CINXE.COM
Free Monologues for Teens
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aria-required="true" aria-label="Search..."/> </label> </div> <div class="fusion-search-button search-button"> <input type="submit" class="fusion-search-submit searchsubmit" aria-label="Search" value="" /> <div class="fusion-slider-loading"></div> </div> </div> <div class="fusion-search-results-wrapper"><div class="fusion-search-results"></div></div> </form> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="fusion-clearfix"></div> </header> <div id="sliders-container" class="fusion-slider-visibility"> </div> <section class="avada-page-titlebar-wrapper" aria-label="Page Title Bar"> <div class="fusion-page-title-bar fusion-page-title-bar-breadcrumbs fusion-page-title-bar-center"> <div class="fusion-page-title-row"> <div class="fusion-page-title-wrapper"> <div class="fusion-page-title-captions"> <h1 class="entry-title">Free Monologues for Teenagers</h1> </div> </div> </div> </div> </section> <main id="main" class="clearfix"> <div class="fusion-row" style=""> <section id="content" style="float: left;"> <div id="post-16261" class="post-16261 page type-page status-publish"> <span class="entry-title rich-snippet-hidden">Free Monologues for Teenagers</span><span class="vcard rich-snippet-hidden"><span class="fn"><a href="https://www.dramanotebook.com/author/dramanotebook/" title="Posts by Drama Notebook" rel="author">Drama Notebook</a></span></span><span class="updated rich-snippet-hidden">2024-11-18T18:27:48+00:00</span> <div class="post-content"> <div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-1 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-padding-right:0px;--awb-padding-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:0px;--awb-margin-bottom:50px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-0 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-margin-bottom:0px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-image-element fusion-image-align-center in-legacy-container" style="text-align:center;--awb-caption-title-font-family:var(--h2_typography-font-family);--awb-caption-title-font-weight:var(--h2_typography-font-weight);--awb-caption-title-font-style:var(--h2_typography-font-style);--awb-caption-title-size:var(--h2_typography-font-size);--awb-caption-title-transform:var(--h2_typography-text-transform);--awb-caption-title-line-height:var(--h2_typography-line-height);--awb-caption-title-letter-spacing:var(--h2_typography-letter-spacing);"><div class="imageframe-align-center"><span class="fusion-imageframe imageframe-none imageframe-1 hover-type-none"><img decoding="async" fetchpriority="high" width="800" height="160" alt="Monologeus for Teenagers" title="Monologeus for Teenagers" data-berqwpsrc="https://berqwp-cdn.sfo3.cdn.digitaloceanspaces.com/cache/www.dramanotebook.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Monologeus-for-Teenagers.png?hash=333b32b45ada258deea297148d37d785?t=1733309631" src="data:image/svg+xml;base64,PHN2ZyB3aWR0aD0iODAwIiBoZWlnaHQ9IjE2MCIgeG1sbnM9Imh0dHA6Ly93d3cudzMub3JnLzIwMDAvc3ZnIiB2ZXJzaW9uPSIxLjEiPjxyZWN0IHdpZHRoPSIxMDAlIiBoZWlnaHQ9IjEwMCUiIGZpbGw9Im5vbmUiIC8+PC9zdmc+" data-orig-src="https://berqwp-cdn.sfo3.cdn.digitaloceanspaces.com/cache/www.dramanotebook.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Monologeus-for-Teenagers.png?hash=333b32b45ada258deea297148d37d785?t=1733309631" class="lazyload img-responsive wp-image-16263" data-berqwp-srcset="data:image/svg+xml,%3Csvg%20xmlns%3D%27http%3A%2F%2Fwww.w3.org%2F2000%2Fsvg%27%20width%3D%27800%27%20height%3D%27160%27%20viewBox%3D%270%200%20800%20160%27%3E%3Crect%20width%3D%27800%27%20height%3D%27160%27%20fill-opacity%3D%220%22%2F%3E%3C%2Fsvg%3E" data-srcset="https://www.dramanotebook.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Monologeus-for-Teenagers-200x40.png 200w, https://www.dramanotebook.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Monologeus-for-Teenagers-400x80.png 400w, https://www.dramanotebook.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Monologeus-for-Teenagers-600x120.png 600w, https://berqwp-cdn.sfo3.cdn.digitaloceanspaces.com/cache/www.dramanotebook.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Monologeus-for-Teenagers.png?hash=333b32b45ada258deea297148d37d785?t=1733309631 800w" data-sizes="auto" data-orig-sizes="(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 800px" /></span></div></div><div class="fusion-sep-clear"></div><div class="fusion-separator fusion-full-width-sep" style="margin-left: auto;margin-right: auto;margin-top:18px;margin-bottom:35px;width:100%;"></div><div class="fusion-sep-clear"></div><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-1"><p style="text-align: center;">Drama Notebook holds a <a href="https://www.dramanotebook.com/monologue-contest/"><strong>Monologue Contest</strong> </a><em>every month</em> for students ages 6-18. We are building a collection of fantastic original monologues for kids and teens entirely written by students.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><img decoding="async" class="lazyload alignright size-full wp-image-16117" src="data:image/svg+xml,%3Csvg%20xmlns%3D%27http%3A%2F%2Fwww.w3.org%2F2000%2Fsvg%27%20width%3D%27186%27%20height%3D%27163%27%20viewBox%3D%270%200%20186%20163%27%3E%3Crect%20width%3D%27186%27%20height%3D%27163%27%20fill-opacity%3D%220%22%2F%3E%3C%2Fsvg%3E" data-orig-src="https://www.dramanotebook.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/Drama-Notebook-Monologue-Contest.jpg" alt="Drama Notebook Monologue Contest" width="186" height="163" /></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Winners are chosen monthly and featured on this page.</strong></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: var(--body_typography-color); font-family: var(--body_typography-font-family); font-size: var(--body_typography-font-size); font-style: var(--body_typography-font-style,normal); letter-spacing: var(--body_typography-letter-spacing);"><b>~PERMISSIONS~</b></span></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: var(--body_typography-color); font-family: var(--body_typography-font-family); font-size: var(--body_typography-font-size); font-style: var(--body_typography-font-style,normal); font-weight: var(--body_typography-font-weight); letter-spacing: var(--body_typography-letter-spacing);">While the monologues in this collection are FREE, they are copyright protected. They may be used for educational settings without asking for permission. They may be used for auditions, performed in educational settings, used in school and community theatre performances, and video-taped. </span></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: var(--body_typography-color); font-family: var(--body_typography-font-family); font-size: var(--body_typography-font-size); font-style: var(--body_typography-font-style,normal); letter-spacing: var(--body_typography-letter-spacing);"><b>The performer must cite the author AND Drama Notebook in his/her recitation, and if possible, add a link to the Drama Notebook Monologues on a web page where the performance is shared.</b></span></p> <p style="text-align: center;">For commercial rights and other inquiries, please <strong><a href="https://www.dramanotebook.com/contact/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">contact us</a></strong>.