There was a reassuring ring of Time having been unspoilt, having not moved in the decade since I last dialled the number that was scrawled out on a rough piece of paper, torn at the edges, almost in the shape of a child’s jagged, over physical idea of what shape an island lost in some storm tossed sea should be like. Hurriedly torn from a freshly bought notebook, the lack of thought in the action that would ultimately lead to the early demise of the re-pulped paper, by my mother as she passed me as we exchanged a Christmas Card on the train, the ragged island now sat comfortably on my desk before me, pride of place for a phone call I never truly wanted to make.
Category Archives: Monologues
Soil.
They buried me this morning and by all accounts it was a very moving service. The memory of my mother’s loud wailing echoed around the dirty soil, infiltrating its every pore and molecule, bypassing every worm and mole that had stopped and bowed their heads in perhaps a kind of animalistic worship, the kind that at some point would turn into the possibility of food and further enriching of the mud that would surround the casket.
Small Change.
Spare some change, alright thank you. Spare some change Sir. Yeah right of course you have, completely out, you say that every day! Just speak into this you say? Yes I’m homeless, it wasn’t my fault, I probably didn’t help myself that’s true enough but in a world where it has become…acceptable to look down upon someone lower than yourself for fear of being spat upon as well, for the dread that sits inside you that you might find yourself being pissed upon by a Friday night reveller, the party goer who finds the inside of the entry the perfect place in which to let go of their hard earned cash and curry mixed with vodka, that dread is only ever three pay days away and unless you are lucky, I mean really lucky, then the spiral goes on and on until one day you manage to find a mirror and you wonder what happened to the girl with dreams.
An Evening With…
There is a sense of sensuality attached to what I do. Playing the piano in the semi darkness and ill-lit rooms of various pubs, clubs and saloons of this fair city for the price of a good meal and of course the money I receive helps keep me in clothes that I could not afford to buy on the salary as insignificant as mine. Apart from that I do it because I can, because somewhere the extrovert needs feeding and if not to the wolves then to my own self-worth.
The Monologued Mutineer.
My Last Words…
So these will be my final last words. They won’t be recorded; they won’t be repeated in history as in anyway being famous and they will never know of my story beyond the walls of this…prison in which I have kept my own counsel for the past five days. I will say to you now as they offer me a blindfold in which to avoid the staring eyes, deep blue on one, so blue that I could swim and frolic amongst the stars that are reflected on the top as they too dance and shout with a hope of the future to come. They have my future deeply locked within them, he or one of the others will take my life and extinguish it forever. Not for any other crime except for not wanting to fight anymore.
A Trip To A Festival.
So I married a cheese plant…well given the alternatives, I think we have both been happy enough, although I am well aware that I was not the poor cheese plant’s first choice of possible life partners.
A Voice On The Road.
Scene: The interior of a bar in the early hours of the morning, there is the sound of laughter; the gentle sound of music floating through the air, a raised voice overwhelms the music briefly and the clatter of a pool ball being struck too hard. On set there are two people to be seen, one a barmaid cleaning glasses and occasionally pouring a drink for someone unseen off stage and to the left of the stage a man sat on a stool, leaning against a wall one hand on a glass the other reading a book. Beside his chair is a rucksack. The sound of the pool ball being smacked again too hard and it bounces once and starts to roll towards the man in the chair who for a moment doesn’t look up from his book until he hears the sound of someone shouting his name. The music dies down as the young man looks at the ball. Carefully he puts down the glass, whilst keeping the book held tightly on the page he is on and walks over to the ball and picks it up, staring at it for a moment as if in quiet contemplation. He walks over to the darkness and hands back the ball.
The Birthday. Ian D. Hall
As a man approaches his fortieth year on this fast spinning globe we call home, he is struck by the sound of his decaying mortality. The ticking time bomb, tick, tick, tick, within him lets him know that the spring of his youth has long since moved on and is nothing more than a distant memory, occasionally waving from a far off hazy shoreline.