Auditions for JUST DESERTS, June 29-30

A call from THOSE WOMEN PRODUCTIONS to Bay Area actors:

 

Auditions upcoming June 29-30 for the premiere of

JUST DESERTS

a new play by Carol S. Lashof

directed by Elizabeth L. Vega

The Furies are dedicated to the principle of a slit throat for a slit throat … until empathy gets in the way.

 

The details:

Roles available: 1M (18-30); 2F. All races & ethnicities encouraged. AEA & non AEA. Prep sides.

Performance dates: 8/29 (Preview), 8/30, 8/31, 9/5, 9/6, 9/7, 9/8, 9/9

Performance location  The Metal Shop Theater, Berkeley (8/29-9/7) and LeFevre Theater, Moraga (9/8-9/9)

Rehearsal dates  8/3-8/28 (All rehearsals in Central Berkeley, near BART)

Audition dates and times: June 29, 1-5 pm and June 30, 7-9 pm

Audition location:  The Flight Deck, 1540 Broadway, Oakland

Pay: $1225 (AEA) $875 (non-AEA) full run.

For further information or to request an audition appointment (send headshot and resume), email Elizabeth Vega ElizabethLVega@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

I Survived the 24-Hour Play Fest!

I want a t-shirt that says, “I survived the 24-Hour Play Fest”!

On Saturday, September 15, the Playwrights Center of San Francisco presented its second (but my first) 24-Hour Play Fest.  The experience was far more exhilarating and artistically satisfying than I could have imagined—and every bit as exhausting as I expected it to be.

For the playwrights, the adventure began on Friday evening about 6 pm at Theatre 250 on Mission Street when we (Vonn Scott Bair, Rachel Bublitz, Gaetana Caldwell-Smith, Modecai Cohen Ettinger, Jerome Joseph Gentes, Laylah Muran, and I) gathered to draw little slips of paper out of a hat.  By virtue of this wonderfully random process, we were each assigned actors and a director, and were collectively assigned a theme: “That’s Not True!”  We met briefly with our ensembles.  Then we went home to write a play for them.

7:45 pm on Friday: Since the sorting hat has assigned me a cast of four—three women and one man—my fancies turn to Macbeth and the witches … Scratch that, witches are overdone.  How about the witches’ “familiars”—the spirits who attend upon them, or perhaps, actually govern their actions?  Two familiars are named in the text of the Scottish play: Graymalkin and Paddock, a cat and a toad.  Google around to find a third appropriate name:  “Pyewacket.”  For variety, let’s call her a dog.  Set the scene: between life and death.  The time: the day after tomorrow.  Start writing dialogue.  “Pyewacket” rhymes with “thwack it” … If Macbeth had thwacked less and thought more, he might have lived to see tomorrow … Oh, this is fun … Write more silly lines …

And then discover, around about midnight, that my characters have no reason for being.  Why are they here?  What do they want from each other?  Why on earth did I volunteer to write a ten-minute script overnight when I am by nature a slow, deliberative, and matutinal writer?  In other circumstances, I would give the premise up as a bad idea.  But there is a 7 am deadline looming.  It’s way too late and I’m way too wired to come up with a new concept.  So I allow my characters to interrogate each other:  “What do you want from us?” they ask. And lo and behold, they answer.  The Familiars:  We want recognition.  The witches always get all the credit.  Macbeth: I want a chance for a do-over, not to make the same mistakes again.

A little before 4 am, I checked my formatting and e-mailed “The Day After Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow …” to festival producer Jennifer Roberts.  Twice.  Just to be safe.  Then I went to bed and failed to sleep.

Rehearsals were well under way when I walked in the front door of Say Media on 3rd and Townsend shortly after noon on Saturday.  (Thank you, Say Media, for loaning PCSF this fantastic rehearsal space.)  Rising from the stairwell came the clamor of seven casts rehearsing seven new plays.  I found my stalwart ensemble and settled in to watch. Their turn now to work.  My turn for the pleasure of seeing my characters come beautifully to life.

7:45 pm on Saturday:  Back at Theatre 250.  A sold-out show.  In spite of a non-functioning dimmer board, the house lights go down, the stage lights come up.  Paddock croaks.  The audience laughs.

Thanks. And thanks and ever thanks to director Amy Crumpacker and actors Riley Krull, Sarah Nowicke, Shaun Plander, and Ashley Sullivan:  you were brilliant, bold, and resolute!  And off book too.

