecting material.]

As professional directors who work at a major American regional theater,

and acting teachers who have been teaching young and journeymen actors
for many years, we often find auditions lacking the central preparation
necessary to make them successful. We can all agree that auditions may not
be the most effective way to assess acting potential. However, until another
method has been introduced, we are all (actors and directors) saddled with
the standard two-minute meeting. Here are some of the areas of challenge in
auditioning with monologues.

What material should I pick?

The most useful advice here is to select material spoken by characters that
you could believably play. If your audition is for a specific role in a
particular play, listen carefully for what is required for the audition. If the
director/producer wishes to hear you in a speech of your choosing, select
something of a similar tone to the play for which you are auditioning.
Unless required, don’t use a speech from the play for which you are
auditioning. Because roles are created in an evolutionary process during
rehearsals, with much input from the director (or the writer if it is a new
play), why lay out impressions before you’ve had the opportunity to discuss
and work on the role with the director unless you absolutely have to? If you
are doing a general audition (for the purpose of ascertaining an overall
impression of your work as an actor), again your choices should be roles
that you could believably play. If you really feel that you need to “startle the
director” into seeing a side of you that isn’t easily visible, save that speech
as the extra piece you’ve prepared just for that reason, and only if you’re
asked for something additional after presenting your prepared set. However,
if you are asked to show two contrasting monologues (usually one from the
classical and one from the contemporary repertoire), select speeches by
characters you could believably play. With any audition situation, selecting
age-appropriate material is expected. You should always select material that
is well written, offers depth of idea and language . . . and is chosen from a
play in which you could be cast. [Have we made our feelings clear about
the nature of the material you should select?]

What is the event?

The name “monologue” is actually misleading. Although you are the only
character speaking, there is nothing “mono” about the event. It is a scene, in
which we only hear your side. Even a soliloquy has an intended receiver.
Hamlet’s famous “To be, or not to be . . .” is intended to sort out aloud an
emotionally heightened turning point in the young prince’s life. He is
grappling with himself, and his conflicting inner self becomes the other
character. In most cases, the monologue is an elongated speech in a scene
between at least two people, sometimes more.

Out of the starting gate!

Many actors cheat the first beat of their monologue audition. The urge to
speak is about the most important part of the entire two-minute audition
speech. What has just happened? What has just been said? Who has said it?
To whom? Jumping right into your first line without first creating the
context in which it is uttered is cheating you of one of the most important
acting moments. That moment doesn’t come at the end of the speech, or in
the middle when your character suddenly breaks down and cries. The urge
to speak tells us more about your character than the tears ever could.
Most monologues are not uninterrupted tirades.
The actor must leave room for nonverbal reactions by the other character(s)
to what they are saying. Rapid-fire speech, no matter how heightened the
emotion, may meet your audition time limit but doesn’t allow you to deal
with the reactions so important to any communication. The reactions of
others in the scene to what you are saying (even if imagined in the audition
moment) allows your character to continue— allows him or her to modify
the intention throughout the speech. Take Mr. Hamlet’s solo again as an
example. When asking himself probing questions, isn’t there a moment or
two when he must actually consider what he has said? How many of us
speak in paragraphs blindly without at least thinking in the moment, or
without watching closely the reactions of those we’re speaking to? I know
of only a few people like this and I wouldn’t bother having a conversation
with them because it is all one-sided. That is not the point of a monologue.
Sliding thoughtlessly through the language without some contemplation or
awareness of how what you say is landing on others would seem almost
drug-induced or manic. Acting is listening as well as speaking and this
mustn’t be forgotten when working solo.
Working moment-to-moment, or beat-to-beat, with the progress
charted by intention and reaction is key to showing a complete moment in
this character’s life. Don’t rush the decisions the character makes in the
moment. These decisions must inform each subsequent beat throughout the
monologue.

What do I do with these things at the end of my arm?

Physical life must be carefully considered. Too many auditions suffer from
over-planned gestures, those that seem to come as a choice (or as blocking
for all of you blockers) as opposed to a genuine kinesthetic response. “Less
is more.” Consider the audition room as a very small theater and the
proscenium as the space that forms the fourth wall between you and the
auditors. Within that space, you need to create in your mind and body the
setting in which your character moves. This is why good actors possess rich
imaginations. If you can imagine that you are a murderer long enough to get
you through the run of Macbeth, you can imagine the setting in a
nontheatrical audition space. If you can’t, begin night courses in accounting
and plot a career change.
How do I stop?
The final moment in your monologue is just as important as that first
moment, the one that happens right before you speak. Don’t cheat this
moment by clipping the end of it and looking the auditors in the eye with
“thank you.” And by all means, only lower your head at the end of the
speech if the character is directed to “fall asleep upon uttering the last
syllable.” It isn’t a fade-to-black moment. The last impression you leave the
auditors with should not be that you are a narcoleptic. Even if the speech
occurs as the last moment in an act in the play, you would never lower your
head as the lights fade. Don’t do it here. Rather, the intention needs to be
carried out, it needs to land—either in waiting for the other character’s
(characters’) reaction or in ending the dialogue “once and for all.” If you’ve
done your work properly, the auditors will know you’ve finished the beat.
And please, please, don’t say “scene.” People that employ this overtired
competition tool do nothing but shatter anything that has been created
before it.
After the last moment has passed, a simple “thank you” can be
offered, but only if you know for certain that there won’t be an interview
following your presentation. “Thank you” should be reserved for your final
parting comment to the auditors. It is appropriate to thank them for seeing
you, but you need not thank them for watching your monologue.

What do I do when I leave the room?

Breathe. Treat yourself to a celebratory dessert, a movie, a coffee with a
friend whom you really like and trust and who won’t make you feel less
secure. The following week, send your auditors a postcard thanking them
for the time they spent with you. I’ve always appreciated such cards and
even if they don’t weigh heavily in my decision making, they remind me
that the actor is a professional and considerate about his or her business.
Whatever you do, don’t beat yourself up after the audition even if you feel
you didn’t do your best. Monologue auditions are extremely difficult. Being
judged on only a few awkward minutes of character creation in a decidedly
un-theatrical environment is grueling and disquieting. Accept that it is a
part of the ordeal of being an actor and move on with your life. If there is
something about you and your work that appeals to the needs of the
auditors, it will come through, even if you “blew” your big moment in the
speech. You can never second-guess how the auditors feel— even the glum
ones. And, after all, who wants to go to a school that doesn’t want you?
Who wants to be in a production that doesn’t think you are right for it, or
train at a school who doesn’t appreciate your talent? No matter your
desperation, ask yourself if you really want to be in the school if they don’t
want you? Don’t forget that few actors, if any, get the role because of the
school they attended.

Craig Slaight and Jack Sharrar

American Conservatory Theater
San Francisco, California
Monologues for Young Women
•••
A BIRD OF PREY
Jim Grimsley

The Play: A modern tragedy set in a large city in California where the
young people face good and evil on their own terms, with calamitous
consequences. Centering on seventeen-year-old Monty, who has just moved
with his dysfunctional family from rural Louisiana to a complex urban
environment, the play explores an individual’s attempt to find personal
faith, while struggling to shield loved ones from the temptations and
dangers they encounter every day.

Time and Place: The 1990s. An unnamed city.

The Scene: Tracey, “a girl with a harsh view of people and the ability to
express it, but very loyal to her friends,” has just taunted Thacker, a
“smooth, cool, charming” outsider about his friendship with the
conservative, bible-carrying Monty. Hilda (fifteen to seventeen), “a girl on
the fringe of popularity, slightly in love with Tracey, not yet fully conscious
of it,” attempts to express why she joins in with Tracey’s making fun of
Monty and others.

•••
HILDA: I don’t hate him or anything. I mean, he’s geeky. But there’s
something cute about him. I can’t tell him that, because of Tracey, but I
don’t hate him, I don’t even enjoy making fun of him, well, not all that
much. I enjoy listening to Tracey when she makes fun of him because she’s
so good at it. I guess that’s why I sit there. He’s not the first person Tracey’s
gone after like that, but it’s like he’s special for her. Ever since he got here.
She goes out of her way to let him know how different he is. He doesn’t fit
in. He is sort of cute in those ties although the tie clips are too much. He
only has two. He must polish those shoes every night. Tracey says he must.
She asked him if he uses spit on them, to get that shine. (Laughs a little.)
It’s not what she says, it’s the way she says it. (Pause.) But most of the time
he acts as if she isn’t saying anything at all. And all you have to do is take
one look at him and you know, he doesn’t care whether he fits in or not.
He’s like a sleepwalker, I think. It’s like he’s not really there. (Pause.) I
shouldn’t encourage Tracey to keep after him, laughing at everything she
says the way I do. But I can’t help it. I care about her.
A PREFACE TO THE ALIEN GARDEN [1]
Robert Alexander

The Play: For mature audiences. A Preface to the Alien Garden is a

contemporary “gangsta rap” that makes use of elements of Wizard of Oz and
Star Trek, that centers on seventeen-year-old Lisa Body, who believes that
she was abducted by aliens and returned to Earth with metal plates inserted
into her. Lisa moves through her world, attempting to make sense of
existence, first as an innocent, and finally as a killer.

Time and Place: The present. A black gang hideout in Kansas City.

The Scene: Lisa “slithers, prances and struts in a butch-like manner”

around G Roc, Candi, Ice Pick, and other gang members who have
gathered for a meeting, making it clear that she is dedicated to violence.

•••
Several months have passed. It is winter.

At rise: G Roc, B Dog, Sheila, Candi, and Ice Pick are gathered at a the
conference table for a meeting. They sit in a frozen pose as Lisa slithers,
prances, and struts in a butch-like manner, around the frozen bodies seated
at the table. She has a blue rag tied to her head and is wearing a thick, full-
length, official Raiders team coat with a hood that partially obscures her
blue rag.

LISA: To bang or not to bang: Is there ever any question? Gang-banging

ain’t no part-time thang. It’s a full-time gig, you dig? I’m dedicated to the
violence like it was a career. You see—bangin’ is about being down for yo’
homies—being down for yo’ set . . . being down—when ain’t nobody else
down wid you. Bangin’—is getting caught and not tellin’ . . . killin’ and not
caring and lookin’ death in the face without fear.
Just because a man has the same colored flag hanging from his tail
pocket—it don’t mean he won’t smoke yo’ ass. It ain’t just Crips and
Bloods at each other’s throats. Crips be killin’ Crips like a mothafucka.
Take this nigga Ice Pick for example. (Stands behind Ice Pick.) If he
weren’t in my set—I’d smoke him in a heartbeat. He’s an arrogant short-
sighted nigga—who thinks women ain’t nothing but bitches, skeezers, and
ho’s. Well this is one bitch that ain’t got his back.
A PREFACE TO THE ALIEN GARDEN [2]
Robert Alexander

The Play: For mature audiences. A Preface to the Alien Garden is a

contemporary “gangsta rap” that makes use of elements of Wizard of Oz and
Star Trek, that centers on seventeen-year-old Lisa Body, who believes that
she was abducted by aliens and returned to Earth with metal plates inserted
into her. Lisa moves through her world, attempting to make sense of
existence, first as an innocent, and finally as a killer.

Time and Place: The present. A black gang hideout in Kansas City.

The Scene: At the top of Act Two, Lisa, marking turf with her spray can,
speaks of her encounter with the Aliens and the fact that she was not meant
to be “earthbound.”

•••
A month later, still winter in America.

At rise: a solitary light finds Lisa downstage right, in the Alien Garden,
marking turf with her can of spray paint.

LISA: I’m a dream merchant. I’ve got dreams for sale—light beams for sale.
This is the place to git in the space race, ’cause there’re ninety-nine ways to
git to Venus from here and thirty-nine ways to git to Mars. All you gotta do
is click yo’ heels together . . . three times to catch a light beam . . . (A beat.)
The other day, Zeke told me the facial markings of the Ibo tribe are also
worn on the faces of other Ibo warriors— many galaxies away. He told me
—a time will come—when all the other Ibo warriors throughout the
universe will descend upon this land, to kill all thine enemies . . . to return
us to our rightful place. And those lost at birth—shall be found again.
Zeke also told me—that Monster Kody is the second coming of
Malcolm X and one day he will rise from the lion’s pit, he will throw off the
chains that bind him, and he will lead us to the promised land, for it has
already been written in the blood of the lamb. (A beat.)
I was not meant to be earthbound. One day I’m gonna break gravity’s
hold on me. I was meant to be amongst the stars. I was meant to move with
the speed of light. I was meant to move like the creatures I saw—among the
creatures there was something that looked like a blazing torch—constantly
moving. The fire would blaze up and shoot out flashes of lightning!
(The lights become harshly bright, creating the illusion of the light
from a flying saucer.)
I just stood there, as the creatures darted back and forth with the speed
of lightning. As I was looking at the four creatures—I saw four wheels of
light—I saw four wheels touching the ground, one beside each of the
creatures. All four wheels were alike—each shone like a precious stone.
The rim of the wheels were covered with eyes. Whenever the creatures
moved, the wheels moved with them. And when the creatures rose up from
the Earth—so did the wheels . . . every time the creatures moved or stopped
or rose in the air, the wheels did exactly the same. But when I looked into
the light above their heads—I saw it for the first time—a dome made of
dazzling crystal—THE MOTHERSHIP—shone like a million dazzling
lights.
AFTER JULIET
Sharman Macdonald

The Play: What happens after the deaths of Romeo and Juliet? What
happened to Rosaline, Romeo’s first love? After Juliet, imaginative,
powerful, and poetic, resonates with a contemporary take on love and death,
war and peace, as Juliet’s cousin, Rosaline, who also loved Romeo,
struggles to cope with the aftermath of the lovers’ deaths. The Montagues
and the Capulets are experiencing a tense truce while the trial of those
implicated in the deaths proceeds. To complicate the situation, Benvolio,
Romeo’s best friend, loves Rosaline and pursues her, but she will not return
his attentions because he is an enemy to her family and she seeks revenge.

Time and Place: This could be Verona. Or it could be Edinburgh, Dublin,

New York, or Liverpool. It could be 1500, 1900, 2000, or 3000.

The Scene: In a gentle rain, Rosaline (fifteen) strolls in the piazza with an
umbrella and a single lily in her hand. She expresses recollections of Juliet,
as Benvolio and Mercutio’s surviving twin brother, Valentine, observe her.

•••
Rosaline walks up to a pile of flowers in the corner of the piazza. She’s
holding a single lily. And an umbrella.

ROSALINE: Your spirit haunts me, Juliet.

I see more of you dead
Than I did when you were alive;
(Valentine splutters with laughter.)
The drummer whirls and points.
(Benvolio puts his hand over his friend’s mouth.)
That’s a joke.
“More of you dead.”
(She stamps her foot hard down as if knocking on the door of the
grave.)
Go on laugh.
And more of you alive
Than I wanted to.
Laugh. Laugh, go on.
(Knocks again.)
Come on, Juliet.
(Benvolio pulls Valentine deep into the shadows.)
We were hardly close as cousins.
You were too small, too pretty, too rich,
Too thin and too much loved for me to cope with.
“Spoilt” is the word that springs to mind
Though I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.
(She touches the stamen of the lily. Yellow nicotine pollen stains her
fingers. She rubs it in.)
All a flower does is wither
It’s the memories that stay for ever:
So they tell me.
So what do I recall of you?
Juliet, daddy’s princess, rich,
Mummy’s darling, quite a bitch.
You scratched my face once,
From here to here;
I have the scar. I have it yet.
You can see it quite clearly
In the sunlight;
A silver line.
You wanted my favorite doll.
And of course you got it.
For though I was scarred, you cried.
And your nurse swooped down
And took the moppet from me.
Spanked me hard for making you unhappy;
Gave my doll to you, her dearest baby.
Later you stole my best friend;
Wooed her with whispers;
Told her gossip’s secrets;
Gave her trinkets, sweetmeats.
Later still, you took my love
And didn’t know you’d done it;
Then having taken him
You let him die.
If you’d swallowed the friar’s potion earlier
You would have wakened.
And my love would be alive.
None of this would have happened.
I know you, Juliet.
You hesitated, frightened.
Didn’t take the stuff until the dawn.
Wakened too late in the tomb.
In the night I dream of Romeo.
He’s reaching his arms out from the vault.
The poison has him in its hold.
He fills my nights with his longing for life.
Until I am afraid to go to sleep.
For though I love him still
I cannot soothe his pain.
If I could, I would
But it is not me he’s reaching for.
So why, Juliet,
Should I spend my cash
On flowers for you?
Are you a saint
Simply because you were daft enough
To die for love?
Love?
A passing fancy,
No more or less.
Tomorrow or tomorrow or tomorrow
You would have tired of him.
Like your fancy for the doll;
Once possessed, you left it in the rain;
Yesterday’s fancy, mud in its hair,
Damp stained the dress I’d made for her.
They think you brave to have taken your life
But you believed in immortality.
Daddy’s princess could not die.
She would be there at her own funeral
To watch the tears flow
And hear her praises sung.
So you haunt me.
Don’t turn away.
Listen. Listen.
What is it that you’ve brought about?
What trail does your fancy drag behind?
What punishments lie in your fancy’s wake?
Listen, Juliet.
Come here. Come close.
Press your ear to the earth
So I know you’re listening.
There’s a trial going on.
Even now. In all solemnity.
Four lives hang in the balance
Forced by your selfish suicide
To take their chance
Standing at the mercy of the court.
They wait to see whether life or death
Is granted them by what we call justice.
It’s a strange justice. Law meted out by the rich
Who measure their wisdom
By the weight of their gold;
As if riches bear witness to virtue.
You and I know they don’t.
So four poor people are brought before the Prince
To see whether they live or die.
You brought this on them.
No feud wrought their trials.
Their misery is tribute
To your precocity.
Married. And at thirteen!
So. So. Sweet Coz.
Here. This is the last flower
You’ll get from me.
Death flowers have the sweetest scent.
(She casts the flower down. Shrugs.)
That’s that bit done.
(She puts down the umbrella. Stands with her face up to the rain.)
THE AUTOMATA PIETÀ [1]
Constance Congdon

The Play: In a remote part of northern Arizona, a teen fashion doll named
Bambi is tossed out of a car window by her feuding “mommies”—young
sisters, Jennifer and Shambhala. Abandoned in the desert, Bambi falls
victim to an illegal toxic waste dumping and, mysteriously, grows to human
proportions.

Time and Place: The year 2000, more or less. Northern Arizona, then New
York City.

The Scene: Vortexia, “a large young woman who speaks Spanish now and
then,” and a radio personality, pitches Burpee ware.

•••
VORTEXIA: Does anybody want some mother lovin poly-vinyl Burpee Ware?
So this goes on this and you burp it. And inside is your two pieces of lettuce
and your milligram of boiled chicken. Yum. I’m full.
And in this one you can put your ten white grapes. Dessert! Oh no, not
another one—please. I couldn’t possibly eat ONE MORE GRAPE!
And then, if you ever go out to dinner, and have something left over
from your daily allowance of three meats, four breads, and two fruits, or is
it four fruits, two meats and no breads? Because bread isn’t the staff of life,
you know—it’s actually evil. It’s made by Satan in his subterranean bakery.
Anyway, if you have something left over when you’re eating out and have
put your fork down between each bite. Or, perhaps, you’ve been a really
good girl and haven’t picked up your fork in two or three years, if you have
even a bite left over, you can put it in this purse-size Poly-vinyl Burpee
Ware container and take it home to eat later—if you can take the anxiety
and guilt of ever eating again. And then you can wash it out to use over and
over, unless, of course, you’ve shoved it down the garbage disposal just to
listen to it shred, like your pride has been shredded every time you eat or
watch someone else eat while they lecture you on how to watch your weight
and then give that big sigh after they’ve told you you have such a pretty
face.
And you can use your poly-vinyl Burpee Ware containers for those
homemade TV dinners of a piece of fish and green beans you can nibble at
while you watch hours of soft-porn food ads and ads for diet pills and
products presented by thin, thin women who are telling you what you
should do about your problem when they could be drug addicts, but, hey,
they still look “good.”
So buy this poly-vinyl Burpee Ware with its rubber seal lid, so
whatever food you haven’t gulped down in that way you think all fat people
eat—all that extra food will be protected for the next fat person to suck up!
THE AUTOMATA PIETÀ [2]
Constance Congdon

The Play: In a remote part of northern Arizona, a teen fashion doll named
Bambi is tossed out of a car window by her feuding “mommies”—young
sisters, Jennifer and Shambhala. Abandoned in the desert, Bambi falls
victim to an illegal toxic waste dumping and, mysteriously, grows to human
proportions.

Time and Place: The year 2000, more or less. Northern Arizona, then New
York City.

The Scene: Bambi’s mommies have just tossed her out of the window of
their car and landed her in a pool of toxic waste. What’s happening to her?
She’s beginning to grow!

•••
BAMBI: (Surrounded in green glow.) What’s this yucky stuff, anyway?
(Beat.)
Green . . . In . . . My . . . Head.
(Beat.)
Questioning the existence of God seems to be a tautological
conundrum and futile, too. What am I saying? To question that which made
me is to question the fact that I am made at all. Help. For, yea, I am here—
before myself and have a trademark to prove it, although I have never read
it myself, being unable to bend that way. Or read. Although a loquacious
bobbly-toy read me the entire contents of my backside, as he spent the night
under me in the corner of the closet after a rare visit from a grandmother
person who cleaned all my mommies’ rooms, even the big noisy yelling
mommy who’s angry all the time and hates her job and the daddy.
Normally, I always stay in my Party House or reside, head first, in my speed
boat. Anyway, God seemed nice—I remember her plastic-wrapped hands as
she assembled me and put me back on the always-forward-moving rolling
floor, before I gained my outfit and accessories and—
(Really odd feeling.)
Ooooo!
’Scuse me.
(Slightly lower voice.)
ooooo! MY DRESS IS RIPPING!
OH MY!
I’M GROWING!!!!
THE AUTOMATA PIETÀ [3]
Constance Congdon

The Play: In a remote part of northern Arizona, a teen fashion doll named
Bambi is tossed out of a car window by her feuding “mommies”—young
sisters, Jennifer and Shambhala. Abandoned in the desert, Bambi falls
victim to an illegal toxic waste dumping and, mysteriously, grows to human
proportions.

Time and Place: The year 2000, more or less. Northern Arizona, then New
York City.

The Scene: Bambi, grown to human size now and still by the side of the
road, contemplates the seeming futility of her present condition.

•••
BAMBI: Stop hopping, it doesn’t help, it makes you look pathetic. It’s a futile
action. Futility is pathetic. Stop being pathetic. I’m sick of pathos. I’m sick
of feeling sorry. The show I see by this roadside you wouldn’t believe.
Kittens, puppies, babies thrown out the window, WITH all the trash. Kittens
and puppies can be wild, but babies don’t know how. They just lay there
and fuss and scream and then stare up at the big black cosmic sky, full of
meaning to readers of cereal boxes and other word people, but just big,
black, deaf and dumb to them. A legless spider with a zillion eyes twinkling
down while they die. I’ve saved the ones I could and tucked them into cars
stopped while their owners get rid of their internal liquids.
Perhaps you think I sound bleak. Wait until you have a Big Beach Fun
House and it gets taken away. Wait until you have three perfectly good
mommies and they throw you out the window. Wait.
BE AGGRESSIVE [1]
Annie Weisman

The Play: This highly imaginative, sophisticated, satirical, and poignant

play depicts with affectionate understanding the adolescence of Laura, a
seventeen-year-old cheerleader, whose life is abruptly changed when her
mother is killed in a car crash. Suddenly forced to become caregiver to her
younger sister, Hannah, and her unbending father, Phil, Laura finds escape
through a fellow cheerleader, Leslie, who has found a brochure for a
cheerleading camp: the Spirit Institute of the South. The two girls go
against their parents’ wishes and desperately follow their dream to the
camp, only to make a painful discovery. The journey ultimately leads to
hope and renewal, however unsettling the present may seem to be.

Time and Place: Vista Del Sol, a paradise by the sea. The present.

The Scene: At work making “smoothies,” Laura teaches some hirelings

how it’s done.

•••
Sound of a blender. Then two. Then six. Then all the blenders of the
southland, whirring at top speed. Lights up on the smoothie shop. Laura
with her hand on the top of a blender. Her body shakes. Then stops.

LAURA: ’K. First you add the Basic Boost.

(Adds something to the blender. Puts on the top. Loud blending sound
again. Her body shakes. It stops.) Now the All-Pro Protein. (Adds
something.) Then, ask if they’ve tried any of our Smoothie madditives,
which are: Mood Lift, Memory Boost, Energina, Youth Jolt, and Mega-
Cleanse. Then, tell them about this week’s promotional madditive, which is
— (Checks list.) Moby Thick!—a fiber blend made from the baleen of
humpback whales whose healthful benefits have been enjoyed by the Inuit
people for centuries. And we guarantee these whales died naturally by old
age and not poaching or disease. (Beat.) Then, they pick their fruit. Oh,
you’re supposed to try to push the new fruits. Otherwise, people will just
get like, strawberry or banana. There’s a new hybrid of kiwi and cassava
melon—it’s called Kissava—and it has twice the mineral content of an
average serving of fruit. You’re supposed to say that. (Beat.) Oh, and the
cool thing is, no matter what you put in, you always add our special
smoothie starter at the end. That way, the color always comes out the same.
The healthful rosy flush that customers want. If you forget this final
additive, the color will be grayish brown. And when they see, they won’t
like it. (Beat.) Oh, and if you mess it up, just throw it away and do it over.
We never run out of anything. Somebody comes in at night and stocks it all,
I guess. (Pause.) I don’t know how. Some of the stuff is like, really heavy.
(Beat.) ’K, that’s it. That’s all you need to know. (Pause.) Now blend!
(Noise of a thousand blenders. Lights shift.)
BE AGGRESSIVE [2]
Annie Weisman

The Play: This highly imaginative, sophisticated, satirical, and poignant

play depicts with affectionate understanding the adolescence of Laura, a
seventeen-year-old cheerleader, whose life is abruptly changed when her
mother is killed in a car crash. Suddenly forced to become caregiver to her
younger sister, Hannah, and her unbending father, Phil, Laura finds escape
through a fellow cheerleader, Leslie, who has found a brochure for a
cheerleading camp: the Spirit Institute of the South. The two girls go
against their parents’ wishes and desperately follow their dream to the
camp, only to make a painful discovery. The journey ultimately leads to
hope and renewal, however unsettling the present may seem to be.

