Opening Monologues: John,Witness,Young Girl,Paul


Photro ©Karen Wong

I was always different
different from the others
different all my life
this 12 year old life, so different
from all the other
12 year old lives.

The adults say “John, be a good boy”, they say
“John, that’s a good lad”, but I see things
no one else sees- green magic forest kingdom
on the lawns of Strawberry Fields,
and the boys that no one wants, the boys
everyone left behind.
I see the things no one else sees-
are they only meant for me, are they meant
for only me?


World 3 Theatre Production

Shiver of creation.
Beautiful boy,
fragile boy-
no one saw the beauty or fragility,
only toughness.

shivers through you,
visions, beautiful and terrible,
bring knowledge. You can
say Yes
to all of it, let love
love through you, always.



World 3 Theatre Production

I love my grandmother’s yard in summer.
Yesterday, I sat under the snowball tree,
the big tree in the front yard with round white flowers
like snowballs, so I call it the snowball tree.
I lifted flowers like a curtain
and went inside.
My back straight against the trunk, I felt
points of rough bark through my t-shirt,
the cold ground under me, I felt
dirt’s cool dampness seeping through my shorts.
I turned my face up
and stared into the white,
white umbrella of round blossoms
hanging low from branches
all around me.
Surrounded by white petals,
against the center of the tree,
it felt like church-
only without priests or grown-ups watching.
I’m inventing a secret ink.
I crush small black rocks,
I mix them with dirt,
I grind them all together on the large flat stone
in the backyard.
When I’m finished, the ink will be invisible;
I’ll write things
only I can see.


World 3 Theatre Production

He tries to keep it ordinary,
Dad does. After she died, meals still came
at the same time, the aunts help out,
and there are cousins around.
“Paul”, he said, “she’s not coming back
this time; she won’t come back, your mum”.
There’s still work each day for him,
school for us.
The shops open, the buses turn
’round at Penny Lane; there’s tea
each day, and supper.
He tries to keep it the same, dad does,

But I listen to him play his music,
the piano in the evenings,
the melody rolling out, above
street sounds, above the laughter and clatter
of supper being cleared away;
the melody rolls out
through the open window,
the power of the melody through an open window,
the melody is an open window.

“Can anyone think of any words to this?”
Dad said. Someday, I’ll make up the words
to his song…
and now I know a new word –
harmony; he taught me