Dramatic Monologues: 8 Original Pieces for Adult Actors

Eight original dramatic monologues

You can use these monologues for auditions, classes and showcases. Please credit castingandacting.com. The characters are listed with an age range and a tone, so you can match one to the range you can honestly play.

The Spare Key

Marguerite, 60 to 75 years old · tender, restrained · about 1 minute. She is talking to her adult son the night before the movers come, and she is trying to keep him in the house a little longer.

I found it in the blue pot, under the dead basil. Your father hid it there in 1989 and thought he was a genius. Take it. The new owners will want a copy, and I won’t hand it to a stranger myself.

Did you eat? There’s soup. It’s from Tuesday, so it’s better now. Sit down for ten minutes. The boxes aren’t going anywhere, and the truck doesn’t come until eight.

I’m not asking you to stay. Look at me, I’m not asking. I’m saying the soup is better on the second day, and the chair by the window still has your shape in it. That’s all. That’s the whole speech.

Put the key in your pocket. Then sit.

How to play it: her objective is to get him to sit, not to say she is sad. Keep her busy with the soup and let the line “I’m not asking” be the one place she looks straight at him.

Last Crossing

Cal, 45 to 60 years old · gruff, warm · about 1 minute. He is a ferry captain talking to his deckhand of twenty years on the final shift they will share.

Check the lines again. Not because they’re loose. They’re fine. You tied them fine for twenty years, and I’ve said “check the lines” every morning for twenty years, so I figure it’s just a thing we say now.

The tide turns at six-forty. I put that in the log. Whoever takes the wheel tomorrow, the log tells them the tide. It doesn’t tell them you hum when the fog comes in. Somebody should write that down. Somebody should write down that you never once let a stroller roll.

I’m not good at this. Give me a rope and I can say anything. So here. This is the knot my uncle showed me. Tie it once a year, wherever you end up, and think, that old fool was right about the tide.

Now check the lines. Go on.

How to play it: Cal wants to say thank you and cannot, so he hides behind work. Hand over the rope as if it costs him something, and keep your eyes on the knot, not on the other actor.

The Offer

Tomás, 25 to 35 years old · anxious, honest · about 1 minute. A line cook has been offered a head chef job in another city, and he is standing in front of the chef who trained him.

Chef, before you say anything, I haven’t signed. I want that on the record. The email came Monday, I’ve read it maybe forty times, and I haven’t answered, because answering felt like leaving by the back door.

You taught me to taste everything twice. Once when it goes in, once when it’s done. So I tasted the offer when it came, and it was good. I tasted it again last night, and it was still good. That’s not the problem.

The problem is I came in here to ask what to do, and I already know. I just want you to be the one who says it. I know that’s unfair. You’d hate it if a cook handed you a plate and said, “You decide the salt.”

So. Salt it. Tell me I’m ready, or tell me I’m not. I can take either answer. I can’t take the silence. Chef? Say something.

How to play it: he is asking for permission, so the real beat is the wait at the end. Hold the silence a full breath longer than feels comfortable, and look at the chef, not the floor.

Second Chair

Nadia, 28 to 40 years old · composed, hurt · about 1 minute. A violinist has just lost the first chair to a colleague, and she has stayed behind to speak with the conductor.

Congratulations to Elena. I mean it. She plays that solo like it was written about her, and I told her so in the hallway. I even hugged her. I’m good at hugging.

I’m not here to argue. The panel decides, and I know how it works. I’ve sat behind that screen. I’m here because I’ve played second chair for nine years, and in nine years you have never once told me what I do wrong. You say “lovely.” You say “lovely, Nadia,” and you move on to the brass.

So say it now. Was it my bowing in the second movement? Was it that I came in early? I counted. I don’t come in early.

If it was a close call, tell me that, and I’ll be fine by Thursday. But if there’s something real, I would rather have a bruise I can name than a compliment I can’t use. One true sentence, that’s all I want.

How to play it: she is polite on the surface and starving underneath. Keep your voice level until “I counted,” then let the control wobble for just one word before you rebuild it.

Last Customer

Ruth, 45 to 60 years old · dry, proud · about 1 minute. It is the final day of her bookshop, and she is ringing up the last sale of the afternoon.

Cash only today. Don’t make the face. Everything goes on Friday, the shelves too. A man is buying the shelves. Cash is just easier.

You found the atlas. That atlas has been in the window since I opened, eleven years. Kids put their noses on the glass to look at the maps of countries that changed their names. I used to tell them, “The ocean’s still in the same place, though.” That was my whole sales pitch.

Go on, take it. I’ve been standing here since seven saying goodbye to things I can’t carry, and it helps to send one of them somewhere good.

