Leaving - Dramatic - Female - Ages 20 to 25 - 1 minute

But you're not coming--you're never coming! 15 years I've known you, and never once did you "come over." Always, always, you're on your way out the door. And I always let you go thinking this time--this time he'll turn around. He'll look back at me. He'll come back. But you're always leaving. But not this time, Fritz. Not this time. This time I'm leaving. This time I'm walking out. And I'm not turning around.

The Tub - Dramatic - Female - Ages 16 to 22 - 1 minute

--From the play Death by Drowning--

I had a dream. I was at a concert where the lead singer was naked, standing in a huge vat of water. They were pumping air bubbles through a pipe into the tub, making the water look like it was boiling. (slight laugh) It was actually pretty cool...until the singer slipped. (full laugh) He was right in the middle of a long, high note, when suddenly he disappeared from view. I don’t know if they didn’t put treads down on the bottom of the tub or what. At first we thought it was supposed to happen, but then the man began to flail--he was a boy, really, no more than nineteen or so. And you know the funny thing? It took the other people on stage a good five minutes to do anything. They just stood there with their instruments, while their singer struggled to keep his head above water--the tub not large enough to swim, but his feet unable to get a grip on the bottom. When they got him out, he was twitching uncontrollably, exposed before the world there on stage. No one tried to cover him or anything--just let him lie there. I suppose there’s no sense in preserving a person’s dignity when you know they’re gonna die.

Flea Market - Comedic/Dramatic - Female -Ages 14 to18 - 1 minute

--From the play Death by Drowning--

Abby and I went to the flea market once. Well, we went lots of times, but this one time . . . we were standing next to the fruit cart—you know—there’s one at every flea market—the guy with the dirty knit cap pulled over his eyes, with oil stained hands, shoving brown fruit he swears came from Singapore in your face? Heaven only knows why we stopped there. I guess we were looking across the aisle at some sort of . . . knife booth, I think. Abby has this fascination with knifes, it’s very strange. But we were standing there, and this kid came running up from behind us. He was hiding from his mom or something, I think. But he hit the fruit cart—didn’t knock it over, but almost. I turned around just in time to give a warm welcome to flying . . . stuff. Abby, with all her luck, was shielded by my body, but I had a murky grey fruit which smelled like it might have been a tomato once meet my eye, and two mold covered mangos introduced themselves to my thigh. As I stood there, covered in . . . gunk . . . Abby looked at me, and with her usual loving-kindness remarked: “You’d look good in a dumpster.”

Straight Guys Can Dance - Comedic/Dramatic - Male - Ages 16 to 20 - 1 minute

It always came naturally to me. The music. The lines. The way bodies flow together like waves. Some boys are natural athletes. I'm just a natural dancer. Of course, there's a level of mocking that comes with the territory. But, well, the manicures would've done it anyway. Besides, it's not malicious...okay. It's probably malicious.
Oh, but--I'm not--I mean, that's fine, but I'm not--I like girls.
No, I'm not in denial. It's just--have you ever tried being the one straight guy in a sea of...well, not straight guys? You'd think I'd get dates. You'd think I'd get lots of dates. But the girls just look at me and laugh. "I won't be your queer beard, Sam." "Well I don't need you to be my beard, Allie!"
It's not that they don't like me. They just won't believe me. Because straight guys can't dance. But they can. They can! My name is Sam Townes and I am a straight ballerina!

Kyle - Comedic - Female - Ages 20 to 30 - 2 minutes

Do you ever feel like your life is one big practical joke? I never used to. I used to be a proud, self-respecting adult. Until Kyle.
We met in the park. Tip number one: never meet anyone in the park. They are sweaty and dirty and smell like weeds. Not weed. Weeds. I was sitting on a park bench. The same (clean) bench I have sat on for fifty-seven consecutive Monday lunches. He was jogging. On a path I seriously doubt he had ever laid eyes on before. When he saw me--he was at least ten yards away--he completely veered off course to come meet me. You could call it "love at first puddle of sweat dripped into my lap."
Perhaps it was stupid of me, but I took him home. Well! He was just standing there with those big brown eyes--what was I supposed to do?
It's not that he didn't clean up well. His shaggy hair hanging in his face actually gave him a beautiful melancholy look. And he was attentive. One might even say he adored me. But all that sweetness came with a price:
I have never found so much hair on my chartreuse couch cushions. Never! He tracked dirt all through my apartment, left mud streaks in the bathroom, and repeatedly drenched my down comforter by plopping down on it soaking wet!
For two years I put up with all this--two years! All his whining and scuffing the wood floors. His howling for dinner and muddying up my rugs. And all for what?
When I finally kicked him out, he actually cried. But I could only think of the years I'd wasted on him. But my friends tell me I'm overreacting. After all--he's only a dog.

Noise - Dramatic - Female - ages 14 to 19 - 2 minutes

There are few places in my house where I can hide. Even my room is being persistently invaded by the “others” to an extent that I find it almost pointless to spend any time in there. Two places, however, have been found that offer some refuge. The bathroom, and . . . the other bathroom. In there I find silence and solitude—little found commodities. Unfortunately for me, silence is something I can barely endure in small quantities, and in large ones it is simply monstrous. Hence, I spend little time in solitude, pandering to my addiction to noise.
Noise. It surrounds me. Wrapping my mind in a delicious escape into nothingness. The Buddhists want to be absorbed into everything. I want to be absorbed into nothing. If there’s enough noise around me, I hear only peace—that calm soothing sound where I can sleep. And in sleep there is nothing. Nothing but my dreams. Dreams that are always borderline nightmares, but never quite bad enough to justify waking anyone up. So I lie there, with my walking stick in my hand, trying not to scream. Because I am not that strong. You don’t believe me? It’s called acting. You yourself have probably accused teenagers of doing it too much. We know better. We do it to survive. And you can’t survive “too much."

Hospital - Dramatic - Female - ages 18 to 25 - 2 minutes

--from the play Confessions at Knifepoint--

I’m exhilarated as I walk towards the massive, many windowed building, but the elation quickly disappears when I step through the front door. The cold sweeps over me as the warm autumn browns disappear into the ever lengthening whiteness of the tiled hall. The chill in the air comes not from the air conditioning that seems never to be shut off, but from the private, almost clandestine nature of the work being done.
I walk. Down the hall, up the elevator—third floor—fourth—fifth—I step out into a new world. This world is shattered by the sound. Silence. It's unnatural, this silence. The hall is decorated by brightly colored balloons and floating teddy bears. Shapes in the primary colors are in patterns on the floor. And again I walk. One foot in front of the other. Past the open doors. five-oh-four, five-oh-six, five-oh-eight—all the way to the end. Room five-twenty. The door is open today. A good sign.
A white uniform sweeps by me, patting my shoulder, whispering something encouraging in my ear. I step into the room—the bed is empty. My heart stops for just a moment, but there she is, over by the window. My sister. She turns when she hears me. Smiles. How can she smile in this place? I see the bags at her feet and I find myself smiling as well. Today I can take her out of this silent, empty whiteness. I can take her home.