Monologue Exemplars

Exemplar 1:

(An old man, about 80 years old, sits in a faded armchair in the corner of a cluttered, messy bedroom. The light shines in from a street lamp outside, but otherwise it is getting dark.)

I aint what I used to be. But, honest to God, you know, I dunno if I used to be either. (He sniffs, loudly.) When I was little, I wanted to be an actor. Real movie star, you know. Now? Tired of acting, to tell the truth. What I wouldn’t give to be real. To be me. Only trouble is, honest to God, you know, I dunno who that is. (He sniffs again, reaches deep in his pocket to take out a dirty handkerchief, sniffs again and spits loudly into it.) They’re out there now, you know. Never flippin’ leave. You wouldn’t know, but, honest to God, they aint in it for the love, if you know what I mean. It’s all about money. Thieving little bastards. They’d dump me as soon as look at me, honest to God, if I didn’t make it worth their while. Precious little love there, I’m telling you.

(There is a sound of heavy footsteps on stairs, the clink of china and cutlery, and something scrapes briefly on the outside of the bedroom door.)

Feeding time at the zoo. Wonder what it'll be like tonight. Bleedin' cabbage, I shouldn't wonder. Meat and two veg, with an extra helping of taking the piss. Honest to God, you'd think they could knock on the door and bring it in. Come and put it on my lap. Wouldn't kill them, you know. I wouldn't bite.

(This time, when he coughs into his handkerchief, there is blood. He pauses for a second, contemplates the fact, and then screws up the handkerchief and stuffs it quickly in his pocket.)

Doctor said I'm dying. Patted me gently on the shoulder, honest to God, and said I only had weeks left. Weeks left! Bet they're circling like vultures now. Circling and waiting for this old man to piss off and leave them be.

A man's got to eat, though. (He coughs again, splutters, and spits out more blood.) Nothing 'grand' about this father, honest to God. Scraps on the floor, but beggars can't choose. Didn't used to be like that, you know. (He walks to the door, opens it, and bends down, in pain, to pick up the tray of food.) I used to want to be an actor. When I was little. Honest to God...

Exemplar 2:

(A teenage girl sits on the edge of her bed, legs crossed, with headphones on and rocking gently to unheard music. Suddenly, she looks to the audience, takes off her headphones, and begins to speak.)

Typical: a premature peace offering before war had even been declared.

You keep your distance with a system of touch
And gentle persuasion

I was sitting in my bedroom, headphones clasped to my ears.

Tears for Fears. (How ironic.)

Head Over Heels. (My natural state, these days.)

Mum has started knocking on my door whenever she wants to see me. She says she is treating me like a grown-up; when all I want is to be treated like a child.

But I have taken to hiding in the sonic shelter of my headphones, and so I did not hear the knock on the door tonight, my heart jolting when she entered and dropped her hand on my shoulder. The headphone cord pulled on the music system and the record screeched as the needle, wisely, fled the scene.

Nothing ever changes when you’re acting your age.

Apparently.

“I hate it when you do that, mum," I said. "Look at that record! It’s ruined. I may as well throw it away.” And I grabbed the disk from the turntable and snapped it in two, tiny splinters of black vinyl spraying over both of us, one lodging itself in her left eye.

(She gets up off the bed and walks to the sideboard, gazing into the mirror.)

I stopped moving – breathing, even, for a moment – as she stared at her daughter, the silence punctured only by the rattle and swish of the turntable hitting the loose needle on each new spin. And then I saw it: just a trickle, a loose thread of deepest vermillion unravelling from the corner of her eye. So used to crying – especially in front of me – she carelessly brushed it away with her finger, but this smudged the red line creeping down her now crimson cheek.

As she lifted her hand to dry this persistent tear, she saw the red on her fingertip, and her startled expression made me laugh. I couldn't help it.

“When did you take her place, Saffy?" she snarled. "What happened to my little girl?” As she marched from the room, her hand an improvised gutter beneath the scarlet overflow, she threw the parcel on to my bed, and the tissue paper ripped as she did so, its secret spilling out on to my white duvet. (I preserve my innocence where I can.) The dress was velveteen, and dank with deepest indigo. I didn't need to read the label. I knew it wasn't from her.

(She goes back to her bed, puts back on her headphones, closes her eyes, and rocks again.)