W IT HI N TH E SH AD OW S - S AN DR A

In this play by Scott Shallenbarger, Sandra, 24, describes an artwork painted by her fiance who recently committed suicide.  

SANDRA:

It’s brilliant. It really is. He captured so much…power. That’s the only word I can think of. The whole painting is a
hundred shades of a hundred different colors .. particles. He put them on the canvas in a way that creates this
motion. It moves in a circular pattern … constantly spinning. And this rush of energy makes the canvas appear as if it’s
moving. The longer you look at it, the more you forget it’s a painting because it starts to absorb you.

You can actually feel yourself being drawn into it … hypnotized by all those moving colors. And soon, without
realizing it, you’re thrown into the rotating spectrum. You start moving with it, slowly at first, and then faster … and
faster … until you become totally lost and completely immersed within it. It’s incredible. And as you turn, you see, in
the center of all this motion, the tiny, painted figure of a man. And you know that the energy propelling this force
comes from him. He controls it. You connect with him for one moment and then … suddenly … it stops. It’s over.
You’re just looking at this flat canvas again. And no matter how much you swear he was there, you can’t see the tiny
man anymore… He’s gone. Hidden. And as you search for him you realize that unless you enter that intense, high-
energy world again, you won’t be able to find him.

20 SO METH IN G — AV A

Ava, a young woman in the onset of depression, talks to her therapist. From the play 20 Something by A. A. Gardner.  

It feels like there’s this pit inside my chest. It’s like this virus lies dormant and it keeps feeding on — I don’t know what
it keeps feeding on because I feel like there’s nothing left. I’m constantly looking at the world through a pane of glass
and I’m shouting and shouting and nobody can hear me. But at the same time… I don’t think I want them to.

 I’m not sad. I feel vacant. Like, there’s nothing left of me inside. I’m full of … dust and soot and fog and the burnt
pages of books I bought but never read… I’m pacified, I’m controlled by tiny little seeds of doubt that infest my body
with fantasies, and — I’m not sure which parts of me are fact and which parts of me are fiction. I’m like Alice, falling
into some terrifying Wonderland and all I want to do is wake up.  

I’m so tired. There’s nothing about me that I remember being beautiful. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. I
hate myself for tripping. And I hate myself for letting go. But most of all, I hate that I hate myself.  

B OY S — S OP HI E

Sophie’s boyfriend has just committed suicide, but Sophie has been secretly in love with their friend Mack since long before
then. In the monologue from Ella Hickson’s Boys, she confronts Mack about her feelings.  

Do you - have you ever actually felt any… guilt? Because it’s come as a bit of a surprise that, um - you, one- I don’t,
can’t actually feel it. Like it’s not something I can generate somehow, like, I - I find myself having to actually summon
it, trying to encourage myself and even then I can’t do it. I thought it might be shock at first, and then grief or - but all
I can feel is total joy, total - peace. I look at you and I sometimes actually make myself think of him, I force him into
my head and I don’t feel guilty. What kind of person does that make me? Sometimes I think it’s because - what we
have is love, meant to be. That we love each other, yes, Mack, that is what I sometimes think. Is that ridiculous? I sat
at his funeral looking at his parents and Benny but all I could think of, all I could feel - was you.

But then I look at you and I wonder if it’s actually there. I wonder if I added up the amount of minutes, hours, fucking
days I’ve spent thinking about you, the amount of fucking longing I have done - if I added that up and weighed it
against anything you’ve ever actually said…
But then you do the smallest thing - you make me a cup of tea when I don’t ask, or you touch my hand really lightly in
a room full of people and I think no, Sophie, don’t laugh - don’t laugh because it’s real and it’s so much more real
because it’s unsaid and unspoken and un - un - it’s so much more real because I can’t touch it, because we can’t say it
and I can’t see it. It’s so much more real because I don’t know if it’s there. Please say something… Please…

If You Believe in Fairies 

written by Christopher Durang, from his play "'Denity Crisis" 

( Jane tells her psychiatrist a story from her childhood.) 

Jane: When I was eight years old, someone brought me to this... theatre. Full of lots of other children.
We were supposed to be watching a production of "Peter Pan." And I remember that something
seemed terribly wrong with the whole production. Odd things kept happening. For instance, when the
children would fly, the ropes they were on would just keep breaking ... and the actors would come
thumping to the ground and they had to be carried off by stagehands. And there seemed to be an
unlimited supply of understudies, to take their places, and then they'd just fall to the ground. And
then the crocodile that chases Captain Hook, seemed to be a real crocodile, it wasn't an actor. And at
one point it fell off the stage and crushed a couple of kids in the front row. And then some of the
understudies came and took their places in the audience. And from scene to scene, Wendy just
seemed to get fatter and fatter until finally by the end of act one she was completely immobile and
they had to move her off stage with a cart. 
You remember how in the second act Tinkerbell drinks some poison that peter is about to drink in
order to save him? And then Peter turns to the audience and he says that "Tinkerbell is going to die
because not enough people believe in fairies. But if all of you clap your hands real hard to show that
you do believe in fairies, maybe she won't die." So, we all started to clap. I clapped so long and so
hard that my palms hurt and they even started to bleed I clapped so hard. Then suddenly the actress
playing peter pan turned to the audience and she said, "That wasn't enough. You did not clap hard
enough. Tinkerbell is dead." And then we all started to cry. The actress stomped off stage and refused
to continue with the production. They finally had to lower the curtain. The ushers had to come help us
out of the aisles and into the street. I don't think that any of us were ever the same after that
experience. It certainly turned me against theatre. And even more damagingly, I think it's warped my
total sense of life. I mean nothing seems worth trying if Tinkerbell is just going to die