Time and Place: Vista Del Sol, a paradise by the sea. The present.

The Scene: Laura remembers her mother and contemplates the transitory
circumstances of our daily life.

•••
LAURA: In 1971, my mom was alive, and she’s dead now. In 1971, my
mother was alive, and today, she’s gone.
[LESLIE: But she’s always in your heart.]
LAURA: (Beat.) She used to tell us things, but I barely remember and I can’t
ask her again! I can’t say hey, Mom, tell me things I never listened to! Tell
me how to do things! Tell me how to bake sugar cookies so they’re soft in
the middle! Tell me how to sweep my hair up so it holds with just a pin!
Tell me what it feels like when your water breaks and a baby comes out! I
don’t have anybody to tell me that! (Beat.) In 1971, she had a gray streak in
the front of her hair. Premature gray. She had it for years until she finally
got sick of the giggles and stares and she dyed it like the rest of them. I
don’t even remember barely. I was so little. (Beat.) Is that what happens?
You’re young, and you believe in things, and then you what? You get
married, you have kids, you move into a Spanish stucco ocean-view unit
and you forget? One day you wear your white streak like a peacock’s tail,
and the next day you’re letting them paint it with bleach and toner and wrap
it in tin foil and you’re sitting under a hair dryer to cook for an hour while
you learn lightening tips from a beauty magazine! Like everybody else!
(Beat.) When you sit under those dryer domes, you can’t see or hear a thing.
You just have to sit there quietly and let all that stuff soak into you. (Beat.)
She’s really kind of been gone for a long long time. (Pause.) I don’t want to
be a dead girl. I want to be a person who’s alive. (She turns and starts to
slowly walk away.)
BREATH, BOOM [1]
Kia Corthron

The Play: Kia Corthron’s Breath, Boom depicts the violent world of
streetwise teenage gangsters in the Bronx, N.Y.— particularly a bunch of
feuding “sisters.” A world in which it’s the norm to never have known your
father, to have been raped at five by your mother’s boyfriend, and to then
have your mother murder the boyfriend and be thrown in jail. Such is the
world of Prix, the play’s central character, a tough, ruthless sixteen-year-old
whose life is measured by detention, counseling, drug running, and jail—a
life where the only escape is in her fascination with fireworks: glorious,
showering, chaotic lights of color in the darkness.

Time and Place: The present. Bronx, N.Y.

The Scene: In jail, Prix shares time with Cat, another young inmate. Cat
ruminates on their condition behind bars.

•••
(During Cat’s next speech, Jerome enters the cell, eyes on Prix. Prix sees
him; Cat doesn’t. He exits. Prix goes back to her sketching.)

CAT: I hear ’em! Cryin’ on the phone, “My honey, my honey,” “I miss my
friend.” Most of ’em’s honeys was kickin’ the shit out of ’em daily and their
friends? Their best girlfriend’s on the outside and so’s their honey guess
what one plus one is equalin’? (Beat.) Could be worse. See them ugly green
one-piece things they make the women wear? Least adolescents, we wear
our own shit. (Beat.) Easy time. Five months you be eighteen, outta here,
eleven left for me, shit. Scotfree both us and I’m fifteen, three more years a
minor, I get caught, easy time. Eleven months I know my roof? I know my
mealtimes? shit. Damn sure beats the fosters.
[PRIX: Usually all I hear’s you whinin’ ’bout the clothes situation.]
CAT: Lacka choices! I love my clothes, but wearin’ the same five outfits gets
limitin’ after awhile. There’s this cute thing I useta wear, black, kinda sheer,
kinda spare, my belly button on the open-air market. They say No way,
Stupid! Their Nazi dress code, what. They think wearin’ it’ll get me
pregnant? in here? (Beat.) Ain’t my first time in. Fourth!
[PRIX: Runaway.]
CAT: Three more years I’m a fuckin’ criminal for it! can’t wait ’til eighteen!
Runnin’ away I be legal! (Beat.) My broken arm was mindin’ its own
business wisht they’da minded theirs, dontcha never believe that crap about
best to tell the counselor tell the teacher it’ll make things better. Cuz ya will
get sent back home and just when ya thought things could get no worse,
they do.
[PRIX: Sh!]
(Prix moves toward the wall, leans against it. Someone is tapping
against it, a code. Prix taps back in code. When the communication is
complete, Prix sits back down to her sketching. Cat smiles.)
CAT: What’s the big one? Single most thing earned you all the gracious
undivided esteem? I heard this: shot a enemy girl in the face. Then went to
her funeral cuz yaw was best friends second grade, made all your sisters go,
put the whole goddamn family on edge and every one of ’em knew and not
a one of ’em said a word about it to you. (Beat.) And one time jumpin’ a girl
in, she not too conscious, you jump your whole weight on her face ten times
maybe? twelve? ’fore a sister pull you off. And when yaw stand around,
eenie meenie minie pick some herb comin’ down the subway steps to steal
their wallet, you was the one everybody know could always knock ’em out
first punch. And one time on a revenge spree, dress up like a man so no one
identify you later, stick your hair under a cap and shoot dead some boy ten
years old. And—
[PRIX: Fifteen. (Pause. Cat is confused.) I don’t kill no kids. Fifteen.]
CAT: O.G.! you gonna earn it. Original Gangsta, people respect you long
after you retire Take me in! (No answer.) You get it. The high, right? This
girl Aleea, she tell me all about it. The kickin’ and smashin’ and breakin’
bones snap! Somebody lyin’ in a flood a their own blood, somebody dead it
gets her all hyped up, thrill thing! And power, them dead you not, you made
it happen! Them dead, you done it! You ever get that high?
BREATH, BOOM [2]
Kia Corthron

The Play: Kia Corthron’s Breath, Boom depicts the violent world of
streetwise teenage gangsters in the Bronx, N.Y.— particularly a bunch of
feuding “sisters.” A world in which it’s the norm to never have known your
father, to have been raped at five by your mother’s boyfriend, and to then
have your mother murder the boyfriend and be thrown in jail. Such is the
world of Prix, the play’s central character, a tough, ruthless sixteen-year-old
whose life is measured by detention, counseling, drug running, and jail—a
life where the only escape is in her fascination with fireworks: glorious,
showering, chaotic lights of color in the darkness.

Time and Place: The present. Bronx, N.Y.

The Scene: Cat expresses admiration for Prix’s cold, ruthless power.

•••
Cell. As Cat chatters she pulls the sheet off the upper bunk, then sits tying
it. She is cheery. Prix reads a tattered paperback black romance novel, she
does not look at Cat.

CAT: (Admiration:) You the coldest fish I know! Ruthless! People know it
too, you walk into a room, silence! (New idea:) Prix. Come to my geometry
tomorrow. I like geometry but those dumb bitches just come in bitchin’,
bitchin’ interrupt the class then I don’t learn nothin’ but you walk in,
everybody shut up, everybody know who you are get quiet fast, come on,
geometry! I like that math. Circles is three-sixty, a line goes on and on,
rectangle versus the parallelogram, interestin’! Ain’t fireworks geometry?
Can’t the study a angles and arcs be nothin’ but helpful? Come on! Favor
for me?
(Prix chuckles to herself. Cat doesn’t necessarily expect the refusal,
but is delighted by it.)
CAT: I know! You don’t do favors! You the coldest fish I know! (Beat.) You
met Ms. Bramer? She’s the new current events she’s nice I hope she stick
around awhile. She say the 6 o’clock news always hypin’: “Tough on teens!
Youth violence outa hand, try ’em like adults!” But she say news never say
three times as many murders committed by late forties as by under-
eighteens, Ms. Bramer say news never mention for every one violence
committed by an under-eighteens, three violence committed by adults to
under-eighteens. Ms. Bramer say if we violent where we learn it? Sow what
you reap.
[PRIX: Reap what you sow.]
CAT: (Having just noticed Prix’s reading material:) I know that book!
passed to me months ago. She’s a lawyer, pro bono, he’s a big record
producer. He’s rich and she appreciates it but she don’t know, loooves him
but got that lawyer’s degree and don’t know she can lower herself to that. I
didn’t think you read that stuff, I love you and roses and wet eyes. (Beat.)
You ever plan your funeral?
[PRIX: Fireworks.]
CAT: Nothin’ somber for me, I got the tunes all picked out, went through my
CD collection I know who my special guest stars be, I figure they come,
like this poor unfortunate fifteen-year-old girl died, ain’t the city violent and
sad? We felt so depressed we come give a free funeral concert, her last
request. Good publicity for them. Here’s the processional tune: (Begins
humming a lively hip-hop piece, interrupts herself.) processional, when the
people first walks in with the casket. (Resumes her humming, stops.) My
coffin’s gonna be open. Yours? (Prix turns a page.) I’m gonna look good, I
got the dress picked and I want people to see it. You ever plan your suicide?
[PRIX: Fifth grade.]
CAT: Pills? Gun stuck up your mouth?
[PRIX: Off the Brooklyn Bridge. (Now puzzled.) Would that kill ya?]
CAT: World Trade Center better bet, know how many free-fall floors to
concrete? Hundred ten!
BREATH, BOOM [3]
Kia Corthron

The Play: Kia Corthron’s Breath, Boom depicts the violent world of
streetwise teenage gangsters in the Bronx, N.Y.— particularly a bunch of
feuding “sisters.” A world in which it’s the norm to never have known your
father, to have been raped at five by your mother’s boyfriend, and to then
have your mother murder the boyfriend and be thrown in jail. Such is the
world of Prix, the play’s central character, a tough, ruthless sixteen-year-old
whose life is measured by detention, counseling, drug running, and jail—a
life where the only escape is in her fascination with fireworks: glorious,
showering, chaotic lights of color in the darkness.

Time and Place: The present. Bronx, N.Y.

The Scene: Prix speaks of her dream to design fireworks.

•••
[COMET: Whatchu wanna do? Shoot ’em off?]
PRIX: Design ’em. (Works quietly, then.) And shoot ’em off. Fireworks
people ain’t a architect, make the blueprint and give to someone else to
build. Clothes designer never touch a sewin’ machine. A fireworks artist,
take your basic chrysanthemum, not to be confused with peonies, the latter
comprised a dots but chrysanthemums with petal tails, the big flower, start
with a pistil of orange then move out into blue, blue which comes from
copper or chlorine, cool blue burstin’ out from orange pistil, blue instantly
change to strontium nitrate red to sodium yellow, cool to warm, warmer and
the designer ain’t the joyful bystander, she’s right there pushin’ the buttons
and while the crowd’s oohin’ aahin’ this’n she’s already on to the next
button. This quick chrysanthemum I’d start my show with and
accompanying reports of course, bang bang and I’ll throw in a few willows,
slower timin’ and a softer feelin’, tension to relaxation keep the audience
excited, anticipatin’, then time for multiple-breakers, shell breakin’ into a
flower breakin’ ’to another flower ’to another, then a few comets (Points to
drawing on the wall; refers to Comet.) Comets! Then, then if I had a bridge,
a Niagara, fallin’ from the edge and this wouldn’t even be the finale, maybe
. . . maybe . . . somethin’ gooey, like “Happy Birthday Comet!” Now finale,
which of course is the bombs and the bombs and the bombs and “chaos”
can’t possibly be the description cuz this be the most precisely planned
chaos you ever saw! Hanabi! flowers of fire. My show people screamin’ it,
“Hanabi! Hanabi!”
BROKEN HALLELUJAH
Sharman Macdonald

The Play: During the longest siege of a city in American history, Broken
Hallelujah is set in the smoky hollows of wartorn Petersburg, Virginia,
where two girls have a life-altering encounter with one Confederate and two
Union soldiers. Scottish playwright Macdonald explores the effects of the
failing American Civil War on young soldiers and citizens in this new play,
co-commissioned by A.C.T.’s Young Conservatory New Plays Program and
Theatre Royal Bath. Rich in language and boldly truthful, Broken
Hallelujah is a story of the effects of war on young people that is as timely
as today’s newspaper headlines. The young characters in this remarkable
play have had little input in what ultimately will be their fate. Pawns in a
decidedly adult conflict, the youth engaged in the siege of Petersburg must
consider a future over which they have little control.

Time and Place: June, 1864, to April, 1865. Petersburg, Virginia

The Scene: Young Maureen ponders the increasing devastation the war is
exacting on the human condition.

•••
MAUREEN: There are towns south of here. In Tennessee there are towns. In
Alabama there are towns and the towns are empty of men. They’re just
empty of men. All the men from the towns are dead. And the ladies have no
husbands. And the children have no fathers. And the girls have no
sweethearts. I hear the war will go on and on til all the towns are like that.
Til there’s only women left in all the towns of the Confederacy. Only then
will the war end . . . The big guns just tear men apart and spread their vitals
over the earth til there’s lakes of blood and bridges to walk on over the
lakes of blood and these bridges they are made of flesh. The biggest enemy
of a soldier is his bowels, and his feet, and his lungs. You hear their lungs.
In the morning when their drums roll to wake them up you hear the whole
army cough. Thousands of men coughing all at once—coughing so hard
you can’t hear the drums anymore. Can you tell a Confederate cough from a
Yankee cough? I can’t. That’s the strangest thing. We think different, we
talk different, we smell different. Wouldn’t you think we’d cough different?
Measles have killed more men than ever the guns have. More men have
died of dysentery, and scarlet fever and mumps and the typhus than ever
died of bullet wounds. I’m half the girl I was now September’s come. I’m
half the girl I was on the fifteenth of June when these people started
besieging us, my mother says. I’ll be half again by the time they go. Then
no man will ever want me. A man wants flesh on the bones he holds in his
arms. Man sees me half the weight I am now he’ll think I’ve got the
galloping consumption and he’ll never marry me.
BURIED CHILD
Sam Shepard

The Play: Amidst the squalor of a decaying farm, a family harbors a deep-
seated unhappiness that has led to destructive suppressed anger and
violence—all born of a long-hidden secret. The drunken, ranting Dodge and
Halie, his alcoholic wife, fight their way through each grim day,
accompanied by their misbegotten sons, Tilden, a hulking ex-All-American
football player, and Bradley, who has lost a leg in a chainsaw accident.
When Vince, a grandson none of them recollects, enters their world with his
girlfriend, Shelly, Tilden is compelled to unearth the family secret, and the
possibility of redemption finally seems plausible.

Time and Place: A farmhouse.

The Scene: Shelly, overcome by the madness that surrounds her, lashes out
at Halie and Dewis, a local Protestant minister of dubious distinction.

•••
SHELLY: Don’t come near me! Don’t anyone come near me. I don’t need any
words from you, I’m not threatening anybody. I don’t even know what I’m
doing here. You all say you don’t remember Vince, OK, maybe you don’t.
Maybe it’s Vince that’s crazy. Maybe he’s made this whole family thing up.
I don’t even care anymore. I was just coming along for the ride. I thought
it’d be a nice gesture. Besides, I was curious. He made all of you sound
familiar to me. Every one of you. For every name, I had an image. Every
time he’d tell me a name, I’d see the person. In fact, each of you was so
clear in my mind that I actually believed it was you. I really believed when
I walked through that door that the people who lived here would turn out to
be the same people in my imagination. But I don’t recognize any of you.
Not one. Not even the slightest resemblance.
CHANGES OF HEART [1]
Pierre Carlet de Chamblain de Marivaux

Translated and adapted by Stephen Wadsworth

The Play: Stephen Wadsworth’s fine and playable translation and

adaptation of eighteenth-century French playwright Marivaux’s Changes of
Heart, explores the deep question: What happens within the human spirit
when one dares to love the person one could not imagine loving? True to
Marivaux’s original, the play makes use of word play and traditional
characters drawn from Italian commedia: Harlequin, Flaminia, Silvia, and
Trivelin. When a Prince kidnaps Harlequin’s love, Silvia, and takes her to
his court, Harlequin pursues her, only to become embroiled in a complex set
of circumstances that lead to a remarkable outcome.

Time and Place: About 1750, France. Court of a Prince.

The Scene: Silvia, in a rage because she has been separated from her true
love, Harlequin, takes out her frustrations on her servant, Trivelin.

•••
SYLVIA: Very well, my servant, you think so highly of the honor shown me
here—what do I need idle ladies-in-waiting spying on me for? They take
away my lover and replace him with women? Hardly adequate
compensation! And what do I care about all the singing and dancing they
force me to sit through? A village girl happy in a little town is worth more
than a princess weeping in a gorgeous suite of rooms. If the prince is so
young and beautiful and full of desire, it’s not my fault. He should keep all
that for his equals and leave me to my poor Harlequin, who is no more a
man of means than I am a woman of leisure, who is not richer than I am or
fancier than I am, and who doesn’t live in a bigger house than I do, but who
loves me, without guile or pretense, and whom I love in return in the same
way, and for whom I will die of a broken heart if I don’t see him again
soon. And what have they done to him? Perhaps they are mistreating him
. . . (Silvia’s rage peaks.) I am so angry! This is so unfair! You are my
servant? Get out of my sight, I cannot abide you!
CHANGES OF HEART [2]
Pierre Carlet de Chamblain de Marivaux

Translated and adapted by Stephen Wadsworth

The Play: Stephen Wadsworth’s fine and playable translation and

adaptation of eighteenth-century French playwright Marivaux’s Changes of
Heart, explores the deep question: What happens within the human spirit
when one dares to love the person one could not imagine loving? True to
Marivaux’s original, the play makes use of word play and traditional
characters drawn from Italian commedia: Harlequin, Flaminia, Silvia, and
Trivelin. When a Prince kidnaps Harlequin’s love, Silvia, and takes her to
his court, Harlequin pursues her, only to become embroiled in a complex set
of circumstances that lead to a remarkable outcome.

Time and Place: About 1750, France. Court of a Prince.

The Scene: Still upset at her separation from Harlequin, Silvia bemoans to
Flaminia the “dreadful” court life and people who surround her.

•••
Flaminia and Silvia are in the middle of a conversation.

SILVIA:You’re the only person around here I can tolerate, and you seem to
have my interests at heart, I don’t trust the rest of them. [Where is
Harlequin?]
[FLAMINIA: He’s still eating.]
SILVIA: You know, this place is really dreadful. I’ve never seen people so . . .
polite. There are so many curtseys, so many pretty speeches—you’d think
they were the best people in the world, that they’re full of integrity and
good intentions. But no, not at all. There’s not one of them who hasn’t come
to me and said oh-so-discreetly, “Mademoiselle, believe me, you’re better
off forgetting Harlequin and marrying the Prince.” And they say this to me
absolutely without a qualm, as if they were encouraging me to do the right
thing! “But,” I say to them, “I gave my promise to Harlequin. What about
fidelity, honor, good faith?” They don’t even know what I’m talking about.
They laugh in my face and tell me I’m being childish, that a proper young
lady ought to be reasonable, isn’t that nice! To hold nothing sacred, to cheat
one’s fellow man, to go back on one’s word, to be two-faced and to lie—
that’s how to be a proper young lady? Who are these people? Where do
they come from? What dough did they make them out of?
THE CONFESSIONS OF MAX TIVOLI
(FICTION)
Andrew Sean Greer

The Play: This fascinating story offers an original exploration and

perspective on questions of age, friendship, and love. Max Tivoli is born in
the appearance of a miniature old man, but as he grows up and becomes
wiser, his body becomes younger and younger. At seventeen, when he
appears fifty-three years of age, he falls in love with Alice, the girl next
door. Before their love can be realized, though, Max must appear younger
and Alice grow older. Only Max’s parents, Alice, and his best friend,
Hughie, know the secret of his aging. Late in life, Max makes a painful
discovery: his best friend is the real love of Alice’s life.

Time and Place: 1898, San Francisco, California.

The Scene: Alice (sixteen) sits in the backyard garden of her house, where
Max, now seventeen but appearing in his mid-fifties, has been keeping her
company. Alice expresses her wish that she had lived in another time.

•••
ALICE: I think maybe I was born in the wrong time . . . Tonight, for instance.
I love it tonight. Nothing modern. No kerosene lamps smelling things up, or
gaslight. Hurts your eyes. No groups of people crowded around a
stereoscope, or a piano singing another round of “Grandfather Clock” for
heck’s sake. I wish every night was just starlight and candles and nothing to
do. We would have so much time.
 It’s hard to image such a different life. We’d think about light all the
time. You know that when it got dark in winter and there wasn’t much light,
you would have to do everything before sundown, well, there weren’t any
streetlights on country roads back then, were there? How frightening. And
you couldn’t read at night except by candlelight, and you probably saved
your candles very carefully. Not like us. You made your own, they were
everything to you, if you read books. And you had to read, what else was
there to do? They had so few nice clothes they never went out. They didn’t
have parlors or nonsense like Wardian cases and kaleidoscopes or watching
magic lantern shows. There wasn’t any of that to do. There were just . . .
people. Think of it.
I mean a long time ago. I mean before kerosene lamps, and I don’t
mean special evenings like balls, I mean evenings like this. Ones we like to
kill with parlor games. How could anyone fall in love by gaslight, I ask
you?
CRUMBS FROM THE TABLE OF JOY
Lynn Nottage

The Play: A complex, thought-provoking play, Crumbs from the Table of

Joy tells the story of an African-American family recently relocated from
Florida to Brooklyn in search of a better life: the recently widowed Godfrey
and his daughters, Ernestine (Ernie) and Ermina. Once arrived, their lives
move through a series of unsettling incidents as the girls’ politically and
socially active aunt, Lily, makes her presence felt. Godfrey, who has turned
to religion, eventually finds a new wife in Gerte, a quiet German immigrant
who suffered through the horrors of World War II. Godfrey attempts to keep
the family together, but the girls, particularly Ernie, is closer to her spiritual
mother, Lily, and sets off for Harlem to find her and a new life.

Time and Place: 1950s. Brooklyn, N.Y.

The Scene: Ernestina, having escaped to the movies for awhile, finds
herself on a crowded street corner in Harlem looking for her aunt, Lily Ann
Green.

•••
ERNESTINE: (To audience.) In the movies the darkness precedes everything.
In the darkness, the theater whispers with anticipation . . . (Ernestine stands,
she’s on a crowded street corner in Harlem. Lost and confused on the noisy
street corner.) Finally, Harlem . . . Lost, “does anybody know how I get to
Lenox Avenue? Lenox Avenue? The Party headquarters! You know, Lily
Ann Green. Lily Ann Green. Lily . . .” (Ernestine holds out a sheet of
paper.) Nothing’s there but an empty bar “Chester’s.” Blue flashing neon,
sorta nice. I order a sloe gin fizz and chat with the bartender about the
weather. It looks like rain. It’s only men. They make me nervous. But they
remember Lily. Everyone does. So I tell them, “I’ve come to enlist, in the
revolution of course. To fight, the good fight. I got a high school diploma.
I’ll do anything. I’ll scrub floors if need be. You see, I care very much about
the status of the Negro in this country. We can’t just sit idly by, right? Lily
said we used to live communally in Africa and solve our differences
through music by creating riffs off of a simple timeline building out toward
something extraordinary, like . . . bebop.” The bartender tells me he knows
just the place I’m looking for, address 137th Street between Convent and
Amsterdam. And here I find myself standing before this great Gothic city
rising out of Harlem. Black, gray stone awash. At the corner store they tell
me it’s . . . City College. (A moment.) In the movies . . . well. . . . Years
from now I’ll ride the subway back to Brooklyn. I’ll visit Daddy and Gerte
and we’ll eat a huge meal of bratwurst and sweet potatoes and realize that
we all escape somewhere and take comfort sometimes in things we don’t
understand. And before I graduate Ermina will give birth to her first child,
lovely Sandra. She’ll move home with Nana for a few years and she’ll be
the one to identify Lily’s cold body poked full of holes her misery finally
borne out. Years from now I’ll read the Communist Manifesto, The Souls of
Black Folks, and Black Skin, White Masks and find my dear Lily amongst
the pages. Still years from now I’ll remember my mother and the sweet-
smelling humid afternoons by the Florida waters, and then years from now
I’ll ride the Freedom bus back down home enraged and vigilant, years from
now I’ll marry a civil servant and argue about the Vietnam war, integration,
and the Black Panther movement. Years from now I’ll send off one son to
college in New England and I’ll lose the other to drugs and sing loudly in
the church choir. (She lifts her suitcase, beaming.) But today I’m just riffing
and walking as far as these feet will take me. Walking . . . riffing . . . riffing
. . . riffing. (Lights slowly fade as Ernestine continues to repeat the line over
and over again. A song like “Some Enchanted Evening” gives way to a
bebop version of the song. Blackout.)
DUST [1]
Sarah Daniels

The Play: In this imaginative, time-warping tale, a group of students

traveling through London become stranded on a train in the Underground.
When one of the girls, Flavia (fifteen), leaves the group to find a way out on
her own, she mysteriously enters a new dimension and is transformed into a
girl gladiator in ancient Roman London. Here she encounters the great and
mythic heroine, Boudicca.

Time and Place: The present. London, Underground.

The Scene: Boudicca, the warrior queen, has just made her appearance to
Flavia the scene before, and now speaks to the audience of what it’s been
like on the “other” side.