THE DOGGY IN THE ROOM, a ten-minute play

 When Angela decides to give a dog to her mother as a holiday gift, sibling rivalry threatens to morph into canine homicide … Read THE DOGGY IN THE ROOM, a ten-minute play for two female actors.

 Like all scripts and monologues shared on this site, THE DOGGY IN THE ROOM may be used without charge in classrooms and for auditions.  Any other use requires the author’s permission and may be subject to royalty/licensing fees.

THE DOGGY IN THE ROOM

a ten-minute stage play

by Carol S. Lashof

TIME: The present

PLACE:  The living room of Angie’s apartment in San Francisco

CHARACTERS:

SYDNEY (SYD): A middle-aged woman.

ANGELA (ANGIE):  Also a middle-aged woman, SYD’s younger sister.

THE DOGGY IN THE ROOM

(ANGIE and SYD are sitting at the kitchen table of ANGIE’S  apartment in San Francisco.  They’re wrapping gifts. ANGIE wraps carefully, slowly, meticulously, with sharply creased edges and using lots of curling ribbon.  SYD moves through her stack of presents much more quickly with less attention to detail.  ANGIE hums off key as she wraps.  SYD tolerates the humming as long as she can.  Which isn’t long.  She glares at ANGIE.  ANGIE continues to hum, oblivious.)

SYD

(Sharply)

Maybe you want to put on a CD or something?

ANGIE

My CD player is broken.

SYD

Oh.

(SYD grits her teeth and keeps wrapping.  ANGIE keeps humming.)

Why don’t you let Mom buy you a new one?  You know how she likes to spoil you.

ANGIE

It’s okay.  I’ll get this one fixed.

(A dog barks offstage.)

SYD

What’s that?

ANGIE

What’s what?

SYD

The barking.  It sounds like there’s a dog in your bedroom.

(Pause.  More barking.  ANGIE hums louder, trying to cover the sound of the barking.  The dog’s barking will continue intermittently, but never very loudly or insistently, throughout the scene.)

That has to be a dog.

ANGIE

It doesn’t have to be a dog.  It could be a recording of a dog.  Or a person imitating a dog.

SYD

But it is a dog, isn’t it? In your bedroom?

ANGIE

Well.  Yes.

SYD

You have a dog?  In this apartment.  I didn’t know you were even allowed to have dogs in this building.

ANGIE

She’s a small dog.

SYD

Still.

ANGIE

Her name is Frederica.  She’s an English cocker spaniel.

SYD

(Not a question)

It’s not really a good idea, is it, to have dogs in the city.

ANGIE

I wasn’t planning to keep her in the city.

SYD

You’re moving?

ANGIE

I mean, she’s not really mine.  She’s a gift.

SYD

For who?

(Pause.)

ANGIE

For Mom.

SYD

What?

ANGIE

I got her all her shots and everything.  She’s housebroken.  And I got the special crate you need to take her on the plane, and I made the reservations for her.  I was surprised actually.  It wasn’t that expensive, even with the transfer in Chicago—

SYD

Wait a minute.  This dog is going back to Wisconsin with me?

ANGIE

No.  With Mom.  She’s going with Mom.

SYD

But that means with me.

ANGIE

Mom is Frederica’s owner.  Her guardian, I mean.

SYD

I am already the owner of two cats.  And one of them needs daily insulin shots.  Twice daily.  I can’t deal with a dog.

ANGIE

It’s Mom who will be dealing with her, not you.

SYD

But Mom lives with me.

ANGIE

Don’t worry.  They’ll take good care of each other.  Frederica will be a great source of comfort to Mom.

SYD

Mom is doing just fine.  Without a dog.  She doesn’t need “comfort.”

(Pause.)

And why does a small dog need such a long name?  Four syllables!

ANGIE

She’s named after the opera singer.  But you can call her Freddie.  Or Fred even.

SYD

Frederica!  Freddie!  Fred!  She’s going to be a pain in the ass.

ANGIE

Do you know that dog owners over 65 make 30% fewer doctor’s visits than non-dog owners over 65?  That’s from the Harvard Health newsletter.

SYD

Do you know that dog owners over 65 make thousands of emergency room visits every year due to injuries caused by tripping over their dogs?

ANGIE

Where’d you get that from?

SYD

I don’t remember, but it’s true.  Ask Siri.

(SYD gets out her smart phone and offers it to ANGIE, who waves it away.)

