Audition Monologues

Audition Monologue #1 for [title of show]

When I was three, my mother came into my bedroom. It was afternoon, a

summer day, very hot, and the window was open. We had a two-story

house and my bedroom looked onto the back porch roof. I had pushed the

screen out and was looking over the edge of the porch roof. My mother

screamed. I never moved, just looked over the edge all the way to the

ground. I can remember it. Even now. Very clearly. I can feel my little three-

year-old heart beating so fast in my chest.

(Rapidly.)

Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat! Faster and faster. I wondered what

it would be like to fall, to jump, to fly. I didn’t think I would be hurt. Birds

aren’t hurt, and they fly.

Audition Monologue #2 for [title of show]

In Ireland there’s a famous place, the Cliffs of Moher, outside of Galway.

No guards. No guard rails. Nothing but a beaten-down path that meanders

over some grassy mounds. And flat rock slabs smoothed by thousands of

years of rain and wind and the scuffling feet of the curious. People move to

the edge of the cliffs, get down on their stomachs and creep forward . . . to

the edge . . . just so they can peek their heads over and see what is to be

seen. Most, of course, stand back from the edge. Vertigo does exist and

normal people, people who want to lead normal lives don’t stand at the

edge . . . as I did, looking down at the sea . . . not on my stomach . . . but

chest forward . . . leaning into the wind . . . defiant. A woman screamed and

a man yelled “Sweet Jesus, don’t jump!”

(Spreading arms wide.)

But I closed my eyes and leaped from the edge. I spread my arms and they

became wings and I swooped down to the waves, dipping beneath the

foam, then up and up and up towards the sun . . . like Icarus . . . closer and

closer.

(Beat.)

Then I opened my eyes and stepped back from the edge. It was the most

exciting moment I’ve ever experienced in my life. So far.

Audition Monologue #3 for [title of show]

The dream begins. I’m standing in front of an audience. They regard me

with eager anticipation, as if waiting for me to tell them something they’ve

gathered especially to hear. Yes, of course, I believe I do have something

to tell them. I smile. I square my shoulders. I open my mouth―and

suddenly realize I have absolutely nothing to say. I’m not prepared. I’ve

forgotten to prepare! I have a vague recollection of having been told to

prepare, but for some reason I’ve failed to do so.

Perhaps I can improvise. I wonder: What sort of thing would I have

prepared? What might this audience be expecting to hear? Still smiling, I

search the faces before me for a clue. Not one of them seems even

remotely familiar to me. Where am I? Who are these people? Their

answering smiles begin to stiffen and then fade. A few titters pass among

the rows, especially toward the rear, nothing malicious―not yet,

anyway―more as if my silence were a planned part of a humorous act. Is

it? I don’t think so. There is no plan, none I remember.



Audition Monologue #4 for [title of show]

This is it . . . This is the play I’ve been trying to write for fifteen years. I’ve

been close before―third place, the Shenandoah Drama Festival―and a

one-act play actually produced by the local community college. But this one

takes me to the next level. Three years in the making, but when I finally

typed―”Blackout, Curtain, The End”―I knew this one was ready for the big

boys. The Shuberts . . . The Nederlanders . . . the―whoever else produces

on Broadway.

(Pause.)

But―as I always do with everything I write, I put it in a drawer for a full

month to let it ripen―then the revisions. But I’ve got a gut feeling this one is

almost ready as is.

(Reads.)

“Lotus Land. A Drama of Delusion in Two Acts. By Sydney R. Fortescue.”

(Brief Pause.)

“At Rise: An automobile, perhaps a 1971 Pontiac, is sitting in the middle of

an empty stage.”

(Looking dreamily away imagining a theatrical review.)

“Lotus Land―Theatrically Riveting―Rivetingly Theatrical. The New York

Times.”

(Somewhat back to earth.)

I’m not sure “rivetingly” is actually a word. I’ll have to look it up . . . No I

won’t. Let the Times critic look it up. That’s his job. I’m the playwright.