Monologues

The following page contains extracts which are to be used for Assessment Item 1. 

Sandy – Stolen by Jane Harrison

SANDY: It’s all right. The yurringa – that is the sun – shone all the time, day, and what we now call night. The earth was very hot and in the dry season it would make all the waterholes dry up and the animals would have to travel to the south for water. One time it was so hot that there was no water and the tucker was scarce. The barra [making a gesture to describe a kangaroo] all bounded away and the birds flew off in such a big flock that it turned the sky permanently black. Nobody minded because it was cooler in the dark. Until the Mungee came along. The Mungee was an outcast from the mob and he was mean and he was huge. He was so huge he used to eat a whole kangaroo tail by himself – every day. He was the best hunter and could sneak up on the barra drinking at the waterhole and snap its neck with his bare hands…

Except when the big darkness came, there were no barra… and no fish and no goannas, cos they’d all moved on to other waterholes. The Mungee got so hungry that he came and snuck into his people’s camp and stole one of the children! Then he ate him up! Munch munch munch –

– And he was gone! The next day he did the same. Under the cover of darkness he snuck in and stole another baby and ate him up. The mob were frightened and upset and crying. They tried hiding the children but the Mungee always found them. ‘The Mungee’s stealing our babies’, they cried to the elders. ‘What are we going to do? We can’t catch him because we can’t see him in the dark!’ The elders thought about it and came up with a plan. They would cast a spell on him. The next day the elders waited for the Mungee, and when they sensed his presence they threw magic powdered bone all over him. It stuck to his hair and on his skin and he couldn’t scrub it off. The Mungee was turned into a pale skin and that was his punishment. He would never be able to sneak into the camp to steal the children because he would be seen. And the people would know. And the people would never forget.

So, Ruby, I gotta go or the matron will skin me, but remember, it’s not the dark you need to be afraid of.

Extract taken from: Harrison, J., 1960. (2007). Stolen (Third revis ed.). Strawberry Hills, N.S.W: Currency Press. Pp. 10-11. (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).

Rose– The Seed by Kate Mulvany

ROSE: I’m eight and I’m just getting better. At five-thirty in the morning, Dad wakes me up to go crayfishing. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and climb into the car still in my pink pyjamas. We drive down to the marina, across the road from Kentucky Fried, near that big famous merry-go-round in the sea, and I help Dad unwinch the boat into the water.

The water is so cold it feels like ants nipping at my legs. Dad holds the boat still as I wade in up to my knees, holding my pyjamas high, and hoist myself into the boat. Then I put on my life jacket. It smells rotten and has chunky flecks of fish guts on it… Dad helps me buckle it, and I see the scar white and raised on his hand as he nooses the strap around and through the catch.

Dad doesn’t wear a life jacket. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to fall overboard and get his Winfields wet. He stands at the wheel and looks like a pirate biting down hard on his cigarette and squinting at the whipping wind. I hold onto my hair. It’s just coming back and I don’t want it to blow away. Dad revs the boat and it goes faster and faster and we fly past the buoys that bob up and down in the water.

We stop at the first pot. Bright orange with big sloppy numbers painted on it.

I like watching Dad pull the pots in. Like he’s dancing with himself. The long, wet rope gets darker and murkier in colour and his arms begin to strain and tremble as he pulls it in from the deep blackness. I stand up on wobbly sea legs and try to help him. As the rope gets taut it feels like barbed wire cutting through my hands but I don’t let go – not until the pot explodes out of the water and onto the floor of the boat, full of bright red bodies.

Extract taken from: Mulvany, K. (2008). The seed (1st ed.). Sydney: Currency Press. Pp. 24-25. (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).

