Original audition monologues sorted by length and tone. Each one is timed, so you know it fits your slot before you walk in.
Speaking to a roommate who just got home from a two-week trip and found their houseplant dead.
I didn't kill it. I want that on the record. I watered it every single day, which, it turns out, is the problem. Who knew a plant could drown? It's a plant. It lives outside. Outside has rain. So I gave it rain. Loving, daily rain. Now it's brown and soft and leaning toward the door like it's trying to leave. Honestly? I think it chose this. I think it gave up on us.
Speaking to a class, seconds before presenting a group project that only one person worked on.
Before we start, I want everyone to know I made the slides. All of them. Jordan said he'd handle the research, and what Jordan handled was sending me a link at two in the morning that said, this one looks good. Four words and a link. The link was a recipe for lemon bars. So if you see a slide about lemon bars, that's why. They do look good, though.
Leaving a voicemail for a sibling who stormed out of a family dinner the night before.
Hey. It's me. I know you're seeing my name and not picking up, and that's fair. I said things at that table I can't take back. I'm not calling to explain them. I'm calling because Dad's porch light is still on, the way he always left it when one of us was out late. Nobody's turned it off. I think we're both waiting for the other one to come home first.
A diner server on their final overnight shift, speaking to a regular customer at the counter.
You don't have to tip tonight. I mean it. It's my last shift. Twelve years of pouring your coffee at four in the morning, and you never once asked my name. That's okay. I never asked yours. But I know you take it black on good days and with sugar on the bad ones. Tonight you asked for sugar. So I'm sitting down. Tell me what happened.
Giving a wedding toast and realizing, three cards in, that these are notes for a different wedding.
Hi, everyone. For those who don't know me, I've been friends with the groom since... the third grade? No. Since college. College. Sorry, I wrote these on the plane. Anyway. Mark and Delia, I remember the night you two met at the bowling alley. You knocked over every pin and she said, that's my kind of person. That's not you. That's not either of you. You met at a library. You hate bowling. Okay. I have two weddings this month and I grabbed the wrong stack. Here's what I actually know. Sam, you once drove four hours to bring me soup when I had the flu, and you didn't even like me yet. And Riley, you are the only person on earth who makes Sam put his phone down. That's love. That's the whole speech. To Sam and Riley. Not Mark. Not Delia. Cheers.
In a job interview, the candidate has just been asked why they want to work at this company.
Why do I want to work here? Great question. Love that question. I want to work here because of the... mission. Your mission. Which I'm very passionate about. And which is, of course... to do the thing. That you do. Better than anyone else does it. Okay. Can I be honest? I applied to forty jobs this week, and somewhere around job twenty-two they all became one big company in my head. I know you're in this building. I know your lobby has a fish tank. That fish looked happy, and I thought, I want to be that fish. So here's my real answer. I'm a fast learner, I show up early, and by Monday I will know exactly what you do. I'll know it so well I'll explain it to you. Is it shipping? Please tell me it's shipping.
Arguing at midnight with a brand new talking refrigerator that has just refused to open.
No. No, you don't get to lock the door on me. I bought you. I own you. You are an appliance. What do you mean, it's past my snack window? I don't have a snack window. I never agreed to a snack window. Did I agree to a snack window? Was it in the setup? Of course it was in the setup. I tapped yes forty times to make you stop talking. Okay. Fine. Let's negotiate. One slice of cake. A small slice. You can watch me eat it. You can judge me. You can send a report to my phone that says, they were weak tonight. No? You're suggesting celery. You're suggesting celery to me at midnight like we're friends. You know what? I'm unplugging you. Right now. I'm reaching for the cord. The cord is behind you. Of course it is.
At a bus stop, speaking to an old friend they haven't talked to in five years, who just sat down beside them by chance.
I wrote you a letter. After everything. I wrote it the week you moved, on the back of a menu from that place on Fourth, because it was the only paper in my bag. I kept it in my wallet for a year. It said I was sorry. Not the polite kind. The real kind. It said I knew you needed me that night and I chose to be right instead of be there. It said I'd been jealous of you since we were kids and I didn't know what to do with it, so I made it your fault. I never mailed it. I told myself you'd moved on. That you were happier without me. Which was easier than finding out. So. Hi. That's what it said. I'm sorry it took a bus that's twenty minutes late to get me to say it.
Standing in the bare living room of their childhood home on the last day before it's sold, speaking to a parent waiting in the car.
Give me one more minute. I know the movers are gone. I know the papers are signed. I just want to stand here. You see that mark on the doorframe? That's me at six. That's me at nine. That one, the high one, that's the summer I grew four inches and you said I'd eaten the whole garden. You stopped marking it after that. I always wondered why. I think I get it now. You didn't want to see the line stop moving. The new family has a kid. Did you know that? Little one, maybe five. I watched her run up the stairs during the walkthrough and she counted every step out loud. Thirteen. I used to do that. Okay. I'm ready. No, wait. Leave the doorframe. Let them start their marks right next to mine.