•••
BO: (To the audience.) If she thinks it’s lonely there, it’s much worse here.
Are you listening? I said it’s much worse here. Oh I know I’ve got some
great company. Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Marilyn M, Del Shannon,
Kurt Cobain. Music? If music be the food of love, no wonder I’m on my
own. The racket I’ve had to get used to. I don’t like to judge but some of the
stuff those people call tunes sounds worse than when Caligula’s horse got
its head trapped under the wheel of a chariot. Lovely people though, most
of them. The artists anyway. Got a couple of weirdos. One with a small
moustache who quite frankly was lucky to have got off so lightly, dying by
his own hand. I put him in a room of his own straight away. You can
imagine how Virginia kicked off about that. Then there’s a lovely monk
who set himself a light. I’ve got a few of those actually. I said right out to
their faces. I said “nice action but wrong target,” babes. How we all ended
up may have taken more courage than most could muster in a lifetime, but
whichever way you look at it we still finished it off with an act of
cowardice. Oh yes. Taken me centuries to come to terms with that. Me! Me,
who rode around fearlessly reeking revenge, wrecking their cosy life styles.
But when they turned and came looking for me, I could see the way it was
going. And I knew, this was it. My chickens were coming home to roast. So
I said to myself, “OK Big Bo, time to go.” I took such last-resort pleasure in
picturing their disappointment when they found I’d got myself rather than
let them get me. But hey, they got over it. It took them all of a morning, and
then they got on with their conquering and forgot all about me. When life
doesn’t go on, when it stops—then that is it. It really is. The end of all
possibilities. I should know. If could have my life again the one thing I’d do
is not kill myself. And it’s not just me. We all think that here.
DUST [2]
Sarah Daniels

The Play: In this imaginative, time-warping tale, a group of students

traveling through London become stranded on a train in the Underground.
When one of the girls, Flavia (fifteen), leaves the group to find a way out on
her own, she mysteriously enters a new dimension and is transformed into a
girl gladiator in ancient Roman London. Here a poverty-stricken woman
encounters Boudicca, the mythic heroine who led a revolt against the
Roman occupation of Britain.

Time and Place: The present. London, Underground.

The Scene: Woman with a baby, a poverty-stricken beggar, appears in both

past and present as representative of those who share her plight through all
of history.

•••
WOMAN WITH A BABY: (Although she obviously no longer has the baby.)
(Directly to the audience:) I was the girl whose panties stank of poverty,
who grew up to be a woman who smelt of stale breast milk, who gave birth
then turned her face to the wall, who gave her baby away, whose kid died
for lack of food, out of neglect, who used her dead baby to smuggle drugs,
who abandoned her child on the train to Auschwitz, who murdered her
offspring in a fit of jealous rage at its innocent lack of anxiety.
You look at me like I’m the shit on your shoes but you can not shake
my dust from your feet. You’ve drawn me into your lungs but you want to
suffocate me cos I’m now part of you. I have always been with you.
 You have always reveled in reviling me but you have no room to
breathe because after two thousand years of your civilization I am still alive
and thriving amongst you and you are more concerned with making sure
animals don’t become extinct than with trying to eradicate me.
DUST [3]
Sarah Daniels

The Play: In this imaginative, time-warping tale, a group of students

traveling through London become stranded on a train in the Underground.
When one of the girls, Flavia (fifteen), leaves the group to find a way out on
her own, she mysteriously enters a new dimension and is transformed into a
girl gladiator in ancient Roman London.

Time and Place: The present. London, Underground.

The Scene: Trifosa, a Roman “Girlie” gladiator, has now reached the
“other” side, having been torn to bits by a lion in the stadium.

•••
TRIFOSA: (Doing or fiddling with her nails.) I didn’t quite know what to
expect when I reached the other side. Well of course, I wasn’t expecting to
reach the other side so suddenly. And I wasn’t expecting it to be like this.
Trifosa is a pet name given to me by my parents. It means delicious. Well,
the big cat back there certainly thought so. I know you’ve got my number. I
always thought of myself as special, better than the rest. The fat, the
hopeless, and the weedy kid right from the time we all had to play in the
sandpit together always got on my nerves. I couldn’t stand their humorless,
lifeless miserable whining. I got pleasure baiting them. The more I did it the
more I wanted to and the better I became at it. And I could barely conceal
my smile when, because of me, they cried. Sometimes, even on my own I
would laugh out loud the memory was so pleasurable. I never touched
them, much less hit or assaulted them but here I’ve been given a worse
room than a whole heap of mass murderers. What’s more they’re allowed to
sleep whereas I haven’t been allowed so much as a catnap. Someone out the
back just told me that I’ll probably have to start again and for every horrible
thing I said or did back then, I’ll have to do a good one. How long will that
take? It makes me exhausted just thinking about it.
FINER NOBLE GASES
Adam Rapp

The Play: Described as an “existential rock & roll comedy,” Finer Noble
Gases portrays the flattened dreams and fatal visions of four aimless East-
Village musicians (Staples, Speed, Chase, and Lynch) whose existence has
fallen into purposeless TV watching and drug addiction. Into their life
sometimes appears Dot, a little girl from downstairs, who adds further
pathos to a decimated environment.

Time and Place: An East Village apartment near Tomkins Square Park in
New York. Winter.

The Scene: Dot (eleven) is watching TV with two of the musicians, who are
mesmerized by the death of an animal on one of those “nature” programs.
She reflects on one of her favorite past times at school.

•••
DOT: In the library at my junior high they have these huge computer
monitors. The size of small refrigerators. Three-feet high some of them.
The most beautiful screen savers you’ll ever see. Mountains. Waterfalls.
Pictures of magic cities. Colors that haven’t even been invented yet. If you
stand next to the hard drives and listen real close you can hear them singing.
Like hummingbirds. A gazillion megahertz of ram just whirling away.
(Standing, gliding slowly toward the TV.) Sometimes I go real early in the
morning. When nobody’s there. And I just listen. I listen for a while and
then for some reason I hug each monitor. One by one. There’s like fifty of
them. (Hugging Gray’s TV now.) I hug each one and I get a little part of that
song inside me. It’s the most beautiful way to start the day. (Breaking from
the hug.) I think those birds on the rhinos are so cool.
[STAPLES: It’s like someone put ‘em there.]
(Dot glides to the ottoman, sits.)
DOT: In the library there’s this one African Grassland screen saver with little
birds. They ride around on this elephant and eat the bugs off its back.
There’s a lion, too, but he doesn’t do anything. The elephant walks around
and drinks water out of the wallows. That’s where the rhinos play with their
kids.
THE LESS THAN HUMAN CLUB
Timothy Mason

The Play: Davis Daniels, a troubled young man, recreates a turbulent year
in his life (1968) with the hopes of finding answers to paths that have led to
today. The journey back replays the complexities of relationships, the crisis
of sexual identity, the bonds of truthful friendship, and the search for
purpose.

Time and Place: Fall 1967; winter/spring of 1968. Minneapolis,

Minnesota.

The Scene: Kirsten, a shy high school junior, whom Davis has invited to the
“Snow Daze” dance, nervously makes conversation—it’s her first date. In
reality she is just a cover for Davis, who is struggling with his sexual
identity.

•••
KIRSTEN: You’re a wonderful dancer. I mean, you never go to dances, where
did you learn to dance like that? You’re just amazing. (Beat.) My dad helps
me with so much, he’s such a great guy, I mean, he’s a little quiet, he’s a
mailman. They tend to be quiet, letter carriers, they think a lot. I don’t think
people generally realize that. (Beat.) Walk and think, think and walk.
(Looks at her melting Dixie cup of hot cider.) Oh, no! I just knew it! I knew
Dixie cups were a mistake! Miss Borders said she didn’t think it would be a
problem and I said, “Oh yes it will, you just wait!” That woman just doesn’t
listen. Sorry, I shouldn’t criticize. It’s like Thumper’s dad was always
saying to him, “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” In
Bambi. The movie? It was my favorite movie when I was a kid. Remember
it? If you want to go Davis, I’ll understand. I know you’re thinking this was
a mistake. You’re a kind person, you always have been. But I’ll understand.
(Beat.) My dad was so nervous tonight, you’d think he was the one going
on a . . . to a dance. And a little proud, too, I think, you know? But mostly
just nervous. He felt better when he met you, I could tell. Did he give you
the old third degree while I was upstairs? I think my dad’s a lot more like
Thumper’s dad than Bambi’s dad. Of course Bambi’s dad was a great big
stag and the King of the Forest and my dad’s a lot more like an old rabbit.
Bambi’s mom died around the same time mine did. I mean, that’s about
when I saw that movie, right around the time my mom died, and we both
missed our moms terribly. I think of all the things I should have said to her
but didn’t. I guess that’s why you mourn. Then you go on. Like Bambi did.
(Beat.) This is the first time I ever went out with a boy. I think my dad was
afraid I was going to get all twitter-pated tonight and that’s why he was so
nervous. At Luther League at church they pair you off for parties or
hayrides but that’s different. A boy tried to kiss me once on a hayride but I
didn’t like him so I didn’t let him. There was a boy at church I sort of liked
but he moved. (Beat.) Let me take these, they’re undrinkable.
THE MISS FIRECRACKER CONTEST
Beth Henley

THE MISS FIRECRACKER CONTEST

By Beth Henley

The Play: The tale of Carnelle Scott, a young woman with bright red hair,
who dreams of escaping her humdrum existence in rural Mississippi. She
enters “The Miss Firecracker Contest,” the local 4th of July beauty pageant,
and puts her tap-dancing and baton-twirling talents to use in a “Star
Spangles Banner” routine. With a few sparklers tossed in, she’s sure to take
the title and find her way out of town in a trail of glory, unless falling in
love along the way with a fellow who was recently released from a mental
institution gets in the way.

Time and Place: Late June and early July. Brookhaven, Mississippi, small
Southern town.

The Scene: Carnelle confides her hopes and dreams to Popeye Jackson, her
new friend and the seamstress of her patriotic ensemble of red, blue, and
silver. Note: The dialogue in brackets can be eliminated to allow a solo
speech.

•••
CARNELLE: Well it’s just like my aunt Rondelle fixed it up. It’s got her
special touch. This old spinning wheel; these lace doilies; these old pictures
in frames here. I’d prefer something more modern and luxurious, but—
that’s just me.
[POPEYE: You live here with your aunt?]
CARNELLE: [Oh, no.] She died. She had cancer.
[POPEYE: I’m sorry.]
CARNELLE: It happened just a few weeks before last Christmas. We were
very close. It was a tragedy.
[POPEYE: I’m sorry.]
CARNELLE: (As she pours Popeye’s tea.) You may of heard about her;
Ronelle Williams? It was a famous medical case— ran in all the
newspapers.
[POPEYE: No.]
[CARNELLE: Well, see what it was—Do you take lemon?]
[POPEYE: Please.]
CARNELLE: Anyway, she had this cancer of the pituitary gland, I believe it
was; so what they did was they replaced her gland with the gland of a
monkey to see if they could save her life— [Just help yourself to the sugar
—]
[POPEYE: (Moving to sit on the floor.) Thanks.]
CARNELLE: And they did, in fact, keep her alive for the month or so longer
than she was expected to live.
[POPEYE: Well that’s good.]
CARNELLE: (Pouring herself some tea.) Of course, there were such dreadful
side effects.
[POPEYE: Mmm.]
CARNELLE: She, well, she started growing long, black hairs all over her body
just, well, just like an ape
[POPEYE: Gracious, Lord.]
CARNELLE: It was very trying. But she was so brave. She even let them take
photographs of her. Everyone said she was just a saint. A saint or an angel;
one or the other.
[POPEYE: It gives me the shivers.]
CARNELLE: It was awfully hard on me losing my Aunt Ronelle— although I
guess I should be used to it by now.
[POPEYE: What’s that?]
CARNELLE: People dying. It seems like people’ve been dying practically all
my life, in one way or another. First my mother passed when I was barely a
year old. Then my daddy kinda drug me around with him till I was about
nine and he couldn’t stand me any longer; so he dropped me off to live with
my Aunt Ronelle and Uncle George and their own two children: Elain and
Delmount. They’re incredible, those two. They’re just my ideal. Anyhow,
we’re happy up until the time when Uncle George falls to his death trying to
pull this bird’s nest out from the chimney.
[POPEYE: He fell off from the roof?]
CARNELLE: That’s right. Tommy Turner was passing by throwing the
evening paper and he caught sight of the whole event. Boom.
[POPEYE: How awful.]
CARNELLE: Anyhow, my original daddy appears back here to live with us
looking all kinda fat and swollen. And after staying on with us about two
years, he suddenly drops dead in the summer’s heat while running out to the
Tropical Ice Cream truck. Heart failure, they said it was. Then this thing
with Aunt Ronelle dying right before Christmas. It’s been hard to bear.
MOONTEL SIX
Constance Congdon

The Play: Set on the Moon in the twenty-second century, Moontel Six tells
the story of a colony of genetically altered teens (Meema, Zipper, Emo
Seven, Toyn, and Geenoma) who leave the shelter of an abandoned motel in
search of a home of their own—far from the reach of the residents of
exclusive, gated Moonstead Estates who are set on their destruction. When
the teens make their escape to Mother Earth, revelations are at hand . . .

Time and Place: The not-too-distant future. Earth’s Moon and Earth.

The Scene: Meema, a young genetically altered girl, recalls the moment of
her birth and the most wonderful scientific discovery she has ever made.

•••
MEEMA: Well, I remember her. Her name was EF-#5783. Or “Jumba.” She
was thirteen years old. I lived in her womb for twenty-four months, so I
grew to be a fairly large baby. I remember being inside. Lots of deep sounds
came through me and they vibrated every cell in my body. I still try to make
those sounds at night to comfort myself. But with my small lungs and
elevated voice box, all I can manage is a medium tone, like singing. All it
vibrates is my throat—not enough to lull me to sleep. When I was being
born, I remember clearly being pushed along this tunnel towards a light.
“Go to the light,” I thought, but not in words because I didn’t have any then.
Then, suddenly, I was surrounded by light and I felt myself dropping, in a
cloud, and, plomp, landing on the ground. It was a hard fall, but it bounced
something out of this opening in my face. And then, wow! My chest
expands and all this stuff comes in—like dry liquid it was. And then my
chest collapses and that stuff goes out. And THEN I have to expand my
chest myself because I need more of this dry liquid. And then, it goes out.
And I’m breathing. That was breathing. And I still do it all the time without
having to tell myself to do it! Now that seems like the most wonderful
scientific discovery I’ve encountered so far. Breathing! And it even goes on
when I’m asleep! And now, I’m on Earth, and I can breathe everywhere! I
can run in any direction and never, never run out of oxygen!
NIGHTSWIM
Julia Jordan

The Play: This short one-act is a partial episode in the lives of two
seventeen-year-old friends, Rosie and Christina. Late one night, Rosie
appears at Christina’s window and calls for her to join her in skinny-
dipping.

Time and Place: The present at midnight; outside Christina’s house.

The Scene: Christina looks down from her window upon the awaiting Rosie
and speaks of her fear at being caught swimming naked.

•••
CHRISTINA: They’ll find our clothes again and they’ll know they’ve got two
naked girls again. And one will shine his flashlight on you and one will
shine his flashlight on me. And the water that maybe was like swimming in
black velvet when we were alone and moving will be cold when we’re still
and wondering what to do. And they will order us out and we will be naked
and shivering and your tan skin will turn white and frightened. They’ll see
right into you. Your eyes will fix on them and you won’t look at me. You
won’t tell me what to do and I’ll be so cold. They’ll say, “Come on out now,
girls.” And the water will fall away from your body with only hands and
wrists, white elbows and arms to cover you. Your arms look so breakable.
And I’ll follow you watching the water run down your back. The flashlights
will glare down our faces, down our legs. They’ll shine their flashlights for
each of us. They’ll smile at us trying to cover ourselves. They’ll hold our
clothes above our heads and smile at us naked and say, “Jump.” And you’ll
cry and I’ll cry and I’ll jump.
NONE OF THE ABOVE [1]
Jenny Lyn Bader

The Play: A romantic comedy, Jenny Lyn Bader’s play None of the Above,
tells the story of the relationship between Jamie, a spirited, upper-class
private-school teenager, and her brilliant SAT tutor, who has worked
himself up from a small town in rural New York. In the beginning, Clark
regards Jamie as shallow and egocentric, and Jamie regards Clark as
socially awkward and insensitive to her personal difficulties. Over a period
of six months, though, tutor and pupil develop a relationship of
understanding as they work to accomplish the goal of earning Jamie at least
a 1600 on her SAT.

Time and Place: The present; Jamie’s well-appointed Park Avenue room,
New York City.

The Scene: Clark has just accused Jamie of carelessly breaking an

expensive vase and not taking responsibility for her action, to which Jamie
defends herself.

•••
Jamie falls dead quiet. Then she bursts out, almost crying.

JAMIE: It wasn’t me who broke the vase! OK? I didn’t do it!

. . . I didn’t break the vase. Someone else broke it and I took the
blame. So please stop trying to fit me into your little theory of entitlement.
Because I do not go smashing up precious antiques; that is not my idea of a
fun time. I have never broken anything in my life.
 . . . It was my boyfriend! Roger Auerbach. And I knew if I told them
that he broke it they would make it a rule for me not to see him and it would
be really tricky to violate that because they are like really good friends with
the Auerbachs. And I thought I loved him. So I told them I broke it. That’s
when they came up with the unique punishment of no allowance for thirteen
years.
. . . He left me the following week for Sheila Martin. The nonentity
who called the other day. The new girl in school. At this point everyone has
been at Billington since nursery school and we usually don’t take new
people after seventh grade? So to have a new girl junior year is like a
revelation. All of the men just melted. Also, she’s richer than Donald
Trump, and she buys him presents, which of course I had to stop doing
when my funding was cut off. I have to discuss every potential purchase I
make with my mother. So this cramps my style a little bit.
. . . Yeah, and if it weren’t for the dealing I do? I wouldn’t be able to
afford the cabs. I’d be in dangerous neighborhoods. Alone. Dependent on
the charity of insane adolescent men. The business itself is pretty
dangerous. No one used to care, but now the mayor is cracking down on
small-timers. We’re living in a fascist state.
NONE OF THE ABOVE [2]
Jenny Lyn Bader

The Play: A romantic comedy, Jenny Lyn Bader’s play None of the Above,
tells the story of the relationship between Jamie, a spirited, upper-class
private-school teenager, and her brilliant SAT tutor, who has worked
himself up from a small town in rural New York. In the beginning, Clark
regards Jamie as shallow and egocentric, and Jamie regards Clark as
socially awkward and insensitive to her personal difficulties. Over a period
of six months, though, tutor and pupil develop a relationship of
understanding as they work to accomplish the goal of earning Jamie at least
a 1600 on her SAT.

Time and Place: The present; Jamie’s well-appointed Park Avenue room,
New York City.

The Scene: Clark has broken off the tutor/pupil relationship with Jamie. A
couple of weeks have passed and Jamie is on the phone talking to her friend
Justine about the situation.

•••
JAMIE: Justine. You’re way too good for him. And it’s definitely beneath
your dignity to keep breaking into his e-mail account. (Beat.) No I haven’t
heard from him. (Finds the contract.) Oh, look, here’s the contract he
signed with my father. What was he thinking? Lawyers are such bad
writers! I would get a D minus if I turned this in. “Wherewhichfore the
party of the first part” . . . who are these schmucks? . . . “should Jamie
Silver answer enough questions correctly to merit a 1600, thus . . .” (Beat.
Looking at the signature on the contract.) You know another thing about
Clark? He had terrible handwriting. I should have known he would leave.
Just from his handwriting. (Beat.) Dr. Lorin says even though I’ll never hear
from Clark again I’ll always have a part of him inside me. What? No, I’m
not pregnant! He meant—actually I have no fucking clue what he meant,
but it seemed comforting at the time. (Beat.) I was thinking of going to this
lecture at this New School. No I am not geeking out on you Justine. It’s
about probability. Chance. I think chance is cool. All right. Later. (Hangs
up, stares at the contract, reads to herself.) “Should Jamie Silver answer
enough questions correctly to merit a 1600 . . .” Should Jamie Silver
answer enough questions correctly to merit—(She freezes. Picks up the
phone.) Hi, is my dad there? Oh. Tell him to call me as soon as he gets
back. (She hangs up. The phone rings. She answers swiftly.) Hello? Oh, hi
Mrs. Hargraves. Maybe. I’d need to talk to her. Hi Peggy! What did you do
this weekend? What did you buy? Oh I love Gaultier. How much was it?
Tell me what you think the tax was. Estimate. Just follow your gut. Good!
That was very close. Put your mom on. Mrs. Hargraves? I can work with
Peggy. I charge a hundred an hour and I’d have to meet with her at least two
hours a week if she’s going to take the SAT in the next . . .
QUINT AND MISS JESSEL AT BLY [1]
Don Nigro

The Play: Henry James’ ghostly novel The Turn of the Screw serves as the
inspiration for this tale of how Quint, a valet, and Miss Jessel, a governess,
from James’ work became the phantoms of that story. Filled with tension
and suspense, Nigro’s play explores the dangerous relationship and rivalry
that develops between the subservient Quint and the Master of Bly over
their affections for the beautiful, headstrong, and troubled Miss Jessel. In
the end, we have new insight into Quint and Miss Jessel, the ghosts who
seem to stalk the orphaned Flora and Miles in The Turn of the Screw.

Time and Place: Mid-nineteenth-century England. Various locations in

London and at Bly, a country house in Essex.

The Scene: Miss Jessel sits alone in the residence in Harley Street, London,
mending Flora’s doll, from which Miles, Flora’s brother, picked out the
eyes. Miss Jessel recalls the beauty of Flora’s mother.

•••
Sound of a ticking clock. Lights upon the wooden chair. Miss Jessel moves
into the light and sits, holding a rag doll onto which she is sewing a button
eye.

MISS JESSEL: Don’t be sad, Flora, because Miles has torn the eyes off your
dolly. Miss Jessel will sew on new eyes for her. The eyes, you know, Flora,
are the windows of the soul. We use our eyes for important things like
looking. It is with our eyes that we look in the mirror. And, of course, the
girl we see in the mirror has eyes as well, and she looks back at us. She is
our reflection and our double. She sees everything we do. She is like us, but
she lives behind the looking glass and does the opposite of what we are.
Sometimes I wish I could be her, live in her world. I know that she must be
happy there, in the mirror, although sometimes she looks very sad. I think
that when I am gone away, she will be here to take care of you, and she will
look in the mirror and see somebody else looking back at her. When I look
at you, I see your mother. Your mother was such a pretty girl. She and I
used to sometimes sleep in the same bed, when we were little girls, and I
would hold her in my arms and watch her sleep. And what do you see when
you look in the mirror, my dear? A very pretty girl. A very pretty girl
indeed, who will make all the men cry one day. So, Flora, remember, if men
pluck out your eyes, just come to me, and I will sew them on again for you.
I will sew them on again, so you can see. (She finishes. Sits the doll on her
lap, facing out. The button eyes of the doll look out into the darkness with
Miss Jessel. The light fades on her and goes out.)
QUINT AND MISS JESSEL AT BLY [2]
Don Nigro

The Play: Henry James’ ghostly novel The Turn of the Screw serves as the
inspiration for this tale of how Quint, a valet, and Miss Jessel, a governess,
from James’ work became the phantoms of that story. Filled with tension
and suspense, Nigro’s play explores the dangerous relationship and rivalry
that develops between the subservient Quint and the Master of Bly over
their affections for the beautiful, headstrong, and troubled Miss Jessel. In
the end, we have new insight into Quint and Miss Jessel, the ghosts who
seem to stalk the orphaned Flora and Miles in The Turn of the Screw.

Time and Place: Mid-nineteenth-century England. Various locations in

London and at Bly, a country house in Essex.

The Scene: Miss Jessel speaks of the bad dreams that upset her so much as
a child.

•••
Sound of the clicking clock. Night. Lights up on Miss Jessel, sitting on a
chair by a small lamp, holding the rag doll in her lap.

MISS JESSEL: It was only a bad dream, Flora, and we must not allow bad
dreams to upset us too much. When I was a girl, I had many bad dreams. I
dreamed something horrible lived under my bed and came up at night to
creep under the covers and lie on top of me and smother me. I dreamed that
something lived in the closet and the door would creak open at midnight
and a hideous spider creature with two red eyes would look out at me. I
dreamed that my father was dead and I crawled up into the coffin so I could
be put in the tomb with him, and he reached up his cold, dead hand and
stroked my hair. I dreamed that I sat naked and cold upon the top of a high
tower, sobbing and sobbing for my beloved, who had abandoned me. I
dreamed that I was lying at the bottom of a dark, cold body of water, like a
mirror, naked and shuddering and lost there. I dreamed that a man crawled
up the side of the house and in the window of my room at night to suck out
my brains through a straw in my ear. But you see, Flora, what a happy and
well-adjusted young woman I have grown up into. So, you must conquer
your bad dreams, too. Because your dreams really can’t hurt you, you know,
as long as you always remember to make a great show of carefully
nurturing your indifference. It is always desire that kills, my love. It is
always desire that kills. (She reaches over and turns out the lamp.
Darkness.)
ROCK SCISSORS PAPER
Deb Margolin

The Play: This very short one-woman piece, originally part of the Actors
Theatre of Louisville 2002 festival, tells the tale of an eighteen-year-old
girl’s ill-fated family vacation, her drug-dealing brother, and her mother, a
woman unable to look at life directly and face facts.

Time and Place: The present, a therapist’s office.

The Scene: A girl sits facing her unseen therapist, openly revealing the
most intimate details of her life.

•••
A girl of eighteen is sitting in a chair, facing an unseen therapist, whose
back is to the audience. She speaks even the most revealing lines without a
hint of self-consciousness.