Rose – The Seed by Kate Mulvany

ROSE: Out this far, the water is colder and greener and saltier and crystal, crystal clear, like a big wet mirror. After I’ve thrown back the cackers, Dad holds out both his hands. ‘Pick one,’ he says. I choose the hand without the scar. Inside it is a red bow. Then Dad gets out a sack. Inside that is a dead dog. It’s Bella from next door. Mrs Bagnato’s terrier. Combed and shiny. Dad gets me to tie the bow around her neck. ‘We’re going to give it a sea burial,’ he says, and throws the dog overboard with a small splash. ‘Is Bella Catholic?’ I say. Dad shrugs, exhales the last of his cigarette, and flicks it over the side of the boat. ‘Ashes to ashes,’ he says, then gives me my breakfast. A Mars Bar. ‘Don’t tell your mum.’ I chomp down on it as we move onto the next pot, close my eyes, stroke the water’s surface… and catch a red ribbon. I look down and it’s Bella, still bobbing in the water. Somehow she’s followed us to the next pot. Her tongue is yellow and swollen and lapping dead in the water. I hold out the ribbon to Dad and out of nowhere he grabs an oar and pounds Bella over and over and over. But Bella won’t sink. Then Dad leans over the edge of the boat and begins to tear Bella apart, ripping holes in her to make her sink. I cry out, but it’s like he can’t hear me, won’t hear me, until he’s finished the job. And so he keeps pounding, pounding, pounding until Bella is swallowed by water. Waves of nausea weaken me. I throw up my Mars Bar and my father turns on me, and just for a moment, he’s not my dad.

…

He sits down and looks at me – through me – with those English, Irish, Australian eyes – and we bob up and down for a long time, in the middle of a massive black ocean.

Extract taken from: Mulvany, K. (2008). The seed (1st ed.). Sydney: Currency Press. Pp. 52-53. (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).

 Nanette - Bastard Territory by Stephen Carlton

NANETTE: Oh! Here's our invalid! Hello Neville. [...]
Let's get rid of the Sepik mask. You don't need to be reminded of that place. [...] Look me in the eyes, Neville.

[...]

I've brought you some food. Apricot chicken. It's your favourite. We all ate it that night you got the job. The celebration at our house. A grand night! Remember?

[...]

Now, you listen to me. Malcom's told Canberra that you contracted malaria in the Highlands. They've taken him at his word. You've been convalescing. And now it's time to recover, Neville. Malcolm says... [she checks to make sure LOIS isn't eavesdropping. Sotto voce:] Malcolm says not to worry about a thing. The cadet doesn't have family in New Guinea. His body has been sent home. 'Killed in the line of duty'. And the rest...? Well, let's just say the report's crossed Malcolm's desk and the version that's being sent to Canberra is ten pages lighter...

[He slowly absorbs the information.]

Do you understand me, Neville? It's all been taken care of.

Extract taken from: Carleton, S. (2016). Bastard Territory. Brisbane: Playlab. Pp.44-45. (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).

Russell - Bastard Territory by Stephen Carlton

RUSSELL: Bang! A bulletshot to the guts! Fuckin hell - what??! What kind of fucked up topsy turvy land is this? Most families raise the adopted kid without telling them they're adopted - and that fucks them up. But who raises a kid telling him he is adopted when he isn't? Did she really think she could have a conversation like that with the available architecture? The house without walls? Whose idea was it? Hers or Neville's? It screams of Dad. No scandal. Cover it up. It does my head in. Seriously. [Beat.] And there we have our golden Tennessee Williams moment. The queer son learns he's also a bastard. A mulatto bastard!

[...]

I wasn't listening. I was too busy dealing with the knowledge that my mum was actually my mum. I decided then and there that Cliff was my father, and it was more imperative than ever I come on this journey with them. I added more stuff to my suitcase. [...] Goggles and snorkel for the coloured lakes, to see what they were like underneath; and binoculars for the volcanoes on the horizon. And of course, just as I was convincing myself Cliff was my biological father, right at the most ludicrous possible moment, the other rival turned up. He's not far away. Who do you reckon it is? Marius? Pita?

[...]

I look at this for clues. Palm trees and a Moresby harbour. No human figures. No man in the window of any of the houses. Where are you Dad? Lois - give me a clue.

Extract taken from: Carleton, S. (2016). Bastard Territory. Brisbane: Playlab. Pp.66-67. (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).

