Dramatic Monologues for Women: 15 Female Pieces

Dramatic monologues for women

Showing 15 of 15. All original, written for ScriptLix. Running times are estimates at 140 spoken words a minute. Time yourself out loud.

• DramaticFemaleTeen1 to 2 minutesGood for teens

  Voicemail Number Eleven

  Lena, 16, leaving one last voicemail on her late grandmother's phone line, which her family is disconnecting tomorrow. She wants to say what she never said out loud.

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  Hi, Nana. It's me. Again. This is number eleven, I think. Mom says they're turning off the line tomorrow because it costs twelve dollars a month to keep a phone ringing in an empty kitchen, and she's right, I know she's right. But I needed one more.

  I keep calling because your voice is on the greeting. "You've reached Ruth, I'm probably in the garden." You recorded that in, what, 2015? You sound so annoyed with the machine. I play it on the bus. I play it before tests. Is that weird? It's probably weird.

  I never told you about the art school thing. I got in. The summer program, the one in the city. I didn't tell you because you'd have made a big deal and I wasn't sure I was going. Then you got sick and it felt like the wrong time to be happy about something.

  I'm going. I start in June. I'm going to draw your tomato plants first, the ugly ones by the fence.

  Okay. I'm going to hang up now. That's the hard part. That's always been the hard part.

  Bye, Nana.

  188 words, about 1 min 21 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemaleTeen1 to 2 minutesGood for teens

  Thirty Seconds

  Dana, 17, to her debate coach after she froze during the state final and the team lost. She wants to keep her place as captain.

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  I know what you're going to say, so can I go first? Please. I've practiced this in the car, and if you go first I'll lose it.

  I froze. In the final round, with the whole team watching, I stood up and I had my notes and I had the argument, and I opened my mouth and nothing came out for thirty seconds. I counted them. Thirty seconds is very long when four hundred people are looking at you.

  I'm not going to make an excuse. I didn't sleep, but nobody slept. My mom couldn't come, but plenty of moms couldn't come. It just happened.

  But here's what I want you to know. I am the person who stayed after practice every Tuesday. I am the one who made the flash cards for the freshmen. I know every argument we've ever run, because I wrote half of them.

  You can take captain away. I'd understand. But if you do, don't do it because you think I can't handle it. Do it because someone else is better.

  And if nobody is better, let me stand up there again. I'll talk the whole time. I promise. You'll be begging me to stop.

  200 words, about 1 min 26 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale20s to 30s1 to 2 minutes

  Last Booth

  Carmen, 30s, in a diner booth, to her younger sister Ana, who has not spoken to their mother in four years. Carmen wants Ana to visit their mother in the hospital before Friday.

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  You ordered the pancakes. You always order the pancakes and then you eat half and push the plate at me. You did it when you were nine. You're still doing it.

  I didn't ask you here to fight. I know that's what you think. I know you sat in the car for ten minutes before you came in. I watched you. You fixed your hair twice.

  Mom's at St. Vincent's. Fourth floor. They're moving her on Friday to a place with a garden and nurses who talk very softly, and you know what that means. I don't have to say it.

  I'm not asking you to forgive her. I'm not asking you to forget what she said at Dad's funeral. I was there. I heard it. I've been mad at her for four years too, I just did it from closer up.

  But she asks for you. Every day. Not by name anymore. She says "the little one." She says, "Is the little one coming?" And I have run out of ways to say no.

  You don't have to talk. You can sit in the chair by the window and eat pudding from the cart. You can just be there for ten minutes.

  Then you can go back to being angry. I'll even drive you.

  215 words, about 1 min 32 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale40s plus1 to 2 minutes

  The Recipe

  Rosa, 60s, in her kitchen, to her adult daughter, who has come to help her move into a smaller apartment. Rosa has started to forget things and wants her daughter to learn the family recipe today.

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  Put the boxes down. The boxes can wait. Come here. Wash your hands.

  You're going to learn the tamales today. Don't make that face. You always say next Christmas. Next Christmas. Every year, next Christmas.

  Look at me. I put the salt in the sugar jar yesterday. Last week I called your brother by your father's name. I know what's happening. The doctor talks to me like I don't know, but I know.

  So we do it now. While it's still in here.

  My mother didn't write anything down. She said if you need paper, you weren't paying attention. So you watch my hands. Not my face. My hands.

  The masa has to feel like this. Touch it. Like your ear lobe. Not like your cheek. Too soft and they fall apart. Too hard and your uncle complains for an hour.

  And you fold it like this. Away from you. Always away. My mother said you fold toward the door so the good luck goes out to the neighbors. I don't know if that's true. I never wanted to find out.

  Now you do one. No, I won't help. Do it.

  There. You see? Your hands knew.

  197 words, about 1 min 24 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale20s to 30s1 to 2 minutes

  Night Shift

  Kim, 30s, a hospice nurse, in a hallway at three in the morning, to the son of a dying patient, who has been yelling at the staff. She wants him to go back into the room.

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  Mr. Halvorsen. I need you to stop. Just for a second. You've been shouting at the vending machine, and the vending machine didn't do anything.

