Lights up on an ACTOR. ACTOR Darkness: VOICE At the sound of the bell, the play will officially begin. A bell. Untitled. Act one, scene one. Lights up. An empty stage. An unseen voice calls out in the dead of night. Offstage: a moan. What does it mean? It’s a lover in the throes of ecstasy. Maybe not. A soul mourning the loss of the one person they loved. Scratch that. It’s the last cry heard before a bomb devastates an entire city. No. It’s the sound of someone stubbing their big toe. Truth is: we don’t know what the sound signifies. All we know is that it’s the sound of a stranger, crying out, alone in the dark. The title of this play is Untitled. At the sound of the bell, the play will end. A bell. END The CONDEMNED stands facing the audience. Seated nearby, holding a stopwatch they never lose sight of, is the TIMEKEEPER. C T C T C T C T C T C T C T C T C T C T (Offers stopwatch to C) C T C T C The TIMEKEEPER clicks the stopwatch, LIGHTS OUT. END. Q, lying in a bed. Feeble, still, eyes closed. Made smaller under a stack of blankets that recall The Princess and the Pea. Watching silently over Q, is D—dressed simply, in dark hues. Q: (Eyes still closed) Now? Q struggles to take a deep breath, stares at the ceiling. A beat. Q: Later? Q’s eyes close. Is very still. A beat. Q: (Eyes still closed) Now? A very slight beat. Q: Now? Q takes another struggling breath, closes eyes. Crosses arms over chest. Then: Q: Now? Q coughs. A deep, struggling sigh. Q: Time? Q bravely smiles for D. D places hand on Q’s shoulder. Q lies flat, takes a breath. Closes eyes. END Nine actors, each in a folding chair, as such: 1 2 3 1–9 are seated, all speaking to each other–– a lively conversation. 9 is crouched with their hands buried in their hands, as if not online yet. 9 1–8 startled out of their conversation, then 1-8 9 8 1 3 2 1 & 8 7 6 3 4 (Plainly) 6 5 (Dreamy) 1 9 4 5 1-8 all speak at once, arguing their points. 3 They all ponder this, as lights dim. END About the Author
1. Sleepwalking
A writer wakes from a dream. The moment his eyes open, the dream is gone forever.
It’s one fifteen A.M. on one of the first days of spring.
Later, an audience also sits in the darkness, awake.
Ostensibly, they listen to his words. You’re awake, right?
The writer is pretty sure the dream wasn’t a nightmare.
But once awake, there’s no more sleep for him.
He creeps into the living room, careful not to wake his
wife. He stretches out on his couch and opens his laptop.
I’m an actor. They give me a script. I memorize the words.
I speak the lines. Those are the rules.
The sleepless writer scrolls through tweets, lands on a poem by Gabriel Garcia Lorca, reads the
Wikipedia article on him—can you imagine assassinating a playwright?
After an hour of this, he begins to write.
These are the words he wrote. I’m forced to say them. I have no say in this. Where is the writer
now, to answer for these words? Who knows?
Is this even a play?
Let’s face it, the writer is no Gabriel Garcia Lorca.
Why do I even have to say these words? Is that fair?
Who’s the author of the script you follow?
Do you sleep soundly through the night?
END2. Untitled
The title of this play is: Untitled.3. EPITAPH
A man has one minute to live.
Actually, 57 seconds.
What does he do?
54.
Does he find love?
Write his epitaph?
Jerk it furiously?
Please don’t.
Maybe he places hand to chest, his heart a bird seeking escape.
44 seconds.
Or drinks a tall, cool glass of water. Splashes some on his face.
We have no water. (Beat) 40 seconds.
Does he scream?
37.
In his deliberations, he loses precious time.
31.
He thinks of wasted moments; what could’ve been.
Will you hold my hand?
No. 24 seconds.
No matter, we all die alone.
What do other people do?
You don’t want to know. 18.
I could smash the clock.
It changes nothing.
I could kill you.
There’s not enough time. 12 seconds.
What a gruesome job you have.
It’s a living. 7.
Maybe his life could be a message, a warning, no, a plea for others. To live, every day to its–4. TIME
D: No.
Q: When?
D: Soon. (Beat) Pain.
Q: Yes.
D: Yes.
Q: Much?
D: No.
D: No.
Q: Time?
D: Almost.
D: No.
Q: Time?
D: Little.
Q: Very?
D: Yes. (Beat) Pain.
Q: Some.
D: No.
Q: Moments?
D: Few.
D: Yes.
Q: Yes?
D: Yes.
Q: Wait?
D: Can’t.
Q: Now?
D: Now. (Beat) Pain.
Q: None.5. Endpoint
4 9 5
6 7 8
(Stands, as if coming to life—loudly, in distress)
Where am I?
(In unison, this happens regularly)
You’re here.
There was a crash, my car—
(Not looking at 9)
You didn’t make it.
None of us did.
None of us do.
Cancer.
Bad heart.
(The two point at each other, like they’re on the same team)
(Sadly distant)
I can’t remember.
(Whispers respectfully referring to 7)
Alzheimer’s. (Normal voice) Me? House fire.
Overdose. (Wistfully) It was a hell of a ride.
Lost hope, did the job myself.
Flight of stairs. (Self-recriminating) Such a clutz.
Went peacefully in my sleep.
No need to brag.
(Fearfully)
Is this…heaven…or hell?
It’s hell. The monotony; it’s torture!
Oh, please–clearly this is heaven. (Looks upwards, hands raised) We’re all one!
(Stands – the others quiet down)
It’s just like before. (Beat) It’s entirely up to you.
Ruben Carbajal writes for stage, screens, and beyond. Published plays include The Gifted Program (DPS), Some Assembly Required, A Place to Rest Your Head, and The Law of the Instrument (Stage Partners). He also appears in The Best Women’s Stage Monologues of 2024, 105 Five Minute Plays, One Minute Plays, The Covid Monologues, and several other best-of anthologies.