ANGIE

Mom’s smart enough to watch where she’s going.  And Freddie is smart enough to get out of the way.

SYD

Mom does not need a dog.  She’s got me.  And Joel.

ANGIE

But you’re at work all day.  And Joel is leaving for college in September.

SYD

She has friends. Lots of friends.  They go to movies, concerts, lunch, bird watching!  She plays mahjongg! You should see her calendar.  She goes out more than I do.  Way more.

ANGIE

You should go out more often.  It would be good for you.

SYD

We’re taking an early flight home on Saturday morning because Mom has a ticket for a cello concert on Saturday night.  Some classical luminary.

ANGIE

Aren’t you going?

SYD

I can’t.  I have a grant proposal due on Monday.  It was hard enough to take the time off to be here this week, what with helping Joel finish his college applications …

ANGIE

See.  That’s my point.  You have your own life.

SYD

Of course I do.  So do you.  And yours happens to be as far away from Mom as you could get without leaving the country.  Well, the lower 48.

ANGIE

My daughter is living in Hawaii.  I’m splitting the difference.

SYD

And I’m in Madison and Mom’s in Madison and this yappy dog is going to be in Madison.  With me.  In my house.

ANGIE

(Talking over SYD)

Which Mom helped you buy.  And which is, I might add, a very big house.

SYD

(Talking over ANGIE)

Peeing on my rugs.  And scratching my furniture.

ANGIE

And Frederica doesn’t yap.  She barks sometimes, in a friendly sort of way.  Come and meet her.  You’ll love her.  I promise. She’s totally adorable.

(ANGIE stands up and starts to walk towards the bedroom.  SYD remains sitting.)

Or you can wait until tomorrow.  If you want.  At the party.  When I give her to Mom. She’ll be so pretty, curled up under the tree with a big pink satin bow around her collar.  And a cute little tag that says “For Mom.  Love, Angie.” Or maybe I’ll let her jump out of a box, and we can all yell “Surprise”!

SYD

A big pink satin bow? Where did you get that idea?  From a Hallmark commercial?

ANGIE

It doesn’t have to be pink.  Or satin.

(ANGIE shuffles through a pile of ribbons and decorations, holding up one and then another for SYD’s approval.)

How about this one?

(ANGIE wraps one particularly large and gaudy ribbon around her own neck.)

What do you think?

SYD

I think I’m going to strangle you with that goddamned ribbon.  And then I’m going to strangle the goddamned dog.

(SYD reaches for the ribbon.  ANGIE laughs—but nervously—and dodges away from her sister, leaving the ribbon in SYD’s hands.)

ANGIE

You wouldn’t, would you?  You wouldn’t hurt Freddie!

SYD

If you force me to take that canine diva home with me—I can’t promise what I’ll do.

ANGIE

I’m not forcing you to do anything.  I thought you’d be pleased.  Haven’t you always wanted a dog?  I thought you always wanted a dog.

SYD

Me?  No.  It was you.  Every Christmas.  And Hanukkah.  And Kwanzaa.  Every birthday.  Every day in between.  You whined and you begged.  And Mom said no.  Because she knew that she would end up being the one who walked it three times a day and scooped its poop and took it to the vet.  And now you’re trying to get revenge on her by giving her a dog, which she isn’t even going to want.

ANGIE

Her.  She’s a her.  And Mom will walk her and brush her and love her and … and they’ll make each other happy.  Don’t you want Mom to be happy?

SYD

Of course I do, but—but Mom doesn’t even like dogs.

ANGIE

Well, maybe not dogs in general—

SYD

Any creature not capable of intelligent conversation—Mom is not interested.  Simply not interested.  Bored.  By dumb animals.  And babies.

ANGIE

But Frederica.  She will love Frederica.

SYD

You don’t know that.

ANGIE

Yes, I do.  She adores Frederica.

(Long pause.)

SYD

What are you saying?

ANGIE

Mom loves Frederica.

SYD

Are you saying that Mom already knows you’re giving her this dog, that she’s already met the dog?  Because you said it was going to be a surprise at the party tomorrow, so I thought—

ANGIE

I said we would all shout “Surprise!”  I didn’t say Mom would actually be surprised.  She promised to pretend to be surprised.  But of course she already knows.  How could I give her a dog without knowing whether they would like each other?  Besides, she had to sign the adoption papers, didn’t she?  We went to the breeder together, and she picked Frederica out right away.  It was love at first sight.  You should have seen them … well, you will see tomorrow … Freddie crawled into Mom’s lap and nuzzled her cheek.  It was the sweetest thing.