Margot– The Female of the Species by Joanna Murray-Smith

MARGOT: I’m not to blame for everything that’s gone wrong in your lives. I’m a thinker! It’s my job to think. Because that’s something I do better than other people. You’re all spoiled brats. Go on, shoot me, but that’s the truth! Talk about the Me Generation! All this nonsense about personal identity and self-growth and being fulfilled! What a load of self –indulgent crap. Has it ever occurred to any of you that there was a generation of men and women who didn’t wake up in the morning and wonder how the day was going to pan out for them, but leapt out of bed intent on figuring out how the world was going to pan out for everybody? Maybe we got things wrong. Maybe we went too far. Maybe we had a goddamn mission and that was to make this planet a better place for our inheritors than it was for us. You whiners and whingers! What would you rather? That I’d sat quietly back and lead a sweet, restrained, anonymous life? So that your destiny as repressed, stupefied, second class citizens could have gone on uninterrupted? I happened to get famous and now you’re going to use my fame against me because you’re not happy with yourselves? Why don’t you take a little responsibility and, while you’re at it, show a tiny bit of ordinary gratitude?

Extract taken from: Murray-Smith, J., & Currency Press. (2008). The female of the species. Sydney: Currency Press. Pp. 42-43. (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).

Dulcie - Summer of the Aliens by Louis Nowra

DULCIE: I want to steal some stuff. This is the billiard table that Stan uses. [Laughing] Are they going to be surprised. Hey, fellas, what’s this wet patch? Holy Hell, someone’s pissed on it. It smells like girl’s piss. Some girl has pissed on an RSL billiard table. [She laughs and laughs as she pisses.]

I want to make a mess of this place. We’ll tear it up, piss and shit on it all and someone passing by will say tomorrow morning: I saw angels in the RSL hall. It was angels that destroyed it. [She grabs bottles and pours whisky down Lewis’ throat.] Nectar of the angels. [Touching his wings.] Aren’t they beautiful? Angels hover in the air like dragonflies. Like this. Now I have no wings.

Not yet. Angels have to think of them and then they imagine having them and there is a feeling, like it must be when boys get stiff, a growing from the shoulders. Two wings on either shoulders. But they don’t look like wings at first, they look like buds, white buds. Then slowly, like a flower, they slowly open, breaking through the angels’ clothes. Real slow, unfolding like in dreamtime. And then they open out, like my wings. They begin to float testing new, unnamed muscles. Then they’re like a bird flying, break free of the ground. I begin to rise. Above you. Higher, higher, like a cloud, my body feels light as a cloud. I begin speaking but my voice has changed, it’s as loud as a scream, softer than a whisper. I speak like an angel. My speech sounds like this. [She presses her lips against his hands and says the one phase over and over.] I am saying something secret to you in angel talk.

Extract taken from: Nowra, L., 1950. (1992). Summer of the aliens. Sydney: Currency Press. Pp. 54-55.  (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).

Sylvie – Sisters by Stephen Sewell

SYLVIE: Do you think I did it on purpose? I’m not like you, Gillian: I don’t live the way you do, I don’t want the things you do. Alright, you’re a doctor: so fucking what? You’ve got a husband, you’ve got kids and an orderly life - That’s fine for you, but it’s not me and it never was! That’s all I’m saying! I was away!

[...]

I loved Mum and Dad as much as you did, Gillian – I’m not trying to find excuses – What is it? – In the end, they loved you, but they thought I was a nothing: that’s what I was ashamed of – That no matter what I did or who I was, I could never be what they wanted, and all I could do was hurt them, and I didn’t want to hurt them, Gillian, I didn’t; but I didn’t know what else I could do.

Extract taken from: Sewell, S., 1953, & Playbox Theatre (Melbourne, V. ). (1991). Sisters. Sydney: Currency Press in association with Playbox Theatre Company Melbourne. P. 8. (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).

