The daily playwright

Yael: I don’t really care about what you wrote. Olivia: Ouch! Yael: Boo hoo. You get me. Olivia: Not sure I do. Yael: Not that I don’t value what you have to say... Olivia: But? Yael: But? Olivia: Not that you don’t value what I have to say.. BUT... Yael: Oh, but. Olivia: But... Yael: Yeah. Just that I kind of wanna know about what you didn’t write. Olivia: Well. Everything that isn’t what I wrote is something I didn’t write. Yael: Well noted. Olivia: So you care more about every single thing that isn’t what I wrote. Yael: Not quite but yeah. Olivia: So again I cry it, OUCH. Yael: I do not wound you. Olivia: That’s not for you to say. Yael: Touché. Olivia: So what I didn’t write. Yael: Yeah. Olivia: What do you even mean? Yael: Just interested is all. Olivia: Enlighten me. Yael: The spaces between the words. The air around the sculpture. The light between the branches. The silence between the notes. All that. Olivia: So you’re just being a wanker. Yael: Maybe. The pause between the grunts. Olivia: Ugh. Yael: But no, silly. Olivia: Then what. Yael: Dunno. Just, that thing where you can’t be happy without sadness. Olivia: Yeah? Yael: So things can’t exist without the not-things. Olivia: Mm. Yael: And so what you wrote can’t exist without what you didn’t write. Olivia: I didn’t write that you were a pretentious hole. Yael: Oh but you did. Olivia: I’m going to kill you.

Ad: Remember when we used to come here all the time? Alex: Yeah, and you’d always complain about how you got a wet patch on your dress from sitting on the wet grass. Ad: But you wouldn’t sit on the graves so we had to sit on the floor. Alex: It’s disrespectful! You can’t sit on a gravestone. Ad: Why not? Not like the dead person can see. Alex: Disrespectful, I just... it’s just disrespectful, okay? Ad: Okay, okay! Alex: It was fun though wasn’t it. Ad: Yeah. I miss it. Alex: Mm, me too. Ad: But now we’re here again, I kind of hate it. Alex: Why so? Ad: Just... feels like this isn’t a place that I love anymore. It just represents the place that you left to, and never came back from. Alex: Come on, it’s not like I died! I’m not under the GROUND. Jesus, Ad. Ad: No, that came out morbid, you know what I mean, I don’t mean the graveyard, I mean this place. Alex: The church? Ad: Yeah. Alex: You didn’t have to... Ad: I couldn’t. Alex: I understand. There’s always room for you to... Ad: It wouldn’t be the same. Even if I followed you into this world, we couldn’t be together anyway. Alex: Don’t think I don’t know that. Ad: So you chose that. This. And... so I can’t see the pretty moss on the graves anymore or hear the birds singing in the trees, without just feeling... like this isn’t our place anymore. Now. I mean. Alex: It’s... sometimes you have to just... make a choice, and. Ad: I know. It hurts though. It started to not hurt, but (Ad lets go of Alex’s hand) Alex: I’m sorry. I made it worse again didn’t I? I should have just left it. Ad: I’m interested in why you didn’t. Alex: If I knew that... Ad: You could pray about it, no? Alex: Don’t be cruel. You know it doesn’t work that way. Ad: I don’t know anything. Alex: That’s not true. Ad: I don’t know anything of this place anymore. Anything of your world. Alex: It was our world. Ad: It isn’t anymore.

It’s... um... about someone special (a dour look to the audience) You know who you are.

Gina: It’s hard to describe someone without sounding as though you either hate them or love them. Scrutinising someone in detail feels intimate. The kind of intimacy we normally reserve for people we either detest or adore. Joe: Has it occurred to you that - Gina: (oblivious) It’s weird - I can’t stop noticing things about the way you move, the way you smile, the way - the exact flow and halt of your movements - the, the, I don’t know, the way your muscles pull your facial features around, the way they move over your skull - it sounds grotesque when you put it like that, but Joe: Stop it. Gina: (still oblivious) But it’s true. The texture of your skin, its softness, its roughness, the creases, lines, follicles, pores, bruises, scars... it’s like I’ve zoomed in and - Joe: Gina, stop. Gina: I’m seeing everything. It’s like seeing the whole and all of the detail in one go - like standing too close to the television screen but still somehow, somehow being able to see the whole image. That’s a tacky analogy, but - yes - I know your voice and the way it vibrates my ear drums in its particular way - I know the shapes of the words you pronounce, the - Oh. Joe: Gina: Joe: I did tell you to stop. Gina: I’m - Joe: Don’t say it. Gina: But. Joe: I know. But you can’t. Gina: I... Joe: Don’t. Gina: I know. Joe: I... know what you’re saying. I... understand what you’re saying. Am I being clear? Gina: Y-yes, but. Joe: I can’t say any more than that. Words can kill everything. Gina: I...

The statue: Do you desire me or do you desire that I desire you? You’re sending me rather mixed messages here.

