Modern Monologues by Women Writers

In celebration of women writers we bring you a selection of new work. These very different monologues were written in February 2018.


by Sue Shattock © 2018

Sue Shattock Playwright.


I just like looking at them. It makes me all peaceful just to see their
happy little faces when I get home. All them different colours and
sizes and combinations. I’m not an expert, not by a long way, but I
know what I like. What suits me, and orchids suit me. There was
184 at the last count and maybe some don’t look as good as they
should, but I look after them, keep them warm and so on. Bert said
I cared more for them than for him! I don’t know, maybe he was
right. We used to have rows over the heating and he hated it when
I got a new one even if it was a present! But they’re very sensitive.
If I water them too much they soon tell me, and I hate seeing their
lovely flowers drying up all crispy.

You’ll never guess, someone told me once that the orchid is a very
“sexy” flower. I know! But I’m just saying. Apparently the flowers
are shaped like us ladies down below, but I’m not sure if I heard
right. Sexy? Well I’ve rather forgotten the meaning of the word –
me and Bert. Well… well, we stopped that sort of thing in the 80”s
on account of the arthritis and his gippy hip. I think it was a bit of
an excuse myself he was never one to over exert himself in any
department, if you get my drift.

He didn’t like my little collection of beauties. I think he was jealous
that I preferred being with them. It’s peaceful. Bert never
understood. Well, that’s water under the bridge, you’re a great
help now aren’t you Bert? I’ve manured him everywhere, a good
source of nourishment for all my lovelies. And I feel that he’s
content. Anyway he’s more use here than just pushing up the
daisies somewhere lonely isn’t he?

You’re a useful part of the
family again Bert. That makes me so happy

True Love

A Monologue by Leah Cohen

Leah Cohen Poet Writer Playwright.

They think they know everything, those bitches. They’re supposed to be helping. Helping must really make them feel good. And they think I’m helpless. Look at them. Those pathetic eyes and phony smiles. I made them feel the bumps on my head. He did it with his feet. Didn’t even have shoes on! The only reason he’s in jail now is because he’s Black.

Yes, I had a concussion. Was in the hospital six fucking weeks. They must think I’m stupid. I’m a bloddy social worker. I know what I want and need. They don’t know anything. How much we love each other. How we give each other everything of ourselves, – everything – the good and the bad. I mean if he feels pain, shouldn’t we share it? And we do.

How many people could say that? They have shit lives, most don’t even like each other, probably hardly even communicate but they stay together forever, lonely and miserable.

What should he do when he’s angry? Pretend he’s not feeling anything? I understand him and I love him to bits. I couldn’t live without him.

We’ve known each other for years. He makes me think and feel. I’m alive with him. When he leaves, I am so alone. I need him. I need his kind of love.

My friends ask why I stay with him. They’ll never understand. They think I’ve got problems and don’t deserve to be punished like this. They have no concept of true love! He is everything to me. When he smiles and hugs me to death, I am in heaven.

They don’t know it, those middle class fucking do-gooders. As soon as I’m well again, I’m leaving this refuge and going back to him. I want nothing more than to have his baby!

Inspired by the quote:

‘Jesus Christ! What? Like a Medium?’

A Monologue by Marcia White

Marcia White, Playwright, Writer, Screenwriter, Editor.

Michael is in the Gents, talking to himself in the mirror, pacing up and down.

Why does he do that? My customer! Moves in right before the kill. Fat, lazy bastard, time he retired. Bully, not a mentor. Thief. If I can’t meet my targets, I’ll be out of a job. Poor mum.

And sis, God knows what she’s up to. ‘Learning how to talk to the dead?’ If she manages to get through to Dad; he can’t help. Didn’t help when he was alive, why would he bother now? He’ll have forgotten we ever existed. Only interested in sex and booze. No doubt chasing some young thing. He’ll never change.

He terrorised her; ignored her; made her ill. Sis you need your head examining.

Deep shit! If I loose this job, there’ll be no money coming in. I hate the place: bloody job. If it wasn’t for the company car, I’d be out of here. That bastard pinches my commission. And those beer drinking, womanisers: Jesus Christ, what a bunch? The stench of cheap aftershave makes me vomit. As for their sick jokes.

What else can I do? Hate every minute of it. Fuck Dad and his women, hope he’s in some hell hole! Sorry Mum.

What a mess? Holy shit, her operation’s tomorrow. Can’t go job hunting now. Get back out there, before they notice I’ve gone. Next time that bastard muscles in on my customers, I’ll tell him his flies are undone, and his phone’s flashing porn through his shirt pocket. Here goes. I’ll look after you Mum. What else can I do?


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