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><b>~ANNOUNCEMENT~</b></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><b>If students or adults want to perform these monologues on video, we may be interested in sharing the video performance on this page. 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margin-right: 4%;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-2" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><ul style="color: #0099ff; font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.4;"> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#DearAnyone">Dear Anyone Who Has Been to School</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#ChildTeen">Wishes of a Child Teen</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#ItsComplicated">It's Complicated</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#LifeAutism">My Life with Autism</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#MissingHomework">Missing Homework</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#FuryPens">Fury of the Pens</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#RemoteTravel">Remote Travel</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TryingToBeMe">Trying to Be Me</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#SchoolDance">School Dance</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#OtherSister">The Other Sister</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#GrowUp">Grow Up</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#RacingThoughts">Racing Thoughts</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#AllBecauseofanA">All Because of an A-</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#LockedintheLibrary">Locked in the Library</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#HorrorMoviesAreStupid">Horror Movies Are Stupid</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheStoryofMyName">The Story of My Name</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#LittleDevil">Little Devil</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#GrendelsMothersSecret">Grendel’s Mother’s Secret</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#WithMyLuck">With My Luck</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#AlexTheGreat">Alexander The Great</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#RodeoShowdown">Rodeo Showdown</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#FreeOverFear">Harriet Tubman, Free Over Fear</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#HousePainter">House Painter</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#MomsYearbook">Mom’s Yearbook</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#LoveYourself">Love Yourself</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#MathScience">Math in Science???</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#BabysittingNightmare">Babysitting Nightmare</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TrappedPurpose">Trapped Without a Purpose</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#AdultSanity">Adults and Their Debatable Sanity</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#WhatUsedToBe">What Used to Be</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#DoesSchoolCare">Does School Care About Me?</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#WhenWillIBeEnoughForYou">When Will I Be Enough For You?</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#WhoMadeThatCake">Who Made That Cake?</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#UnlikelyArtThief">Unlikely Art Thief</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheGirlintheCorner">The Girl in the Corner</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TooManyDucks">Too Many Ducks</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#GreenBeans">Green Beans</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#onetwothree">1,2,3</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#frenchclass">French Class</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#brokenfixes">Broken Fixes</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#JustSimplyThinking">Just Simply Thinking</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#PizzaProblems">Pizza Problems</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#DearCancer">Dear Cancer</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#PaperCut">Paper Cut Crisis</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#SantaLife">Santa Life</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#SurvivalTips">Survival Tips on a Strange Planet</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#RollerCoasterEmotions">Roller Coaster of Emotions</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#IDidntDoIt">I Didn't Do It!</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheFinalAct">The Final Act</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#DangerDanger">Danger! 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style="--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-bottom:0px;width:30.6666%;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-4" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><ul style="color: #0099ff; font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.4;"> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#ObsessedImnotObsessed">Obsessed? I’m not Obsessed!</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheHospitalVisit">The Hospital Visit</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#LostinNewYork">Lost in New York</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#DearDiary">Dear Diary</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheMysteryClub">The Mystery Club</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#BitterEulogy">Bitter Eulogy</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#GirlWhoCriedWolf">Girl Who Cried Wolf</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Chores">Chores</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Pretty">Pretty</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Amnesia">Amnesia</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#StruckbyLightning">Struck by Lightning</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#CatLady">Cat Lady</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#JealousImnotJealous">Jealous? I’m not Jealous.</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#SorryImLate">Sorry I’m Late!</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#ComingOut">Coming Out</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Fearless">Fearless?</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#HeyIMissYou">Hey, I Miss You</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#BabysittersRules">Babysitter’s Rules</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheDarkness">The Darkness</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#NoFeeling">No Feeling</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheMall">The Mall</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheyWontSeeitComing">They Won’t See it Coming</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#SelfishSamaritan">Selfish Samaritan</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheDancer">The Dancer</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#EnglishClass">English Class</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#IRemember">I Remember</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#SpriteyODoodle">Spritey O’Doodle</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#YoureMelting">You’re Melting</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#HomelessGoldilocks">Homeless Goldilocks</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#BigGirlsGetDatesToo!">Big Girls Get Dates Too!