  I know. I know you're not actually angry at the machine.

  Here's what I see, and you can tell me I'm wrong. You've been in that chair by her bed for two days. You haven't eaten anything that didn't come out of a crinkly bag. And every time she wakes up, you leave the room. You say you need coffee. You've had nine coffees.

  I've done this job for eleven years. I've sat with a lot of families. And the thing nobody tells you is that there isn't a right thing to say. People wait for the perfect sentence. They practice it in the hallway. And then the time passes, and they never say it.

  She doesn't need a perfect sentence. She needs you in the chair when she opens her eyes.

  You can tell her about the weather. You can read her the box scores. You can tell her the coffee here is terrible. It is. That's true.

  Go back in. I'll bring you some toast. Real toast.

  194 words, about 1 min 23 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale20s to 30s1 to 2 minutes

  Second Position

  Elise, 20s, a ballet dancer recovering from a knee injury, in a rehearsal studio, to her mother, who has driven her to every class since she was five. Elise wants permission to stop dancing.

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  Mom. Turn off the music. Please. I'm not going to warm up today.

  I need to tell you something, and I need you to not do your face. The face where you're already planning the next audition.

  The doctor says the knee will heal. It'll be strong enough. I could go back in the spring. You heard him. You wrote it down in your notebook. You underlined spring.

  I don't want to go back.

  I've been lying on the couch for six weeks with ice on my leg, and for the first time since I was five years old, I didn't have to be anywhere. And I wasn't sad, Mom. That's what scared me. I thought I'd be sad.

  I read books. I made bread. I went to a coffee shop at ten in the morning on a Tuesday and just sat there, like a normal person.

  You gave me everything. I know that. The car rides. The shoes. The second job. I know what it cost you. And I'm so scared that if I stop, all of that turns into nothing.

  Tell me it doesn't. Please. Tell me you'd still drive me somewhere. Even if it isn't here.

  199 words, about 1 min 25 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale20s to 30s1 to 2 minutes

  The Envelope

  Nora, 30, in a coffee shop, to the birth mother she is meeting for the first time. Nora wants an answer to one question before she will say anything else.

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  No. Please don't. Don't hug me yet. I'm sorry. I just need to sit down first.

  I brought this envelope. It's everything I have from the agency. Two pages. Your first name. Your age, nineteen. And one line in the notes field that says "mother expressed wish for child to have a musical home."

  That's it. That's the whole file. For thirty years I've been reading that one line.

  My parents didn't know what it meant. They aren't musical. My dad can't clap on the beat. But they bought me a piano because of that line. A used one, with a broken F key. I learned on that piano. I teach piano now. I have forty students.

  So I have one question. Just one. Then we can do the rest. The coffee and the photos and whatever comes next.

  Why music? Out of everything you could have asked for me. Not money. Not a good school. Not a big house. You asked for music.

  I need to know if you meant it. Or if it was just something you said to the woman with the clipboard because she was waiting for you to say something.

  Because my whole life is built on it.

  203 words, about 1 min 27 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemaleTeenAbout 1 minuteGood for teens

  Understudy

  Ava, 15, in an empty school auditorium, to her drama teacher, after the cast list went up and she was named understudy for the lead. She wants to know what she did wrong.

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  Can I ask you something? You don't have to look at the list. I've read it. I've read it enough for both of us.

  Understudy. I know what it means. It means I learn every line and every song and every step, and then I stand in the wings and watch someone else do it, and hope she gets a cold. Which I would never actually hope for. Mostly.

  I'm not here to complain. I'm here because I want to get better, and I don't know what better means.

  Was it the song? I went flat on the high part. I heard it. I wanted to stop and start again but you're not supposed to stop.

  Or was it something else? Because if it's something I can fix, I'll fix it. If it's something about me, I need to know that too.

  Just tell me the truth. Please. I can take it. I think I can take it.

  158 words, about 1 min 8 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale20s to 30sAbout 1 minute

  The Pass

  Tamsin, 30s, a sous chef, in the restaurant kitchen after close, to the head chef, who just gave the promotion she was promised to someone else. She wants the reason, to her face.

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  Don't wipe the counter. I'll wipe the counter. I've wiped this counter every night for six years. Look at me instead.

  You gave it to Paolo. Fine. Paolo is fast. Paolo also hid in the walk in fridge in August when the fish order was late, and I ran his station and mine.

  I'm not here to trash him. I'm here because when you told the room, you looked at the floor. You don't look at the floor. You see a tired basil leaf from across the pass.

  So say it. If it's my food, I'll fix my food. If it's that I talk back, I'll keep talking back, but at least I'll know.

  If you'd rather lose me than promote me, say that too.

  I'll still finish the stock. But I'm done guessing.

  134 words, about 57 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale40s plusAbout 1 minute

  Three Steps

  Denise, 50s, a high school basketball referee, in the parking lot after a game, to a father who followed her to her car shouting. She wants him to go home.

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  Sir, take one step back. Thank you.

  I made the call. I'd make it again. Your son traveled. Three steps. He takes three steps every game, and nobody calls it, because he's good and the gym is loud.

