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Published by chels97939836

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Published by: chels97939836 on Dec 01, 2008
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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(Lina sits at a table writing a letter, thoughtful but sad. It's a letter toher father who has Alzheimers. He can't even remember her nameanymore. She gets up from the table, and begins to recite what shehas written in her letter, not reading it, just staring wistfully and full of sorrow out at some unknown point.)
Dad, it's been a long time since I saw you or talked to you. I thinkit's because the last time I saw you, you didn't know who I was. Yousmiled and asked if I could get some orange juice for you. You laughedat my confusion. You called me "nurse." And I may have been yournurse when I was a little girl, when you used to sit in your recliner andwatch "Happy Days," smiling at the characters on the television, butstill remembering your daughter. You would kid with me about my playcostume. You would ask me for orange juice, saying you had a tummyache. And even if I spilt the orange juice in the kitchen, you wouldcome help me clean it up, both of us bending down with mom's ragsand scrubbing and laughing all at once. You made everything so fun,Dad. And I don't know why the world did this to you. I just hope you'rehappy still, even if you can't remember who you are or who your wifeis.I hope you can read this letter too, Dad, because I know youreyesight is failing you. I love you so much, Dad. I want you to knowthat. These thirty seven years would not be complete without you. Youwalked me down the aisle, you cried with me when grandma died. Iwasn't afraid to be myself with you dad. But now, it doesn't matterwho I am at all to you. But that's not your fault...Mom isn't doing too well with this. She calls me up sometimes, atthree in the morning, pleading to me why you aren't lying beside heranymore. I try to comfort her, saying,"He still loves you, Mom. He stilldoes.." because if you didn't have Alzheimers, you would be in her bedinstead of in the nursing home. And you two would be cuddling andcooing like you always had, for the past forty one years, like youalways had. But she's sleeping alone now, Dad. And she's not doingtoo good. Her arthritis is bothering her, and she's a lot moresusceptible to everything now that you're gone. But I... I won't dwellon everything that's negative, Dad. It would just wreck all that waspositive with you in my entire existence. I'll see you up in heavensomeday. We can talk about our lives and remember everything upthere, Dad. We'll be so happy.Love, Lina
(She goes to the table, folds up her letter, puts it in anenvelope, and exits.)
by Ava LindtEstimated Length: 2.5-3 minutes 
(Lucy Merchant walks reluctantly onstage and puts a bundle of flowersbeside a pantomimed grave, blows a kiss to it, and is starting to cry.When she regains composure, she walks to the center of the stage and delivers the monologue)
I was only twelve when my mother died. It's still hard to think aboutit, even two years later. I mean, god, she was only 35. How can somestupid disease take someone so strong?
(bursts into sudden tears)
I..I never even got to say goodbye. I never even really said that I lovedher.I would give anything, anything for her to be alive still. She was somany things to me. I mean, I really have trouble talking to Dad about"girl" stuff. He's a GUY! He tries to understand me, but we're just notthat close. And with Mom dying, I lost a lot of myself along with her.They say it takes a year for a person to get over the death of a lovedone. I still haven't gotten over it. I can't talk about her without a sadtone in my voice. I can't reminisce about her smiling without burstinginto tears. I know that she wouldn't want this. I know she would wantme to always love her but lose the horrible pain. It's hard.
(Walksaround the stage, studying the gravestones, stopping at the imaginary one of her mother, caressing it lovingly, stops, and gets up facingaudience, looking up)
Mom, do you hear this? Do you look down on me from heaven? I wishyou could answer me. I know you can't, but I want you to listen: Iwant to be happy more than anything. I want to stop the pain. Helpme remember only the good times we had and not this horrible lossthat I feel. Make it so I don't cry myself to sleep wishing you werethere. Be in my dreams if you can't be in my reality. I miss you, but Iguess the only thing I can say that will matter is the thing I've wishedI would have said to you all of this time. I love you, mom.
(walks off the stage, hands clenched, but with a certain strength
Waif Girl
By Ava LindtEstimated Length: 3-4 minutes 
(Lindsay walks on stage, in sort of baggy clothes to hide her "fatness." She looks obviously underfed with bags under her eyes, her hands are clasped tightly. She stops center stage and puts on a fakesmile, then she proceeds to tell her story 
)Okay, so I was eating dinner last night, normal as can be, and mymom asks me if I am puking up my food. I don't know what to say toher, I mean, I don't actually puke all of it up. Just some of it... but it'snot what you think. I was just thinking, ya know, if I didn't eat somuch bad stuff then maybe I would lose some of this excess weight.Let's face it! I'm fat. I don't have a flat stomach, my thunder thighsare SO obvious when I wear shorts, and it doesn't hurt to puke up atleast some food. I mean most of the time it's only one meal a day.Like, dinner. You don't need that food anyway, it just rots in your bodyand you never can metabolize it so you just get fat from it. Anyway,what I'm trying to say is, I just want to look like everyone else and Iam willing to make sacrifices. I just don't want to be this fat chunk of lard wobbling her big butt down the beach. Is that too much to ask?
(Kicks off her shoes and walks over to a scale. Stepping on it, she fallsdown. She tries to get up but can't. She starts laughing)
I feel sorta weak. It must have been that horrible fried chicken mymom practically stuffed in my mouth last night. I couldn't get it outagain.
(tries to get up again)
Heh.. silly me. I can't believe this.
(triesto get up for the last time, starts to laugh, but cries instead)
What iswrong with me? All week! I can't do simple things like do homeworkwithout falling asleep or falling down or feeling weak. I should starteating better. No more pasta for you, Lindsay! Let's try that scaleagain. (uses all her might to get up, and finally does)Whew!(steps onscale)110 pounds. And look at me, I'm still a whale. I feel so ugly!
(groans, and walks to the center of the stage.)
I guess I'll never be skinny. Or pretty for that matter.
(long pause)
That was my mom.
Okay mom! What are we having?
Steak? Ugh. That's like 80 grams of fat. I'm going to be such a cow.
(stomps out the door)

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