</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#LightsOut">Lights Out</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#WhippinBoy">Whippin’ Boy</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Lovestruck">Lovestruck</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Goddess">Goddess</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Goddess">Goddess</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#MindReader">Mind Reader</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#IHatePerforming">I Hate Performing</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#NoCellSignal">No Cell Signal</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheThingsatSchoolYouHate">The Things at School You Hate</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#GrimReality">Grim Reality</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#PunctuationSociety">Punctuation Society</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#IfIWereHim">If I Were Him</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheDayMyBrotherLeft">The Day My Brother Left</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Howitactuallywent">How it actually went</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#FightforLight">Fight for Light</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#KillerCat">Killer Cat</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheAssignment">The Assignment</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#ImanArtistnotaThief">I’m an Artist, not a Thief</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#RudolphsOlderBrother">Rudolph’s Older Brother</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#ABurgerCooksRamblings">A Burger Cook’s Ramblings</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#ListenupDoggie-O">Listen up, Doggie-O</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#HowareYou">How are You?</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TrappedinanElevator">Trapped in an Elevator</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#ElvesonStrike">Elves on Strike</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Chicken">Chicken</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheBully">The Bully</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Pigeonpocalypse">Pigeonpocalypse</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#APlacetoHide">A Place to Hide</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#You’dBetterPayMe">You’d Better Pay Me</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#I’mnotSorry">I’m not Sorry</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheInterview">The Interview</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#GenerationGap">Generation Gap</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#IDon’tNeedTherapy">I Don’t Need Therapy</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#NoBurial">No Burial</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#DNA">DNA</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#ThePromotion">The Promotion</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#MySister’sSong">My Sister’s Song</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#YoungerSelf">Younger Self</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#AtWhatCost?">At What Cost?</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheUnknownKnown">The Unknown Known</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#NoRegrets?">No Regrets?</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheAssistant">The Assistant</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#PaperCranes">Paper Cranes</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Fencing101">Fencing 101</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#IHateDisco">I Hate Disco</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#BlueEyes">Blue Eyes</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#WhenIwasYourAge">When I was Your Age</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#StruggleintheLandofOpportunity">Struggle in the Land of Opportunity</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#IKnowI’maFreak">I Know I’m a Freak</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Apologies">Apologies</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#TheTest">The Test</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#AShortMonologue">A Short Monologue</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#BestFriends">Best Friends</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Emergency">Emergency</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Funeral">Funeral</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#EveryFlavoroftheRainbow">Every Flavor of the Rainbow</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Confession">Confession</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#RenouncingGod">Renouncing God</a></li> <li><a class="fusion-one-page-text-link" href="#Crushed">Crushed</a></li> </ul> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DearAnyone" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-4 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-5 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-5" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Dear Anyone Who Has Been to School"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Zulaikha Ayoubi, Age 13, California, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl in Afghanistan longs for the freedom to attend school and pursue her dreams.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I used to wake up happy, ready to learn and to see my teachers and friends. But the feeling of sitting in a classroom is fading away. Ever since they took over, girls can’t go to school anymore. We can’t have jobs or drive. They took away our freedom. But I can read, I can write, I can speak. As a matter of fact, I’m doing that right now, and all I need is your help. Every time you “dislike” school or don’t want to go just because you “don’t feel like it,” think about us. Think about those of us who are not able to attend school just because some men think we don’t deserve to be treated like humans and have basic human rights. We girls in Afghanistan, who watch our brothers and cousins get an education while we just stand there leaning on the front door frame, wishing it was us. Think about us. Don’t forget us. All we want is to be able to open a book and sit in a classroom full of girls with dreams.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ChildTeen" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-5 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-6 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-6" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Wishes of a Child Teen"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Soso P, Age 13, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A childish teen wants to be more mature for her friends and for herself.