Below are two audition monologues that are free for you to use; these monologues are for personal, non-commercial use only. All I ask is that you tell the people for whom you’re auditioning what play they are from and who wrote it. If you leave a comment below to let me know what you used and how it went, I will be really excited for you. Thanks!
Excerpt from Traveling Light
BRIAN EPSTEIN, aged 33, tells Joe about his first face to face meeting with The Beatles and what went through his mind.
BRIAN: This place smells terrible.
No, you cretin, that’s what I thought, it smelled bloody awful!
The walls were wet, positively, it was dark, dank, hot, like navigating the inside of the palpitating lung of a lifelong smoker-and it was the middle of the day time, lunch actually, for people who have to get their first drunk of the day before one o’ clock. My assistant and I, we had to find out who this band was, direct from Hamburg, that so many people had come into the shop asking for their record. (sings, with a swing beat) “My Bonnie, lies over, the ocean; my Bonnie, lies over, the sea; my Bonnie, lies over, the ocean; So bring back, my Bonnie, to me-You’ve heard it. We went there on business, it was a business lunch, we said, just research, hardly worth our time, find out who these boys are, we were in our suits- the only ones there who were dressed, crowd as thick as- you could hardly move, it was so crowded, the sweat made the dirt in the air stick to you, the smoke and the smell of the beer, piss, and that beat… And there they were. Four boys in black leather, over the crowd, and that beat, and their voices split into harmony, in that dirty cavern, a cry as pure as starlight. I was terrified, because I knew, when I got back to the store, my dad would smell it on me, all over me, and my good clean clothes, know where I’d been and what I was doing- but I had to have them, and I wasn’t terrified anymore, because it didn’t matter, one way or the other- I was going to have these boys, be theirs, at any cost. But my heart was still going to beat its way out of my chest. And I shook his hand, shook their hot, hard, sticky hands-they didn’t care. They barely knew who I was. Paul knew. They knew. But they were rough boys. Or so they wanted me to think.
Excerpt from Small Things
LUCKY MOSKOWITZ, 30s, a gas station and convenience store owner-operator, is thoroughly sick and tired of the nasty rumors about an old murder that the locals spread in her store.
LUCKY: Here’s the thing. Okay, yeah, a kid gets killed, worst kinda thing to happen. A kid hasn’t done anything worth even getting mad over, not really mad, not mad enough to kill somebody, you know what I’m sayin’? Nothing justifies that kinda murder. Now you and me and everybody you know knows from just watching TV for five freaking minutes, that when somebody gets killed you have the best chance of catchin’ em within the first couple of hours after the crime occurred. Now, when was the last time you remember the cops around here turning the whole town upside down in the dead o’night looking for somebody?
How ‘bout the tenth of Never, Perry Mason? So here’s what I’m sayin’; a kid gets killed. Which, as we’ve established, is horrible, we shouldn’t even be talking about it. But you wanted to open up the can o’worms, so I’m gonna serve it for you. Kid gets killed, mom calls the cops, says some looneytunes broke into her house, investigation, is the town turned upside down looking for Jack the Ripper? No. Three years later, new DA gets elected promising to be “tough on crime,” and all of a sudden there it is in the paper, BAM, all of a sudden you got indictment and extradition and if it bleeds it reads. Connect the dots. I’m sayin’ somebody decided who did it before they found out who did it. They’re looking for a scapegoat. Now get outta my store. I got paperwork I gotta do and I ain’t got time for extrapolatin’ and speculatin’ here. Don’t come back till you need another pack o’smokes an’ a coffee. And you- If I told you once I told you a thousand times, don’t ever let me catch you smoking while you’re pumpin’ gas again. You officially have to have an IQ over room temperature to cross the threshold. My store, my rules. (She returns to her paperwork) May these schmucks never get picked for jury duty.