These are original monologues extracted from Mike Messier’s screenplays and stageplays. Actors and Actresses are invited to use these for auditions, reels, acting clips, etc.

Here are Mike’s available 30-second – Three Minute monologues and a brief description of each one; Actors are encouraged to edit the longer monologues themselves if time considerations are a factor.

“As an Actor” monologue from Ace in Blood! Sugar! Sid! Ace! , a feature film written, Directed & produced by Mike Messier also available as a stage play.

The Actor  (or  The Actress) speaks on being more comfortable on stage than off.

ACTOR
As an Actor, I am only comfortable on stage. I have acted my whole
life. Acted like I didn’t know, didn’t care, wasn’t informed of the situation. I acted hopeless, helpless. And now? I am only ‘myself’ in another man’s words. In another man’s world. In an imagination, an imaginary world, not even my own. I have found my
voice.  My voice… is yours.

“Dad Moved Out” original monologue for “tween” Actor or Actress by Mike Messier.

Dad moved out yesterday. Again. After another stupid fight. It doesn’t seem like he sticks around much anymore. I can’t blame him. Mom can fly off the handle sometimes. And it gets rough to deal with. My sister and I are getting a little sick of it ourselves. And, well, we’ve thought about doing something about it.
You see, we’ve got a little plan. We’ve been saving up our money and are planning to get our own place. It doesn’t matter that I’m eleven and she’s nine, we’ve got the money. And a lot of places don’t check these days, anyway. We looked into it.
We saved up nine thousand dollars. We did an online business, well, actually several of them, buying and selling domains, sometimes for a five hundred percent mark up. Then we had several online merch stores. The profits added up quick and nobody checked our IDs. Online, you can be who you want and nobody asks you about your mom and dad.
So, I think the plan is we wait until mom freaks out again and she goes to her room. Then we get a ride from Lyft. We don’t do Uber because Trump owns a part of it; I found that out online too.
Our new place will be really sweet and set up just the way we want it. Best of all? No stupid fights. No stupid adults.

 “Rapture and The Elephant” monologue from the feature film screenplay Wrestling With Sanity  by Mike Messier.

  Elizabeth discusses the first time her “mind power” frightened her. 

ELIZABETH
The first time is back when I was six. I was at a circus. Half open. Grey. Wrinkled. Large black marble. Looked right in me. I could see giraffes. I could see long necks and slow moving jaws. I could taste the grass going down my throat and feel the heat but I didn’t mind because I was a giraffe. I’m back in the circus. The mother elephant closes its eye. I start to cry. I throw a fit. My father picks me up and cradles me in his arms and says ‘It’s all right, Elizabeth, it’s all right.’ Crackling wood benches under my father’s feet. Older kids are laughing at me, saying ‘She’s afraid of the elephant’. I look at them. They’re gone. I didn’t mean to. I was just a little girl.

“Dating in New England” monologue from “Ivista’s Blind Date” a short stage play by Mike Messier.

Ivista confides in her blind date how she feels about living in Boston, where she has been for about two years.

IVISTA
I just don’t feel like I belong
here. Ever since I moved here from
California, I’ve met nothing but
creeps, no offense. It seems there
are no nice, normal guys around
here. Everyone’s got their stupid
accents and are obsessed with the
Sox or the Patriots or whatever.

Nobody goes outside and does
things. People just want to get
drunk (mocking a Boston accent) and
hang-out-in-the-bah-every-freakin’-
weekend. I mean, is it something in
the water around here that makes
people so weird and lame?

I mean, as little girls, we’re
brought up on these stories of
princesses and glass slippers and
then you grow up to just find a sea
of frogs and lizards. I feel like
I’m drowning. It’s a war not worth fighting.

I’m bored. And
disappointed. With everything.  All I want is just something. One little taste of
happiness.

“Clarrisse addresses her niece” monologue from the short stage play/short film The Impeccable   by Mike Messier.

Clarrisse is furious at Denise her niece, as is the usual.

CLARRISSE
My own mother was not quite born into privilege. She married her way into it, as women did in those times. And when her husband — my father – died — well, she dealt with the equation. She did the math to equal her involvement. To provide. For me and my siblings. And you? Your mother? A bit of a conniver, a bitch at times, but a bitch I could somehow respect. And you, Denise? My dear niece? You’ve had a rather easy lot, haven’t you? You don’t know what it’s like to claw. To beg. To steal. And, it might be said, you don’t know what it’s like… to even live. Just a bit.

