Playwright Portrait, Nilaja Sun, Excerpt from No Child...

The Playwright Nilaja Sun, 2007

pswb©2011

No Child...

MS.SUN. Hi. I’m Ms. Sun. Take your seats now. And as of today and for the next six weeks, when I’m in this classroom, you will not be using the word faggot or bitch or nigga or motherfucker or motherfuckerniggabitchfaggot. Anymore, Dominicans shall not be called and will not call each other dumb in a cans or platanos.

COCA. Ah, y pero quien e heta? Esa prieta?

MS. SUN. La prieta soy yo, senorita (Coca is speechless)

BRIAN. Shrimp fwy why? Shrimp fwy why! (no one else laughs)

MS. SUN. We will respect our teacher’s ethnicity.

BRIAN. Shrimp fwy why??? (no one else laughs.)

MS. SUN. Ladies will not call each other heifers or hos.

SHONKRIKA. Shoot! That whay I’m talkin’ about.

MS. SUN. We will start class on time. We will eat our breakfast beforehand. And from now on we are nothing but thespians.

XIOMORA. Lesbians? I ain’t no Rosie O’Donnell.

MS SUN. No no! Thespian! It means actor, citizen, lover of all things great.

XIOMARA. I love that hard cash bling-bling.

MS. SUN. Say it with me class, thespian.

XIOMARA (Bored) Thespian.

Playwright Portrait, Bekah Brunstetter, Excerpt from Oohrah!

The Playwright Bekah Brunstetter, 2010

pswb©2011

Oohrah!

SARA

Regina from my pilates class, her husband makes real good money, he works for Krispy Kreme, he’s a regional manager. (Beat.) You could do that, you could work there.

RON

You want me to fuckin sell doughnuts, Sara?

SARA

They’re not JUST doughnuts RON, they’re best doughnuts ever!

Sides, You love doughnuts! It’s a good job!

Playwright Portrait, Tommy Smith, Excerpt from Sextet

The Playwright Tommy Smith, 2007

pswb©2011

 

SEXTET
 

NINA: I'm so afraid when you're gone.
TCHAIKOVSKY: Why are you afraid?
NINA: The last couple nights. I've been having these terrible dreams about you. I'm in the concert hall playing the violin. I don't play the violin, I know, but in the dream I could play very well. And no one's there, just space filled with sound and I play louder and louder and faster and faster and the strings break off, just whip right off the instrument, and they cut my forearms and I try to brush it away,brush the blood away like dirt but the cuts grow bigger and I call out but the space swallows the sound. But then I can hear you. I can her you in the silence. I'm coming. I'm coming. But you never do. You never come.

Playwright Portrait, John Clancy, Excerpt from Fatboy

The Playwright John Clancy, 2008

pswb©2011

Fatboy

Never a thought for poor Fatboy. Never, what would you like, sweet Fatboy? Always this way, all my life, all my lives, every tick of time. As a boy left to riot, as a man left to rot. Cocksuckers. Asshole fuckheaded cocksuckers. Always the burden. Always the load. I'M EATING A CHAIR! HAS IT COME TO THIS? Well I say no more. I say fuck all y'all and fuck you twice from behind. I am not a beast of burden. I am not a servant or a slave. I am Fatboy and I AM GOD. I will take what I need, I will take what I deserve, I will take whatever I see. I shall be rich, I shall be respected and I shall be fed.

or

"Assholes of the world, I address you as your king, as your god, as your destiny and destroyer. I see here before me assholes from every hellhole on earth. I welcome you, I call you assholes, I spit on your traditions and faiths. You are assholes, your parents are assholes, your heroes, statesmen and ancestors are complete and perfect assholes. Assholes, what I ask for here today is very simple. From this day forward, you must all agree to shut the fuck up, fuck yourselves and stay the fuck out of my way. I AM FATBOY. In short, fuck all y'all, you big, big assholes. Thank you."

Playwright Portrait, Amiri Baraka, Excerpt from The Dutchman

The Playwright Amiri Baraka, 2009

pswb©2009

The Dutchman

"I guess I better collect my stuff and get off this train. Looks like we wont be acting out that little pageant you outlined before " Dutchman , Scene two

Playwright Portrait, David Ives, Excerpt from Variations on the Death of Trotsky

The Playwright David Ives, 2008

pswb©2011

Variations on the Death of Trotsky

TROTSKY (with a mountain climber's axe in his head, planted there by his gardener): So even an assassin can make the flowers grow. The gardener was false, and yet the garden that he tended was real. How was I to know he was my killer when I passed him every day? How was I to know that the man tending the nasturtiums would keep me from seeing what the weather would be like tomorrow...? Sometime, for everyone, there's a room that you go into, and it's the room that you never leave. Or else you got out of a room and it's the last room that you'll ever leave. (He looks around.) This is my last room. This desk, these books, that calendar... Maybe I'll go look at the nasturtiums... (Trotsky dies. The garden outside the louvered window begins to glow.) - From "Variations on the Death of Trotsky"