GIRL: Whatever my mother’s looking for is always behind her. I’ve noticed
that. It never fucking fails. Whatever she can’t find is always where her ass
is. I’m upstairs, and she’s screaming where the hell is whatever it is, and
I’m just like, Mom, turn around! Just turn around, Mom! They say mothers
have eyes in the back of their heads—well, yeah, right! My mom has
trouble with the two in front! Once she was like, I smell fire, and she’s
looking around sniffing, and the garbage can was on fire right where her
butt was but she just never turned around.
We took this family vacation recently to Rapid City, South Dakota,
which even the name Rapid City is pretty funny, and we tried to act like a
family, only we all just based it on shows on TV. Trouble was, we all used
different shows. For my mom it was like, Bill Cosby show, where the wife
is some dignified doctor, for my dad it was Home Improvement, and for me
it was like, Roseanne. So it was like three shows playing at once. Pretty
bad. I wish my brother were still alive. I miss him bad. We fought like dogs
but when he died it was like when a kid gets off the seesaw real fast without
telling you and you’re the one who’s up in the air on the other side. I hate
that he died. I just hate it. He once gave me this dirty picture, he said he got
it from Joey diFlorio, this tough kid at school. It was really small, this
picture, it was like, black and white and all, and my brother said it was a
real picture of people doing it that Joey took himself, even though it was
printed on like newspaper or something. Anyhow, I still have that picture,
and it’s like my brother whispering in my ear, laughing.
So there we are in Rapid City and my parents want to see Mount
Rushmore, you know, that’s that big rock or mountain or something with
those men’s heads carved into them. Movie stars, or whatnot. They had
pictures of it all over the little dump we were staying in, and it just
reminded me of those Siamese twins with one body and a whole bunch of
different heads. Now that must be hell! But at least maybe one of them
would have the sense to turn around and look at their collective ass if the
garbage can was on fire! So my mother wants to go see this Siamese twin
real bad, right, but I just wanted to be alone, I wanted to look at that picture,
you know, maybe meet some like decent people my own age or something,
right, so I said I just got my period and I wanted to stay in bed and maybe
I’d meet them there later. They trooped off with their cameras and
binoculars and Dad’s Immodium pills and all that, and there I was by
myself. It felt real good, but scary too, because I started remembering
everything. Remembering stuff is like a burglar, you know what I mean? It
just breaks in, even if you’ve got the door locked and you’re like, sleeping
or whatever. I got the picture out, and I remembered it like lying on my
brother’s desk where he used to cut his stuff. He had all these knives and
like weird equipments he used to use to divide up the “fruits and
vegetables,” as he called it, and he bought all these sandwich bags and he
had scales, and he weighed stuff on scales, and he “cut” it with different
other stuff, like aspirin and just stuff around the house, and people used to
come over all the time! And Mom just said, “God, he has a lot of friends!”
This quickie-mart, right behind her back!
 I put the picture back in my pocket, and I went downstairs. There was
this cute guy with an earring in his nose, or I guess you’re supposed to say a
nose ring in his ear, or whatever, and he had a short shirt on and big cargo
pants . . . kind of hot . . . and I was just not feeling normal because of
thinking about my brother, so I put my finger across his stomach as I
walked by him, and Jesus, was he shocked. I walked right out of that little
dump and onto a trolley car of some kind to take me to the Siamese twin.
Sure enough, there were my parents, standing in front of a glass wall,
binoculars in hand, staring at those assholes carved into the mountain, and I
thought of that game me and Kip used to play called Rock Scissors Paper,
and I thought: if I could make that dirty picture bigger and put it over those
assholes’ heads, I’d win hands down, paper beats rock, paper always beats
rock, it’s just so endlessly cool, because in a way it makes no sense, but the
rule still stands, it just stands, and you could tell my parents couldn’t see the
heads too well, they were squinting and adjusting their binoculars.
Funny thing was, the four heads, the idiots, were reflected perfectly
well in the glass right behind them, and I just started laughing and crying,
and I just started screaming, Turn around Mom! That’s why they sent me
here. Turn around, Mom, just turn around!
ROMEO AND JULIET
William Shakespeare

The Play: Perhaps the most famous of all love stories, Romeo and Juliet is
a tragedy of character and circumstance. The “pair of star cross’d lovers”
fall victim to family enmity between their feuding houses of Montague and
Capulet, and the needlessness of their deaths brings woe to both sides.

Time and Place: 1595. Juliet’s bedchamber.

The Scene: In an attempt to reunite herself with her newlywed husband,

Romeo, Juliet acts upon a plan to feign death by taking a sleeping potion
that Friar Lawrence has given to her.

•••
JULIET: Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins
That almost freezes up the heat of life.
I’ll call them back again to comfort me.
Nurse!—What should she do here?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
Come, vial.
(She takes out the vial.)
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I be married then tomorrow morning?
No, no, this shall forbid it. Lie thou there.
(She lays down a dagger.)
What if it be a poison which the Friar
Subtly hath ministered to have me dead,
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonored
Because he married me before to Romeo?
I fear it is; and yet methinks it should not,
For he hath still been tried a holy man.
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me? There’s a fearful point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
Or, if I live, is it not very like,
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place —
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
Where for this many hundred years the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are packed;
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort —
Alack, alack, is it not like that I,
So early waking, what with loathsome smells,
And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad —
O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environéd with all these hideous fears,
And madly play with my forefathers’ joints,
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud,
And in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone
As with a club dash out my desperate brains?
O, look! Methinks I see my cousin’s ghost
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body
Upon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay!
Romeo, Romeo, Romeo! Here’s drink—I drink to thee.
(She drinks and falls upon her bed, within the curtains.)
SAINT JOAN
George Bernard Shaw

The Play: One of Shaw’s finest plays, Saint Joan led directly to the
playwright being awarded the Nobel Prize in 1925. Unhappy with the way
in which Joan had been treated by history, Shaw follows her life from its
earliest stages through her leading of the troops at the siege of Orleans to
her burning at the stake for heresy, and depicts a heroine who is at once
proud, intolerant, naive, foolhardy and brave. Joan emerges as a realistic
woman able to confront politics, religion, feminism, and creative evolution;
she is a rebel for all times and places.

Time and Place: Fifteenth century, France

The Scene: Joan is speaking with her loyal supporter, Jack Dunois. Now
that she has achieved many successes and made Charles the real French
King, the courtiers, knights, and churchmen are turning against her out of
petty jealousy.

•••
JOAN: Jack: the world is too wicked for me. If the goddams and the
Burgundians do not make an end of me, the French will. Only for my voices
I should lose all heart. That is why I had to steal away to pray here alone
after the coronation. I’ll tell you something, Jack. It is in the bells I hear my
voices. Not to-day, when they all rang: that was nothing but jangling. But
here in this corner, where the bells come down from heaven, and the echoes
linger, or in the fields, where they come from a distance through the quiet of
the countryside, my voices are in them. (The cathedral clock chimes the
quarter.) Hark! (She becomes rapt.) Do you hear? “Dear-child-of-God”; just
what you said. At the half-hour they will say “Be-brave-go-on.” At the
three-quarters they will say “I-am-thy-help.” But it is at the hour, when the
great bell goes after “God-will-save-France”: it is then that St. Margaret and
St. Catherine and sometimes even the blessed Michael will say things that I
cannot tell beforehand. Then, oh then —
SCHOOLGIRL FIGURE
Wendy MacLeod

The Play: Renee, an anorexic, and her best friend Patty, a bulimic, belong
to a clique of popular high school girls driven by the urge to stay skinny.
When it appears that the group’s reigning queen will soon die (of anorexia),
her dreamy boy-toy, The Bradley, is up for grabs—but only to the most
petite girl in school. The ensuing power struggle takes Renee to new depths
of trickery and Patty to new heights of self-discovery. As the competition
heats up, the girls’ actions are observed by The Tribunal, a Greek chorus
made up of members of the media, famous anorexics, and long-dead friends
prone to declaring such ultimatums as “Above an 8 is beyond the pale.” As
the schoolgirls battle it out for the perfect body and the perfect boyfriend,
no one is left unmarked.

Time and Place: The present; an American high school and various
locations.

The Scene: In this closing monologue, Renee is at the moment of

Perfection, as she is about to leave Patty, The Bradley, and her friends and
life behind.

•••
Renee is left alone on stage. The lights go down to a single spotlight.
Behind her we see a gurney being set up.

RENEE: No great loss. Patty will be happier in the Midwest— parkas

camouflage a multitude of sins. And as for The Bradley, he wasn’t really
the prize, he was just the tacky little statuette. The prize is actually . . . well,
true story. Back in the days when I had muscles, I would rent a patch of ice
every morning before it was light and go out there and try to master my
school figures. I would fiercely skate that figure eight, because down the
pike the school figures would count for 40 percent of my Olympic score. I
practiced them even when I was on land, waiting in line for the water
fountain, pressing my sneakers into imaginary blades. I spent the wee hours
of my pre-pubescence obsessed with the Russian judge’s good opinion of
my outside edge and do you know what happened? They did away with the
school figure part of the competition. Just did away with it. Because nobody
saw them. Nobody wanted to see them. The audience just cared about the
part where a skinny girl wears a skimpy leopard trimmed with maribou and
jumps around to a disco version of Carmen. What can we learn from this?
I’m sorry . . . I forgot what I was going to say. Is it cold in here or is it just
me? Oh, I know, what we have learned is that there is only so much in this
world that we can control so by all means let us control what we can,
achieve what we must. Perfection.
SECOND CLASS [1]
Bradley Slaight

The Play: Building on the delightful and often poignant Class Action, Brad
Slaight’s Second Class introduces us to such characters as Scott, a
cyberspace Cyrano; Maggie and Herm, who communicate only through
prerecorded tapes played on boom-boxes, and Andrew, who is tormented by
his peers because of his scars. But these are only a few of the teens who
take the audience into the travails of out-of-class encounters in high school.

Time and Place: The present. A modern high school.

The Scene: Mirelle confronts that awful moment of truth when she must
view her school photos.

•••
Mirelle enters holding a large envelope. She starts to open it and then seals
it back closed.

MIRELLE: Thank God this is the last year I’m going to have to go through
this. Some people just don’t photograph well. I don’t photograph well. But
every year my mom insists that I get these stupid class pictures taken. She
just doesn’t understand. (Starts to open envelope; quickly closes it.) I can’t
look. They’re gonna be awful. Just like every year. It wasn’t so bad when I
was in grade school. I mean, all kids are cute . . . in a kid kind of way. But
lately, yikes! My Freshmen year I had “red-eye,” you know, like cats have
at night. Sophomore pictures would have been OK if the photographer
hadn’t caught me in “mid-blink” . . . I looked like I was stoned or
something. Last year, I had a bad hair day. You think I’m making too much
out of this? Well keep in mind that these pictures don’t just sit in Aunt
Bessie’s drawer. They go right into the yearbook . . . enshrined forever like
a museum of frightening photos. Someone told me they use them on name-
badges at class reunions . . . for the rest of our lives! (Pause.) Alright,
there’s only one way to do this. Like a pond of water. Dive right in. (Pulls
the proof sheet out and looks at photos; pause.) Hey . . . these aren’t bad.
Not bad at all. I mean, I’m no “cover girl,” but these are alright. Finally.
Thank you, Jesus! I can live with these. (Relieved laugh.) I can live with
these!
SECOND CLASS [2]
Bradley Slaight

The Play: Building on the delightful and often poignant Class Action, Brad
Slaight’s Second Class introduces us to such characters as Scott, a
cyberspace Cyrano; Maggie and Herm, who communicate only through
prerecorded tapes played on boom-boxes, and Andrew, who is tormented by
his peers because of his scars. But these are only a few of the teens who
take the audience into the travails of out-of-class encounters in high school.

Time and Place: The present. A modern high school.

The Scene: Leaza tells of a painful day that she and her family will never
forget.

•••
LEAZA: I was the one who found her. They say it’s a miracle that I came
home when I did. From the start I knew something wasn’t right. Her car
was parked kinda funny in the driveway. It was only 3:30 and she was
supposed to be at work. Also, the front door was unlocked . . . that seemed
pretty weird too. (Pause.) I heard the water running and normally I
wouldn’t have thought much of that, but it seemed so loud ’cause there was
no TV on, no loud music, none of the things Haley usually did when she
came home. The psychiatrist, Dr. Linda, told me that the fact the bathroom
door was unlocked meant she wanted to be found. I’m not so sure about
that. I opened the door and saw her there in the shower . . . sitting against
the shower wall. She was still conscious but had lost a lot of blood. There
was a note taped to the mirror . . . right above the razor blade. Didn’t really
say why, just that she was sorry and she loved all of us. (Pause.) Dad was
really torn up about this, I think Mom was mostly embarrassed. She wanted
us to keep it a family secret, but Dr. Linda set her straight about that. That
something like this needs to be brought out and looked at from all angles.
They say it will take Haley a long time to get over this and we all have to
keep an eye on her, but not be too over protective. It’s a fine line, they say.
She may do it again, or maybe not. We all go to meetings a couple times a
week. I don’t think I can ever talk to Haley the way I used to. (Pause.) I was
the one that found her.
SIX
Timothy Mason

The Play: A group of college students, taking part in a summer program to

study the earth’s ecosystem, encounter more than scientific and political
issues. One among them may be an eco-terrorist.

Time and Place: The present in the isolated wilderness

The Scene: Selena (nineteen-twenty) tells the group of her lifelong

connection to science.

•••
SELENA: Science used to be so much fun. When I was a child it was this
never-ending source of surprise, it was what play was for me, I lived in a
continual state of "Look at this! Can you believe this? This is so amazing!"
Hyper, hyper, thrilled, alive. I mean,"Will someone please medicate this
child?" I was always. . . growing things on the kitchen counter, unpleasant
green and black things in petri dishes, or plugging myself into the wall and
flying across the room. The menagerie I had going in my mother's
apartment, in the bedroom I shared with my sisters, crickets and
salamanders and toads, and feeding my dear crickets, each of whom had a
name and a history, to the salamanders and the toads, tears streaming down
my face, thanking them, asking their forgiveness, saying goodbye and
trying not to resent the toads or the salamanders because that was just their
nature and if I didn't feed them my crickets, they'd die. Everything, when I
was a kid growing up, everything rippling outwards, nothing unrelated to
any other thing, falling in love with the earth, the earth, the immensity of it,
the close motherliness of it, the totality. What a mistake, like falling in love
with the damned English Patient, he's not gonna make it, people! It's sick
and it's dying and it's we who are killing it and ourselves along with it and it
all just gets wadded into a tight, lightless wad. I know, I'm preaching to the
choir, screeching to the choir, really, but. Civilizations don't decline, they
collapse. It took the Mayans ten years, just ten years to go from the height
of their power and population to starvation, dissolution, dust. Vanished in
an instant. So where are we on that scale? So close, so really incredibly
close.
SMOKING LESSON [1]
Julia Jordan

The Play: This intensely evocative and poetic play portrays the story of
several young girls who turn the violent death of one of their friends (Pearl)
into a ritualistic religious observance. When Tom, a young man, who is
implicated in Pearl’s death, discovers the girls in the throws of their ritual,
he is drawn in unaware that one of them knows much more about the death
of Pearl than even he.

Time and Place: The present. Rural Mississippi.

The Scene: Tom and the girls have been smoking, and teasing one girl in
particular, Tare. Tare lets them know that she has special powers and fire at
her fingertips.

•••
TARE: She didn’t find me. I’ve always been here. Just ’cause you couldn’t
see me. Can’t you see me at all?
. . . D’ij’ever think I was invisible because I wanted to be? Ever think
of that?
. . . ’Cause I’ve got fire at my fingertips all right. I’ve got it all over
me. I’ve got so much fire in my hands I’ve got to hold it tight so it won’t
burn you.
. . . I hafta hold it so tight you don’t even know it’s there. Ever think of
that? Ever think I had so much fire I could burn you all down? You never
did ’cause I can turn my fire into anything I want. Birthday candles and
Roman candles, color fireworks to dazzle you. Campfires and bonfires and
brushfires and wildfires and towering infernos. I can control it and I can do
whatever I want with it. I’ve got all kinds of fire you can’t see. I’ve got all
kinds of fire at my fingertips. I’ve got fire all over me. I’m not afraid of fire.
(She takes the cigarette and presses the lit end into her palm, extinguishing
it.) We’re two of a kind Tom Delaney. I’ve been watchin’ you and we’re
two of a kind. Remember that.
SMOKING LESSON [2]
Julia Jordan

The Play: This intensely evocative and poetic play portrays the story of
several young girls who turn the violent death of one of their friends (Pearl)
into a ritualistic religious observance. When Tom, a young man, who is
implicated in Pearl’s death, discovers the girls in the throws of their ritual,
he is drawn in unaware that one of them knows much more about the death
of Pearl than even he.

Time and Place: The present. Rural Mississippi.

The Scene: Tom has just accused Tare of spying on him and Pearl before
her death.

•••
TARE: I was not spyin’!
. . . I don’t hide on purpose. It just sorta comes natural to me.
. . . It’s like the Indians.
. . . Like the American Indians. Maybe I’ve got some Indian blood in
me. You know, like the Indians.
. . . Yeah, you know. Like they tell you in stories.
. . . Like when you’re readin’ in a story about how the Indians, before
the Wild West. How the Indians . . . when it was really wild. How they
could walk right through a forest or a valley or whatever, and not make a
sound. Walk right through a forest in their moccasins or their bare feet,
steppin’ on twigs and leaves and all sorts of crackling things and not make a
sound. Invisible ’cause no one would look for something they didn’t hear.
And they could stand so still the animals would just go about their business
right in front of them. And not just squirrels, but foxes and deer and wolves
even. I’m not that quiet. People don’t hear as good as foxes and deer and
wolves though. You probably know that. (Tom looks confused. Tare gives
him a moment to catch up.) Well, I learned about it in the stories and and it
sounded good. You know? Real good. So I tried it out. I got some
Minnetonka moccasins. But I had better luck barefoot. I was born with
leathery feet, so I’ve got all the equipment necessary, if you know what I
mean. And I just tried it out. I was a kid and it was somethin’ to do. Just
walk softly and play Indian and I’m telling you, it’s easy when you put your
mind to it. You just think like your body’s got water in the legs and you just
pour that water slowly from one leg to the other. So slowly. And if you keep
it smooth and still and not crashin’ and sloshin’ around, you’re cool. If you
keep it smooth it’s silent. Easy, see? And you get to like the feeling of it. I
liked it so much I did it all the time. Till I did it natural without even
thinkin’ about it sometimes. It’s not sneaky. Spying sounds sneaky. It’s not
sneaky, it’s quiet. It’s hiding, but if you looked I’d be right there. If you
listened, you’d hear me. You just didn’t. You were busy being another way.
You were too busy with Pearl to notice me.
SMOKING LESSON [3]
Julia Jordan

The Play: This intensely evocative and poetic play portrays the story of
several young girls who turn the violent death of one of their friends (Pearl)
into a ritualistic religious observance. When Tom, a young man, who is
implicated in Pearl’s death, discovers the girls in the throws of their ritual,
he is drawn in unaware that one of them knows much more about the death
of Pearl than even he.

Time and Place: The present. Rural Mississippi.

The Scene: Tare tells Tom about having a “little something” of Pearl enter
her when she touched her body.

•••
(Tare takes a deep breath.)

TARE: I touched her.

. . . Pearl. We three found her floating facedown in the water. My brain
felt half asleep. I thought the water might wake me up. I felt it on my foot
and I thought this water is touching her. The water touching me is touching
Pearl. But I wanted to touch her for myself. I wanted to know what it was to
touch. Mary Kate and Lisa Ann were screaming, just screaming and
screaming. And I was in up to my waist then I just put my hand on her
pretty neck. So soft and slippery. Just placed my hand there, not pushing or
grabbing, just touching. No one’s gonna believe me but you.
 . . . And I felt somethin’! I felt this little something inside of her sit up
and take notice. Just pop up and pay attention. And that little something,
that little something, slipped into my fingertips, pulsed through my hand
and ran up my arm. And I’ve got it inside of me. And I’ve been takin’ care
of it, see? That little somethin’, I think, was the eight-year-old part. And
I’ve been lettin’ it grow up with me ’cause it wanted to so bad. It couldn’t
just die ’cause her body did. It wanted to be fifteen so bad. Understand?
Maybe it’s just a memory, like a church thing, or maybe it’s somethin’ else,
somethin’ stronger. But it’s somethin’. An active thing. Life left over, I
think. And now it is. It is fifteen, that little somethin’. Both of us. Fifteen
years old, inside and out.
THE SPIDER MEN
Ursula Rani Sarma

The Play: A story of an act of rebellion gone terribly wrong, The Spider
Men concerns a group of Irish teens struggling for their own identity in a
world filled with peer pressure and parental dominance.

Time and Place: The present. A campsite in the woods of rural Ireland.

The Scene: At the beginning of the play, a nose-ringed Sarah (fifteen),

dressed in a school uniform and carrying a satchel, indicts her parents for
their hum-drum ways.

•••
SARAH: I got my nose pierced the day it happened. I’d wanted to have it
done for ages but my mum said my dad would go insane, although to be
honest I don’t think he’d notice if I pierced both my eyebrows, my lip, my
nose, my ears and got a tattoo that said slut across my forehead. Because
he’s not that kind of dad. He’s the kind of dad that works all day and then
comes home and sits in front of the telly and doesn’t talk to anyone for the
night kind of dad. It’s like my mum threatens us with him just so we’ll think
he gives a shit but we know he doesn’t. (Beat.) I read in a magazine about
this girl who really wanted to get to know her parents, she turned fifteen
and she wanted to form an ‘adult relationship’ with them but as far as I
could see all that meant is that she wanted to talk about sex with them. I
can’t think of anything worse than having to talk about sex with my parents.
It’s disgusting. I mean when you talk about something, part of you is
making little pictures in your head to go along with it even if you don’t
want it to. You know, like if I say to you, whatever you do. . . don’t think of
a pink elephant. (Beat.) What are you thinking of? (Beat.) See? So match
that with talking about sex with your parents. (Makes a face.) It’s just. . .
disgusting.
TIME ON FIRE
Timothy Mason

The Play: In the words of the playwright: “Time on Fire follows the lives
of a group of New England young people and a young British officer in
1775, each of them caught up in the turbulence of the American
Revolutionary War. From the indentured farm laborer to the wealthy elite,
from the runaway slaves to Quaker pacifists, no one escapes unscathed or
unchanged. Adolescence is universally a time of upheaval, but when a
young person’s entire world is suddenly in revolt, there are no safe answers
and personal choices have public consequences.”

Time and Place: Summer of 1775 through Spring of 1776, East Haddam,
Connecticut, and parts of Massachusetts.

The Scene: Elizabeth Coles (seventeen), from one of the wealthiest

families, and secretly a Loyalist, has befriended Epiphany Brown, a young
Quaker girl. A young English spy has been captured, attempting to burn
down the Brown home. Epiphany is conflicted—her passion dictates that
she should be outraged by this act—her faith tells her that she must not
condemn. Epiphany has been invited to Elizabeth’s home to work on a quilt
for the patriot soldiers.

•••
EPIPHANY: We don’t kill. God forbids us to kill, so we don’t. People call us
Quakers/ We call ourselves Friends. It’s hard on Tribulation, he’s just a boy,
revolution to him is an exciting word . . . I appreciate your kindness to me,
Miss Coles . . . I think you know what I mean, Miss Coles. I think you
know that East Haddam has become a less friendly place for my family and
me in the past few months. We are distrusted now. People suspect us of
being in sympathy with the British . . . Miss Coles, I know what courage it
must take to be seen with me in public, and to invite me to your home. I
want you to know how much I admire you for it . . . I think of that poor boy
they’re about to hang, the one they call a British spy, locked up for months,
not much older than Tribulation, so far from family and friends and
anything he’s ever known as home. And now, because he won’t tell them
whatever it is they want to know, he’s to be hanged. I wonder, how did
sympathy come to be a dangerous word? . . . All my life I have felt so much
a part of things here. As though I were a part of the very earth of this town.
As though I were made of the same stuff as the dust I walked on. The sound
of the millstream was the sound of my own blood, running through my
body. The air was my breath. I was home. That’s what the word used to
mean to me. Home was the place I was made of . . . Did that boy send
himself? Do the patriot soldiers who will sleep under these quilts give
themselves their own orders? I can’t be too quick to give that boy or anyone
else the name of “enemy.” Perhaps I have enemies, I don’t know. I know for
certain that where I least expected a friend, I have found one . . . Friends are
commanded to love. I must go . . . My name means “God appears to me.”
My brother is called Tribulation to remind us that in the midst of life we are
in death. It’s not always easy to be a Friend. You wish you had my heart, I
wish I had yours.
WAR DADDY [1]
Jim Grimsley

The Play: War Daddy tells the story of two groups of orphaned teenagers
drafted against their will into feuding militia groups in an unnamed war-
torn country. One group travels with Eddie, the son of a famous general,
General Potent; while the other group, led by General Handsome, aims to
capture Potent’s son and use him to barter for more power. As the teens
fight for survival, they struggle to comprehend what it means to engage in a
war that has raged for so long that no one remembers when it began, or
why. When the two groups finally collide, the resolution is anything but
expected. War Daddy examines what happens when future generations
inherit the battles we begin, asking the question: What is the meaning of
peace if it’s something we have to kill for?

Time and Place: The future. A war-torn small town in a nameless country.

The Scene: Fanny, a young girl, in the service of General Handsome, who
has given up playing with dolls for carrying weapons, is often confused by
the reasons people go to war.