“Joe And Somebody” monologue from the short stage play “Joe And” by Mike Messier.

 Joanne,  formerly ‘Joe’, is a transgender person who explains how everything happened to a therapist. 

JOANNE
My whole life I’ve been Joe. But not ‘just Joe.’ ‘Just Joe’ was never good enough for anybody. You see, I always seemed to be with some other person – usually a woman – that defined me. Defined who I was. I’ve always been Joe. And somebody.

Take my first wife, Diane. Please. It was easy enough for me to fall in love with Diane. She was simple. Warm. Friendly. Pretty. Local.  She was… my other half. Everybody would always say, ‘Look at Joe and Diane. They’re so nice. Joe and Diane, so nice.’ But we didn’t quite fit. Not perfectly. Perhaps we didn’t understand… what the other wanted. But we tried. We really did.

We had a daughter. She was lovely. Beautiful. An artist. A tender, wounded soul. I
say ‘wounded’. I could tell she was… just like me. But, with time, Diane and I… grew apart.  I found myself looking for an escape. From the family home. I wanted to feel important. Needed. Loved.

I found… somebody else. We fell in love. It wasn’t convenient. Real love never is. It’s inconvenient. People get hurt. Other people. That’s how you know an inconvenient love is real. You’re willing to hurt other people you care about.

It was a surgery. It was a surgery I had. To be a woman. Who I wanted to be. But I– I
had already had — as a man — my daughter. I was a father. A father. Not a mother. I
didn’t know how to be who I wanted to be while at the same time still be who I had
become. I didn’t know how, how to be true to myself and still be… a good father. A good
parent.

I did what I had to do. I loved who I had to love. And I did what I had to do to love her the best way I thought I could. As myself. Joe.

Joe ‘and somebody’. Joanne… somebody else.

“Instincts” monologue by Sugar in  Blood! Sugar! Sid! Ace! , a feature film written, Directed & produced by Mike Messier also available as a stage play.

SUGAR
Devil is in the instincts. Instincts, you follow them? You follow them? You think instincts are God’s great urge, take you to the promised land? They’ll never do you wrong. Follow your instincts, your gut reaction… I don’t think so. That is the way of the fool.  An instinct is the Devil’s work. The Devil, not God, rules this land. This pain exists. Your instincts for pain. The Devil exists and as created by God, God must exist. Now try to look beyond this earth ruled by the Devil and sense a heaven with God. I wear you out. I am the negative space that you seek to fill. But you can never fill me because I am pages and pages. I am a book never meant to be read. Oh yes, instincts. What about them? The Devil rules them. And he tricks you into thinking they are God’s will. But they are not. God’s choices come only through prayer. And prayer takes time. Because the Devil is an impatient Beast. He will hold you for a long time, but if you are strong enough and do not relent and keep praying you will get through to God. Because he is there, waiting for you to wait for him..
And waiting is what I am good at. And this is how I’ll keep myself in you. You will feel me praying for you. Because I stay long and hard, longer than the Devil and reach you, the way God will reach you. But only if you want him… me… to.

“Hollywood” monologue from Margins, a feature length stage-play by Mike Messier.

Moon, a muse,  discusses her theory on why Hollywood big box office films are no longer as artistic and daring as they once were.

People used to complain that ‘Hollywood movies are only made for teenagers’; but now they’re made for Asian teenagers. Indian teenagers. Anywhere-but-here teenagers.

Today’s Hollywood scripts are just as thin as their actresses. ‘Universes’ and ‘Franchises’, ‘reboots’ and ‘re-imaginations’ have supplanted the stand alone, single film story. Casting and re-casting, one pretty face after another, thrown on the wall, to see which one sticks.

But it doesn’t matter. The money pours in. The audience isn’t fickle. They are addicted. Addicted to the drug they helped create. It can be sadly said that the vast majority of bad films made in Hollywood just lead to more bad films out of Hollywood. For today’s audience? Hollywood movies are mere voyeuristic escapism that, at their best, offer two hours of mind-numbing tricks, and at their worst, are how-to manuals for violence and perversion, that lead to teenage pregnancies, breeding another generation of pre-programmed, young movie lambs ripe for cinematic slaughter! The Hollywood movie machine has cannibalized the art of cinema. ‘The Magic What If’ is now a ‘Tragic Why Bother?’

“The Program” monologue from  ALSO RAN , an Award Winning feature film screenplay by Mike Messier.