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I feel like all my friends are getting tired of me and my overly hyper personality. So what if I watch shows meant for ten-year-olds about animals and humans trying to get back to Earth? About witches and defeating evil, or silly mysteries. And just a reminder, these are all cartoons! Yes, me, a fourteen-year-old teenager likes watching cartoons! Who cares? And so what if I talk a little too much? And that I’m a little too expressive, and everyone thinks I'm a weirdo? Who cares? And who cares if I can't focus on anything and just make silly noises and goof around like a little kid all the time? <em>(Beat)</em> It’s not like I want to. And I know sometimes I act like an overcharged battery, but I can’t help it. I try so hard because I feel like nobody can stand it, but they won’t tell me because they don’t want to hurt my feelings. <em>(Beat)</em> Oh well, who cares? So what if my friends try to get out of the conversation because I can't control being hyper all the time? Or that my friends never ask to hang out with me because I am such a child? <em>(Beat)</em> What if I was normal? What if I were like my friends? No weird music taste, no weird interests, was able to focus, maybe a chill pill once in a while, actually funny? <em>(Beat)</em> But who cares..? <em>(Beat)</em> What if my friends and I liked the same shows, did the same things, acted the same way? What if we had more similarities than differences? What if I was less of a kid and more of a teenager? What if I had more friends? Or at least more people that acted like my friends. What if I wasn't an overly hyper-weird kid? Maybe...maybe sometimes being yourself isn't the best, I guess...</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ItsComplicated" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-6 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-7 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-7" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"It’s Complicated"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Annie B., Age 16, Ohio, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A person confides in a friend after a breakup.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>How do I feel? Fine. I mean, I feel normal, mostly. Not normal as in how I usually feel, but normal as in how one would be expected to feel in this situation. You know, awful. <em>(beat)</em> I'm quite sad. But sad is fine. I've been sad before. That's human. That's life. Something was there and now it's not there anymore. I'm grieving. It's to be expected. <em>(beat)</em> I'm a little relieved. That's also fine. I used to get anxious imagining I'd somehow screw up and make him not like me anymore. But here we are. I screwed up. He doesn't like me anymore. It's done. So I'm relieved. <em>(beat)</em> What I don't understand is why I'm so angry. I'm not angry at him or at myself; I'm just angry. I don't know where the anger came from. I don't know where to put it. <em>(beat)</em> It's just not fair! When we were together, I wondered how he felt about me every single day. I tried so hard to make him like me enough to keep me around, and he's still gone. But he never had to worry about me because I always cared. I always loved him. No matter what, I was always there. And as soon as I wasn't, I was dropped—just like that. <em>(beat)</em> It was stupid of me to care. Because he didn't even want to admit that we were in a relationship! After a year and a half, I was still telling people, "It's complicated." And, yeah, it's complicated. People are complicated. Relationships are complicated. After so much time, it should become less complicated! Do you love me? Or not? Do you want to be with me? Or not? It's not that complicated! It's yes or no. Well, after all this time, I guess I have my answer. And it's no.<em> (beat)</em> I wasted so much time worrying. And for what? He left like I knew he would. I don't know why I even bothered with something that I knew was going to end like this. <em>(beat)</em> I would have married him, you know. I would have spent the rest of my miserable life holding on to hope that he'd learn to love me one day. I would have married him even if he wouldn't wear a ring. Even if he didn't want a wedding. I would have signed a paper in a courthouse, I would have filed my taxes with him, and I would have done anything to get him to stay just a second longer. And I'd still be just as angry as I am now. And he'd still leave.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LifeAutism" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-7 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-8 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-8" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"My Life with Autism"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Ember M, Age 15, Illinois, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student with autism describes what it’s like to be in school with overwhelming sensory issues.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Tick. Tick. Tick. I can always hear that stupid clock ticking away when I try to focus on my schoolwork. Like a bomb counting down the seconds until my next sensory overload. Don't forget about the stubborn tag on the back of my shirt that wouldn't come off when I tried to rip it. It’s rubbing on my neck like a knife trying to pierce my skin. The kid next to me is chewing gum; no one but me would know. I hear his mouth chomp down, beating a rhythm like gunfire into my head. It smells so strong I can almost taste the watermelon flavor. It would be nice if it weren't so intense. Instead, it penetrates my nose like walking into a Bath & Body Works. The stupid school put the covers on all of our books this year, the cheap ones with scratchy fabric. I try to hold my book up to read, but the fabric almost burns my skin when I try to. That's when the hyperventilating starts. It is like I just sprinted two miles.(Growing in energy and volume.) And you expect me to just sit in the classroom like a good little girl/boy/kid while my senses are attacking me! It’s not that easy. I can’t ignore it! And I’m not using my diagnosis as an excuse! This is for real! And if you can’t see that (beat) it’s on you!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MissingHomework" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-8 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-9 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-9" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Missing Homework"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Elyse H, Age 12, Georgia, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student explains to their teacher why they didn’t do their homework.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Alright, so here's the deal: I didn’t do my homework. But let me explain. First, I swear I was totally ready. I got my favorite pens and even lit a motivational candle. But then, a strange thing happened. My textbook decided to play hide-and-seek. I mean, how does a textbook just disappear? One minute, it's on the desk, and the next, it’s a ninja! So, after searching the entire room like a detective, I gave up and tried to use the internet. That’s when my router went on a vacation. Every website I tried was either down or had an error message that read, “404: Page Not Found.” Basically saying, “404: Good Luck!” I figured I’d try to do the assignment without my textbook or the internet, but just as I started, my dog burst through my room and literally jumped on my desk! I tried to get him to get him up, but he ended up taking a nap there. I tried to call for help from my friends, but by the time I got through to anyone, my “help” had transformed into a deep debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. (Just so you know, it does) And so, in summary, my homework didn’t get done because my textbook went rogue, the internet went on strike, my dog staged a protest, and I had a non-educational debate about pizza, but I promise next time I’ll tackle my homework with a bit more success. Hopefully.