SYD

And what did Mom do?

ANGIE

She cooed.

SYD

She what?

ANGIE

Cooed.  She cooed.  She was in raptures.  She beamed.  She petted her and rubbed her tummy and cooed to her in baby talk.

SYD

You’re talking about our mom?  Our mom “cooed”?  Over a dog?  She talked to it—her—in baby talk?  She beamed!?

(ANGIE imitates their mother fussing over the dog.  She talks in a high, sweet voice.  SYDNEY watches in astonishment.)

ANGIE

Oh, you sweet wittle thing … Aren’t you adorable?  Oh, you are just the cutest wittle doggy in the whole wide world … that’s a good baby … oh, good girl, good girl … who’s my wittle sweetie-poo …

(ANGIE continues to coo and babble, using nonsense words and blowing kisses.  SYD twists and yanks the ribbon in her hands.)

SYD

I don’t believe it.

ANGIE

You will.  When you meet Frederica.  When you see the way Mom babies her.  And the way Frederica curls up in her lap.  And purrs.

SYD

Dogs don’t purr.

ANGIE

This one does.

SYD

And Mom doesn’t fuss. She doesn’t coo.  It’s just not who she is.

(ANGIE shrugs, giving SYD a “wait and see” look.)

Mom never fussed and cooed over us when we were babies.

ANGIE

How would you know?  You couldn’t possibly remember.

SYD

I don’t remember her ever fussing and cooing over her grandchildren.  Do you?

(Pause.  ANGIE thinks about it.)

I would remember if she cooed over Joel.  Did she coo over Amber?

(Longer pause.  The answer is clearly “no.”)

When you and Paul and Amber were living in Chicago, and Mom came to visit for the weekend, did she babysit so you and Paul could have a date night?  Or was she too busy going to the Art Institute and the Symphony?  How many diapers did she change?

ANGIE

You can’t blame her for not liking to change diapers.  Nobody likes to change diapers.

SYD

Did she coo?  Did she beam?  Did she babble away in baby talk?

ANGIE

She took Amber to the ballet.  You remember how much Amber used to love ballet … And she took her to the planetarium as soon as she was old enough.

SYD

Exactly.  Once her grandchildren were old enough to be interested in ballet or art museums or the solar system, once they were old enough to talk and read and get good grades, then she was interested in them.  But not before.  Not when they were babies. Not when they were little helpless bundles of neediness. Our mother is not interested in dumb little creatures who only need to be loved.

(Pause.)

ANGIE

Except Frederica.

SYD

(Ominously)

Except Frederica.

(SYD tugs on both ends of the ribbon in her hands, testing its strength. She walks quickly towards the bedroom door.  ANGIE grabs hold of SYD’s arm, trying to stop her, but SYD breaks free.  She runs into the bedroom and slams and locks the door behind her.  A furious barking erupts. ANGIE pounds on the door, shouting to be heard above the noise of the dog.)

ANGIE

No, Syd!  No!  Don’t!  Please, don’t!  I’ll bring her back to the breeder.  Or I’ll adopt her myself.  I’ll move to a place where I can keep a dog. I promise.  Don’t hurt her.  Please.

(Suddenly the barking stops.  There is a long silence. ANGIE presses her ear to the bedroom door.)

Sydney?  … Frederica? …

(From the other side of the door comes a small, happy “yip,” then the rhythmic thump of a wagging tail hitting a hard wood floor and the coo of an enraptured dog lover.)

SYD

(Off)

Ohhh, aren’t you the sweetest little thing?   Oh, you cutie-pie!  Who’s Mommy’s favorite little baby?  Come here, Freddie.  Give Mommy a kiss …

(And now the dog is purring.  The purring and cooing continue until the lights fade out.)

END OF PLAY

More FREE AUDITION MONOLOGUES for WOMEN

ACTORS & TEACHERS: are you looking for original, unpublished monologues, something the casting director hasn’t heard a dozen, or a thousand, times before? Over the past couple of weeks, I have been posting a variety of monologues on this site. I began with three monologues for women (see post of May 27, 2012) from the play Gap, set in the present at a large urban public high school. I continued with two monologues for men from the same play (see post of June 1, 2012). Today, I post two monologues, both for women. The first is from Disclosure, the second from The Bay at Aulis.