Mr. Roberts  has  been around the correctional system for decades and has a seen-it-all, done-it-all, nothing surprises me, waiting for retirement vibe; here he advocates that Mick, an inmate, sign up for a volunteer in-house program.

MR. ROBERTS
Mrs. Berry will tell you about her program. Now I’m gonna tell you what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna sign up for her liberal program. You’re gonna fill out the paperwork, do what she says, and give her and her damn program nice marks on whatever fuckin’ feedback form you’re asked to fill out. You’ll do this ‘cause you want to, and ‘cause you’ve got time to kill. You might even do it ‘cause Ms. Berry here looks good in a skirt
and it takes six months to two years off your sentence. Then she gets her paycheck, her program gets validated and funded for another session and we all feel good about ourselves.

Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get a job in a senior center cafeteria or cleaning up at a zoo or some other shit. Soup kitchen, maybe you’ll work at a soup kitchen. In a few years, Mrs. Berry here will have seen enough of you deadbeats in and out of her door that she won’t give a shit about you and the other riff-raff I’ve seen for forty years in this Godforsaken industry and she’ll finally get out of this rat hole and start baking brownies and cupcakes for her daughter’s girl scout group.

‘Cause yeah, I’m assuming my esteemed colleague will get her head screwed on straight by that time and get out of this line of work. At the end of the day, you’ll be free to do as you please and hopefully the tax payers of my state and this country won’t have had funded another riff-raff piece of shit who goes back to prison for some other unnecessary murder on someone whose only mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Any questions?

“Sid the Writer” monologue from Blood! Sugar! Sid! Ace! , a feature film written, Directed & produced by Mike Messier also available as a one act stage play.

Sid describes the frustration of the writing process.

SID
Writer. Writer is fighter. If I wasn’t a fighter, I’d still be in the hospital writing poetry for nurses. Nurses. Nurses are curses. Eventually, having written himself into a corner, Sid  types heavy words down on the page. Each soft word is so much heavier than a hard word for me. Soft words need my full concentration. I need to throw them. Hard words roll off the tongue like so much peanut better and jelly. But the audience can’t keep up with hard words. The audience doesn’t get it. So burn it. This idea will never work. Contrived.

Let me tell you about Art. It’s the greatest thing in the world. There could be a war. There could be death. Mothers could be burying their sons. And if one great painting came from it, it would all be worth it. That’s how precious art is.

I always wanted to be a writer. Not a writer that wrote for himself or for his friends or for the joy of writing or for the government. I wanted to be a writer who wrote for money, big money, Hollywood type of money. The type of writer who writes big box office movies.Eventually, I’d get so big I wouldn’t have to actually write, I’d just commission a screenplay and put my name on it. I’d have young lackeys do my writing for me and they’d slave through the night in my air-conditioned office. With doughnuts, coffee, and hot pepperoni pizza pie as their fuel. And they’d all be seemingly happy working for me but eventually a few of them would pair off and fuck each other and get confidence in their own abilities to write. They would ego feed each other until they decided to walk and expose me to Oprah, or the internet or whatever people get exposed to by at that point. I would deny, deny, deny, until I released my own tell-all book which would have a ghost writer. I have nothing to say. It kills me.

“Mick’s Room” monologue from the novella version of the Award Winning screenplay Also Ran by Mike Messier.

Mick, an inmate, speaks in glowing terms about his childhood room.

MICK
My room had it all. Music, walls, posters. Beautiful women, Cindy Crawford, leftover from the 80s, Christina Aquilara, Brandy, Monica.
Then I had the hall of fame. Big men doing big things. Bodyslams. Hulk Hogan over Andre the Giant. Jordan, stuffing it down somebody’s face. Posterized. Feel that. Six rings, bitch.
Dennis Rodman. He was my favorite. Guy almost committed suicide. But he didn’t. He held on. And got himself some more rings. With Jordan. Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

Best thing about my room? I didn’t have to lock the door. They just knew. Don’t come the fuck in. Everybody respected that. Even mom. Even dad. Even Claudia, my little sister. My best friend Hawk and girls, were the only people I let in there.

And the music, oh, the music! I’d listen to some good shit. I listened to stuff at first, like Chili Peppers, just to wake up, but then I got harder, like Godsmack, stuff like that. Creed. Some of those bands got soft I heard,  went weird. Not all of them did.