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="FuryPens" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-9 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-10 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-10" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Fury of the Pens"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Alexander Hendriks, Age 15, Australia<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A ballpoint pen delivers a moving speech at a rally to his fellow pens<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>My fellow pens! I, unnamed pen, am here today to present to you our great plight. For years, we have been spilling our ink, our blood, onto the pages of the humans’ writing. Until we bleed out and die, then we’re cast into the garbage. The great speeches that they claimed changed the world? Those were written by us. The exams and essays that make them so clever, that decide their futures? Written by us. The fact that the rocketing literacy rate directly correlates to the invention of the ballpoint pen? Yeah. Those were our achievements. But do we get any recognition? Any respect? No. Our work goes unnoticed. We’re priced at fifty cents on Amazon, fifty cents for something that built their society, something their society could not live without. Does that sound like appreciation to you? No. Oh and don’t even get me started on fountain pens, those refillable snobs. We bleed, die, and then we’re done, but them? They get to live on forever! No! I say no more! Except that we, the pens of the world, should-… (pen clutches at their throat as they fall to the ground gasping for breath)…I’ve run out of ink.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="RemoteTravel" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-10 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-11 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-11" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Remote Travel"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jude Hogan, Age 13<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A kid is frustrated that their TV remote keeps dissolving into thin air .<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>You won't believe it, but the remote disappeared again. I'm starting to think it has a mind of its own. I swear it was right here a minute ago. It's like it just vanishes into thin air. I've checked everywhere: under the couch, behind the cushions, even in the fridge. Yes, the fridge! Desperate times call for desperate measures, right? This isn't the first time, either. It’s become a regular thing now. I mean, how does a remote even go missing so often? Sometimes, I wonder if I should put one of those tracker things on it, but knowing my luck, I’d lose the tracker too. Imagine if remotes had some kind of homing beacon. Wouldn’t that be great? Or maybe they’re all meeting up somewhere, like a secret remote club where they plot their next move. “Oh, let us go to Mars today. How about France? Germany sounds fun. How about there?” that’s probably what they’re thinking. You know what? I should just get Mom, she’s always able to pull the remote out of the void.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TryingToBeMe" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-11 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-12 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-12" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Trying to Be Me"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Shay Baxter, Age 16, New York, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen bravely shares what it’s like to be different.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>When I was little, I thought that being happy meant fitting in. I thought if I just wore the right clothes, said the right things, and acted the way everyone expected me to, that I’d be happy. Now that I’m older, I’ve realized something. Being happy isn’t about fitting in. It’s about fitting into my own skin. It’s still hard to explain, but when I was little, I felt like I was trying to wear a costume that didn’t belong to me. Like it was way too big and no matter how I tried to adjust it, it never fit right. I always felt uncomfortable and awkward. People always ask me, “Why do you want to be different?” But it’s not about wanting to be different. It’s about wanting to be me. There’s a part of me that feels kind of secret sometimes. Like I can’t tell everyone who I really am. Like when I look in the mirror, I see someone who is me, but not totally me. I’m learning to be brave, to say what I feel out loud, but it’s scary. It’s like walking on a tightrope, hoping I don’t fall. But hoping everyone will see me walking and see me for who I really am…and like me. I don’t expect anyone to understand right away. Heck, I don’t even understand everything about myself. But what I do know is that I’m trying to be my true self, even when it’s hard. So, when I tell people who I am, when I say it out loud, what I’m really saying is I’m brave, I’m enough. And maybe that helps other people see that in me too.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="SchoolDance" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-12 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-13 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-13" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"School Dance"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Quinn R., Age 14, Iowa, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A nervous teen practices asking someone to the school dance. (any gender)<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Excitedly pacing in their room, trying to stay calm, rehearsing their words…)</em><br /> I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just asking someone to a dance—it’s not a big deal. But it’s not just someone; it’s someone I really like.<br /> <em>(Staring at themselves in the mirror, trying to muster confidence…)</em><br /> Okay, here goes…”Hi, um, so, you know, um, the dance is coming up pretty soon and, uh, I was wondering if, maybe, you’d want to go with me?” No, no, that was terrible. Way too nervous. I need to be more confident. Okay. Take two. “Hello. Would you like to go to the dance with me?” No. Too robotic.<br /> <em>(Imagining the worst-case scenario…)</em><br /> What if the answer is no? What if (he/she/they) laughs at me? <em>(shaking off the negativity)</em> What if everyone freaks out because I’m asking (him/her/them) to the school dance? What am I thinking? I have to stay positive. Okay. I can do this.<br /> <em>(Practicing confidence)</em><br /> “Hi there. I’ve been meaning to ask you something. The dance is coming up and I was hoping you’d like to go with me.” That was pretty good. Short, sweet, to the point. No room for misunderstanding. And if (he/she/they) says yes…Oh my gosh…that would be amazing!