  I called it because one day a referee at a college will call it in front of eight thousand people, and he won't know why.

  I've done this twenty two years. I make forty dollars a game. I've been called things in this parking lot I wouldn't say to a dog. I don't do it for the forty dollars.

  So keep yelling, and it goes in my report, and your son can read it. Or go home, take him to the park tomorrow, and count his steps.

  My keys are out. I'm leaving either way.

  133 words, about 57 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemaleTeenAbout 1 minuteGood for teens

  One Second

  Kiara, 16, in the school hallway, to her best friend, the day before she announces she's transferring to their rival school for its swim program. She wants her friend to understand, even if she can't forgive.

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  I wanted to tell you before the email goes out. Coach is announcing it at practice. He's going to say it like I died.

  I'm going to Westbrook. For the pool. They have eight lanes and a coach who swam at nationals and a bus that leaves at five in the morning, and I'll be on it every day for two years.

  I'm not asking you to be happy. I know you'll be in the stands on the other side now. You'll have to cheer against me. I'd do it too. I'd be loud about it.

  But it's not about us. It's about one second. I'm one second off the times colleges look at. One second. I can't find it here. I've looked. I've looked every morning since eighth grade.

  So be mad. Be mad at Westbrook. Just don't be mad at the one second.

  145 words, about 1 min 2 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale40s plusAbout 1 minute

  The Eleventh of April

  Ruth, 70s, back at the open house of the home she has just put up for sale, to the young couple about to make an offer. She has one thing to ask them before they do.

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  I'm not supposed to be here. The agent told me to go to a coffee shop. I went. I had a coffee. I came back.

  You're the ones with the twins? I saw them on the stairs. They counted all fourteen. Everyone counts the stairs.

  I'll be quick. The furnace is fine. The roof is newish. The third step squeaks, and you'll love that, because you'll always know who's coming down at night.

  But the apple tree. Out back, by the fence. It looks like it's dying. It isn't. It does that every March. It looks dead until about the eleventh of April, and then all at once it isn't.

  Every buyer so far wanted it gone. Room for a patio.

  Don't. Give it one April. If it doesn't come back, cut it down, and I'll never know.

  But it will. It always has.

  144 words, about 1 min 2 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale20s to 30sAbout 1 minute

  Halftime

  Coach Yolanda, 30s, in the locker room at halftime of a state final, her team down three goals, to her players. She wants them to stop playing not to lose.

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  Sit down. Everybody sit. Drink something. Not you, Abby, you've had four. Breathe.

  Three to nothing. Say it. Out loud. Three to nothing. Good. Now it's said. It's a number. It's not chasing you anymore.

  I watched that first half. You weren't bad. You were careful. Every pass sideways. Every time somebody had a lane, she looked for someone safer to give it to. You played like you were carrying something you might drop.

  Here's what you're carrying. Nothing. The version of this game where we win easy is gone. So stop protecting it.

  I want ugly. I want shots from stupid places. I want Lena taking on two defenders and losing it and taking them on again.

  If we lose four to nothing swinging, I'll buy pizza for a year.

  If we lose three to nothing tiptoeing, I'll never forget it.

  Go.

  143 words, about 1 min 1 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale40s plusAbout 1 minute

  Before I Cut

  Marisol, 50s, a seamstress, in her shop, pinning the hem of a wedding dress on a bride who has gone very quiet. She wants the truth before the scissors come out.

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  Stand still. Arms out. There.

  Thirty years I've done this, mija. I can feel it through the fabric. Your shoulders go up every time your phone buzzes. There. Again.

  Brides lose a little weight before a wedding. You've lost eleven pounds in five weeks. That's not nerves. That's not eating.

  I'm not your mother. I'm the woman with pins in her mouth. Tell me anything, I forget it by Friday.

  So before I cut this hem, I'll ask once. Because once I cut, it's cut. The fabric doesn't come back.

  Are we hemming this dress?

  You don't have to say it. Nod, or don't.

  Okay. Okay. Step down. Careful of the pins. We'll get you a sandwich first.

  118 words, about 51 sec spoken (estimate)

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• DramaticFemale20s to 30sAbout 1 minute

  Off the Record

  Jess, 20s, in her car in a parking garage, on the phone with an employer calling for a reference on Carmen, the former friend who walked out on Jess's interior design studio and took clients with her. Jess has decided what to say.

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  Hi, yes, this is Jess. Yes, I worked with Carmen for three years. Sorry, I'm in a parking garage. Can you hear me? Good.

  You want to know if she's reliable.

  Honestly? I almost didn't take this call. Carmen and I don't speak. She left my studio last spring and took two of my clients with her. One of them was my mother's best friend. My mother still brings it up at dinner.

  So I could tell you a lot of things right now.

  But you asked about her work. And her work is the best I've ever seen. She looks at a room for ten seconds and knows where the light should go. I learned more from her than from school. I still steal her trick with the mirrors.

  Hire her. You'd be stupid not to.

  And if she asks who gave the reference, say someone from the old studio. She'll know.

  153 words, about 1 min 6 sec spoken (estimate)

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