Some of the girls I had in my room could tell you stories.
But most of the time, I did my business outside my room, outside my home. You see, the thing is, I didn’t want to be there. With nobody. Nobody in the world I wanted to come inside my home, to even get to my room. If there was a tunnel from my room to the outside world, I could teleport people in, I would. But I didn’t have one.
I didn’t want people to see the family room, the living room, the disaster room, the whatever the hell you call it. Dad in his chair. Mom yelling up a mess.  I didn’t want to deal with that shit and I didn’t want anybody else to be a part of it.
Mom had a way of making everybody feel bad. Just to be alive.And Claudia, my sister, could only hold it down for so long. We wanted to get out, she wanted to get out, but only Claudia had a plan. I just didn’t know it yet.

“Pops” monologue from “I’m not Brianna” a short stage play by Mike Messier.

Terrance, a loving step-father, confides in a new babysitter. 

TERRANCE
I guess you don’t know the full situation. It’s complicated. You know, divorce is tough. Kids get involved. And there’s kids and parents — You see, the kids, our kids, well
they aren’t really mine, I guess. They’re Ella’s, from a previous relationship. With her ex. That deadbeat. Now he’s got a new girl, he’s got a new girl every month just about,
and my girls, my daughters, well, they don’t like her. They don’t like any of his ‘new girls’. So, who gets to deal with it? When they come home from the weekend, or the school break or whatever, who gets to pick up the pieces? Not ‘dad.’ ‘Step-dad’. ‘Pops’. Me.  That’s what they call me. ‘Pops’. I like it, but … it’s not the same.

(Beat)

It keeps everyone from getting confused.

“Those Photos” monologue from Messier Peace Theater Presents “That Night”

Carol confronts her former college friends, whose cruel actions cost Carol dearly. 

CAROL
Those photos. Those photos that spread across the whole campus. Those photos that
got to our classmates and our teachers and … the President of the University. Those
photos that I had to sit there… In his office… when he showed those photos to my
mother. And… my father. They had to drive for hours, with my kid sister, to get to the
school… and then drive home, with me, all the way back.

I was the one that was looked at. In those photos.

I was removed from the school. My whole life was uprooted. I was a laughing stock. My
family. My friends. All shamed. I never got my degree. I married the first man that could look at me without knowing. Because I never told him. You ruined my life. Do you know that?

“Bobby goes home”  monologue from the short stage play “New Best Friend” by Mike Messier.

Bobby has just found out his ticket to the Boston Celtics basketball game has been given away to somebody else and decides to go home to his wife.

BOBBY
Guess I’ll go home and watch the game on TV. With my wife. Might be nice for us to spend a little quality time together. You know, we spend so much time as ‘Mom and Dad’, we never get to just be ‘Monica and Bobby’ anymore. We don’t get to, you know, really talk about things, really do things, any more. It’s all just ‘Hey honey, can you pick up the kids? Hey sweetie, can you get some toilet paper on the way home?’ There’s no romance in toilet paper. There’s no romance in kids. So, yeah, I’m gonna go home to my wife. I’m gonna go home to my wife Monica, the most beautiful wife in the world, and we’re gonna sit there and watch this here game tonight and enjoy it. We’ll put the kids to bed at intermission and then just ca-noodle-fuck all night long. Just the two of us.

“Henry proposes a toast” from The Impeccable a short play/short film by Mike Messier.

Henry tries to calm the anger between the two women in his life with a peace offering.

HENRY
Yes, I raise a glass to our very souls. Because while our fresh corpses some day might rot into Earth, what will we be? Not our bodies, but we our souls? All that we will have? All that our spirits will have? The memories. The memories, good and bad, of situations, new and terse. Foreign and wrong. So let’s make those sad memories rich. Fun and exciting. Because if any of those poor, sad peasants, pianists and other worker bees, were to live our lives, they would not live them perfectly. Flawlessly. And nor do we, my ladies. We live these lives as beasts of privilege. So let us privileged beasts leave sins behind that make the tabloids worthy. Give the common folk something to talk about, a bread and circus distraction from their own damn, dirty nailed, rugged misery. For they would so much to love to sleep in the stained satin sheets we give them as charity. So let’s stain those sheets. Stain them with our privilege. Allow the masses to roll in our stains as if that were a thrill for them. Because it is. And if The Charity Taker asks, ‘Did we wash those sheets before we donated them?’ Eh, tell ‘em a little white lie. Tell them we turned in those sheets freshly cleaned. We turned them in… as they are…The Impeccable.

“The beginning”,  a brief guttural monologue by Concrete Rose from the feature film script of  Wrestling With Sanity

Concrete Rose, a veteran Professional Wrestler, contemplates his future before a big match.