John: W - wake up. Sophie: Mmm? John: It’s morning. Sophie: Can’t be. John: No really, it is. Sophie: How? John: I... I don’t know. Sophie: (sitting up abruptly and looking around) Shit. John: I know right. Sophie: I... John: Mm. Sophie: I really didn’t/ think John: I can’t believe it. Sophie: Can’t believe it came. John: After all that. Sophie: (faintly embarrassed) Mm. All that. John: Seems... almost... silly now, doesn’t it. Sophie: Mm, yeah. Mm. John: Mm. Sophie: What now then? John: I don’t know. (birds begin to sing)

Andrea: I can’t believe I haven’t - I can’t believe I don’t already know this. I mean, I know how old you are - you’re 29 but - when’s your birthday? Gail: We’ve definitely already had this conversation. Andrea: No we haven’t! Gail: Are you telling me you don’t know when my birthday is? Andrea: I’m SURE you never told me. Gail: This is unbel- this is unreal. No way. You can’t be serious. Andrea: Oh my god it’s not today is it? Gail: NO! Andrea: Is it soon? Gail: Yeah, actually. Actually yeah it is soon. Andrea: Will you tell me? Gail: Tell you again. Andrea: I’m sure you - yeah. Gail: It’s in September. Andrea: Mm? Gail: The 8th. Andrea: Cool! Same as uncle Henry. I’ll remember. Gail: Ha! Andrea: It’s the same as my uncle Henry! I definitely would have remembered if you had told me before. Gail: What are you going to get me? Andrea: I’ll surprise you. Gail: Will you surprise me by remembering my birthday. Andrea: Well now you’ve ruined it.

Shirley: We fled. Samia: This place. Sarah: At dawn. Samia: The sun. Shirley: Barely up. Sarah: A few stars. Shirley: Still in the sky. Samia: And us. Sarah: Running through the trees. Shirley: We reached the ocean. Samia: Our children were dead. Sarah: Our husbands were dead. Shirley: We wept. Samia: We wept a whole ocean. Sarah: There were no boats. Samia: There were no bridges. Shirley: The road ahead was real but was not for us. Sarah: And now we wait. Samia: We wait. Shirley: We wait and we weep.

Edie: Do you need help? Ruth: No, we’re okay. THANKS THOUGH!! Sandra: Ruth, don’t be so polite. Actually yeah, we could do with a hand if that’s alright. Edie: Ha! A hand! Sandra: Oh right, that sounds rude because we’re dressed up as tits. Edie: Yup. Ruth: Ugh. We’re fine. Edie: Can I do up your shoelaces? Ruth: Okay, fine. Sandra: That would be so helpful, thanks! Ruth: You just want to do this for the story in the office don’t you. Edie: Maybe.

Amy: Have you met delicious Rudi yet? Beatrice: Erm. Should I have? Amy: I barely talk to anyone these days who hasn’t met him. Beatrice: Well, I don’t think I have. I don’t know. Can you describe him? Amy: Um, well, he’s got um, well sort of, you know... (vague gestures) Beatrice: What like a deformity? Amy: No, no not at all! Nothing I can see anyway, but no. He’s just got loads of... (more vague gestures) Beatrice: Hair? Amy: No. But he’s amazing. And he seems to have met everyone. Beatrice: Except me. Amy: Well, you don’t know that for sure. Beatrice: Look, I’ve got to ask - Amy: What? Beatrice: Is... is delicious Rudi a euphemism for something else? Because if so, I don’t get it. I don’t - get it. Amy: No! He’s just a bloke who gets around... Blimey Beatrice, you aren’t half suspicious.

Dua: Okay, fine. Maybe you won’t know. Maybe it’ll come out of nowhere. Maybe you’ll be completely unprepared despite spending every waking moment of your life thinking about it, wondering what it’ll be like, when it will happen. Maybe you won’t know. Fior: I knew. Dua: I know you knew.

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/extract-tickets-25721168708?aff=es2

Jane: (dumping her wet coat on the back of a chair) I’m back! Sam: (looking up from a book) Was it good? Jane: Meh. Bunch of men complaining about topiary and grass length and blah blah blah. How are you? Sam: I’m alright now but I had a funny five minutes earlier and shat in the sink. Jane: Did you have dinner? Sam: Did you not hear me? I shat in the sink. The kitchen sink. Jane: Yeah but... Sam: You’re not... angry? Shocked? Jane: I... don’t know what to say. Sam: How DARE you not be shocked? Are you saying this is expected from me? Jane: Well you did it didn’t you, so... Sam: But it’s not NORMAL. It’s not something people SHOULD do. It’s not in character. Jane: But you did it, so it IS in character. Sam: People do things out of character all the time. That’s why it’s called “out of character”. You’re doing a thing that you wouldn’t normally do. Jane: But... Sam: And your lack of surprise tells me that shitting in the sink doesn’t seem out of character to you. That I seem like the sort of person who would shit in a sink. Jane: Well you did shit in the sink. Sam: AREN’T YOU EVEN GOING TO CHECK IF I CLEARED IT UP? Jane: Do you want me to? Sam: No, but I want to stop you from doing it. Jane: Did you eat dinner? Sam: YES.

S has the longest, darkest eyelashes of any child I’ve met. She has impossibly soft squishy little cheeks and is an expert at contorting her pretty little face into a range of impressive gurns.

Reacherman: I LOVE MY THINGS. THEY MAKE ME HAPPY. THEY MAKE ME FEEL SAFE. THEY REMIND ME OF WHERE I CAME FROM. FUCK YOU.

A: (jubilantly) Anyone got any haemoglobin up in herrrrre aaayoooooo!!! B: No! Ew! A: I need some. C: Why can’t we talk about boys like always.

Him: You’re not a weed. You’re beautiful. Her: I am a weed. But why can’t I be both?