•••
FANNY: I’m too old for dolls anymore. Now I have a gun and a knife. I had
fun with the dolls. I had a doll that was a soldier and a doll that was a sailor.
The soldier always beat up the sailor because that was what I thought
should happen.
I have fun with the gun, too. My sister and I went into the army
together, because it was that or go on the street begging or slaving yourself
to somebody. I’d rather kill people, my sister said. Her name was Ellen. She
was good to me, and she took me with her to the recruiter. We signed up for
the recruitment camps.
She says we had more family than just the two of us but I think she
was lying, I don’t think there ever was anybody else. I know you’re
supposed to have a mother but I don’t think I ever had one. Because I would
remember if I did. No matter what my sister says.
Last time I saw my sister she had lost an arm. Her right one. She was
having to learn how to do things with the left one, it was driving her crazy.
She stepped on a mine, I think. Some kind of an explosion. I really don’t
know. I just kept staring at her while she was explaining, at the place where
her arm used to be, and afterward I was embarrassed to ask what she had
said.
Sometimes I pretend Poker is my sister. I don’t tell her so, but she
knows we’re friends, she knows I like her. We hang together a lot; we
always volunteer for the same details. It’s good to have somebody you can
be friendly with. I guess we’re actually friends, but we don’t talk about it.
In General Handsome’s army you don’t talk about things like that, or people
will get the idea you’re soft.
When Mouth asks what’s the price of freedom, I think about my
sister’s arm, and I think, well, that’s pretty stupid, don’t you think? Why
would you want to be free without your arm? When Mouth asks why we
fight, I think about having a mother, and I think we fight so in the future
everybody can have a mother, and both arms, and then I think, well, a war is
a pretty stupid way to make that happen, and then I get confused and sit
down and clean my gun. I just clean it and get it ready till my questions go
away.
I mean, I understand sometimes you need a gun, sometimes you have
to fight people. Who could look at the world and not realize that? But I get
tired of killing the people who can’t fight back. I don’t understand that part,
really.
I met General Handsome once. She was not Handsome. She was really
scary, I thought. But I’m really not that old anyway, what do I know?
WAR DADDY [2]
Jim Grimsley

The Play: War Daddy tells the story of two groups of orphaned teenagers
drafted against their will into feuding militia groups in an unnamed war-
torn country. One group travels with Eddie, the son of a famous general,
General Potent; while the other group, led by General Handsome, aims to
capture Potent’s son and use him to barter for more power. As the teens
fight for survival, they struggle to comprehend what it means to engage in a
war that has raged for so long that no one remembers when it began, or
why. When the two groups finally collide, the resolution is anything but
expected. War Daddy examines what happens when future generations
inherit the battles we begin, asking the question: What is the meaning of
peace if it’s something we have to kill for?

Time and Place: The Future. A war-torn small town in a nameless country.

The Scene: Mouth, a young female soldier in Handsome’s group, often

speaks for the group and serves as leader, although she misses all the
grown-ups who are no longer around to fulfill this role.

•••
MOUTH: Where I grew up there was plenty of everything. I come from a
good family. My grandmother was still alive when I was little. I wasn’t the
only kid who still had a grandmother, either. We lived on a farm near a
village where a lot of people settled to get away from the fighting. There
was no fighting where we lived for a long, long time. We had it pretty nice,
I guess.
 We were the better sort of people, my mom let me know that. We were
an old family and we owned the land we lived on. We had a big house and a
lot of slaves to run it for us. Maybe you won’t like my talking about the
slaves like that, like we deserved them, but we never asked them to attach
themselves to us, they just did. People who had nowhere else to go, nobody
else to turn to, but us. So we took care of them. We put them to work in the
fields and we helped them keep a bit of a roof over their heads and we
looked after them. My dad used to say they were like our children, the
slaves. We had a responsibility for them, we had to look after them.
People aren’t all the same. There are people who understand how the
world works and keep it working, and there are people who just stumble
along letting bad things happen to them. There are people who are noble
and good, like General Handsome, and there are the rest, the sheep, the
slaves, the ones who end up in the camps. Even the ones serving in the
army, I guess. They need people like me, to keep them in line, to keep them
moving forward.
I always knew I’d be an officer in the army, since I come from the
better sort of people to begin with. I’m young for an officer. That’s because
so many adults are dead now, even the people I grew up with. My mom and
dad are dead because of General Burly. He gassed most of the countryside
where we were living. I wasn’t there at the time or I would have been dead,
too. That’s why I hate General Burly, that’s why I’d do anything to hurt
him.
General Handsome is a good person. I met her a long time ago, when
she was friends with my aunt. I lived with my aunt after my folks died, and
General Handsome came to visit. She was the most noble woman I had ever
met. She was nice to me. I wanted to be like her. I still do.
If there’s any hope for us, it’s General Handsome. She’s tough enough
to do what’s necessary to get rid of General Burly and the rest. People say
she’s ruthless but she has to be. The world is a mess. You can’t fix it by
being virtuous and good. You have to be willing to do the hard things.
I’ve killed a lot of people, I’ve watched a lot of people die. I don’t let
myself get soft about it, there’s no use in that. A lot more people will have
to die before the war is over, before General Handsome wins. The quicker
we get this over with, the better. So I go on doing my part. I even enjoy it a
bit. There’s no sin in that, is there?
Monologues for Young Men
•••
A BIRD OF PREY
Jim Grimsley

The Play: A modern tragedy set in a large city in California where the
young people face good and evil on their own terms, with calamitous
consequences. Centering on seventeen-year-old Monty, who has just moved
with his dysfunctional family from rural Louisiana to a complex urban
environment, the play explores an individual’s attempt to find personal
faith, while struggling to shield loved ones from the temptations and
dangers they encounter every day.

Time and Place: The 1990s. An unnamed city.

The Scene: Monty and his friend Thacker, a smooth, cool, charming,
world-wise boy in his late teens, have been talking about the value of
prayer in protecting one’s family. Thacker confides that he doesn’t even
know where his father is and how difficult his mother and he have had it
since the father left.

•••
THACKER: I don’t even know where my dad is, any more. Did I ever tell you
that?
. . . That was a while back. I guess I was still in little kids’ school. And
for a long time we didn’t have any money, my mom and me. It’s just my
mom and me. And we didn’t have any money. Because he left us with this
big house to pay for and these two cars. Mom still talks about that. (Pause.)
I don’t tell anybody about this stuff, much.
 . . . First, she lost everything. The bank took the house and the cars,
one at a time. Like torture, right? (Pause.) I was old enough to figure out
what was going on. Old enough to look at Mom and know she was close to
losing it. To going crazy, you know? Because she never handled money
before, Dad did all that. She had a part-time job and she tried to go fulltime
but by the time she did we were living with my aunt, me and her in this
bedroom with my aunt and uncle screaming at her to get her shit together.
(Pause.) So I couldn’t stand that and I started hanging out. You know. At
the park, and other places. And I got into stuff. I learned how to make a
little money in the park, and other places. (Pause.) Mom tried to stop me, to
keep me at home, but I wouldn’t do anything she said. It was like I hated
her. I didn’t. But it was like I did. So after a while she stopped, she let me
do whatever I wanted. She acted like she didn’t know I was staying out all
night, or drunk, or whatever. (Pause.) We don’t live with my aunt and uncle
any more. We have this little apartment. I stay there most of the time. But
sometimes I stay other places. (Pause.) I wish I could pray and feel better. I
wish it could have helped me then.
THE ACTOR [1]
Horton Foote

The Play: In the midst of the Great American Depression (1932), a young
man from Texas, Horace Robideaux, Jr., decides to follow his dream. Like
the local minister who “heard a call” to preach, Horace experiences a like
call—but his is to go upon the stage and become an actor. The conflict
between what is expected of us and what we must do to fulfill our destiny is
core to this poetic exploration by one of America’s most celebrated
playwrights.

Time and Place: Early Spring, 1932. Harrison, Texas.

The Scene: Having recently won a prize for best actor at a state drama
festival, Horace has earned the name “Rudolph Valentino” around school.
Here Horace recollects when he first pondered what it means to receive a
“call.”

•••
HORACE: I’ve known for a long time too that’s what I wanted to be. Since I
was thirteen. You see I used to go for walks in the evening with my mother
and daddy and we’d always pass on our walks Mr. Armstrong’s house. I
could always tell when we were approaching his house no matter how dark
a night it was, because the fences around his house were covered with
honeysuckle vines and you could smell the honeysuckle a block away.
Anyway, Mr. Armstrong, a very old man, would always be sitting in the
dark on his gallery and as we passed my daddy would always call out,
“Good evening, Mr. Armstrong,” and he would always answer, “Just fine,
thank you. How are you?” even though my daddy had never asked how he
was but only wished him a good evening, and my daddy explained to me
that he always answered that way because he was deaf and couldn’t hear
what my daddy said and only imagined what he said, and then he would
always add, “You know Mr. Armstrong was working in the cotton fields in
Mississippi when he got a call to come to Texas to preach. And that’s what
he did. He came here to preach.” I had never heard of anyone getting a call
before to preach or anything else, so I asked my parents a lot of questions
about getting a call. Could anyone get a call? They weren’t sure about that
since Mr. Armstrong was the only person they ever knew who actually had
gotten a call. “Is that because he is a Baptist, is that why he got a call?” I
asked. My mother said no, she had heard about Methodists and
Episcopalians getting a call to preach although she hadn’t met anyone
personally that had except Mr. Armstrong.
. . . Anyway, a year later when I turned thirteen I got a call, just as sure
as Mr. Armstrong did. Not to preach but to be an actor. I kept that to myself
for a month and then I told Todd Lewis, who was my best friend before he
had to move away, about it and he said if I wanted his advice I’d keep it to
myself as people would think I was peculiar wanting to be something like
that. And for good or bad I’ve never told anyone else. I asked my mother
one time what she thought Mr. Armstrong did when he got his call and she
said she couldn’t be sure, but she imagined he fell on his knees in the cotton
fields and prayed about it and listened to what God wanted him to do and
God worked things out for him so he could come to Texas and preach, and
that’s what I did. I prayed about it and asked God what I should do and the
very next year Miss Prather came here to teach fresh out of college, and she
put on plays, and that was encouraging to me and I found out from my
daddy where Mr. Dude Arthur’s tent show would be in the next few weeks.
He always had his itinerary because Mr. Arthur was a customer and often
wrote my daddy to send him clothes while he was on the road with his tent
show. He asked me why I wanted his address. I said just to write and tell
him how much I liked his tent show and he said that was a good idea as Mr.
Arthur and his brother Mickey were always very good customers, even
though Mr. Arthur was often short of cash and had to have extended credit,
since the tent show business was having hard times because of the movies.
Anyway, I learned he was going to be in Tyler, Texas, in two weeks and I
wrote him there, care of general delivery, which is what my father said I
should do, and I reminded him in the letter who I was and that I sometimes
waited on him in my father’s store when he came to Harrison, and I would
appreciate it if he wouldn’t mention to anyone, not even my daddy, but the
next time he was in Harrison, I would like very much to see him as I wanted
to ask him how you go about being an actor. He never answered my letter,
so I figured he had never gotten it. So last summer when he came here with
his tent show, I went over to the boardinghouse where he stayed with his
wife and brother Mickey, who plays all the juvenile parts in the tent show,
and I told Mr. Arthur I had written him a letter, and had he gotten it. He was
drunk and said he didn’t remember my letter, what was it about. And I said
I wanted advice as I wanted to be an actor. He said why in the name of God,
and I said because I wanted to, and I believed I had a call to be one and he
said, well, you’re a fool if you think that and get over it. Mrs. Arthur came
in then and said, “Dude, sober up! You have a show tonight,” and I left.
THE ACTOR [2]
Horton Foote

The Play: In the midst of the Great American Depression (1932), a young
man from Texas, Horace Robideaux, Jr., decides to follow his dream. Like
the local minister who “heard a call” to preach, Horace experiences a like
call—but his is to go upon the stage and become an actor. The conflict
between what is expected of us and what we must do to fulfill our destiny is
core to this poetic exploration by one of America’s most celebrated
playwrights.

Time and Place: Early Spring, 1932. Harrison, Texas.

The Scene: Having gone to Houston to see a famous troupe of

Shakespearean actors, Horace speaks of when he, himself, received the
“call” to become an actor.

•••
HORACE: I never told my mother or my Houston grandmother I didn’t see
the Ben Greet Players and when they asked me what play of Shakespeare I
had seen I said Julius Caesar because I had read that play in English class
my junior year and I had memorized the “Friends, Romans, countrymen,
lend me your ears” speech for the class, and I knew if they asked me
questions about the play I could answer them. I didn’t realize Adelaide
Martin, one of my mother’s friends, had gone into Houston that same day to
see the Ben Greet Players and when she got back she called my mother to
tell her about it and my mother said I had been there too and had liked it a
lot, and Adelaide said she didn’t care for it as she thought the Romeo and
Juliet looked middle-aged and were too old for their parts. “Romeo and
Juliet,” Mama said. “That’s not what Horace saw,” she said. “He saw Julius
Caesar.” “Julius Caesar? Did he go to the matinee or the evening show?”
Mother said to the matinee and Adelaide said that’s the one she attended
and there was no Julius Caesar, but Romeo and Juliet. When I got home
from school my mother confronted me with this and I had to admit what I
had done. She asked me what The Shanghai Gesture was about and I said it
took place in a Shanghai brothel and that’s all she had to know. She said I
was deceitful and should be ashamed of myself going to a play like that. I
guess I should have been, but I wasn’t. All I could think about was how
Florence Reed reacted when, as the madame of the brothel, she heard that
her daughter, who she hadn’t seen in years, turned up as one of the girls in
the brothel.
(A pause. He sings again.)
“Once I built a railroad,
Made it run,
Made it run against time.
Once I built a railroad,
Now it’s done,
Brother, can you spare a dime?”
I love to hear Russ Colombo sing that song. My father hates the song.
He says it’s too depressing. He says he likes positive songs like “Happy
Days Are Here Again.” He says the country needs to have songs like that so
they’ll be in an optimistic mood and not depressed all the time.
AFTER JULIET
Sharman Macdonald

The Play: What happens after the deaths of Romeo and Juliet? What
happened to Rosaline, Romeo’s first love? After Juliet, imaginative,
powerful, and poetic, resonates with a contemporary take on love and death,
war and peace, as Juliet’s cousin, Rosaline, who also loved Romeo,
struggles to cope with the aftermath of the lovers’ deaths. The Montagues
and the Capulets are experiencing a tense truce while the trial of those
implicated in the deaths proceeds. To complicate the situation, Benvolio,
Romeo’s best friend, loves Rosaline and pursues her, but she will not return
his attentions because he is an enemy to her family and she seeks revenge.

Time and Place: “This could be Verona. Or it could be Edinburgh, Dublin,

New York or Liverpool. It could be 1500, 1900, 2000 or 3000.”

The Scene: Gianni, a witty sixteen-year-old boy of the Capulet family,

muses to Lorenzo, another Capulet boy, about making a pot of tea.

•••
GIANNI: Tea. There is no point even trying to make it without first warming
the pot. They do it. People do it. Lemon? Milk? They say, brandishing a
cold tea pot. The question doesn’t arise. Why? Why would you make tea if
you hadn’t warmed the pot. Once the pot’s warmed, with boiling water
mind. Once the tea’s spooned in, dry and black and perfumed with
bergamot. Not blended, no shred of dust. I won’t have sweepings from the
floor that some chap’s relieved himself upon. Once boiling water is added.
While waiting in that delicious pause when the tea is giving of its essence.
Then the question of lemon or milk can be addressed. With Earl Grey
lemon always. But in the winter I would maintain it has to be lemon any
way. Whether Darjeeling or Assam; lemon and not milk in the winter.
Because. There is always a danger that the milk is contaminated. Turnips.
That’s the danger. In the winter time. There are those who feed their cows
turnips.
A.M. SUNDAY
Jerome Hairston

The Play: a.m. Sunday, which explores the tensions that permeate a biracial
household, premiered at the Humana Festival of New American Plays in
March 2002. The father, R.P., is African-American, and his wife, Helen,
white. Their sons, Jay (fifteen) and Denny (eleven), suffer the consequences
of their parents' difficult relationship. Each boy confronts individual
interracial challenges among their peers as they attempt to overcome these
obstacles. Jay is unable to openly date a girl from school (Lori) for fear of
racial recriminations, and Denny struggles with labels of inferiority at
school.

Time and Place: A.M. Sunday to Thursday morning. Early November. The
home of R.P. and Helen. An urban setting. A bus stop. The woods.

The Scene: Wednesday. R.P. confronts his son, Jay, about who broke the
family phone and why?

•••
JAY: The phone wasn’t working anyway, right? I mean it would ring. Ring
and ring. But when me and Mom pick up, no one’s ever there. I mean, who
would do that? Can you explain it? I mean, if you can explain it, maybe
that’ll shed light on the whole thing.
(Silence.)
I lied. It’s not always silence. When the phone rings, and there’s no one
there. There was once, this one time when I heard something. This
breathing. So I waited. To see if anything would be said. Was about to give
up, but then I heard it. A voice. This uneven voice. One I never heard
before, but still, somehow I knew she had the right number. And she asked
me. She asked me this one thing. (Pause.) “Is your father happy?” (Pause.)
I ain’t say nothing. I stayed quiet. I stayed. So, she asks again. “Is your
father happy?” And the way she said it. So desperate. Soft. Like she. Like
she was in love with you. Or needed to be in love with you. Sounded in
need of something. She asks again. And this time, I was about to answer,
but once I got strength up to . . . she hung up. She hung up. I’ve tried
making sense of it. But it’s a mystery. A total mystery. But those sort of
things happen, I guess. Mysteries go unexplained. Phones get broken. I
don’t know what else to say. I don’t know.
THE AUTOMATA PIETÀ [1]
Constance Congdon

The Play: In a remote part of northern Arizona, a teen fashion doll named
Bambi is tossed out of a car window by her feuding “mommies”—young
sisters, Jennifer and Shambhala. Abandoned in the desert, Bambi falls
victim to an illegal toxic waste dumping and, mysteriously, grows to human
proportions. Along the way, she encounters a series of colorful characters,
among them Norris, a young high school–age man; his sister, Maggie, a
policewoman, and Vortexia, a large woman who speaks Spanish now and
again, and Time, an ageless being. Mixed together, this play explores the
meaning and non-meaning of life.

Time and Place: The year 2000, more or less. Northern Arizona, then New
York City.

The Scene: Norris and Maggie have been driving around in a bus looking
for a place to call their own, when they pick up Vortexia. Thirsty and in
need of a drink—should it be beer or a sprite—Vortexia’s observation that
beer is “an old part of civilization” sparks a diatribe from Norris.

•••
NORRIS: What civilization? From the Sumerians with that absurd cuneiform
writing—what was all that about? And Mis-anni-padda, is King of Ur—
what a name for a country? “Ur—I’m from Ur.” What a name for a King!
“Mis-annipadda?” Sounds like some character on a stupid kid’s show. And
speaking of Urs—they lost the city of Agade—yes, it disappeared!! Sorry,
everyone, particularly those of you with relatives in Agade, but, we lost it!
We have no idea where it is? Yes, a city and it’s gone. We thought it was
there, and it’s not, and we looked over there and it’s not there, either.
And in Norway, they are carving pictograms on rocks, and what do
you think it is? Stars to show them which way is South, so they could find
their own stupid way out of there? No, it’s some jerk on skis that a four-
year-old kid could have drawn. And Egypt? They start regulating the sale of
beer in 1500 B.C., heading off any problems with worldwide alcoholism,
and, boy, didn’t they clear that right up before it got started. And then the
Germans started migrating—hold on to your pigs and your daughters and
don’t get them mixed up.
(To another driver.)
WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU YOU MANIAC!!
And then some Greek names the strophe and antistrophe and didn’t the
world rest easy that night. What time is it? No problem! We got the water
clock—some Assyrian invented one, so all his contemporaries could tell
what time it is TO GO TO WAR which they did and did and did and still do
—don’t get me started. And Sappho, wrote her poetry-o, so women could
have some art since only men were allowed in to see the Greek plays on the
great White Way, in between getting pelted with pitch, sulfur, and charcoal,
the beginnings of chemical warfare from the Spartans. Meanwhile, the
Aztecs are throwing sacrificial victims down the two zillion stairs of their
sun temples while gladiators are beating the literal crap out of each other to
the delight of audiences who now have their own water clocks since some
Roman re-invented the damn things. And the Chinese come to India—
Did you see that? PEOPLE THINK THEY OWN THE ROAD!!
—and the Japanese re-invent wrestling and London is founded by the
Romans who have no right to be in Britain, but, what the hell—nobody has
the right to be anywhere, except in Africa where we all started from the
same small woman who, feeling decidedly unwell, laid down in some mud,
staring up at the big yawning, uninterested sky, not knowing that she has
already dropped a kid or two who will eventually be head of the African
National Congress as well as driving this damn bus, wearing a big Band-
Aid from skin cancer surgery because he’s so white. But that was
fortythousand years ago, and we’re already up to the year “one.” Why
“one”? You ask. Or not. Because all the calendars which didn’t even have
pictures of the Grand Tetons or cute kittens on them were deemed
unsuitable because NOW—
 Whoa!! This road is dark.
—we’ve got to number from the birth of various saviour types like
Mithra and Buddha, but, who’s kidding, it’s JESUS who screwed up the
counting—sorry, Maggie. And in North America, people are making
mounds of snakes and pyramids and being very, very quiet so as not to
wake up the huge mass of land filled with more and more unhappy, poor,
desperate, not to mention, greedy and power-mad types who are fixing to be
on the move again, like the Germans. And, speaking of which, the Visigoths
invade Italy, alchemists look for the Elixir of Life, and Anglo-Saxons
finally start wearing shirts. And some Chinese sailor named Tamo brings
tea—get this—from India to China—China didn’t have the stuff yet. And
Theodoric gives King Gundebald of Burgundy—what? Yes, you got it, a
water clock! Then a plague hits, starting in Constantinople and spreading
everywhere, and there are disastrous earthquakes all over the world and,
guess what? WE’RE ONLY UP TO 542 A.D.!!
THE AUTOMATA PIETÀ [2]
Constance Congdon

The Play: In a remote part of northern Arizona, a teen fashion doll named
Bambi is tossed out of a car window by her feuding “mommies”—young
sisters, Jennifer and Shambhala. Abandoned in the desert, Bambi falls
victim to an illegal toxic waste dumping and, mysteriously, grows to human
proportions. Along the way, she encounters a series of colorful characters,
among them Norris, a young high school–age man; his sister, Maggie, a
policewoman, and Vortexia, a large woman who speaks Spanish now and
again, and Time, an ageless being. Mixed together, this play explores the
meaning and non-meaning of life.

Time and Place: The year 2000, more or less. Northern Arizona, then New
York City.

The Scene: At the top of Part Two, the ageless being, Time, rails against
the audience for ambling their way back into their seats.

•••
TIME: OK! We have a situation here. I can feel your hatred. Admit it!
Everyone here has wanted to do me in, and in the most nonchalant fashion.
“So, what are you doing hanging around?” “Oh, just killing —”
(Points to himself, with a vengeance.)
Oh no! You may be saying—“That’s just an expression! We don’t hate
you, Time. You’re a part of life. You heal all wounds and wound all heels.”
Well, I don’t buy it! Not for one moment—every one of which I am, by the
way. And isn’t that the problem? I’m not just the boy at the valve at the
reservoir that lets the water flow or not—I’m the water itself. And you
blame me, for death—of those you love—your pets, your friends, your
family. And, finally, yourself.
But, at that last moment, you turn around and want more and more and
more of me! You stand there, trembling, shaking the vessel of your life,
hoping for one lasting drop—of me. And when that drop appears, you,
every once in a while, breathe “thank you,” but inevitably to some god or
other. And then you gobble me hungrily down and belch up your death.
And everybody left in the room hates me.
But I move on, because I MUST keep moving—and the wails of
sorrow engulf me until my next step lands me in the birthing room. Oh, and
then everybody loves me. They can’t wait to hold on and remember every
moment of me, even wanting to stop me. Or—when the baby gets older, and
is a surly teenager, they want to go back—they want to reverse me.
They don’t think about if the sperm could back up out of the egg
whenever it wanted to, on some cosmic whine, like bad weather coming in
—“Today, we have a cold front meeting a giant Cosmic Whim”—and,
you’re, like, sitting somewhere and wham! you suddenly start to shrink,
undevelop, ungrow, simplify, until “whoosh,” you’re split back into an egg
in your mother’s womb and a sperm in your father’s testicles. So, one
moment you’re here, the next moment—think of where your parents are
right now—PING! You’re back in their bodies!
And this is the most important thing—without me, everything would
happen at once! You tired of Time’s Arrow and its relentless constancy? OK
—say good-bye to sequence, order, shape, sense, LIFE! So this is what I
came to say. This is my elbow. Watch it as I walk out that door. Right. I’m
outa here. And I’m not coming back until I am LOVED and NEEDED for
who I am!
BABY WITH THE BATHWATER
Christopher Durang

The Play: This outrageous, witty, and satiric comedy, depicts the raising of
a baby whom the parents have never checked the sex of. Presuming that the
kid is a girl, they name it Daisy and raise “her” as such, only to discover
later that she is a he. The resultant identity crisis of Daisy is the focus of the
play, as she/he encounters a zany nanny, acts out a bizarre penchant for
throwing him/herself in front of buses, and eventually confronts his/her
sexuality before his/her analyst and stops wearing dresses.

Time and Place: Contemporary. The home of John and Helen.

The Scene: Daisy comes before his/her analyst and discloses when he/she
discovered she/he was a boy.

•••
DAISY: When I was eleven, I came across this medical book that had
pictures in it, and I realized I looked more like a boy than a girl, but my
mother had always wanted a girl or a bestseller, and I didn’t want to
disappoint her. But then some days, I don’t know what gets into me, I
would just feel like striking out at them. So I’d wait til she was having one
of her crying fits, and I took the book to her—I was twelve now— and I
said, “Have you ever seen this book? Are you totally insane? Why have you
named me Daisy? Everyone else has always said I was a boy, what’s the
matter with you?” And she kept crying and she said something about Judith
Krantz and something about being out of Shake-n-Bake chicken, and then
she said, “I want to die”; and then she said, “Perhaps you’re a boy, but we
don’t want to jump to any hasty conclusions,” so why don’t we just wait,
and we’d see if I menstruated or not. And I asked her what that word meant,
and she slapped me and washed my mouth out with soap. Then she
apologized and hugged me, and said she was a bad mother. Then she
washed her mouth out with soap. Then she tied me to the kitchen table and
turned on all the gas jets, and said it would be just a little longer for the both
of us. Then my father came home and he turned off the gas jets and untied
me. Then when he asked if dinner was ready, she lay on the kitchen floor
and wouldn’t move, and he said, I guess not, and then he sort of crouched
next to the refrigerator and tried to read a book, but I don’t think he was
really reading, because he never turned any of the pages. And then
eventually, since nothing else seemed to be happening, I just went to bed.
(Fairly long pause.)
. . . Well I knew something was wrong with them. But then they meant
well, and I felt that somewhere in all that, they actually cared for me—after
all, she washed her mouth with soap too, and he untied me. And so I
forgave them because they meant well. I tried to understand them. I felt
sorry for them. I considered suicide.
BROKEN HALLELUJAH
Sharman Macdonald

The Play: During the longest siege of a city in American history, Broken
Hallelujah is set in the smoky hollows of wartorn Petersburg, Virginia,
where two girls have a life-altering encounter with one Confederate and two
Union soldiers. Scottish playwright Macdonald explores the effects of the
failing American Civil War on young soldiers and citizens in this new play,
co-commissioned by A.C.T.’s Young Conservatory New Plays Program and
Theatre Royal Bath. Rich in language and boldly truthful, Broken
Hallelujah is a story of the effects of war on young people that is as timely
as today’s newspaper headlines. The young characters in this remarkable
play have had little input in what ultimately will be their fate. Pawns in a
decidedly adult conflict, the youth engaged in the siege of Petersburg must
consider a future over which they have little control.