Nina – The Seagull by Anton Chekhov

NINA: Why do you say that you kissed the ground on which I walked? You should kill me. I’m exhausted. If only I could rest…rest! I am a seagull…that’s not right. I am an actress. Yes! (Hearing Arkadina) And he’s here…Yes…It doesn’t matter…Yes…He didn’t believe in the theatre, he went on mocking my dreams, and little by little I too stopped believing and lost heart…And then came the troubles of love, jealousy, the constant fear for my child…I became

petty, worthless, I acted mindlessly…I didn’t know what to do with my hand, didn’t know how to stand on the stage, wasn’t in control of my voice. You can’t understand what it’s like to feel you’re acting terribly. I am a seagull. No, that’s not right…Do you remember, you shot a seagull? A man just came along, saw it and killed it from having nothing to do…A plot for a short story. That’s not right. What was I…? I was talking about the stage. Now I am not so…I am now a real actress, I act with enjoyment, with ecstasy, I get intoxicated on the stage and feel that I’m beautiful. And now, while I’ve been staying here, I’ve walked everywhere, I walk and walk, and think, think and feel how everyday my spiritual powers grow…Kostya, I know now, I understand. In what we do – whether we act on the stage or write – the most important thing isn’t fame or glory or anything I used to dream about – but the ability to endure. To know

how to bear your cross and have faith. I have faith, and my pain is less, and when I think about my vocation I’m not afraid of life.

Extract taken from: Chekhov, A. P., 1860-1904, Gems, & Royal National Theatre (Great Britain). (1994). The seagull. London: Nick Hern Books. Pp.75-76.  (Some text omitted for assessment purposes. Translated texts may differ.)

Doug - Cosi by Louis Nowra

DOUG: It’s what I did. Burned a cat. Quite recently. It was the fault of the psychiatrist. I’d been seeing him because of my pyromania – that’s a person who likes lighting fires – but you probably know that being university educated – but you know the problem with pyromania? It’s the only crime where you have to be at the scene of it to make it a perfect crime, to give yourself full satisfaction. ‘Course, that means the chances of you getting caught are greater, especially if you’re standing in front of the fire, face full of ecstasy and with a gigantic hard on. So, the cops got me and I’m sent to a shrink. He tells me that I’ve got an unresolved problem with my mother. My ego had taken a severe battering from her. He said I had better resolve it, stop her treating me like I was still a child. It made some sort of cosmic sense. I had to stand up to her. So I thought about it and realized I had to treat it like a boxing match, get the first punch in, so to speak, to give me the upper hand in our relationship. She had five cats. One night I rounded them up, put them in a cage, doused them with petrol and put a match to them. Then I opened up the cage door and let them loose. Well, boy, oh, boy, what a racket! They were running around the backyard burning and howling – there’s no such thing as grace under pressure for a burning cat, let me tell you. I hid in the shrubs when mum came outside to see what was happening. Totally freaked out, she did. Five of them, running around the backyard like mobile bonfires. I figured I’d wait a couple of hours ‘til the cats were dead and mum was feeling a bit sorry for herself and I’d knock on the front door and say to her ‘Hi, mum, I’ve come to talk about our unresolved conflicts’ but, oh, no, one of the cats ran into the house. In a couple of minutes the whole bloody house was alight and within a half an hour there was no bloody front door to knock on. (A BEAT) If it wasn’t for that damn cat, I wouldn’t be in here.

Extract taken from: Nowra, L., 1950. (1994). Cosi (Rev. ed.). Sydney: Currency Press. Pp. 18-19.  (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).

Chunk – The Call by Patricia Cornelius

CHUNK: You've got it all wrong. It come to me like a whack on the back of the head, like the floor's suddenly given way. An epiphany, that's what I'm having. Ever heard of an epiphany, Aldo? It's like God's spoken, like lightning, a fucking big moment of enlightenment. And I'm having it. It's all crap. It's a big load of bull. A hoax. Someone major's pulling our leg, got us by the throat and is throttling us, got us boxed in, packed up. Nothing-means-nothing. You got it? Once you got that, you're living free. Who says how life's meant to be? Who says what's good, what you should or shouldn't do? Who in hell's got the right to measure a man's success? He did this, he did that, he got that job, he got paid a lot. Fuck off. He owns a house, a wife, two kids. So what? He's a lawyer, a doctor, he's made a success of his life. No success story for the likes of us. And you know what? I don't give a shit. Finally it's clear to me. It's all crap. And I'm free of it at last.

Extract taken from: Cornelius, P., & Griffin Theatre Company. (2009). The call. Strawberry Hills, N.S.W: Currency Press in association with Griffin Theatre Co. Pp. 25-26.  (Some text omitted for assessment purposes).