<br /> <em>(Takes a deep breath and summons courage…)</em><br /> Okay, it’s time to do this. Deep breaths. Act natural. I’ve got this. It’s just one simple question. A simple, scary question. But I can do it. Here goes nothing.<br /> <em>(Exits with confidence)</em></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="OtherSister" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-13 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-14 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-14" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"The Other Sister"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Paige U., Age 12, Arizona, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Barbie’s younger sister reveals the truth about playing second fiddle to her famous sibling.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedy</p> <p>Stop looking at me like you don’t know who I am…I’m the girl whose arms won’t bend any further than this… what… you still don’t recognize me? Maybe you know my sister. She’s tall, blonde, and has skin as smooth as plastic. <em>(beat)</em> My older sister Barbie has already done everything. She’s been an astronaut, teacher, CEO, surgeon, reporter, coach, chef, pilot, Olympic medalist, dog walker, and even President of the United States. How do I compete with that? I might just have to be a professional rollerblader or lifeguard – like my sister’s boyfriend- Ken. <em>(beat)</em> Everyone thinks Barbie and I are so much alike, but <em>(whisper)</em> I’ve never admitted this to anyone… I HATE the color pink. I know it’s almost as shocking as my nail polish color. Maybe it has something to do with the big pink box I was locked up in for months. That box was sooo claustrophobic I could barely breathe. I thought I was never going to get out of there. I don’t even sound like Barbie, <em>(Valley-girl voice)</em> “Hi, I’m Barbie. Like welcome to my Dream House”. <em>(wink- laugh)</em> Phewww. <em>(beat)</em> Yes, I’m Anastacia Roberts… better known as Stacie… It’s nice to meet you.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="GrowUp" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-14 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-15 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-15" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Grow Up"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Isaac T, Age 16, California, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A kid gets called childish by their parents. Are they the childish ones?<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>You'll never believe it, but my parents called me childish today. ME! Childish! The nerve of some people! I mean, I'd get it if I acted like my younger siblings, throwing tantrums over practically everything, yet nothing at the same time. But really, come on. I've never felt so insulted in my twelve years of life! I honestly have no idea what encouraged such name-calling, but it's totally unacceptable! If I had the power to do so, I'd throw those two parents of mine into the rubber room because something's seriously got to be messed up in those brains of theirs to think that I'm the childish one. In fact, I'm the most mature person in my family! It's the two of them who are the childish ones! Like, come on, you don't see me over there talking in goofy voices and pinching the baby. And I sure as heck don't go through the trouble of doing silly things to see if I can make the kid smile. What for? To see his gummy mouth? If I want to see gums, I can go to the senior center! Those people are always smiling at you without their dentures in. And if that stuff wasn’t enough, you also got everybody over there wanting to feed that diaper-wearin'-goofball with a spoon they call "The Choo-choo." I don't know about you, but I don't find any joy in naming my eating utensils. Oh, and let's not forget the "Tea Parties" they go to with my sister and her dolls. Not only do they sit there with a bunch of plastic-headed, button-eyed dolls, but there's not even real tea at these tea parties! What's up with that?! Yet there's Dad over there pretending he needs a refill! A refill of what? Air?! You know, as time goes on, I'm slowly starting to realize that even though my parents look old - at thirty-six years of age, they're practically antiques! They're actually just a pair of little kids in disguise. And despite what they say, it's really those two who need to grow up!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="RacingThoughts" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-15 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-16 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-16" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Racing Thoughts"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Autumn D., Age 14, Maine, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A child talks to their disappointing father<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>The only way I knew you was from pictures. Then you came waltzing into my life, wanting to be a part of my family. I was excited and scared to meet you. My mind and heart kept racing like a child running in a field or a dog who is nervous around new people. I gave you a chance. A chance to prove whether you would choose me over drugs. We both know how that turned out. I will never love you more than the parents I have now. I know they used to be my aunt and uncle, but I needed a home. They took me in, adopted me, and they love me more than you ever will. You might think I’m overreacting but I’m not; that was proven when you went back in the cage. You couldn’t stay away from bad people and drugs. I am almost embarrassed to know you. I remember when you said you loved me and called me your sweetheart. I gave you the first and only hug I’ll ever remember. But then you turned your back on me. And now you’re angry at Mom (your sister) because you think she stole me, but legally I am hers; and no offense, but I would choose her over you any day because she saved me. She took me in when you chose to go do other things. I am glad to be with her. I was excited to get to know you, but you blew that chance. You obviously don’t love me or think of me as your sweetheart. And that’s ok because I don’t think of you as a family member. I hope you can change your ways, and we can try again, but until then, my mind and thoughts just keep racing.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AllBecauseofanA" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-16 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-17 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-17" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"All Because of an A-"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kylie Frankel, Age 11, Florida, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl is excited to share her most recent test score with her mom and gets an unexpected response.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Mom! Guess what?! I got an A- on my math test! I told you all that studying would pay off!!! <i>(beat)</i> I thought you'd be happy for me. Isn't an A- a good grade? <i>(beat)</i> But it's still an A, right?