PIA Integrated Arts

Making the Arts for real

Sample Female Monologue

MOTHER-EARTH INCARNATE from STEPMOM
written by Gigi Levangie, Jessie Nelson, Steven Rogers, Karen Leigh Hopkins, Ron Bass

Isabel:
I never wanted to be a mom. Well, sharing it with you is one thing, but caring alone the rest of my life, always being compared to you. You're perfect. They worship you. I just don't want to be looking over my shoulder everyday, for twenty years, knowing that someone would have done it right, done it better, the way I can't. You're mother-earth incarnate, you ride with Anna, you know every story, every wound, every memory. Their whole life's happiness is wrapped in you. Every single moment. Don't you get it? Look down the road to her wedding. I'm in a room alone with her fitting her veil, fluffing her dress. Telling her, no woman has ever looked that beautiful. Any my fear is that (pause) she'll be thinking, "I wish my mom was here". 

Sample Male Monologue

WHAT WILL YOUR VERSE BE? from DEAD POET'S SOCIETY
written by Tom Shulman

Mr. Keating:
In my class, you will learn to think for yourselves again. You will learn to savor the words and languages. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world. I see that look in Mr. Pitt's eyes like 19th Century literature has nothing to do with going to business school or medical school, right? Maybe. You may agree and think yes, we should study Mr. Pritcher and learn our rhyme and meter and go quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions. Well, I have a secret for you. Huddle Up...Huddle Up! We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, Law, Business these are all noble pursuits necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, and love; these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman "Oh me, Oh life of the question recurring, of endless trains of the faithless of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these? Oh me, Oh life." "Answer...that you are here and life exists...You are here. Life exists, and identity. The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

Sample Female Monologue

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME from THE WIZARD OF OZ
written by L. Frank Baum (novel), Noel Langley, Florence Ryerson, and Edgar Allan Woolf

Dorothy:
But it wasn't a dream. It was a place. And you and you and you...and you were there. But you couldn't have been could you? No, Aunt Em, this was a real truly live place and I remember some of it wasn't very nice, but most of it was beautiful--but just the same all I kept saying to everybody was "I want to go home", and they sent me home! Doesn't anybody believe me? But anyway, Toto, we're home! Home. And this is my room, and you're all here and I'm not going to leave here ever, ever again. Because I love you all. And...Oh Auntie Em! There's no place like home!

more FEMALE monologues

There are several other strong monologues here for young women. These are also used for auditions to Earl Haig School of the Arts in Toronto.

http://www.earlhaig.ca/departments/claude/FemaleMonologues.pdf

more MALE monologues

AUDITION MONOLOGUES - MALE
From ZASTROZZI by George F. Walker
Playwrights Canada Press

ZASTROZZI
You are looking at Zastrozzi.  But that means very little.  What means much more is that 
Zastrozzi is looking at you.  Don’t make a sound. Breathe quietly.  He is easily annoyed.  
And when he is annoyed he strikes.   Look at his right arm.  It wields the sword that has 
killed two hundred men.  Watch the right arm constantly.  Be careful not to let it catch 
you unprepared.  But while watching the right arm, do not forget the left arm.  Because 
this man Zastrozzi has no weaknesses.  No weakness at all. Remember that.  Or he will 
have you.  He will have you any way he wants you. 
I am Zastrozzi.  The master criminal of all of Europe.  This is not a boast.  It is 
information.  I am to be feared for countless reasons.  The obvious ones of strength and 
skill with any weapon.  The less obvious ones because of the quality of my mind.  It is 
superb. It works in unique ways.  And it is always working because I do not sleep.  I do 
not sleep because I have nightmares and when you have a mind like mine, you have 
nightmares that can petrify the devil.  Sometimes my mind is so powerful I even have 
nightmares when I am awake and because my mind is so powerful I am able to split my 
consciousness in two and observe myself having a nightmare.  This is not a trick.  It is a 
phenomenon.  I’m having one now.  I have this one often.  In it, I am what I am.  The 
force of darkness.  The clear sane voice of negative spirituality.  Making  everyone 
answerable is the only constant I understand.  Mankind is weak.  The world is ugly.  The 
only way to save them from each other is to destroy them both.