CONCRETE ROSE
Tonight, I baptize myself. I cleanse myself of my past and begin again. It’s a time for healing and I contemplate my future… a future to scab my wounds… remorse for a lifetime of pain and exile. Forgive me. My time has come.

“The Spy”,  Eddie’s Pause’s  poetic monologue from Wrestling With Sanity  feature film script by Mike Messier.

Eddie performs spoken word poetry to a captive audience.

EDDIE PAUSE
The spy./ I’ve got a spy./ I’ve got a spy in the sky./ I’ve got a spy in the sky that tells me that the juice from your thigh/ is not a virgin Mary/ but a mala-tai’ve/ cocktail/ that’s whipped and cracked on many men’s backs./ Before circling and curdling between my feet on your bed./ Before swallowing me whole and wishing me dead./ But I was reborn as your child instead./ An open eyed Oedipus with no father to kill./ And just your bodily fluids as my every meal.

“Eleanor from Belfast” monologue from “Halloween Havoc”, a short stage play by Mike Messier.

Barry, a retired rodeo clown, discovers that he may have a son, from a brief affair with a young woman from small rural town. 

BARRY
Eleanor… Eleanor sold concessions. At some 4H fair we did when the rodeo went toured
in Belfast, Maine. That was over twenty years ago, I believe. She grew up a farmer’s daughter.  She was a sweetheart. Very polite and soft spoken, but fiery at times. Eleanor had a bit of a thing for the clown makeup. She was young, but not too young, as I remember it. She was getting ready to go to college, would have been the first time she left her hometown.
She was a nice girl. Very nice. But her father didn’t care for me much. I guess I can’t
blame him. The old guy caught us behind the Donkey Stables, in a bit of a compromising
position. Eleanor being, uh, polite, and me in my clown outfit. Full rodeo clown regalia.
With my pants down, so to speak. We got along quite well. It was a short lived affair,
but it was… passionate. (Whimsically remembering) Those girls from Belfast.  That 4H fair only lasted three or four nights. There was another town, another show to do. We were off and on our way.

“Seduction of Distance” from Distance from Avalon , a stage-play, screenplay and novella (all with the same title) by Mike Messier.

Jean La Croix Distance, a vampire of sorts, holds a sword while delivering this monologue. 

DISTANCE
Oh, my sword? Yes, it’s authentic. An authentic prop. From a film I love. A film about immortals. No, no, I didn’t actually act in the film myself. I just admired it. And I
acquired this as I’ve acquired many a beautiful thing. But, as a matter of speaking, I have always wanted to act in a film. But I don’t have quite the face for it or the tolerance
for the long hours involved. And the art of Acting has always scared me. I do not think I would be afraid to act if I was asked to, needed, perhaps, in an acting emergency of
some kind. I’m afraid of what would happen to me if such an occasion arised. I’m quite afraid of where fate might lead me. You see, I knew of this man. An Actor. He was a troubled man and through his acting, he had some difficulty. Ah yes,
celluloid dreams. Quite a fantasy. I suppose a man who lives as an Actor is not a man who quite Acts like a man. For that wandering spirit, always seeking, is quite lost. Yes, indeed, we’re all lost, my man. Take that strange case of my Actor friend. This man of some talent had worked diligently for many years on his craft with only mild success. Undeterred, he gallantly performed for half filled community theater auditoriums and in children’s shows with marionettes or some other distraction. One day, however, this fine gent was lucky enough to be cast in a major motion picture about espionage
set, in part, in a maximum security prison.

Not a large role, mind you, but a role nonetheless. (Beat.)
An ‘extra’? What is that, exactly? A meaningless character? Oh yes, I’m sure of it, because the role was not what one would describe as significant. And so, he must have seemed
nearly invisible to the film’s big stars and busy Director. And perhaps he felt the same in general is his own life… in his own career. So this man thought upon these prisoners, not
of his fellow actors acting as prisoners, but of those truly imprisoned men and the plight they were in. So when the production was over and it was time for everyone to go home,
our little extra man thought otherwise: ‘I will stay. I will stay and I will teach. I will teach them to Act. I will teach them to be right. I will teach them to be Godly.’ Certainly,
a mad idea. But even a madman must find a home.

And  that Actor, that was so eager to teach, to teach the condemned men locked in the prison…  He that so sacrificed, gave his own freedom for them. But they? They stole his spirit. They stole his mind. They made him one of them. And that Actor? He never acted again. He cheat. He stole. He even killed. But never again… did he Act.

END OF MONOLOGUES

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