Time and Place: June, 1864 to April, 1865. Petersburg, Virginia.

The Scene: Two Union soldiers sit around a campfire, awaiting battle.
Stewart’s been frying bacon and Hancock ponders where he’s been and
what’s ahead.

•••
HANCOCK: Knew a man that cooked. Orderly. Used to be a butler. Mid battle
this was. Cold Harbor maybe. They merge. They all merge . . . Ask me
Grant’s a butcher. Bring back McCLellan he didn’t waste men’s lives. Had
the pack shot off me at Bull Run. Shell took the pack right off my back. Not
a scratch on me. Not a scratch. Miracle they called it. I don’t know though.
See my hands. See them shaking. My hands think I’ve had my miracle. I’ve
run out of miracles. Anyway this orderly, my friend the butler. Brass come
in for lunch. He has chicken cooked, this orderly, the butler. Old chickens
but chickens all the same. Don’t know where he got them. He has potatoes
cooked. And bread he has. All ready and laid out it is beneath the trees. Hot
and savoury as a man could want. Battle makes you hungry. Never
understood that. Men dying all around you. They can be friends even. You
get hungry. All sorts of hungry. What do you think that is? What do you
think? Brass sits down as well as they can. Aren’t enough chairs so they sit
on the grass some of them. Barrage starts up just as he’s passing the butter,
my friend the orderly. For the new baked bread. Shell near cuts him in half,
butter in his hand. You’d think a man would die fast cut in two like that. He
has time to look around him. See the state he’s in. They left him there. They
ate. And they savoured every last mouthful. In his honor. He was nice and
fresh and dead see. You don’t get that smell not when they’re fresh. Buried
him after. Proper bacon you got there. Good and proper. Look like you
know what you’re doing.
BURIED CHILD
Sam Shepard

The Play: Amidst the squalor of a decaying farm, a family harbors a deep-
seated unhappiness that has led to destructive suppressed anger and
violence—all born of a long-hidden secret. The drunken, ranting Dodge and
Halie, his alcoholic wife, fight their way through each grim day,
accompanied by their misbegotten sons, Tilden, a hulking ex-All-American
football player, and Bradley, who has lost a leg in a chainsaw accident.
When Vince, a grandson none of them recollects, enters their world with his
girlfriend, Shelley, Tilden is compelled to unearth the family secret, and the
possibility of redemption finally seems plausible.

Time and Place: A farmhouse.

The Scene: Vince has just learned that he is to inherit his grandfather’s
farm, as dilapidated as it is. Now it’s up to him to keep the line going. The
night before, though, he had tried to run away, and Shelley asks, “What
happened to you Vince? You just disappeared?” Bradley lies on the floor
before them attempting to get his artificial leg, which Vince had kicked out
of reach during an argument.

•••
VINCE: (Pause, delivers speech front.) I was gonna run last night. I was
gonna run and keep right on running. I drove all night. Clear to the Iowa
border. The old man’s two bucks sitting right on the seat beside me. It never
stopped raining the whole time. Never stopped once. I could see myself in
the windshield. My face. My eyes. I studied my face. Studied everything
about it. As though I was looking at another man. As though I could see his
whole race behind him. Like a mummy’s face. I saw him dead and alive at
the same time. In the same breath. In the windshield, I watched him breathe
as though he was frozen in time. And every breath marked him. Marked
him forever without him knowing. And then his face changed. His face
became his father’s face. Same bones. Same eyes. Same nose. Same breath.
And his father’s face changed to his grandfather’s face. And it went on like
that. Changing. Clear on back to faces I’d never seen before but still
recognized. Still recognized the bones underneath. The eyes. The breath.
The mouth. I followed my family clear into Iowa. Every last one. Straight
into the Corn Belt and further. Straight back as far as they’d take me. Then
it all dissolved. Everything dissolved.
CELEBRATION
Tom Jones

The Play: In this allegorical tale, a young orphan travels to the home of the
world’s richest man, who has destroyed the garden of the Boy’s orphanage.
The Boy arrives during a magical New Year’s Eve celebration. Among the
curious revelers he encounters is a beautiful fallen Angel, who, before long,
becomes the center of a ritualistic battle between Mr. Rich and the orphaned
boy—each vying for her love. Ultimately, the youth overcomes his old,
jaded opponent and rediscovers the promise of change and regains the lost
garden of the orphanage.

Time and Place: Contemporary.

The Scene: The Boy tells his story of why he’s going to old Mr. Rich’s
house.

•••
BOY: You see, I’m an orphan. I worked inside the garden at the Orphanage.
But then a funny thing began to happen. All of the people that I knew when
I was younger began to disappear. At first I thought, “Oh well, they’ve all
been adopted!” But then it wasn’t just the other orphans. It was the teachers
too. And the priests. Until finally there wasn’t anybody left at all except me.
—And then some men came with big machines, and they began to tear
down all the buildings. They had a ball on a great long chain and they
swung it—way, way out—above the trees and the garden. And then, when it
came back, it smashed into the Face of God.
 . . . Well, I ran over and I took the Eye of God—that was all that was
left of the stained glass. Look, I’ll show you!
(Gets “Eye of God” from his bag and holds it up. Music.)
I’m going to see the old man.
. . . He’s having a party for New Year’s Eve. I’m going to sneak in.
I’m going to tell him what they did to the chapel. I’m going to make him
stop tearing down buildings. We don’t want a factory; we want a garden!
THE CURSE OF THE STARVING CLASS
Sam Shepard

The Play: The tale of a dysfunctional American family, the Tates, with
enough food to keep from starving but not enough personal strength to fill
the voids in other parts of their lives. The drunken dreamer of a father,
Weston, and his burned-out wife, Ella, struggle to maintain their rundown
family farm, but their search for freedom and security leads only to a bleak,
empty future. Their precocious teenage daughter, Emma, rebels at the life
with her family and meets a violent end, and her brother, the overly
idealistic Wesley, unable to build the foundation his dreams require, is left
with nothing more than a tortured vision of a cat tearing apart an eagle that
has caught it in it talons.

Time and Place: 1978 (the present?); a small farm somewhere in the
American West.

The Scene: Wesley is cleaning up shards of wood from the door his father
broke down the night before during a drunken outburst. As his mother fries
him some bacon for breakfast, he recalls the images going through his mind
as he lay in bed listening to the splintering of the door.

•••
WESLEY: (As he throws wood into wheelbarrow.) I was lying there on my
back. I could smell the avocado blossoms. I could hear the coyotes. I could
hear stock cars squealing down the street. I could feel myself in my bed in
my room in this house in this town in this state in this country. I could feel
this country close like it was part of my bones. I could feel the presence of
all the people outside, at night, in the dark. Even sleeping people I could
feel. Even all the sleeping animals. Dogs. Peacocks. Bulls. Even tractors
sitting in the wetness, waiting for the sun to come up. I was looking straight
up at the ceiling at all my model airplanes hanging by all their thin metal
wires. Floating. Swaying very quietly like they were being blown by
someone’s breath. Cobwebs moving with them. Dust laying on their wings.
Decals peeling off their wings. My P-39. My Messerschmitt. My Jap Zero. I
could feel myself lying far below them on my bed like I was on the ocean
and overhead they were on reconnaissance. Scouting me. Floating. Taking
pictures of the enemy. Me, the enemy. I could feel the space around me like
a big, black world. I listened like an animal. My listening was afraid. Afraid
of sound. Tense. Like any second something could invade me. Some
foreigner. Something indescribable. Then I heard the Packard coming up
the hill. From a mile off I could tell it was the Packard by the sound of the
valves. The lifters have a sound like nothing else. Then I could picture my
dad driving it. Shifting unconsciously. Downshifting into second for the last
pull up the hill. I could feel the headlights closing in. Cutting through the
orchard. I could see the trees being lit one after the other by the lights, then
going back to black. My heart was pounding. Just from my dad coming
back. Then I heard him pull the brake. Lights go off. Key’s turned off. Then
a long silence. Him just sitting in the car. Just sitting. I picture him just
sitting. What’s he doing? Just sitting. Waiting to get out. Why’s he waiting
to get out? He’s plastered and can’t move. He’s plastered and doesn’t want
to move. He’s going to sleep there all night. He’s slept there before. He’s
woken up with dew on the hood before. Freezing headache. Teeth covered
with peanuts. Then I hear the door of the Packard open. A pop of metal.
Dogs barking down the road. Door slams. Feet. Paper bag being tucked
under one arm. Paper bag covering “Tiger Rose.” Feet coming. Feet
walking toward the door. Feet stopping. Heart pounding. Sound of door not
opening. Foot kicking door. Man’s voice. Dad’s voice. Dad calling Mom.
No answer. Foot kicking. Foot kicking harder. Wood splitting. Man’s voice.
In the night. Foot kicking hard through door. One foot right through the
door. Man cursing. Man going insane. Feet and hands tearing. Head
smashing. Man yelling. Shoulder smashing. Whole body crashing. Woman
screaming. Mom screaming. Mom screaming for police. Man throwing
wood. Man throwing up. Mom calling cops. Dad crashing away. Back down
driveway. Car door slamming. Ignition grinding. Wheels screaming. First
gear grinding. Wheels screaming off down hill. Packard disappearing.
Sound disappearing. No sound. No sight. Planes still hanging. Heart still
pounding. No sound. Mom crying soft. Soft crying. Then no sound. Then
softly crying. Then moving around through house. Then no moving. Then
crying softly. Then stopping. Then, far off the freeway could be heard.
LA TURISTA
Sam Shepard

The Play: Taking its title from the “sickness” that can plague tourists in
foreign lands where the water is not always fit for drinking, La Turista tells
the bizarre tale of Salem and her partner, Kent. This unfortunate pair find
themselves suffering from sunburn and la turista in a small hotel room in
Mexico. Into their uncomfortable lives comes a filthy, precocious native
shoeshine boy who vexes them until a witchdoctor and his son (who is
dressed just like the boy) arrives to cure Kent of his malady. Later, Salem
and Kent find themselves back in the States in another shabby hotel room in
the Southwest, where Kent now suffers from a mysterious sleeping sickness
and another doctor and son arrive—leading to additional ominous
circumstances that border on the surreal.

Time and Place: 1968; a dingy hotel room in Mexico.

The Scene: Shortly after the witchdoctor arrives, the boy, speaking directly
to the audience, as if he is a tourist guide speaking to a tour group, provides
the context of the region and the significance of witchdoctors.

•••
BOY: The people in this area speak the purest Mayan existing today. The
language has changed only slightly since the days of the great Mayan
civilization before the time of the conquest. It’s even more pure than the
Mayan spoken by the primitive Lacandones, who live in the state of
Chiapas. It’s even purer by far than the Mayan spoken in the Yucatan,
where much Spanish and Ladino admixtures have been added. In short, it’s
very pure and nearly impossible for an outsider to learn, although many
have tried.
. . . The man here is the most respected of all, or I should say, his
profession is. But then, we can’t separate a man from his profession, can
we? Anyway, there are several witchdoctors for each tribe and they become
this through inheritance only. In other words, no one is elected to be a
witchdoctor. This would be impossible since there is so very much to learn
and the only way to learn it is to be around a witchdoctor all the time.
Therefore the witchdoctor’s oldest son, whom you see here, will fall heir to
his father’s position. He listens carefully and watches closely to everything
his father does and even helps out in part of the ceremony as you see here.
A great kid.
. . . The people of the village are very superstitious and still believe in
spirits possessing the body. They believe that in some way the evil spirits
must be driven from the body in order for the body to become well again.
This is why you see the witchdoctor beating the man. This is to drive the
evil spirits out. The firecrackers are to scare them away. The incense smoke,
or copal, as it’s called here, is to send the prayers up to the god. They
believe the smoke will carry the prayers to heaven. The candles are so that
the god will look down and see the light and know that there’s somebody
praying down here, since the god only looks when something attracts his
attention.
. . . Although there are several European doctors in town, the people
will not go to them for help. Instead they call for the witchdoctor who
comes to their home and prays for them and beats them up and then goes to
the top of the mountain where the god of health is supposed to be. There is
an idol there that the witchdoctor prays to in much the same way as you see
here. Please don’t try to go to the top of the mountain alone though, without
a guide, because it can be very dangerous. Last year a group of students
from an American university went up there and tried to steal the idol for an
anthropological study and they were almost killed. It’s perfectly safe with a
guide though, and you can always find me in front of the pharmacy. Or just
ask someone for Sebastian Smith.
. . . Of course, in the days before Christ, they used to sacrifice young
girls to the gods. But now that’s been made illegal by the government so the
people use chickens instead. That’s what the two chickens are for. They
usually give the poor chicken a little drink of cane liquor to deaden the pain
but sometimes they don’t even bother. You’ll notice a slight mixture of
Catholic ritual incorporated into the pagan rites. This has become more and
more apparent within the last century but the people still hold firmly to their
primitive beliefs.
. . . The marriage is fixed by the family, and the partners have nothing
to say in this matter. The girls begin having babies at the age of fourteen
and usually have about fifteen children before they die. The average life
expectancy is thirtyeight for women and forty-two for men. The women
hold equal property rights as the men and get paid a salary by the men for
each baby they have. The eldest son in each family always falls heir to the
father’s property. The puberty rites for boys are very stringent here and vary
all the way from having the thumbnail on the right hand peeled away to
having three small incisions made with a razor on the end of the penis. By
the time the penis has healed they believe the boy has become a man.
(At this time, the Son takes all of Kent's clothes off except his
underwear, and piles them neatly at his feet, while the Witchdoctor
takes out his machete and waves it over the chicken. He also swings
the coffee can back and forth and chants more intensely.)
. . . At this time the clothes are removed from the man in preparation
for the sacrifice. The chickens will be decapitated and their bodies held over
the man to allow the blood to drop onto his back. This will allow the good
spirits to enter his body and make him well again. The clothes will be
burned since it is believed that the evil spirits still reside in his clothes. And
if anyone should put them on they would have bad health for the rest of
their days and die within two years.
. . . After this, the witchdoctor will pray over the heads of the chickens
and then take them to the top of the mountain, where he will throw them
into the fire and then do some more praying. Now is the time for the
sacrifice. For those of you who aren’t used to this sort of thing you may
close your eyes and just listen, or else you could keep in mind that it’s not a
young girl but a dumb chicken.
MOONTEL SIX
Constance Congdon

The Play: Set on the Moon in the twenty-second century, Moontel Six tells
the story of a colony of genetically altered teens (Meema, Zipper, Emo
Seven, Toyn, and Geenoma) who leave the shelter of an abandoned motel in
search of a home of their own—far from the reach of the residents of
exclusive, gated Moonstead Estates who are set on their destruction. When
the teens make their escape to Mother Earth, revelations are at hand . . .

Time and Place: The not-too-distant future. Earth’s Moon and Earth.

The Scene: Seven uses losing socks as a metaphor for understanding “how
the world works.”

•••
SEVEN: I’m going to help you understand how it happened. You see . . .
when you lose one sock, it leaves behind its mate. Or partner. Let’s call it
“partner.” So you wear the next pair and you lose one of those. Because it’s
actually more likely that you’ll lose one of a matched pair than one of an
unmatched pair because you rarely wear an unmatched pair because most
people are less likely to wear and then wash the unmatched sock, unless
they are us who have stopped washing them altogether, so the odds are even
greater that the next sock to get lost will be part of a pair. Are you with me?
. . . It’s important, Meema. It’s important to understand how the world
works . . . Let’s say you have ten complete, but distinct pairs of socks,
meaning each pair differs from another, then it will be over 100 times more
likely that the result will be the worst possible outcome . . . The Best
Possible Outcome would be seven complete pairs left. Drawing two socks
at random even from a drawer full of complete pairs is most likely to
produce nothing but two odd socks. And, here’s the interesting part—if you
draw two socks at random from a drawer full of complete pairs of socks
you are going to, probably, get two odd socks. . . . Facts make up the world,
so probability is a religious experience. For me . . . you know what’s really
strange? The odds of two lost socks finding each other is astronomical, but
to make pairs from a random collection of odd lost socks, well, that’s
unheard of. That’s all I’m trying to say.
OLD WICKED SONGS
Jon Marans

The Play: After extensive playing engagements and touring, young piano
prodigy Stephen Hoffman (twenty) is already burned out and jaded. While
in Vienna he is sent to a Professor Josef Mashkan, a respected but “old
school” teacher. Hoffman displays a sense of arrogance and resentment
toward Mashkan because the old teacher is not really a piano virtuoso, but a
voice teacher. The task is to explore the emotional depth of Schumann’s
song cycle “Dichterlieber” (“The Poet’s Love”). As Hoffman unlocks the
cycle, he rediscovers the passion he originally had for his art, and what it
means to have empathy for others.

Time and Place: 1986; Vienna, Austria.

The Scene: During the course of his lessons, Hoffman and his teacher have
been arguing about how they can find common ground in their music, as
singer and accompanist. The exchange opens up a recollection for the
young musician of the time he visited the Nazi concentration camp at
Dachau and the young woman he met along the way.

•••
STEPHEN: (Serious again.) Two weeks ago, I took the train to Munich. The
next morning I took another train from Munich to Dachau—
. . . —I arrived at the station fairly early, assuming the ride would take
a while. It took twenty minutes. Isn’t that interesting? Only twenty minutes
from the heart of Munich to Dachau.
 . . . At first, I thought I was on the wrong train. So I turned to an older
woman sitting next to me and asked her in German if this was the way to
Dachau.
. . . And she said to me “I knew nothing that went on there!” From the
train, I took a short bus ride to the camp. On the bus, a young woman in
front of me turned around and said “What are you doing here?!” I told her,
“I’m here to see Dachau.” She asked me “why?” and I said (Stammering.)
“because it’s important for people to see this place.” And she said, “but why
do you want to see it?!” And I said: “because I’m Jewish.” And then she
said, (Very casually.) “well why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
Then she told me to move over—and sat next to me. Her name was
Sarah. She grew up in Israel. Her grandparents had been in Dachau. They
didn’t want her to see it. Together, she and I did.
It’s funny. I was prepared for the “Arbeit Macht Frei” sign, the barbed
wire fences, the guard posts. I wasn’t prepared for how beautifully Dachau
had been fixed up. No, covered over. Most of the buildings—gone. Those
that were left—whitewashed. The grass—so green. A stream near the site of
the camp had a quaint little bridge. If I hadn’t known better, I’d never
suspect theses few acres of land had been crowded with thousand of
emaciated, tortured bodies.
There was a small museum which told “the story”— mostly through
pictures. And under each picture, a description. The only problem—the
descriptions were in German— no translations. So most people there
couldn’t read it since German was not the predominant language among
visitors. For those of us who could read the captions, they supplied only the
barest of facts. As I walked through, I was silent. Stunned. Feeling—numb
from the experience. Not Sarah. She was enraged. I could see her whole
body tightening up as we walked from room to room in the museum.
Finally, we passed a guard and she started yelling at him, saying he was
burying the truth! . . . And the whole time he just stood there expressionless
—silent.
After that, we saw the crematorium. Sarah cried. I couldn’t. I was too
angry. And confused.
Before leaving, we saw the Israeli Memorial. It’s a stone tower. You
look into it by going down a ramp and peering through a gate. Inside, it’s
almost completely dark except for a small beam of light that shines down
from the top . . . a single beam of light surrounded by darkness. You can’t
go inside the memorial. The gate’s locked.
On the way out of the camp, we picked up a brochure— this one in
English—telling us to “please stroll through the lovely town of Dachau after
leaving.” We didn’t. For some reason, the Bavarian charm was lost on us.
That evening, we spent a quiet dinner together. At the end of the main
course, Sarah asked if I would spend the night with her. Back at her hotel
we made love. (Surprised, embarrassed.) It was hot. Really hot. For hours
and hours into the night. And then again the next morning. And I kept
thinking, “why is this so special? Because she’s Jewish? Or because of what
happened at Dachau? Or is she just great in bed? Or am I suddenly better in
bed?” And then it hit me— (Not pleased.) You were right. That
combination of sadness and joy. With one emotion heightened, so is the
other.
The next afternoon, she caught her train to Prague.
And these last two weeks, I’ve wandered through Vienna, “the city of
dreams.” And every time I turned and saw a beautiful bridge or a quaint
babbling brook, I broke into a sweat. And every time I got off the U-bahn
and heard that recorded message, “End of the line, everybody off,” I felt
sick to my stomach. And thought of a man I had respected. Once. (He starts
to gather up his music.)
THE PLAY ABOUT THE BABY
Edward Albee

The Play: As the Man says in The Play About the Baby, “If you have no
wounds how can you know if you’re alive? If you have no scar how do you
know who you are? Have been? Can ever be?” Such is the central question
in this dark, humorous, intelligent play that focuses on Girl and Boy, a
beautiful young couple who give birth to a baby, only to have their
perceptions about life shaken by the intrusion of the mysterious and
sometime sinister Man and Woman who enter their life.

Time and Place: Today—anywhere.

The Scene: Now that the baby is come, Boy is naturally very protective of
his offspring. Who are this Man and Woman? Are they Gypsies? Gypsies
steal babies!

•••
BOY: Gypsies steal Babies! You’ve never heard? It’s famous; it’s like the
money scam. You don’t know? The money scam? The Gypsy promises to
double your money for you, so you bring it to her, or him, to be blessed, so
it’ll double, or whatever. You bring it in ten dollar bills, or something, in a
big paper bag, and . . . the Gypsy puts the paper bag on the table, between
the two of you, and the Gypsy blesses it, and starts chanting, or something,
and the music starts, and the lights go all funny . . . and in the middle of all
that the Gypsy pulls the famous switch . . . the famous switch of the bag. In
all the chanting and the lights and the music and all, the Gypsy switches
bags—takes your paper bag with all the money in it and puts another bag in
its place filled with—what, I don’t know—newspapers, or something, cut-
up newspapers . . . the Gypsy tells you to bury the paper bag in your
backyard without opening it and without anyone seeing you, and you’re to
leave it there for—what?—three weeks, so the magic can work, the money
can double, or whatever . . . and you do it, because you’re an asshole—you
would have put your life savings in a paper bag and handed it to some damn
Gypsy if you weren’t an asshole in the first place. And so, after three weeks
you go out and start digging up your backyard, since you’ve probably
forgotten exactly where you’ve buried the paper bag with all your life
savings in it, like the Gypsy told you to do. And your husband, who knows
a lot more about gypsies than you do, is sitting down by now, his head in his
hands, crying. And so you eventually find where you buried it, and you dig
it up and you take it over to your husband to show him how the money’s
doubled, and you open up the bag . . . [and it’s all cut-up newspaper] . . .
and the Gypsy’s probably in Miami Beach by now driving around in some
snazzy convertible . . .
PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD [1]
John M. Synge

The Play: In The Playboy of the Western World Christy Mahan, a shy Irish
lad, who is hired on to clean pots in a small County Mayo pub, soon
becomes the hero of the village when it is revealed that he has killed his
tyrant Da. As a result, Christy gains the affections of the publican’s fiery
daughter, Pegeen Mike. When the old man shows up—not dead after all—
there is much commotion that eventually leads to an understanding between
Christy and his Da; but he leaves Pegeen out in the cold.

Time and Place: 1907. A pub in a village on a wild coast of County Mayo,
Ireland.

The Scene: Christy has been at his chores in the pub and talking with
Pegeen. Up until the day he “killed” his Da, nobody paid him no mind.
Pegeen, disappointed, says, “And I thinking you should have been living the
like of a king of Norway . . .”

•••
CHRISTY: (Laughing piteously.) The like of a king, is it? And I after toiling,
moiling, digging, dodging from the dawn till dusk with never a sight of joy
or sport saving only when I’d be abroad in the dark night poaching rabbits
on hills, for I was a devil to poach, God forgive me, (Very naively.) and I
near got six months for going with a dung fork and stabbing a fish.
[PEGEEN: And it’s that you’d call sport, is it, to be abroad in the
darkness with yourself alone?]
CHRISTY: I did, God help me, and there I’d be as happy as the sunshine of
St. Martin’s Day, watching the light passing the north or the patches of fog,
till I’d hear a rabbit starting to screech and I’d go running in the furze. Then
when I’d my full share I’d come walking down where you’d see the ducks
and geese stretched sleeping on the highway of the road, and before I’d pass
the dunghill, I’d hear himself snoring out, a loud lonesome snore he’d be
making all times, the while he was sleeping, and he a man’d be raging all
times, the while he was waking, like a gaudy officer you’d hear cursing and
damning and swearing oaths.
[PEGEEN: Providence and Mercy, spare us all!]
CHRISTY: It’s that you’d say surely if you seen him and he after drinking for
weeks, rising up in the red dawn, or before it maybe, and going out into the
yard as naked as an ash tree in the moon of May, and shying clods against
the visage of the stars till he’d put the fear of death into the banbhs and the
screeching sows.
PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD [2]
John M. Synge

The Play: In The Playboy of the Western World Christy Mahan, a shy Irish
lad, who is hired on to clean pots in a small County Mayo pub, soon
becomes the hero of the village when it is revealed that he has killed his
tyrant Da. As a result, Christy gains the affections of the publican’s fiery
daughter, Pegeen Mike. When the old man shows up—not dead after all—
there is much commotion that eventually leads to an understanding between
Christy and his Da; but he leaves Pegeen out in the cold.