From LEO by Rosa Laborde
Playwrights Canada Press

RODRIGO
Not so close.    Just in case.  It’s dangerous.  Dangerous.  If anyone ever knew…  They 
can’t know.
I’ve always been “different”.  Somehow.  My parents call me an original.  When other 
kids were just playing I was discovering the origins of the game and why we loved to 
play it.  What is the reason?  Why?  I had to know.  I have to know.  “You are not a 
horse,” my father always says, “refuse to wear blinders.”  Give me a problem and I will 
come up with the best possible solution, based on facts, always on facts and on history –
because when you know that which came before and only when you embrace your 
limitations can you possibly hope to make effective decisions that will enable you to 
become closer to the idea of perfection that will save you from the – GOD! I’m an essay 
of myself.  I can’t just – I have no solution for me – I don’t know… every year I grow up 
a little more “different”.  If my parents knew, you think they’d still call me an original?  
And smile when they say it?

From PAPERS by Alan Stratton
Playwrights Canada Press

CHARLES
For six years I have sat at that typewriter.  I have stared at a blank sheet of paper.  And it 
has stared back.  I have sat and sat and stared and stared and nothing has happened.  
Nothing!  Periodically, out of desperation, I have ripped it out and replaced it with 
another.  And another.  And started again.  And again.  And again.  Staring at this blank 
piece of paper.  And it staring back.   I sit and I stare and I sit and I stare, listening to the 
radiator and the relentless tick tick ticking of the clock, while the hours turn to weeks turn 
to months turn to six years, my God and me sitting in the dark staring at a goddamn piece 
of paper that is driving me out of my mind!  And everyone is asking, “What are you 
working on?” “How’s it coming?”  And me saying anything to shut them up.  Anything 
to make the questions go away.  But they don’t.  Every day they get louder.  And how do 
I tell them my voices have left me?  How do I tell myself that?  That – my God - they 
may never come again.  Writing is who I am.  If I don’t write, what am I?   And I sit and I 
sit and I sit trying to forget the clock that tells me life is short, it’s drifting away, it’s 
slipping away like water, I can’t hold it, and every day is another day gone and time is 
running out and I may never write again.

From THE NIGHT NO ONE DIED by Shawn Overton
Dramatic Publishing

KISSINGER
But what would you say, Simon, if I told you that the answer lies not in this room at all 
but in the subtle difference between the air in our current surroundings and that of the 
adjoining hall?  There are, in fact only two odors which permeate this room that would 
have been absent from the other as this young woman passed through.  Shoe polish, the 
scent of which I carried into this room myself, and dust, which the well-trafficked and 
scrupulously cleaned hallway is quite free of.  Ah, but my dear Simon. You are still 
neglecting one vital piece of information.  Sound.  Please recall the mystery began with a 
series of quick sneezes, the first was delivered as she crossed from the hallway, through 
the doorway, and into this room.  The final clue comes when we apply the sense of time 
to this puzzle.  As everyone knows, a sneeze requires nearly three seconds from the initial 
inhalation of contaminants to form. At the average indoor adult female foot speed of one 
and a half meters per second, this would put her approximately eight and two-thirds steps 
from the doorway at the time allergic reaction began.  You have it backwards, Simon, for 
it is not the two scents unique to this room that matter at all, but rather the single scent 
which can be found in the hallway, not in here.  Clivia miniata, that is our culprit!  A 
Kaffir lily, one of which rests on a small round table that would have been mere inches 
from this young lady at the time the chain of events began!

From It’s No Desert  by Dan Stroeh
Backstage Books (Watson-Guptil Publications)

DAN
So I return to the campus in the fall – and chemo-free, with my head slowly getting less 
cloudy, but things are still hard.  My desire to return to acting is almost overwhelming, 
but it seems hopeless.  The first mainstage that goes up is The Glass Menagerie.  And I 
audition.  Don’t get called back.  And I realize, you can’t cast an actor with a limp 
opposite a character whose most distinguishing feature is her limp.  I live in constant 
pain; everything I do hurts.  I can’t dance.  I can’t fence.  I can’t bend over to pick up a 
book or tie my shoes.  I can’t walk smoothly – I can’t run.  I can’t even sit on the floor, 
not gracefully at least, and not if I want to get up again.  This institution that has 
buttressed my life is being pulled away.  And the walls are tumbling down.  I have 
always said that things were okay – as long as I can keep going, things are okay.  Now, I 
don’t have anywhere to go, I don’t have anything to do.  There is this hole somewhere in 
me that only theatre fills – only acting fills – and now it seems like it will always remain 
empty.
I stop referring to myself as an actor.  I know I need somewhere to go, and I turn to the 
page.  Being off chemo means that I’m functioning better and better and so I dive into 
what is to become my new passion: I start writing as much as I possible can.  The more 
my head clears, the more I write, and the more I write, the more in love with it I become.  
And suddenly, the world inside that I had only glimpsed while on chemo starts to pour 
and flow all over the page.