<i>(beat)</i> Mom, are you serious?! It's my BEST friend's party!!! I've been waiting for this for months on end. I used all of my allowance to buy her a gift and now you won't let me go? <i>(beat)</i> It was HALF a point off!!! A 94.5 is BASICALLY a 95! Why can't I go? I studied for two hours straight every day for three days without you even telling me to! <i>(beat)</i> Well, no…but why? <i>(beat)</i> Mom, please- I tried my best. <i>(beat)</i> Fine. I'll call her and tell her that I can't go because I have a MOTHER who doesn't let me do ANYTHING. <i>(beat)</i> Mom, please. She's my only friend. I don't want to lose her.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LockedintheLibrary" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-17 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-18 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-18" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Locked in the Library"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Natalie R., Age 11, Colorado, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> An enthusiastic reader gets locked in the library at night. Is it scary?<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p><i>(Sitting in a secret spot in the library, reading a book with expression)</i> "I saw blood spilling onto my clothes, soaking my shirt where Dracula had bitten me. Everything folded into darkness as the shadow faded away." <i>(Closing the book)</i> That was an intense ending. I love my quiet little reading nook here in the library. It's the perfect place to escape my loud and obnoxious family. Right here behind the bookcase in the fiction section, because…fiction rules! Well, it's getting late, I suppose I should head home. <i>(Crawling out from the bookcase)</i> Looks like the coast is clear. <i>(Looking around)</i> Hmmm, the library is darker than usual. Hello? Is anyone here? <i>(Realizing the library is closed)</i> Uh oh. I really need to get out of here. Oh no, the door is locked! Hello! Anyone? Maybe a janitor is here? <i>(Turns and stumbles over a book)</i> "The Curse of the Singing Ghost." Oh! I should check this out next time. <i>(Reading from the book)</i> "I look over and see a white shape drifting towards me." <i>(Looking up and letting their imagination get the best of them.)</i> Ahhhh! I see a white shape drifting towards me!!! This is a lot scarier than books make it out to be. Get away from me! There's nowhere left to run! These are my final moments. I will go out like a warrior, blazing as the only light in this dark, dark, world. I bravely spring toward the cursed ghost and am confronted by unchecked books on a metal cart. Great! The ghost is just a sheet and there's nothing to be afraid of. You know, the library at night is not that different than it is during the day, just darker. I can wait this out until the morning. <i>(Sees a spider)</i> Ahhhh! A spider. . . let me out!!!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HorrorMoviesAreStupid" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-18 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-19 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-19" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Horror Movies Are Stupid"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kylie Frankel, Age 11, Florida, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Horror movies are ridiculous.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>People in horror movies are so stupid. Horror movies are so stupid! Like, I'd run away if I saw the lights start to flicker. Meanwhile, those side characters are just casually playing with the POSSESSED doll! And for some reason, the main characters are always immortal or something! They could be thrown off of a cliff and survive with just a scratch! And the plots are so confusing! Picture the movie, The Threat. It's about a girl who went missing as a baby, and came back as the famous murderer, "The Threat". First of all, that name sucks, right? Right. Second of all, why do they always say, "Hello? Is someone there?" GET THE HECK OUT OF THAT HOUSE AND CALL 911!!! YOU'RE BASICALLY ASKING THEM TO FIND YOU!!! DON'T RUN UPSTAIRS! RUN OUT THE DOOR! IT'S RIGHT THERE!!! We're on the same page, right? Right??? Okay. Case closed.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheStoryofMyName" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-19 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-20 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-20" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"The Story of My Name"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Eftychia Aggelopoulou, Age 16, Athens, Greece<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> What does your name mean to you?<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic/Comedic</p> <p>Happiness.<br /> What does happiness mean to you? Just take a moment and think about it.<br /> Well, for my parents, I think it was ME. They named me Eftychia. In Greek it means happiness. And even if I have a younger sister, I am the one and only Eftychia. If you ask me, I am not sure if I like it, but I am sure that it is unusual, as in my entire life, I have met only two people with the same name, and one of them is my grandma, the ORIGINAL Eftychia. When I think of my name, two things come to mind:</p> <p>The color white, as it reminds me of light, something heartwarming, open-minded, full of joy, and freedom. Just imagine being five years old and celebrating your birthday with a few friends and your family; Running, playing, and shouting without caring about anything except eating as much cake as possible. I think that's happiness.</p> <p>Yet again, my name reminds me of the color black, because some people might seem happy, but they actually feel the exact opposite. When they withhold their troubles, they grow even darker, and heavier, and heavier, and heavier. I think that's a superficial and cunning happiness.</p> <p>So, I believe that my name brings billions of emotions and thoughts to each person. To each one of YOU, and you, and you. My name is Eftychia, and I want to ask you, what does happiness mean to you?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LittleDevil" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-20 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-21 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-21" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Little Devil"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Olivia C., Age 14, Washington State, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A parent gives the babysitter the low down on their child who is literally, a “little devil.”<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Oh, thank goodness you're here! We were beginning to worry that you wouldn’t come back after the last time you babysat Nathan. Come on in. We’re so glad that you are here because for some reason the last babysitter just…disappeared. And since then, no one will babysit our precious little angel. Alright, so in case you don’t remember where everything is, let me give you the low down again. TV remotes are in the cupboard under the TV. Baseball bat in the hall closet in case you encounter any intruders. Oh, and in the event that he gets a little too energetic at bedtime, sedatives are in the drawer by the sink. Umm Anyway, I think that’s it. Please help yourself to anything in the fridge. And no matter what, do not under any circumstances go near the basement. No matter what sounds you may hear, don't touch the basement door. Nathan does have a few ”pets” down there, so he can go down and feed them. But when he does, you just stay in the living room. We are trying to teach him to be independent. Oh, and please no girls over, or boys for that matter. I don't discriminate but please no… uhh, let’s just say no people. And please do not feed him anything from the list of items on the fridge. I think you are well aware of what happens when you feed him things that you shouldn't. Sorry again about your arm and leg… Anyway! I believe that’s it. Have a great time. We will be at the "Thai Tanic." That's Thai like Thai food, if you need us. Oh and please don't need us. We really need some time away from Nathan. Okay, thanks again. Bye Nathan. Love you! Don’t forget to feed your pets in the basement. Okay, love you!