Time and Place: 1907. A pub in a village on a wild coast of County Mayo,
Ireland.

The Scene: Christy, bright and cheerful, on a brilliant morning, holds a

girl’s boot in his hand, which he is cleaning.

•••
CHRISTY: (To himself, counting jugs on dresser.) Half a hundred beyond. Ten
there. A score that’s above. Eighty jugs. Six cups and a broken one. Two
plates. A power of glasses. Bottles, a schoolmaster’d be hard set to count,
and enough in them, I’m thinking, to drunken all the wealth and wisdom of
the County Clare. (He puts down the boot carefully.) There’s her boots now,
nice and decent for her evening use, and isn’t it grand brushes she has! (He
puts them down and goes by degrees to the looking glass.) Well, this’d be a
fine place to be my whole life talking out with swearing Christians, in place
of my old dogs and cat, and I stalking around, smoking my pipe and
drinking my fill, and never a day’s work but drawing a cork an odd time, or
wiping a glass, or rinsing out a shiny tumbler for a decent man. (He takes
the looking glass from the wall and puts it on the back of a chair; then sits
down in front of it and begins washing his face.) Didn’t I know rightly I was
handsome, though it was the divil’s own mirror we had beyond, would twist
a squint across an angel’s brow; and I’ll be growing fine from this day, the
way I’ll have a soft lovely skin on me and won’t be the like of the clumsy
young fellow to be ploughing all times in the earth and dung. (He starts.) Is
she coming again? (He looks out.) Stranger girls. God help me, where’ll I
hide myself away and my long neck naked to this world. (He looks out.) I’d
best go to the room maybe till I’m dressed again.
QUINT AND MISS JESSEL AT BLY [1]
Don Nigro

The Play: Henry James’ ghostly novel The Turn of the Screw serves as the
inspiration for this tale of how Quint, a valet, and Miss Jessel, a governess,
from James’ work became the phantoms of that story. Filled with tension
and suspense, Nigro’s play explores the dangerous relationship and rivalry
that develops between the subservient Quint and the Master of Bly over
their affections for the beautiful, headstrong, and troubled Miss Jessel. In
the end, we have new insight into Quint and Miss Jessel, the ghosts who
seem to stalk the orphaned Flora and Miles in The Turn of the Screw.

Time and Place: Mid-nineteenth-century England. Various locations in

London and at Bly, a country house in Essex.

The Scene: Quint sits on a chair, polishing a pair of boots and addressing
the invisible Miles.

•••
Quint sits on a wooden chair, polishing a pair of boots, speaking downstage
to the invisible Miles. The Master is still drinking in his chair, and Miss
Jessel has seated herself upstage, also out of the light, doing a bit of
needlepoint.

QUINT:Oh cheer up, young Master Miles. I know what it’s like to be a boy. I
do. You may not believe this, but I was a boy once, myself. Oh, yes. I can
produce witnesses to verify this claim, if necessary. Even your uncle was a
boy once. And in many respects, come to think of it, he still is. I lost my
parents, too, at an early age. Mother was an actress and a part-time peach
vendor. Father was a picture on the piano. Looked rather like Bonnie Prince
Charlie, except of course he wasn’t Scotch. Mother drank Scotch. She was a
lovely woman, had many friends. She did more entertaining backstage than
she did onstage. I remember as a small child listening to her entertaining the
Prince of Wales behind a screen. That woman was talented. She could have
sung grand opera. Your grandfather was a good friend of hers. In her last
months, she grew uncharacteristically plump, rather like a Christmas turkey,
cried a great deal, then took a midwinter dip in the Thames and sucked in
rather too much cold water. Saw her in her coffin, perhaps her best
performance, a wonderful stillness, something she never managed to
achieve in life. Hell is memory. But, lucky for me, your grandfather took
me under his wing, brought me to Bly, made me a stable boy—oh, I could
tell you such stories about horse shit—and then, in the course of time, his
eldest son’s valet. Your uncle. So I knew them both, your uncle and your
father. And your mother. I was proud to serve them all. And now here I am
with you. So, do you know what the moral of that sad story is, young
Master Miles? The moral of that story is, having a dead mother may
actually turn out to be a spot of good luck. So, cheer up, and tomorrow
we’ll go fishing in the lake. And if you’re a very good boy, perhaps we’ll
use your little sister for bait. Won’t that be fun? (He spits on the boot and
gives it one last bit of rather violent polishing as the light fades on him.)
QUINT AND MISS JESSEL AT BLY [2]
Don Nigro

The Play: Henry James’ ghostly novel The Turn of the Screw serves as the
inspiration for this tale of how Quint, a valet, and Miss Jessel, a governess,
from James’ work became the phantoms of that story. Filled with tension
and suspense, Nigro’s play explores the dangerous relationship and rivalry
that develops between the subservient Quint and the Master of Bly over
their affections for the beautiful, headstrong, and troubled Miss Jessel. In
the end, we have new insight into Quint and Miss Jessel, the ghosts who
seem to stalk the orphaned Flora and Miles in The Turn of the Screw.

Time and Place: Mid-nineteenth-century England. Various locations in

London and at Bly, a country house in Essex.

The Scene: Quint tells Miles how to handle women.

•••
Lights up on Quint who sits down left in the merest suggestion of a small
rowboat, fishing on the lake with a rather crude fishing pole, consisting of a
piece of twine tied to the end of a cut branch and dangling into the darkness
of the lake downstage before him, as Miss Jessel moves to the foot of the
staircase and sits there in the dark, and the Master remains in his chair.

QUINT: Now, Miles, I know that women can be infuriating on occasion, but
we must never lose our temper with our little sister, but always be gentle
and patient with her, and make allowances for her, because when she grows
up, she will be a woman, and women are not like us, or rather, while they
are often not like us when we expect them to be like us, they are sometimes
like us when we don’t expect them to be like us, and sometimes they make
us very, very happy, for perhaps as much as five or ten minutes at a stretch,
and also very, very sad, for periods usually not exceeding sixty or seventy
years at the most, and if we are very lucky little fellows, now and then they
will agree to pretend to love us, through no inherent virtue of our own, at
least for a time, while it’s convenient for them, at any rate, and then,
eventually, in the course of time, much like the black widow spider, they
kill us and devour us. Unless of course we kill them first, but that is not
playing fair, you see, Miles, because we are much bigger and stronger than
they are, so we must, as a point of honor, allow them to murder us, unless of
course we are members of the aristocracy, or at least have money, in which
case we get to murder them. The important thing to remember about a
woman, Miles, is that you must forget her and go on about your business,
which is, unfortunately, entirely impossible. Oh, look. I believe I’ve
actually caught something.
(The light fades on Quint as the Master finishes his drink, gets up, and
disappears into the darkness.)
SECOND CLASS [1]
Bradley Slaight

The Play: Building on the delightful and often poignant Class Action, Brad
Slaight’s Second Class introduces us to such characters as Scott, a
cyberspace Cyrano; Maggie and Herm, who communicate only through
prerecorded tapes played on boom-boxes, and Andrew, who is tormented by
his peers because of his scars. But these are only a few of the teens that take
the audience into the travails of out-of-class encounters in high school.

Time and Place: The present. A modern high school.

The Scene: Leon, a boy of Native-American descent speaks of his heritage.

•••
LEON: If you listen closely . . . you can hear the past. The voices of my
ancestors. My people. (Pause.) Most of the kids here call me Leon, but my
Indian name is Suyeta (Soo-yay-ta), which means “The Chosen One.” I
may not look it, but my father is part Cherokee, and my mother has some in
her as well. They moved to this area right before I was to start school
because they wanted me to be brought up on the land that once was the
home of my people. Before the concrete and metal, before the malls and the
mini-marts, this was all open space. My ancestral tribe lived, hunted,
played, and dreamed on this very ground. (Pause.) One time I saw an
Indian Warrior walking in this hall. His face was painted with bright colors,
his clothes made of animal skin, his eyes burned with life. He turned and
waved to me, as if to invite me on his journey. (Pause.) I don’t talk much
about this with my friends because they don’t understand the ways of my
people. They don’t understand that my blood flows with such history. But in
the quiet moments I feel near to those who came before me. And I have a
connection to the past. Their spirit lives on. Even here. Even now.
(He thinks about that for a moment and then exits.)
SECOND CLASS [2]
Bradley Slaight

The Play: Building on the delightful and often poignant Class Action, Brad
Slaight’s Second Class introduces us to such characters as Scott, a
cyberspace Cyrano; Maggie and Herm, who communicate only through
prerecorded tapes played on boom-boxes, and Andrew, who is tormented by
his peers because of his scars. But these are only a few of the teens that take
the audience into the travails of out-of-class encounters in high school.

Time and Place: The present. A modern high school.

The Scene: Marvin speaks of the violent world he hopes to escape.

•••
MARVIN: I spend a lot of time just hangin’ in the halls, checkin’ out some of
the kids in the school. I start thinkin’ about what it would be like to be
them, to live their lives. And I wonder what it must be like to live in a house
that has plenty of room. In a neighborhood where helicopters don’t fly
overhead all night long. I wonder what it would be like to have both a mom
and a dad. To not worry about my little sister gettin’ hit with a stray bullet
because somebody’s fightin’ over a street they don’t even own. To have my
own bedroom where I have my own things that no one will mess with. To
not have to watch my brother racing to the grave with a never-ending need
for twenty dollar pieces of rock. And I wonder what it’s like to go places—
like the beach, another state, another country. To go somewhere . . .
anywhere. To buy a pair of hundred dollar Nike basketball shoes instead of
stealin’ them. To not worry about the electricity bein’ turned off, or the car
bein’ repo’ed. I wonder what it’s like to have dreams instead of nightmares
and to know that those dreams someday may actually come true. To look
through brochures of colleges and universities and know that I have a
choice. To see myself living long enough to become an adult. (He watches
several more students as they walk past him.) And as I watch the lucky
ones, I wonder most of all, what it would be like to have hope. To have just
a little bit of hope.
(Marvin exits.)
SECOND CLASS [3]
Bradley Slaight

The Play: Building on the delightful and often poignant Class Action, Brad
Slaight’s Second Class introduces us to such characters as Scott, a
cyberspace Cyrano; Maggie and Herm, who communicate only through
prerecorded tapes played on boom-boxes, and Andrew, who is tormented by
his peers because of his scars. But these are only a few of the teens that take
the audience into the travails of out-of-class encounters in high school.

Time and Place: The present. A modern high school.

The Scene: Mark finds himself in a most embarrassing situation during his
S.A.T. exam.

•••
Mark sits on a cube; he is very intense.

MARK: Eleven o’clock in the morning. A cold sweat came over me as I

looked down at my S.A.T. exam. All around me were hundreds of other
nervous souls, completely at the mercy of this test. Like penguins stuck on a
floating chunk of ice! The Test Monitors stood at the front of the room, with
their roving surveillance-camera eyes, waiting to jump on anyone who
happened to stretch their neck, or blink too many times. We couldn’t move.
We couldn’t talk. We couldn’t think. We could only hold these emotions
inside. And then it started to happen. I began to feel a low, familiar
rumbling deep inside my bowels. You see, I always get terrible gas when
I’m nervous. And I was nervous plus over this test. Inside me was a
gasbubble the size of a beach ball, desperately trying to get out. Knocking
with a heavy determined fist at my back door. Oh, I tried to suppress it, but
it started to expand—the pressure was unbelievable. It got to the point
where I didn’t even dare shift my leg in fear that the corral gate would fly
open. And the quiet, God was it quiet! Nothing to cover the impending
sound; nothing that would allow me to let out some of the pressure. Then,
without warning, the bubble pushed forward and exploded from me with an
ear-splitting thundergust! A force so great it lifted me off my desk chair.
That was followed by the sound of 312 snapping necks as they turned
around to look at the source of this deafening blast. The Test Monitors’ eyes
dilated in angry disbelief. My fellow students faces twisted like cheap
Halloween masks, as they tried to contain their laughter. That was the final
straw. “Who are you to judge me?!” I screamed out loud. (Pause.) What
happened to me that day quickly became legend. Go ahead and tell all you
meet. I am not ashamed.
SIX
Timothy Mason

The Play: Isolated in the wilderness, six undergraduate students (Blair,

Jessica, Danny, Alison, Maddie, Massemo) and their graduate assistant
mentors (Adam and Selena) study the local environment and ecosystem.
Along with learning about the five mass extinctions that have imperiled the
Earth over the millennia, and of the threats that a sixth one may be not far
off, they discover much about one another and themselves. All seems well
until suspicions surface that one of their group, Massemo, is an imposter,
perhaps an eco-terrorist. Is he, or will be become the group’s hero?

Time and Place: The present; a wilderness area.

The Scene: Massemo, a student not on the original roster for the project,
has just shown up at camp on his own. Selena scolds him for having
tramped through and contaminating part of their “old growth” study area.
Before long, he is meeting some of the other students, who ask him where
he’s from.

•••
MASSEMO: I’m an Army brat, not my favorite expression, but there it is.
Eventually, my dad? You can be a pretty high-up officer in the Armed
Services and be drunk a lot of the time and get promoted and everything,
but finally you’re gonna get profoundly busted. And my mom fell in love
with her pottery teacher, and I’m not prejudiced, I hope I’m not, but I just
don’t like her. My mom’s pottery instructor. So I move around. I’ve got, my
grandparents on my mom’s side? I like them. They’re just so terrifically
happy when I visit them in Arizona and that’s not something I always get
from either of my parents, happy to see you, not judging you, whatever.
That’s where I just was, I spent a few months in the winter, spring, staying
with my grandparents . . .
. . . I was staying in this senior citizen gated community in Mesa,
Arizona—hey, Danny—where nobody should be living to begin with,
nobody in that whole part of the country should be there because human
beings tend to require water and there is no water there, it’s the middle of
the freaking desert and they pump the water in from places they shouldn’t
and suck water out of the aquifer and pretend there’s nothing wrong with
any of it, but The Circle of Palms Fifty-five and Over Gated Community is
where my grandpa and grandma bought their retirement home and I’m not
gonna beat them up about that because they’re great and why shouldn’t they
be warm in winter, OK? And I really like swimming in their pool, so fuck
me. You know Rodin’s “The Thinker”?
. . . There’s this figurine down there in Circle of Palms golf course that
just captures it for me, just sums it all up. Because as we all know or
should, the golf course is one of the single most potent killers of the earth
on earth. So OK, in the middle of this course there’s a little sculpture in the
center of a cactus garden. Think “The Thinker”: He’s naked, he’s sitting, his
elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. Right? OK, put a pair of Farrah
slacks on him. Give him a red, short-sleeved Polo shirt. Put a little red golf
cap on his head, spread his knees and stick a bag of golf clubs in there. He’s
not looking down and thinking, like “The Thinker,” he’s looking up and
thinking. Looking up and off into the distance and he’s thinking, he’s
wondering, he’s pondering, as the creatures of earth die out forever, and the
earth itself turns to dust. The wind. The lay. The lie. How do I play it?
How?
. . . Selena. Come with me.
. . . (To Adam.)
Don’t you touch her!
(To Selena.)
Anywhere, you name it, we live on earth, we are citizens of earth.
There are no countries anymore, no flags, to hell with flags, we can go
anywhere we want if we know that we truly belong everywhere.
. . . (To Selena.)
Come with me, do something.
 (Including the others.)
You people, what are you doing? Moping? Life on earth is being
savagely destroyed and it makes me blue? I don’t have to do anything about
it as long as I feel real bad about it? Pathetic! All of you, don’t you ever get
tired of being utterly useless? “I am a concerned citizen, I signed a petition
about the rain forests,” you’re useless!
(To Selena.)
We’re at war! We’re losing! You’re pretending it’s not a war, you’re
pretending you’re doing good by making a halfassed undergrad study of the
forest!
THE STRAITS
Gregory Burke

The Play: The Straits refers to the Straits of Gibraltar and the chunk of rock
that the British have been occupying for years to guard the gateway
between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea. Consigned to this
rock we find four teenagers, Darren (fifteen) and an older sister, Tracy;
“Doink,” an unsettled kid who hopes to join the Marines one day—like his
brother; and “Jock,” an even more unsettled teen than “Doink.” Set against
the background of Britain’s war with Argentina over the Faulkland Islands,
the teens are keenly aware of the Spanish who inhabit Gibraltar, particularly
“Doink,” whose brother is in the thick of things there serving on HMS
Sheffield. As the teens attempt to reconcile their life on Gibraltar with the
lives of their Spanish neighbors, their bottled-up energies lead to sins that
are all too human.

Time and Place: May, 1982. Gibraltar.

The Scene: Jock and Doink have just been talking about what it must be
like to kill someone. That’s why Doink wants to join the Marines—to be in
“proper combat” and kill the enemy. He recalls his granddad, who earned
medals for fighting in World War II, and Jock tells of his granddad, who
served as a Desert Rat in North Africa.

•••
JOCK: North Africa. That’s where mine was. Desert Rat, he was. He got shot
in the face once.
 . . . Well, not shot. It was shrapnel from a shell. He was a despatch
rider as he was ridin’ his motorbike, yeah, this shell hits the road right in
front of him, an’ his bike an’ him go straight in the fuckin’ hole. He’s lyin’
in the hole an’ his bike’s fucked an’ he’s broke his arm an’ a couple of ribs
an’ he says he can feel all his teeth are smashed and his mouth’s full of
blood. The shrapnel went in one cheek an’ out the other. Took all his teeth
out. He’s lying there an’ all of a sudden this big German jumps in beside
him and my granddad’s thinkin’, fuck it I’m a goner, an’ then the German
fuckin’ shrugs an’ helps him up an’ gets out a smoke and gives one to my
granddad an’ they sit there havin’ a smoke an’ a chat an’ that. ‘Cept he said
he couldn’t talk or smoke because he had this big fuckin’ hole in his face.
The German finishes his fag an’ goes. So my granddad he sits there an’ he
thinks he better get a move on or he’s gonna bleed to death. He climbs out
the hole an’ legs it till he finds some British an’ they take him to hospital.
The hospital stitched his face up but it made him look like he was smiling
all the time cos they just pulled his cheeks back and stitched them together.
An’ they gave him this massive set of falsers, yeah. So he looked like he
was really happy all the time. He worked in a butcher’s after that. No one
knew a fuckin’ word he was sayin’.
TIME ON FIRE [1]
Timothy Mason

The Play: In the words of the playwright: “Time on Fire follows the lives
of a group of New England young people and a young British officer in
1775, each of them caught up in the turbulence of the American
Revolutionary War. From the indentured farm laborer to the wealthy elite,
from the runaway slaves to Quaker pacifists, no one escapes unscathed or
unchanged. Adolescence is universally a time of upheaval, but when a
young person’s entire world is suddenly in revolt, there are no safe answers
and personal choices have public consequences.”

Time and Place: Summer of 1775 through Spring of 1776, East Haddam,
Connecticut, and parts of Massachusetts.

The Scene: When a young Quaker boy, Tribulation, tells soldiers from the
Continental Army the whereabouts of a British soldier, he questions his
sister, Epiphany, about his decision to do so.

•••
TRIBULATION: I did the right thing, didn’t I?
. . . Did I do the right thing? I don’t know if I did the right thing. And
now they’re treating me like a hero and I know it should feel good, but it
doesn’t.
. . . I needed God to tell me what to do this morning! Was God telling
me to lock that man in and run for the militia, or was it just me doing it?
When I tell myself it was God telling me, I feel I did the right thing. But
maybe it just felt adventurous, finding the enemy soldier, to be the one who
turned him in. I’m not allowed to go to war but I was the one who caught
the redcoat. That felt good, it still feels good. And it doesn’t feel like God.
. . . I tried talking to Father, Father gave me a dollar. You’re the one I
want to talk to. Sister, the man pounded on the door. He was sound asleep
when I found him, I think I got the door shut before he saw my face, I hope
so. I hope he didn’t see my face, I pray to God he didn’t see my face. I hope
he thinks it was just some grown-up who caught him. He cried, Epiphany.
After I got the door shut and barred, he pounded and he begged me to let
him out. I never said a word. And then he started to cry, I could hear him.
And I could have done it, I could have opened the door. He promised he
would just go away, he wouldn’t hurt anyone, he wouldn’t set any more
fires. He was hurt, he was tired and hungry. I could have lifted the bar and
run. Nobody would have known. He could have walked out the door and
into the woods. I could have had mercy on him, Epiphany, and I didn’t.
(They’re silent for a moment.)
(Continuing.) It’s time to go to Meeting.
TIME ON FIRE [2]
Timothy Mason

The Play: In the words of the playwright: “Time on Fire follows the lives
of a group of New England young people and a young British officer in
1775, each of them caught up in the turbulence of the American
Revolutionary War. From the indentured farm laborer to the wealthy elite,
from the runaway slaves to Quaker pacifists, no one escapes unscathed or
unchanged. Adolescence is universally a time of upheaval, but when a
young person’s entire world is suddenly in revolt, there are no safe answers
and personal choices have public consequences.”

Time and Place: Summer of 1775 through Spring of 1776, East Haddam,
Connecticut, and parts of Massachusetts.

The Scene: The young British soldier, Winston, has been on the run from
soldiers in the Continental Army. Cold and unwell, and nearly starved to
death, he pauses to remember the friends he had and ponder what the future
holds.

•••
WINSTON: Here is another letter I will not write or send. Friends. I try to
remember your faces. Was one of you called Rebecca? I can’t quite see any
of you. There was a boy here of whom I grew quite fond, but I did not
protect him as I promised. I did not know what it was like to be afraid. I
know fear now, I have read that whole book with my skin.
I have run away from war. I left my friend the Drummer behind to die.
I do not know where I am, but no one can find me here. Until I starve I will
be safe.
The key is to be so quiet that Death won’t know you are there. You
don’t move, you don’t talk. You think very quietly if at all. I am thinking
right now, but quietly.
They say that God sees everything but it can’t be true, how could he
bear to look? If His heart is merciful? He couldn’t bear to see what happens
to us, it would break His Heart. But Death never shuts his eyes, he never
looks away. Death likes what he sees.
TYLER POKED TAYLOR
Lee Blessing

The Play: In this very short play that appeared as a part of Snapshot, an
anthology of short plays at the Actors Theatre of Louisville, eighteen-year-
old Loyal engages in erotic presidential fantasies on, what has become, an
annual and ritualistic visit to Mt. Rushmore.

Time and Place: The present; at the foot of Mt. Rushmore.

The Scene: Staring up at the visages of the great presidents on the face of
Mt. Rushmore, Loyal stands alone on the observation deck, “muttering
quietly, swiftly to himself—a kind of mantra.”

•••
LOYAL: Tyler poked Taylor Fillmore pierced Buchanan Tyler poked Taylor
Fillmore pierced Buchanan Tyler poked Taylor Fillmore pierced Buchanan
Tyler poked Taylor Fillmore pierced Buchanan Tyler poked Taylor Fillmore
pierced Buchanan—
(With sudden aggressiveness to someone on his right, unseen.)
What are you looking at? Back off. Now. There’s plenty of room out
here.
(Watching as the unseen person retreats, returning to his mantra.)
Tyler poked Taylor Fillmore pierced Buchanan Tyler poked Taylor—
(Suddenly to someone unseen on his left.)
Mom, can I have a little privacy? You and Dad just . . . find
somewhere else, OK?
(Watching them move off, returning to his mantra.)
 Fillmore pierced Buchanan Tyler poked Taylor Fillmore pierced—
(The mantra is transferred to house speakers and continues, very soft.
As Loyal speaks live, it’s as though we now hear his thoughts under
the chanting.)
God, I wish I didn’t live in Rapid City. Dad makes us come up here
every year. “Someday you’ll be president, Loyal.” That’s what Dad says,
every damn year. “You’ll be one of them. You’ll be up on that mountain.”
(With a furtive look at his parents, then staring up again.)
Washington was first. First in war, first in peace and first in my
bedroom late at night. I dreamed of him deep in the woods, holding the
dying General Braddock in his arms. He knew from that moment he would
be a leader of men. I followed him for years. Lived in his billet, shined his
boots, his sword. Watched him write by candlelight. And when he blew out
the candle—My father in spirit, my teacher, my lover. I dressed him every
morning, kissed him and watched him ride out through the cherry trees into
battle. Jefferson when I got older. So handsome, so wise. I sat in his study,
watching him write his correspondence. Every hour I’d remove a piece of
my clothing. Finally he’d close his notebook. We’d make love all night.
There were letters he wouldn’t finish for days. I knew Lincoln before the
beard—splitting rails with his shirt off. He’d gleam with sweat. So would I,
just watching. I was a Rough Rider with Roosevelt on the Great Plains. All
the men would sit outside in the frozen morning light, huddled over their
coffee, while in the tent Teddy lay weeping in my arms, telling me about the
asthma that stifled his childhood.
(Staring off to his left, toward his unseen parents.)
All right! I’m coming!
(The chanting stops. Loyal stares up again.)
I knew I was never going to be president. So instead I made love to
them. Every year. Here. Staring up into their enormous, gentle eyes—
wishing that one of them, any of them, all of them were my real father.
Wishing I could whisper into their ears the words I’ve saved for tonight—
when I’m finally eighteen, and here.
(A beat. He takes a deep breath.)
Tyler poked Taylor Fillmore pierced Buchanan Tyler poked Taylor
Fillmore pierced Buchanan Tyler poked Taylor Fillmore pierced Buchanan
Tyler poked . . .
(Slow fade to black.)
WAR DADDY [1]
Jim Grimsley

The Play: War Daddy tells the story of two groups of orphaned teenagers
drafted against their will into feuding militia groups in an unnamed war-
torn country. One group travels with Eddie, the son of a famous general,
General Potent; while the other group, led by General Handsome, aims to
capture Potent’s son and use him to barter for more power. As the teens
fight for survival, they struggle to comprehend what it means to engage in a
war that has raged for so long that no one remembers when it began, or
why. When the two groups finally collide, the resolution is anything but
expected. War Daddy examines what happens when future generations
inherit the battles we begin, asking the question: What is the meaning of
peace if it’s something we have to kill for?