From Watchin by Mark-Leirin Young.
Playwrights Canada Press

HOUSE MANAGER
Hello. I’m your front-of-house manager and I really must apologize to you for the delay 
this evening. The show will be beginning shortly… While we’re waiting I may as well 
tell you a little about the work. As you probably know it’s about a king whose wife is 
raped by two gentlemen – perhaps gentlemen isn’t the word I’m looking for – who cut off 
both her hands and removed her tongue in order she won’t identify them. Eventually, 
however, the husband discovers the ruffians’ identity, bakes them into a pie and serves 
the boys to their parents. It’s a Shakespearean tragedy. That means everybody dies. It’s 
not a very good play actually, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it… And while we’re waiting I’ll 
introduce you to some of the people involved in the show. Fred Jenkins, our lighting 
board operator. Susan Wong, who does our sound. I’d like to introduce you to the author, 
but he couldn’t be with us this evening. That was a joke.

From Soap Opera by David Ives
Grove Press

MADMAN
No! No!  Don’t do it!  Desist!  Forfend!  Don’t touch that toolbox!  Leave!  Run away!  
Flee to the ends of the earth, but for God’s sake forsake the Maypole!  I know  – you 
thought this would be the happiest day of your life.  I though so too, but look at me now.  
A tragic victim of the technological pixilation of our age.  A sacrifice to seamless design.  
A love slave of the machine.   (He throws off the the coat and reveals a shabby 
Repairman uniform.)    I too attained the toolbox.  I too bore the bowtie and cap.  I rose to 
the top of the Maypole pole.  Drawn on by HER!  (Referring to the Maypole washing 
machine.) And I didn’t even have the Ocean IT-40 with automatic lint control and 
gyroscopic spin.  Even the IT-20 was too much for me.  And you know they’re working 
on the Super_IY-90?  How clean can we be?  Oh heaven. Heaven…. But, she doesn’t 
need us.  She doesn’t need fixing.  All she wants is us on our knees before her, adoring 
her.  You’ll never work a day in her life but you’ll never be happy.  You’ll never lift a 
wrench but you’ll never know peace.  Weave yourself an endless handkerchief and start 
weeping your way down it, because she’s got you now.  She won’t rest until she’s got all 
of you.  Every inch of you.  She’ll swallow you up, I tell you.  She is the Great White 
Whale!

From Spring’s Awakening by Frank Wedekind
Applause
MORITZ
It’s better this way.  I don’t belong.  Let the rest of them knock their heads together.  I’ll 
close the door behind me and step out in the open.  Pay for the privilege of being kicked 
around?  I never pushed before.  Why now?  I’ve signed no contract with the Almighty.  
People will make of this what they want.  I’ve been driven to it.  I don’t hold my parents 
responsible.  All the same, they must have been prepared for the worst.  They were old 
enough to know what they were doing.  I was an infant when I came into the world, or no 
doubt I’d have been smart enough to become someone else.  Why should I suffer because 
everyone else was already there?  One would have to be the perfect fool…if someone 
makes me a present of a mad dog I give his mad dog back, well, I’m human and… One 
would have to be the perfect fool.  One is born entirely of chance.  And if, after mature 
consideration – oh, it’s enough to make one want to shoot oneself!  At least the weather’s 
being considerate.  It’s been looking like rain all day, but it’s fine after all.  An unusual 
peace reigns.  In all Nature, not a discordant note.  Earth and sky  – one transparent 
cobweb.  Everything feeling fine.   The whole landscape’s sweet as a lullaby.  “Sleep, 
princeling, sleep, as Fraulein Snandulia sang.  I mustn’t cry again today.  I mustn’t think 
of my funeral.  The mist dissolves.  Life is a matter of taste.

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