Don’t say you’re sorry. Everyone says sorry. I’d rather you told me which page you’ll open first.

How to play it: Ruth is refusing pity because pity would break her. Keep the jokes dry and quick, and save the only soft moment for the last sentence, when she asks a real question.

Take the Long Way

Walter, 65 to 80 years old · gentle, wry · about 1 minute. A taxi driver speaks to a passenger in his back seat who has twice asked him to drive more slowly on the way to a hospital appointment.

I can take the river road. It adds eleven minutes. It won’t cost you more, because I’ll turn the meter off. Eleven minutes. Nobody ever died of eleven minutes.

You don’t have to talk. Most people don’t, in the back. They look at the window like it’s a television. I learned that my first year.

Here’s what I think, and you can tell me to be quiet, because forty years of passengers have already told me. I think a person who asks twice for slower knows exactly where they’re going. That’s all. So we go the river way, we look at the geese, we arrive at ten past instead of on time, and the doctor can wait. The doctor is paid to wait.

Good. Then I’ll put the radio on low, and I won’t say another word until the front doors. I mean it. I’ll be a statue.

How to play it: Walter is kind to a stranger without making a speech about it. Talk to the rear-view mirror, keep your hands busy on an imaginary wheel, and let the line about the doctor be a joke that comes out gentle.

Quiet Hours

Jun, 18 to 25 years old · nervous, relieved · about 1 minute. Jun finally tells a roommate that they lost their job months ago and have been pretending to go to work every day.

Okay. Don’t say anything until I’m done, because if you say something, I’ll stop, and I need to get to the end.

I haven’t had a job since March. I leave every morning with my lanyard and my lunch, and you’ve watched me do it. Then I walk to the library and sit there. I read things that aren’t on any list. Mostly about bridges. I don’t even like bridges. I just like that somebody figured out how to cross something.

My parents think I’m doing great. I keep saying “it’s busy but good,” and the horrible part is how easy it is to say. I could keep saying it until winter.

I’m telling you because you ask me every night how it went, and you actually wait for the answer. Tonight I’m not going to say “fine.” That’s it. That’s the whole confession. Can you just sit here with me? You don’t have to fix it. Just stay in the room.

How to play it: this is a confession that comes out in a rush, so start fast and slow down as the truth gets closer. The last line is the real ask, so say it plainly, with no apology in it.

Stop Seven

Imani, 40 to 55 years old · firm, kind · about 1 minute. A school bus driver speaks to a father who arrives at the stop after the bus, and his young daughter has waited alone again.

Stay right there, you’re fine. I’m not pulling off. I just want to tell you something about your girl, and then you can go get your coffee.

She’s been the first one on my bus every morning this week. First one. She counts the stops on her fingers, and when she gets to seven she looks for you out the window. She doesn’t say so. She says, “My dad has a big meeting.” She says it before anyone asks.

I have a boy at stop four whose father never comes. I know how it sounds when a lie is told kindly. And she tells it so well, sir. She’s already good at it. That’s the part that gets me.

I’m not judging. I know what mornings cost. But tomorrow, if you can only do one thing, stand at the curb and wave. That’s the whole job. I’ve got eleven kids to get to school, so that’s all I came to say.

How to play it: Imani must correct him without shaming him, because she needs him to hear it. Keep the tone friendly and the eyes steady, and let the one sharp line, “That’s the part that gets me,” come from her own history, not from anger.

More monologues

Looking for a different tone or a different cast? Try these pages from the same library.

• Monologues for actors: the full library
• Monologues for women
• Monologues for men
• Comedic monologues
• Monologues for teens
• Shakespeare monologues
• Short monologues for auditions

Frequently asked questions about dramatic monologues

How long should dramatic monologues be for an audition?

Most casting directors ask for one to two minutes, and many prefer about a minute. Check the breakdown first. If it gives a limit, stay under it by a few seconds so you never get cut off.

Do I need to match the character’s age exactly?

Stay inside the range you can honestly play, but the range can be wide. Each monologue above lists an age span so you can pick one that fits you today, not one that fits you in ten years.

Should I cry in a dramatic monologue?

Never force it. A character who is fighting not to cry is often stronger than one who cries freely. Focus on the goal, and let whatever feeling comes arrive on its own.

Can I change the gender or the setting of a monologue?

For the pieces here, yes, as long as the situation still makes sense. Change a name or a pronoun if it helps you connect, and keep the goal the same. If you use the piece in a showcase, credit castingandacting.com.

Where can I perform them?

Use them in class, at open calls, in self-tapes and in showcases. Browse current theater castings to see where a piece like this could fit.

Reviewed in November 2026.