You are free to use any of these monologues in the classroom or for auditions.
Public performances require my express authorization and may be subject to royalties. Contact me for rights or other information: clashof@gmail.com

More MONOLOGUES for WOMEN

from Disclosure
a full-length stage play (3w, 1m)

After keeping a secret for thirty-five years, Maya is determined to disclose the truth, confront the past, and move on. But it proves to be harder than she imagines to talk to the people she loves the most about events that no one else seems to remember. Set in the present in a college town, Disclosure probes the fault lines between memory and narrative; pleasure and transgression; love and the abuse of power.

The following monologue ends act one.

MAYA
(To the audience.)

How many times have I imagined the scene? The confrontation scene. The scene where I gathered all my courage and did the one thing I have most wanted to do, and most feared to do. Dreaded. Longed for. The thing that would change my life forever.

I have imagined the time. The place. Imagined what I would say. Imagined his face when I said it. But then what? Did I think he would grovel, beg for forgiveness?

I don’t know. My imagination leapt ahead to some later time, after the great moment—the great traumatic—and possibly triumphant—at the very least, the climactic or … maybe the catastrophic or the cataclysmic or the apocalyptic … most certainly, the cathartic moment. I imagined how I would feel later, when I had become a different person, a person who was done with the past.

Over it. Done with it. Ready to let the healing begin.

But here is what I did not imagine: what he would say after I said, “This is what you did to me.” What he did say.

Which was: I did? When?

I said: When I was nine, ten, eleven.

He said: Are you sure?

I said, yes, I’m sure. How can you not be sure about something like that? And then, for a moment, I wasn’t.

He said, memory plays tricks. But I am. I am sure.

And he said: It was a long time ago. He said: You were young. He said that he was drunk, that he was drunk a lot in those years. He said he was sorry, sorry for being drunk.

And I said again: Here is what you did to me.

And he said: If I did that, then I’m sorry. But I don’t remember. And then he … shrugged his shoulders. And he said again, sadly, “I’m sorry.” Not meaning, I believe, to be cruel. And I just stood there staring at him, speechless. And after awhile, I turned around and left. Because there was nothing else to say.

———————————————————————-

Opening monologue from The Bay at Aulis
a ten-minute stage play (2w, 1m)

At rise, CLYTEMNESTRA is standing center stage, sharpening a knife. She speaks to the audience.

CLYTEMNESTRA

You think I should welcome him home with open arms? Roll out the red carpet? Ten years away fighting for his country, the victorious war hero deserves a royal welcome—
that’s what you believe. Isn’t it?

(CLYTEMNESTRA has finished sharpening the knife. She examines it, is satisfied, and hides it in the folds of her robe.)

Well, think what you like. But let me tell you—about her. Who she was. Ten years ago.

Each day, before dawn, she fled
the leaden dullness of sleep.
Why sleep?
Sleep is for the old and the drunk
and the dead.
But if age has not yet
dragged you into lethargy,
if time has not transformed
the joy of movement into torpor,
if you are young enough to know
how short
a day is,
then you run
through the dew
or the fog
or the rain.
You run so you will not miss it,
the first light of dawn
breaching the horizon.

So it was with Iphigenia.
So it was that she ran to her father.
To Agamemnon.

And his heart was full of war.

———————————————————————

More FREE AUDITION MONOLOGUES from GAP …

… this time, for men.

ACTORS:  are you looking for original, unpublished monologues, something the casting director hasn’t heard a dozen, or a thousand, times before?  Over the next few weeks, I will be posting a variety of monologues on this site.  I began with three monologues for women (see previous posting) from the play Gap, set in the present at a large urban public high school.   I continue with two monologues for men from the same play.  All of the monologues in Gap are addressed directly to the audience.  They are a form of testimony—what the characters would say if they believed that someone were really listening.

You are free to use any of these monologues in the classroom or for auditions.

Public performances require my express authorization and may be subject to royalties. Contact me for rights or other information: clashof@gmail.com

 

THAT PARTICULAR BATTLE

(RUBEN is a respected and popular teacher of US History and Government at a large public high school.)

RUBEN

Sixth period I teach AP American Government.  And there’s this blond kid.  Daniel.    Always wears his soccer uniform to class.  Supposedly he doesn’t have time to change before practice, but you can tell he’s showing off, showing off that he’s on Varsity, showing off his knee brace, his physique.  We’ve all seen the type.  Always sits in the back of the room, whispering, laughing.  I figure he hates me, hates my class.  Probably telling jokes about me, when he’s not too busy sizing up the girls.