Backstage, an understudy speaks to the lead actor, who is sick and has just told them they're going on tonight.
Don't apologize. Please. You've spent six months apologizing for being good, and I've spent six months pretending I didn't mind. I minded. Every night I stood in the wings and said every line with you, under my breath. I know where you breathe. I know the step you take before the big speech, the one nobody else would notice. I'd notice it from the back row. And now you're handing me the whole thing, and you're scared I'll be better, and I'm scared I won't. Here's the deal. I'm going to go out there and do it my way. Not yours. If I copy you, I'll lose. But I'm keeping that one step. Before the speech. That's yours, and I want you to know I saw it. Go home. Drink something hot. I've got it.
The self-appointed head of a neighborhood watch addresses an emergency meeting in a folding-chair circle about a missing garden gnome.
Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I see we have refreshments. Thank you, Pat. Those are... those are store-bought, but we appreciate the effort. I'll get right to it. At some point between nine o'clock last night and seven fifteen this morning, Gerald was taken. Gerald, for our newer members, is the gnome. Red hat, little fishing pole, been on my lawn for eleven years. Never caused a problem. Never asked for anything. Now, I've done some preliminary investigating. I measured the footprints in the mulch. Size nine. Possibly a size nine and a half if they were wearing thick socks, which, given the overnight temperatures, I'd say is likely. I'm not accusing anyone. I want to be very clear. I'm not accusing anyone in this room. I'm just going to ask everyone with a size nine foot to please lift it up so we can all take a look. No one? Nobody here has a size nine foot. That's statistically very strange, Dennis. I also found this. A single candy wrapper. Butterscotch. Now who on this street eats butterscotch? Who carries it in a little tin? Who offered me one at the block party and then said, I'll just leave these here? I'm not saying it's you, Margaret. What? What do you mean, he's in my garage? Why would Gerald be in my garage? The storm. I brought him in for the storm. On Tuesday. Okay. Well. This has been a very productive drill. Same time next month. Please take a cookie. They are store-bought.
A motivational speaker opens a weekend seminar, while their own life clearly unravels through a phone that won't stop buzzing.
Good morning, winners. Say it with me. Good morning, winners. Beautiful. Look at that energy. My name is Casey, and five years ago I was exactly where you are. Lost. Stuck. Paying full price for things. And then I learned the three words that changed my life. Are you ready? Control. Your. Morning. That's right. If you control your morning, you control your day. If you control your day, you control your life. Sorry. One second. That's my landlord. It's fine. I'll call him back. Where was I? Control your morning. Now, this morning, I woke up at four. I meditated. I drank a glass of warm lemon water. I wrote down my goals. And then I discovered that someone, who shall remain nameless but who is my ex, had changed the password to the car. You can do that now. Cars have passwords. I didn't know. But did I let that control me? No. I took the bus. And on that bus I realized something powerful. The bus is a metaphor. Everyone on the bus is going somewhere. But only you decide when to pull the cord. That's my sister. She's... she's asking if I'm still sleeping on her couch tonight. I am. Thank you, Jen. Okay, so what's the lesson here? The lesson is, life will throw things at you. Passwords. Couches. Landlords. And you can either duck, or you can catch them and say thank you, I needed that. I need that. I really need that. Let's take a fifteen-minute break. Somebody please lend me bus fare.
A longtime lighthouse keeper speaks to the young technician who has come to switch the light to automatic in the morning.
You can set your bag down. You won't need your tools until morning. The light doesn't care about paperwork. It'll turn tonight the way it has every night for thirty-one years. You're wondering what I do up here. Everybody does. They picture a lonely old fool talking to the gulls. And some nights, sure. But mostly I watch. That's the job nobody writes down. You watch the water. You learn its moods. Flat and gray means nothing. Flat and green means a change is coming before the radio knows it. I've called the harbor three times in my life to say turn those boats around, and three times they listened, and three times everyone came home. Your machine won't make that call. It'll turn the lamp on at dusk and off at dawn, and it'll never miss a night. I'll give it that. It won't get sick. It won't get old. It won't sit up here on the anniversary of the year the storm took the ferry dock and wonder if it could have done more. I'm not angry with you. Don't think that. You're just the one they sent. If it weren't you, it'd be somebody else with a bag and a clipboard. I'll tell you one thing, though, and I want you to remember it. When you flip that switch tomorrow, walk out on the rocks and look back at the light. Just once. Somebody should see it turn for the first time without a keeper. Somebody should notice. Now. Sit. I'll put the kettle on. We've got one more night to keep.
A home cook on a televised cooking competition has stopped working with five minutes left and speaks to the judges.
