Bonhomie Monologue

Thornton Wilder, a Wisconsin native, is the writer of the Pulitzer Prize winner play Our Town. In Our Town, Wilder tells the story of a town in Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, and the daily lives of the inhabitants. In the play, the author uses minimal props and scenery as well as including a main character known as the Stage Manager that has the ability to break the fourth wall, allowing him to talk to the audience. This factor of talking to the audience is a major component of making the public a part of the town. Throughout the play, there are many instances in which the Stage Manager uses various cues as well as dialogues to incorporate the audience and develop an intimate relationship to create a true sense of “our town”.

This is Beechwood 2-0828. It’s all been very sudden. He was killed just six days ago in an automobile accident on the Brooklyn Bridge. The call operator interrupt saying my three minutes was up. And so, I am sitting here in this deserted camp in Gallup, New Mexico. I am trying to get a hold of myself so I won’t go mad. I have to go home to mother and tell her i’m not dead. So I got in the car and started driving as fast I could to her house. Then suddenly I saw the old man in the middle of the road but i kept driving until I was to my mothers house. I stopped only four times to eat and sleep that's all I had to see her and tell her i'm not dead. During my trip back home I would see the man with fresh raindrops on this raincoat every twenty miles. I was

I see people go through there Dailey routine like they are robots They're faces have no expressions and they have no thoughts Like an assembly line they organize Who knows what they see If I stepped in there shoes how would I see me Are they human Do they have a brain Are they being controlled, like someone controls an animal with rains I won't ever know what it's like to not be me

It was hard to imagine it had only been four months since the shooting so much had happened.

The faint echo of screams. The crunching of leaves under footsteps, getting faster with every exhale. A drum, beating from within. Thoughts clouded with realisation of the truth and the lies which have prevented it from surfacing amongst the chaos. The girls are all frauds! Murderers!

It is the twenty-third of May, and a civil outrage has occurred in the city of Verona. While investigating the remnants of the situation, I am in awe as I gaze upon regards of fruits and vegetables scattered around the main town. There are multiple dead bodies laid around the land, and Some merchants are still trying to readjust their fruit carts upright after they had been bashed over. I command my horse over to interrogate an old lady that was trying to collect her apples off of the street. The lady’s name is Jane Bernal, and she was a witness to the brawl that had occured. She proclaimed that the brawl happened when Tybalt Capulet bit his thumb at Benvolio Montague. He then proceeded to draw his sword, dueling Benvolio. This is the first

A pair of dark lavender eyes split open as a young man startles awake with a gasp of frigid air entering his lungs. His body is aching and burning as if he has been running for miles without rest. "Where am I?" the man rasps out in between a huge gulp of air. He looks to his surroundings and sees the shadows cast by the morning light spreading over the many bodies littering the ground around him.

You run, stumbling over roots and rocks, terrified out of your mind. You cannot think, and your breath comes in stutters. Your instincts tell you to hide, to try to outrun the being that is ravaging the corpses of your fallen comrades. You do not know where you are going, but your brain and your body are screaming at you to GO AWAY RUNRUNRUNRUNRUN so you do.

Mr. Frank: It is just as dangerous to hide seven as it is to hide eight.

I sat in the lobby all alone, thinking about Jane Gallagher. All off the sudden I wanted to get the hell out of there. So I decided to call an uber and head on over to this nightclub in Greenwich Village, Ernie’s. It’s called after this piano player who used the play there back in the 50’s. Now they only play shitty electronic dance music there. Sometimes I wish I lived in the 50’s.

After a long day of working to keep my mind busy, I stumbled into my dark, cold, and uninviting living quarters of this cramped, glass clean oxygen bubble they call a “home”. Even though this place keeps the people that were evacuated safely from that lethal, disease infested, and haunting gas cloud waiting to strike on the outside, it doesn’t help ease the pain and terminate what my brain forges in my head with every breath I take. Every day I vented to myself how different my life has become. I can’t seem to fill the void that I hold in my soul and I feel like the guilt I hold will slowly rot away anything that brings me joy. Luckily for my soul, I’m tired of keeping it on the inside and if I'm going to preserve what little happiness I have

“Why do you think there’s so many of them? Why do you think they all hang out here in a graveyard? What do you think the reason is they don’t die?” Katelyn asked me in rapid fire, and I thought she sounded like she was starting to get frustrated.

Her eyes glanced away from his for a brief moment, the air leaving her lips in a rather resigned manner. Drunk or not, he wasn’t going to let her be until he had tugged the truth out of her. But when it finally came out, would he see it for the sordid, rotten thing that it was? Would he see her that way? The only one she knew of that could relate to this was Vivianne. Her intellectual counterpart, the Devil’s Advocate in her everyday matters. Only she could see the scarlet that stained her hands and not pass judgement. But Priam? She thought the world of him -- to see disgust etched upon her features could bring her to ruins. All it took was one simple confession.

My name was called eighth and my hands trembled as I walked into the cramped room. The floor and walls were covered in light blue tile and there was a slight scent of filth and dirt, but it was concealed by the overwhelming smell of bleach. Standing in front of me was an average looking petite woman with greying brown hair in a lab coat and two hairy, burly men in light blue doctor’s scrubs, they all looked menacing, which did not help with my concerns and in that moment I knew my fears were justified.

The personification I chose was, ¨watching the crystallized ice charging to take over the last bit of green left¨ (2). This is effective because Aspen is a beautiful place and in the first paragraph I´m trying to convey it´s beauty. I describe it in a way that the snow is fighting a war to conquer the green land, and that is the way Aspen looks, during winter.