Time and Place: The future. A war-torn small town in a nameless country.

The Scene: Prick, “definitely a guy”; a member of General Handsome’s

army in pursuit of the other group of teens—a lover of war.

•••
PRICK: I don’t like to talk. Some of the other jerks do, but I don’t. We’re all
jerks in this squad except Mouth. Mouth gives the orders, Mouth knows the
high commander personally. Mouth asked for volunteers for this mission
and I was the first one to sign up.
Me, I like the killing part. Other people think the war should be over. I
don’t. I like the war. It gives me what I want. It gives me a gun. It gives me
people to use it on. I’m strong because of the war. The war needs me, and I
need it, and that’s the way it is.
War all the time. War every day. That’s the slogan. I heard it since I
was a kid. My dad would say it. My granddad would say it. War all the
time.
Why do we fight? All that crap. We talk about it all the time. You
probably heard it already, us or some other dumb jerks. We fight to be free.
The price of liberty is never free. Crap. If you have to kill to be free, what’s
free? It’s crap, that’s what. Killing’s just killing. Plain as that. And that’s
who I am, the one with the gun. That’s the only ambition I have.
You think you’re better than me? You don’t live here.
WAR DADDY [2]
Jim Grimsley

The Play: War Daddy tells the story of two groups of orphaned teenagers
drafted against their will into feuding militia groups in an unnamed war-
torn country. One group travels with Eddie, the son of a famous general,
General Potent; while the other group, led by General Handsome, aims to
capture Potent’s son and use him to barter for more power. As the teens
fight for survival, they struggle to comprehend what it means to engage in a
war that has raged for so long that no one remembers when it began, or
why. When the two groups finally collide, the resolution is anything but
expected. War Daddy examines what happens when future generations
inherit the battles we begin, asking the question: What is the meaning of
peace if it’s something we have to kill for?

Time and Place: The future. A war-torn small town in a nameless country.

The Scene: Lazy, another one of General Handsome’s squad— who says
he’s just like Prick, except he doesn’t like to work so hard. He’s tired of
listening to Mouth, a female member and leader in their group who speaks
for everyone.

•••
LAZY: I kill people because I like it. The other jerks in the squad think I’m
lying. They think it’s just talk, because I’m trying to copy Prick. But I really
am just like Prick, only lazier. I like what we do, I like fighting in the army,
and I wouldn’t change a thing about it. I got no theories. But I got this
difference with Prick, I don’t like to work so hard.
 The one I really want to shoot is Mouth. I think about that all the time.
Sticking the barrel of my gun between those lips and shooting. Man, I’m so
sick of hearing it day in and day out. I mean, I’m here, I’m in uniform, I’m
doing my part for freedom and justice and the boss’s bottom line, but I still
have to hear this crap all the time. The individual is the atom of history.
Even the smallest person’s sacrifice can make a difference. We can win if
we all pull together. Now is not the time to question our leaders. You’re
damn right it’s not. Not while I’m out here waiting to get my ass blown up.
I mean, sure, I’m all right with killing people. But I’m not so all right
with the idea that somebody might do the same to me. Prick doesn’t seem to
care, Prick acts like nothing can kill him. But I think I could die from
cutting myself while I’m shaving, I think it’s like that. That’s the kind of
stuff that goes on in my head that makes me not such a good killer, like
Prick. I’m too worried that I might be the one to get it.
Mostly what I like to do is to lie around and think about stuff. Like
dirty stuff. Or like what I want to eat. Or like what I would tell my dad if I
ever saw him again. Or if I had a brother and sister, what that would be like.
Mostly that’s what I like to do, think about stuff.
WAR DADDY [3]
Jim Grimsley

The Play: War Daddy tells the story of two groups of orphaned teenagers
drafted against their will into feuding militia groups in an unnamed war-
torn country. One group travels with Eddie, the son of a famous general,
General Potent; while the other group, led by General Handsome, aims to
capture Potent’s son and use him to barter for more power. As the teens
fight for survival, they struggle to comprehend what it means to engage in a
war that has raged for so long that no one remembers when it began, or
why. When the two groups finally collide, the resolution is anything but
expected. War Daddy examines what happens when future generations
inherit the battles we begin, asking the question: What is the meaning of
peace if it’s something we have to kill for?

Time and Place: The future. A war-torn small town in a nameless country.

The Scene: Nickel, another of Handsome’s young soldiers, who’s tired of

being hungry all the time, and isn’t worth a dime.

•••
NICKEL: My ma says she always called me nickel because I wasn’t worth a
dime. My ma was American, a nickel is American money, or it was. She got
shot when General Potent invaded Handsomeland. He sent tanks and
infantry through my town. Ma and me were living on the street, begging
and stealing. Mostly stealing because begging didn’t do much good any
more, nobody had anything to share.
 I can remember being hungry. Sometimes we had nothing to eat for so
many days I lost track. These days we might skip a meal, sometimes; but
that’s nothing like what I used to go through. These days I get a little
hungry on a march, but in those days, I would get hungry enough my
stomach would knot into a marble right here, right in my gut, and even then
I wouldn’t get anything to eat.
We eat pretty good in the army. We eat a lot of beans and potted meat
and bread that’s usually pretty stale. Who knows the difference when you
never get it fresh? You get used to stale bread after a while.
When we’re on patrol like this we eat dry rations. It’s like gnawing
ropes with the flavor of meat. But I even like to eat that.
Give me a sweet any day. Give me candy or a nice piece of fresh fruit
like we hardly ever get any more. Give me canned peaches or a bar of
chocolate, and I’ll shoot anybody you want me to. I’ll shoot my own
mother, who never wanted me to be in the army in the first place. I guess
she wanted me to starve to death, like she did.
WAR DADDY [4]
Jim Grimsley

The Play: War Daddy tells the story of two groups of orphaned teenagers
drafted against their will into feuding militia groups in an unnamed war-
torn country. One group travels with Eddie, the son of a famous general,
General Potent; while the other group, led by General Handsome, aims to
capture Potent’s son and use him to barter for more power. As the teens
fight for survival, they struggle to comprehend what it means to engage in a
war that has raged for so long that no one remembers when it began, or
why. When the two groups finally collide, the resolution is anything but
expected. War Daddy examines what happens when future generations
inherit the battles we begin, asking the question: What is the meaning of
peace if it’s something we have to kill for?

Time and Place: The future. A war-torn small town in a nameless country.

The Scene: Poker, a young guy and soldier for General Handsome, who
wonders who started the war, and why?

•••
POKER: I grew up with a gun in my hand. I always knew I had to fight. My
dad taught me how to shoot. We were in the backyard. I was a really little
kid then, I didn’t know anything. We had two rooms in a house, me and my
dad and my mom and my sister.
I was just a little kid with the gun. I couldn’t shoot it at first because it
kicked too hard. It was a pistol, I don’t even know what kind.
 Where we lived was not in Handsomeland. We were under another
general, I was too little to remember the name. Everything was quiet and
peaceful and I went to school and learned my letters and numbers with all
the rest of the kids and I had friends and enemies and we played together
and then General Handsome came and bombed the school and killed most
of the parents and put me in one of the recruit camps and because I knew
my letters and numbers, I had to teach the other kids in the camp. My sister
was there for a while and then they took her away. I never saw her after
that. I still look for her sometimes, when I’m in a crowd. I wonder what she
might look like.
We were happy and then General Handsome came and nobody was
happy any more and now I’m fighting for him and I don’t even know why.
Except that’s what people tell me I’m supposed to do, and that’s all I hear.
So they gave me this gun, and I have it, and I might as well use it to kill
some people, since it’s all such a mess out there anyway.
I wonder who started the war, and why? How long ago was it that the
war began? I don’t say any of this out loud, and I’m careful with my face so
none of these jerks can tell what I’m thinking. Especially Mouth. I don’t
want Mouth to know I have any questions. Mouth knows the general
personally, that’s why he sent Mouth out to hunt for General Potent’s son.
So I keep quiet, I keep my questions to myself. But I still wonder, who
started the war, why did it have to happen, and why couldn’t anybody stop
it once it started?
Song Lyrics as Monologues
•••
In the Conservatory at American Conservatory Theater, we often explore
song lyrics as spoken word in acting class. Song lyrics, especially by gifted
poetic writers, offer a wonderful opportunity to deepen the actor’s language
skills. The canon of dramatic literature frequently requires the actor to
artfully communicate heightened language, where the character speaks in
poetic form. Although this is common in much classical drama, more and
more contemporary playwrights are working in heightened language. Note
the work of Tony Kushner, Constance Congdon, Cheryl Churchill, Mac
Wellman, and others. Today’s actors need to be skillful at communicating
all kinds of language if they want to work on the many stages in this
country.

Beyond using song lyrics in acting classes to sharpen language techniques,

we have also produced full musical theater productions using contemporary
composers’ work to frame a journey seen through youthful eyes. Our
repertory of new music theater work in this style has included: Dangling
Conversations: The Music of Simon and Garfunkle; Forever Young: The
Music of Bob Dylan; and Ladies of the Canyon: The Music of Joni Mitchell.
In these productions (each produced in cooperation with the particular
composer), the lyrics serve as the mode of communication. Much like a
chamber opera, the collection of songs are stitched together and staged into
a seamless performance, scene by scene (song by song), culminating in an
interesting glance at the arch of the composer’s body of work, refracted
through the lens of the teen point of view. We found that their storytelling in
song is universal and ageless. The lyric as a poetic form offered delicious
opportunities to create characters and scenes. In fact, in rehearsals, we
always began with the song as a monologue before we add music to the
mix. Next, we’ve offered some of Dylan’s lyrics for you to explore as
monologues—speeches spoken by characters in need of particular
intentions. We hope you too find the value in exploring the form and
structure of a unique form of character communication.
 LYRICS BY BOB DYLAN

BOB DYLAN’S DREAM

While riding on a train goin’ west,
I fell asleep for to take my rest.
I dreamed a dream that made me sad,
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had.

With half-damp eyes I stared to the room

Where my friends and I spent many an afternoon,
Where we together weathered many a storm,
Laughin’ and singin’ till the early hours of the morn.

By the old wooden stove where our hats were hung,

Our words were told, our songs were sung,
Where we longed for nothin’ and were quite satisfied
Talkin’ and a-jokin’ about the world outside.

With haunted hearts through the heat and cold,

We never thought we could ever get old.
We thought we could sit forever in fun
But our chances were really a million to one.
As easy it was to tell black from white,
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right.
And our choices were few and the thought never hit
That the one road we traveled would ever shatter and split.

How many a year has passed and gone,

And many a gamble has been lost and won,
And many a road taken by many a friend,
And each one I’ve never seen again.

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,

That we could sit simply in that room again.
Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat,
I’d give it all gladly if our lives could be like that.

While riding on a train goin’ west,

I fell asleep for to take my rest.
I dreamed a dream that made me sad,
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had.
A HARD RAIN’S A-GONNA FALL
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways,
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard,
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?

Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’,
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’,
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?

And what did you hear, by darling young one?
I heard the sound of thunder, it roared out a warnin’,
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’,
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’,
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’,
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?

Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore the rain starts a-fallin’,
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’,
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’,
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.
Yes, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.
CHIMES OF FREEDOM
Far between sundown’s finish an’ midnight’s broken toll
We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing
Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
An’ for each an’ ev’ry underdog soldier in the night
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

In the city’s melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched

With faces hidden while the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin’ rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning
Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an’ forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin’ constantly at stake
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail

The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder
That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder
Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
An’ the unpawned painter behind beyond his rightful time
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales

For the disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken-for-granted situations
Tolling for the deaf an’ blind, tolling for the mute
Tolling for the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chased an’ cheated by pursuit
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Even though a cloud’s white curtain in a far-off corner flashed

An’ the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An’ for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught

Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
 PERMISSION ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THE ACTOR. ©2003 by Horton Foote. Reprinted by permission of Peter Hagan, The Gersh Agency,
41 Madison Ave., New York, NY 10010. Contact The Gersh Agency for performance rights.
A.M. SUNDAY. ©2002 by Jerome Hairston. Reprinted by permission of Ronald Gwiazda,
Rosenstone/Wender, 38 E. 29th St., New York, NY 10016. The entire text has been published
by Smith and Kraus in Humana Festival 2002: The Complete Plays. Contact
Rosenstone/Wender for performance rights.
AFTER JULIET. © by Sharman Macdonald. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent. All
inquiries should be directed to St John Donald, United Agents, 130 Shaftesbury Avenue,
London WC2 England, 011-44 (207)166-5278, glewis@united agents.co.uk
THE AUTOMATA PIETÀ . ©2006 by Constance Congdon. Reprinted by permission of the author.
For performance rights, contact the Joyce Ketay Agency, 630 9th Ave. #706, New York, NY
10036.
BABY WITH THE BATHWATER. ©1984 by Christopher Durang. Reprinted by permission of
International Creative Management, Inc., 40 W. 57th st., New York, NY 10019. The entire
text has been published in an acting edition by Dramatists Play Service (440 Park Ave. S.,
New York, NY 10016) which also handles performance rights.
BE AGGRESSIVE. ©2003 by Annie Weisman. Reprinted by permission of John Buzzetti, The
Gersh Agency, 41 Madison Ave., New York, NY 10010. The entire text has been published by
Dramatists Play Service (440 Park Ave. S., New York, NY 10016) which also handles
performance rights.
A BIRD OF PREY. ©1997 by Jim Grimsley. Reprinted by permission of Peter Hagan, The Gersh
Agency, 41 Madison Ave., New Your, NY 10010, who also handles performance rights.
BOB DYLAN’S DREAM. ©1963 by Warner Bros., Inc. Copyright renewed 1991 by Special Rider
Music. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Reprinted by permission of
Special Rider Music, Box 860, New York, NY 10278.
BREATH, BOOM. ©2003 by Kia Corthron. Reprinted by permission of International Creative
Management, 40 W. 57th St., New York, NY 10019. The entire text has been published in an
acting edition by Dramatists Play Service (440 Park Ave. S., New York, NY 10016), which
also handles performance rights.
BROKEN HALLELUJAH © by Sharman Macdonald. Reprinted by permission of the author’s
agent. All inquiries should be directed to St John Donald, United Agents, 130 Shaftesbury
Avenue, London WC2 England, 011-44 (207)166-5278, glewis@united agents.co.uk
BURIED CHILD. ©1979, by Sam Shepard. Reprinted by permission of Judy Boals, Judy Boals,
Inc., 307 W. 38th St. #812, New York, NY 10018. The entire text has been published in an
acting edition by Dramatists Play Service (440 Park Ave. S., New York, NY 10016), which
also handles performance rights.
CELEBRATION. ©1969 by Tom Jones. Copyright Renewed. Reprinted by permission of the author.
For performance rights, contact Music Theatre International, 421 W. 54th St., New York, NY
10019.
CHANGES OF HEART. ©1999 by Stephen Wadsworth Zinsser. Reprinted by permission of Bret
Adams Ltd., 448 W. 44th St., New York, NY 10036. The entire text has been published in an
acting edition by Samuel French, Inc. (45 W. 25th St., New York, NY 10010), which also
handles performance rights.
CHIMES OF FREEDOM. ©1964 by Warner Bros., Inc. Copyright renewed 1992 by Special Rider
Music. Reprinted by permission of Special Rider Music. All rights reserved. International
copyright secured.
CRUMBS FROM THE TABLE OF JOY. ©1998 by Lynn Nottage. Reprinted by permission of Peter
Hagan, The Gersh Agency, 41 Madison Ave., New York, NY 10010. The entire text has been
published in an acting edition by Dramatists Play Service (440 Park Ave. S., New York, NY
10016), which also handles performance rights.
CURSE OF THE STARVING CLASS. ©1976 by Sam Shepard. Copyright renewed. Reprinted by
permission of Judy Boals, Judy Boals, Inc., 307 W. 38th St. #812, New York, NY 10019. The
entire text has been published in an acting edition by Dramatists Play Service (440 Park Ave.
S., New York, NY 10016) which also handles performance rights.
DUST © by Sarah Daniels. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent. All inquiries should be
directed to Mel Kenyon, Casarotto Ramsay & Associates Limited, Waverly House, 7-12 Noel
St London W1F 8GO UK 0044 20 7287 4450 [email protected]
FINER NOBLE GASES. ©2002 by Adam Rapp. Reprinted by permission of the Joyce Ketay
Agency, 630 9th Ave. #706, New York, NY 10036. The entire text has been published by
Smith and Kraus in Humana Festival 2002: The Complete Plays. Contact the Joyce Ketay
Agency for performance rights.
A HARD RAIN’S A-GONNA FALL. ©1963 by Warner Bros., Inc. Copyright renewed 1991 by
Special Rider Music. Reprinted by permission of Special Rider Music. All rights reserved.
International copyright reserved.
LA TURISTA. ©1968 by Sam Shepard. Copyright renewed. Reprinted by permission of Judy Boals,
Judy Boals, Inc., 307 W. 38th St. #812, New York, NY 10018. The entire text has been
published in Sam Shepard, Seven Plays. Performance rights are handled by Samuel French,
Inc., 45 W. 25th St., New York, NY 10010.
THE LESS THAN HUMAN CLUB. ©1996 by Timothy Mason. Reprinted by permission of the
author. For performance rights, contact the author c/o Smith and Kraus Inc.,
licensing@smithand kraus.com.
MOONTEL SIX. ©2005 by Constance Congdon. Reprinted by permission of the author. For
performance rights, contact the Joyce Ketay Agency, 630 9th Ave. #706, New York, NY
10036.
NIGHTSWIM. ©by Julia Jordan. Reprinted by permission of John Buzzetti, The Gersh Agency, 41
Madison Ave., New York, NY 10010. CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby
warned that Nightswim is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of
the United States of America and of all countries covered by the International Copyright
Union (including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth), and of
all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright Convention and the Universal
Copyright Conventional, and of all countries with which the United States has reciprocal
copyright relations. All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, recitation,
lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound taping, all other forms
of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as information storage and retrieval systems
and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved.
Particular emphasis is laid upon the matter of readings, permission for which must be secured
from the author’s agent in writing. The stage performance rights in Nightswim are controlled
exclusively by The Gersh Agency, 41 Madison Avenue, 33rd floor, New York, NY 10010. No
professional or nonprofessional performance of the play (excluding the first class professional
 performance) may be given without obtaining in advance the written permission of The Gersh
Agency, and paying the requisite fee. Inquiries concerning all rights should be addressed to
The Gersh Agency, 41 Madison Avenue, 33rd floor, New York, NY 10010. Attn: John
Buzzetti.
NONE OF THE ABOVE. ©2005 by Jenny Lyn Bader. Reprinted by permission of the William
Morris Agency, Inc., 1325 Ave. of the Americas, New York, NY 10019. The entire text has
been published in an acting edition by Samuel French, Inc. (45 W. 25th St., New York, NY
10019) which also handles performance rights.
OLD WICKED SONGS. ©by Jon Marans. Reprinted by permission of Bruce Ostler, Bret Adams
Ltd., 448 W. 44th St., New York, NY 10036. The entire text has been published in an acting
edition by Dramatists Play Service (440 Park Ave. S., New York, NY 10016) which also
handles performance rights.
THE PLAY ABOUT THE BABY. ©2002 by Edward Albee. Reprinted by permission of the William
Morris Agency, Inc., 1325 Ave. of the Americas, New York, NY 10019. The entire text has
been published in an acting edition by Dramatists Play Service (440 Park Ave. S., New York,
NY 10016) which also handles performance rights.
A PREFACE TO THE ALIEN GARDEN. ©1999 by Robert Alexander. Reprinted by permission of
the author. The entire text has been published by Broadway Play Publishing (56 E. 81st St.,
New York, NY 10028-0202) which also handles performance rights.
QUINT AND MISS JESSEL AT BLY. ©1997 by Don Nigro. Reprinted by permission of the author.
The entire text has been published by Smith and Kraus in New Playwrights: The Best Plays of
2000. For performance rights, contact Samuel French, Inc., 45 W. 25th St., New York, NY
10010.
ROCK SCISSORS PAPER. ©2002 by Deb Margolin. Reprinted by permission of the author.
SCHOOLGIRL FIGURE. ©2004 by Wendy MacLeod. Reprinted by permission of Playscripts, Inc.
(Box 237060, New York, NY 10023. www.playscripts.com) which also handles performance
rights.
SECOND CLASS. ©1998 by Brad Slaight. Reprinted by permission of Deirdre Shaw, Baker’s Plays
(Box 699222, Boston, MA 02269-9222) which has published the entire text in an acting
edition and which handles performance rights.
SIX. ©2004 by Timothy Mason. Reprinted by permission of the author. For performance rights,
contact the author c/o Smith and Kraus, Inc, [email protected].
SMOKING LESSON. ©by Julia Jordan. Reprinted by permission of John Buzzetti, The Gersh
Agency, 41 Madison Ave., New York, NY 10010. CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are
hereby warned that Smoking Lesson is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the
copyright laws of the United States of America and of all countries covered by the
International Copyright Union (including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British
Commonwealth), and of all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright Convention
and the Universal Copyright Conventional, and of all countries with which the United States
has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture,
recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound taping, all
other forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as information storage and
retrieval systems and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are
strictly reserved. Particular emphasis is laid upon the matter of readings, permission for which
must be secured from the author’s agent in writing. The stage performance rights in Smoking
Lesson are controlled exclusively by The Gersh Agency, 41 Madison Avenue, 33rd floor, New
York, NY 10010. No professional or nonprofessional performance of the play (excluding the
first class professional performance) may be given without obtaining in advance the written
permission of The Gersh Agency, and paying the requisite fee. Inquiries concerning all rights
 should be addressed to The Gersh Agency, 41 Madison Avenue, 33rd floor, New York, NY
10010. Attn: John Buzzetti.
THE STRAITS. ©by Gregory Burke. Reprinted by permission of Faber & Faber, 3 Queen Sq.,
London WC1N 3AU, England, who have published the entire text of the play.
TIME ON FIRE. ©1998 by Timothy Mason. Reprinted by permission of the author. For
performance rights, contact the author c/o Smith and Kraus, Inc,
[email protected].
TYLER POKED TAYLOR. ©by Lee Blessing. Reprinted by permission of Judy Boals, Judy Boals,
Inc. 307 W. 38th St. #812, New York, NY 10018, which also handles performance rights.
WAR DADDY. ©2003 by Peter Hagan, The Gersh Agency, 41 Madison Ave., New York, NY 10010.
Contact Mr. Hagan for performance rights.
CRAIG SLAIGHT is the Director of the Young Conservatory at American Conservatory Theater. As
both a director and an acting teacher, Slaight has worked passionately to provide a creative and
dynamic place for young people to learn and grow in theater arts. With a particular commitment to
expanding the body of dramatic literature available to young people, Slaight has published seven
anthologies with Smith and Kraus Publishers, Great Scenes from the Stage for Young Actors, and
Great Scenes for Young Actors Volume II, Great Monologues for Young Actors, Great Scenes and
Monologues for Children, Multicultural Scenes for Young Actors, Multicultural Monologues for
Young Actors, and Short Plays for Young Actors, coedited by A.C.T.’s Jack Sharrar. Great
Monologues for Young Actors, Multicultural Monologues for Young Actors, and Multicultural Scenes
for Young Actors were selected by the New York Public Library as Outstanding Books for the
Teenage. Additionally, Slaight created the New Plays Program at A.C.T.’s Young Conservatory in
1989 with the mission to develop plays by professional playwrights that view the world through the
eyes of the young. The first nine New Plays are collected in Smith and Kraus Publisher’s New Plays
from A.C.T.’s Young Conservatory, Volumes I and II. Volume II also received recognition from the
New York Public Library as an Outstanding Book for the Teenage in 1997. Educated in Michigan in
Theater and English, Slaight taught at the junior and senior high school, college, and university
levels, prior to moving to Los Angeles, where he spent ten years as a professional director (directing
such notables as Julie Harris, Linda Purl, Betty Garrett, Harold Gould, Patrick Duffey, and Robert
Foxworth). Slaight is currently a member of the Artistic Team at A.C.T. and frequently serves on the
directing staff with the professional company. In addition to the work at A.C.T., Slaight is a
consultant to the Educational Theater Association, the National Foundation for Advancement in the
Arts, and is a frequent guest artist, speaker, workshop leader, and adjudicator for festivals and
conferences throughout the country. In August of 1994, Slaight received the President’s Award from
The Educational Theater Association for outstanding contributions to youth theater. In January of
1998 Carey Perloff chose Slaight to receive the first annual A.C.T. Artistic Director’s Award. Slaight
makes his home in San Francisco, California.

JACK SHARRAR is Director of Academic Affairs for the American Conservatory Theater, where he
teaches in the M.F.A. program. He has served as a theater panelist for the National Foundation for
Advancement of the Arts, has taught both university and secondary theater arts for over thirty years,
and is a member of Actors’ Equity Association and the Screen Actors Guild. His performance credits
include roles at Michigan Repertory Theater, Mountainside Theater, the BoarsHead Theater, Theatre
40, Pioneer Theatre Company, A.C.T. studios, numerous media roles, and direction of over fifty plays
and musicals. He is author of Avery Hopwood, His Life and Plays (UMI Press); contributor to Oxford
University Press’ The American National Biography and “The Gay and Lesbian Theatrical Heritage:
A Biographical Dictionary of Major Figures in American Stage History in the Pre-Stonewall Era”
(UMI Press); coeditor (with Craig Slaight) of numerous award-winning volumes of scenes and
monologues for young actors published by Smith and Kraus, “Up In Avery’s Room,” a play; and
“Avery Hopwood at 16: Second Thoughts on First Nights: The Diary of James Avery Hopwood,
August 29–December 31, 1898.” He has adapted Hopwood’s Far and Warmer; or, Tessie Steps Out!,
and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Debutante (Playscripts, Inc.). He is a graduate of the University of
Michigan and holds a Ph.D. in theater history and dramatic literature from the University of Utah.