I know the clock is running. I can see it. I'm not going to finish. No, I'm not hurt. I'm fine. I just need a second to tell you something, and then you can send me home. This dish is my grandmother's. Rice, beans, slow onions, a little sweetness from the peppers at the end. She made it every Sunday in a pot older than my mother. I stood on a chair next to her stove and she never once gave me a measurement. A little of this. Until it smells right. Until it sounds right. You can hear when the onions are ready, she said. They stop shouting and start talking. I came here because I wanted to prove I could make it perfect. Plated pretty. Sauce in a little swoosh. Tiny herbs on top, placed with tweezers. She would have laughed at the tweezers. I practiced for months. And tonight, when the onions hit the pan, they started talking, and I heard her. Clear as anything. And I realized I don't want it perfect. I want it right. And right takes two hours, and you gave me forty-five minutes. So I'm stopping. Not because I gave up. Because I'd rather lose with her recipe than win with a shortcut. You can taste what's in the pan if you want. It's not done. It's not what she made. But it's honest, and it's hers, and it's the closest I've come in eleven years. Okay. That's all. Thank you for letting me be here. The onions are talking. Can you hear them?
Explaining to a teacher why the permission slip for the class trip has a paw print where the signature should be.
Okay, so before you say anything, I can explain the paw print. My mom signed it. She did. She signed it on the kitchen counter. Then she went to work, and I went to brush my teeth, and when I came back, Biscuit was standing on the counter. Biscuit is not allowed on the counter. Biscuit knows this. Biscuit does not care. And he'd stepped right in the syrup from breakfast, and then right on the slip. Right on her name. Like he was co-signing. So technically, it's been approved by two members of my household. That's double the permission. If anything, I'm the most allowed person going on this trip. You want me to bring a new one? Sure. Totally fair. But can I keep this one? I'm going to frame it. It's the first thing Biscuit's ever done that wasn't eating a sock.
Giving a campaign speech for class president in front of the whole school at an assembly.
Hi. I'm running for class president, and unlike the other candidates, I'm not going to promise you a longer lunch. I can't do that. Nobody can do that. I asked. The principal laughed at me for a full minute. I'm also not going to promise you a vending machine with pizza in it. That's not a real thing. That's a dream. Here's what I will do. I will fix the third stall door in the east bathroom. You know the one. I will fight for a second water fountain on the second floor, so we stop forming a line that looks like a theme park. And I will make sure the spring dance has music that someone under forty picked. That's it. Three things. Small, boring, possible. Vote for me. I'm not exciting, but I'm reliable, and that bathroom door is not going to fix itself.
In the hallway after tryouts, speaking to a best friend who made the team when they didn't.
Stop. You don't have to make that face. I'm happy for you. I am. I saw the list before you did. I went early because I couldn't sleep. And I saw your name, and I looked for mine, and I looked again, and I read it four times like it was going to change. It didn't. And the first thing I felt wasn't sad. It was mad. At you. Which is so stupid, because you didn't do anything except be really good. You've always been really good. I'm going to need, like, a week. Maybe two. Where I'm kind of weird about it. And I need you to let me be weird and not stop sitting with me at lunch. And at your first game? I'll be there. Front row. Loudest person in the building. That part I can already promise.
Sitting in the car outside a new school on the first day, speaking to an older sibling who is driving.
Can we just sit here? Five minutes. You can be late for once. I know it's just a school. I know everybody says the first day is the worst one. But at my old school I knew where everything was. I knew which stairs were faster. I knew who to sit with. I didn't have to think. Here I have to think about everything, and I'm tired already, and it's eight in the morning. What if nobody talks to me? What if somebody does and I say something weird? You moved schools in eighth grade. Did you ever tell anyone how bad it was? Because you came home every day and said it was fine. It wasn't fine, was it. Okay. That helps, actually. Weirdly. Okay. I'm going in. Pick me up right here? Same spot. Don't be late.
Start with the room, not the piece. Read the audition notice and match it. If they're casting a comedy, bring something that lands a laugh. If it's a drama, bring something with a clear need and a clear change. When the notice doesn't say, pick the piece that shows the most range in the least time.
Pick a character you could actually be cast as. Stay close to your real age range and your natural energy. A monologue that's a stretch can be fun in class, but in the audition room the panel wants to see you in a role they can picture you in tomorrow.
Then read it out loud and time it. A piece can look short on the page and run long once you add pauses, breaths and beats. If it's over the slot, cut lines rather than rushing. A clean ninety seconds beats a crammed two minutes every time.
Most auditions ask for a monologue between one and two minutes, so check the notice and stay under the slot you're given. Time yourself at your real performance pace, with pauses, because that's always slower than reading it in your head. If you're over, cut a line, don't speed up.
Every monologue here shows its run time at 140 words per minute. Paste your own into the words to minutes calculator to time it at your pace.
Right here. Every monologue on this page is original, written for Script Timer, and free to use. Each one is grouped by length and tagged comedic or dramatic, so you can find a fit fast and time it with the tool.
Most auditions ask for one to two minutes. Always check the notice and stay under the time you're given. Time it out loud at your real pace, because pauses add up.
Yes. They're original and free to perform for auditions, class and practice. If you publish a recording online, please credit Script Timer.
Break it into beats and learn one beat at a time, out loud, never silently. Know what your character wants in each beat, because a clear want makes the next line obvious. Run it a few times right before sleep and again first thing in the morning.
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