His interests definitely lie elsewhere than American Government, that’s for sure.

Monday at the end of class, I handed back a test on the Declaration of Independence.  There was an essay question, worth a lot of points, comparingJefferson’s draft with the final version.  Daniel’s essay—pure bull, not a clue.  Didn’t even know that the changes in the Declaration had anything to do with the issue of slavery.  So he got a “D.”  When I handed the exam back to him and he looked at the grade, he went rigid and silent, this kid who’s always joking, always moving.  He stalked out of the room, not making eye contact with anyone.

Then yesterday, he stays after class to talk to me.  I think, well, that’s something. He’s figured out he has to take my class seriously.  He’s actually risking being late for practice, risking the wrath of his coach to talk to me.  He was holding the test paper in his hand, and I could see that he’d crumpled it up and then tried to smooth it out, and he says, “Mr. Gutierrez …” and it sounds like he’s lisping the end of my name, you know, mocking … Suddenly my palms are sweating, my mouth is utterly dry, and I’m back in high school myself.  And it’s not Daniel towering over me, it’s a different tall blond kid, a different boy with muscles and a red face and a swagger … twelve, fourteen years ago.   But it feels like now.  Peter, his name was, the boy who used to call me faggot and beaner. And corner me behind the bleachers.  I have to slow my breathing very deliberately and remind myself that I’m the teacher now, Daniel is my student, and he is not going to beat me to a pulp.

I hope.

I force myself to say—and I think I said it pretty calmly, “Yes, Daniel.  How can I help you?”  And I look at him.  And what I see in his face is not anger, not hatred, it’s fear.  And the odd slur in his speech?  It’s not mockery.  He’s trying to hold back the tears, swallow them down before they well up in his eyes.

As it happens, I’m rather familiar with that particular battle.

I want to pat him on the back and say, “There, there, it’s all right.”  But I just wait for him to speak.  He wasn’t in class when we discussed The Declaration.  He was in the hospital, having knee surgery.  His second surgery.  He says, I gave you the note from the doctor, and it’s true, he did.  But I’d forgotten.  I mean, I deal with 148 students every day.  I ask Daniel why he stays on the soccer team.  Two knee surgeries and he’s only seventeen years old.  He looks at me like I’m crazy to be asking.  It’s his team.  He’s a soccer player.  What else is there to say about it?

So we make a deal.  He can re-take the test.  But he has to sit in the front of the classroom for the rest of the semester and pay attention.  And when he has to leave school early for away games, he’ll email me, and I’ll fill him in on what he’s missed.  I might manage to teach him something about American Government.  We’ll see.

————————————————————————————————

ABOVE AVERAGE

(VICTOR is the father of Will, a fifteen-year-old high school student.)

VICTOR

Victor.  My name is Victor.  And I always used to feel like the name fit me.  Like I was a “Victor.”  Successful career.  Mainstay of my community.  All of that. And then Will started high school.  Last year, his freshman year, he started bringing home B’s and C’s.  He was always a straight-A student, he took geometry in eighth grade—that’s a tenth grade course—so why all of a sudden was he getting a C in math?   And do you know what he said when I asked him about it?  He said, “What’s the big deal?  I’m doing above average for a Black boy.”

It was all I could do—I mean that—all I could do not to throttle him.

I am not by nature an angry person.  I know about anger.  The vets I work with, my clients, they’re all of them angry.  So, yeah, I know about anger.  But I did not know I had it in me to feel so enraged.

He’s failing half his courses.  Will is.  My son.  Failing.  Because he doesn’t go to class.  Apparently.  Where does he go?  He leaves the house on time every morning.  We thought he was going to school.  Until today.  Until his mid-term report card came.  If I find out he’s into drugs …

If he gets himself arrested …

When I look at him, I still see the happy-go-lucky kid who hated to miss a day of school … He’ll be sixteen in May, and then …?

I say my prayers every night.

—————————————————————————

Public performances require my express authorization and may be subject to royalties. Contact me for rights or other information: clashof@gmail.com

 

 GAP is a full-length play designed to be performed by a diverse cast of 5 (3w, 2m) playing a dozen roles in all.  I have also written a one-act play, CLAY, for four teen actors (2f, 2m), drawing on the same material.  CLAY is published by YouthPLAYS.   

Info at http://youthplays.com/plays/view/154/Clay