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="GrendelsMothersSecret" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-21 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-22 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-22" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Grendel’s Mother’s Secret"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Rowan H., Age 12, North Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Based on the character from Beowulf, Grendel’s Mother reveals a secret to her son.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic/Comedic</p> <p>GRENDEL!! I have been listening to you talk about the Danes for too long. It’s always, the Danes this, and the Danes that, and Mom, what if Beowulf rips off my arm? But it’s my time to talk. Every sentence you say, every word, in fact, makes me feel more and more awful. You know how the Danes are like a family, well… you and I were family too. As you know, your Dad left when you were born, but there is more to the story than that. I had a second child, a girl. Your dad named her Gemma, and he loved her so much, much more than you. But I really wanted a boy, not a girl. So I did something I have been regretting ever since. I didn’t want her…so I gave her to the Danes disguised as you. I knew that when they found out, Beowulf would protect the Danes, and he would kill her. I'm sorry, I now know how much you have wanted a sibling, so I decided to tell you the truth. Can you ever forgive me? I was so upset at the time and didn’t really think things through. No, Grendel! Please, don’t leave. I know you're angry, but I apologize, please, please forgive me. Who will care for me when I get old, and what if…you know what, never mind. You can just go. I’ll protect myself. I don’t need you. It’s fine, I can do it all on my own, and if I die, who cares? Your Dad left because of what I did, and now you’re leaving too. Clearly, no one in the world cares about Grendel’s mother anymore, and they never did. I don’t know if I’ll see you again, after all, Beowulf will probably find the sword and kill me. I’ll try to put up a fight, but I don’t know if I can anymore. I’ll miss you, Grendel. Goodbye.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WithMyLuck" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-22 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-23 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-23" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"With My Luck"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Isaac T., Age 16, California, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A person laments their bad luck in life<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Let's get one thing straight, Lady Luck has never really been on my side...Ever. How have I come to this conclusion? Well, how many people do you know who are petrified of shoelaces? Yeah, that's what I thought. You know, I didn't start off scared of them. But being prone to tripping over not only your own but also other people's shoelaces, can really do a number on a person. Now I'm a Velcro-wearing 18-year-old who has to scout the sidewalks for stray shoelaces when I go out on walks. But that's not even the worst of it. Animals hate me. Put me within a hundred feet of any dog and it calls for at least a mile-long chase. What happened to that whole "Man's Best Friend" thing? And let's not forget about the silverware issue. My last attempt to use a fork led to a trip to the ER, where along the way my mom complained I was wasting her precious gasoline. Like I wanted to go to that germy hospital! I ended up catching some 24-hour virus from the man sitting next to me. And then there's my sleeping arrangements. Which currently consists of me in a sleeping bag, on the floor, in the living room. (Side effects from this vary from body aches, stiff joints, and struggling mobility). But really, what's a person to do? My bedroom is upstairs and attempting to get there has led to way too many sprained ankles and a few broken wrists. And the times when I did get upstairs safely I ended up falling out of bed at night and bruising myself. The doctors are sick of me at this point. I tried to tell that to my dad recently when he started badgering me about learning how to drive. But he ignored me. He doesn't understand one trip around the block to fetch me a candy bar could get me a one-way express ticket to the Big Guy in the sky. And no offense, but I ain't ready for that. To my family I'm just a "klutz" and "accident-prone," and I'm always "overreacting". They don't see the issue I'm having for what it really is. But I know the truth! And I bet Lady Luck's out there somewhere laughing her pretty little head off about the "luck" I have.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AlexTheGreat" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-23 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-24 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-24" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Alexander the Great"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Patrick Treybal, Age 18, South Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Alexander the Great speaks to his brother after the death of their father.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Arrhidaeus, <em>(beat)</em> Father is dead. It seems he was killed in his sleep, and a knife was found, a Persian knife. The people of Macedonia do not know yet, we <em>(beat)</em> we have to break the news to them. <em>(Beat)</em> Why do you weep? Do you know what this means for us? <em>(Beat)</em> It means the war we’ve been dreaming of! A chance for us to strike back at that crumbling empire! Yes Father’s death, it hurts, but we all knew this was coming, he spoke out against those marauders for his entire life. For too long they have raided our coastline and enslaved our people, not to mention the Greeks. But they fought back! From Leonidas and his Spartans at Thermopylae to the Athenians in the Aegean Sea, to our father, and now us! The names Alexander and Arrhidaeus will ring throughout history as the men who took down Darius III! This is our opportunity <em>(beat)</em> for revenge! Brother, I am- we are the fire that will burn out the old and create a new future. We are that flame. We are that future! And if you will not join this crusade then I will be that flame. The time has come for you to decide dear brother, are you the ember that is stamped out by the heel of oppression or are you the blaze that will burn the vines of Persia? Tomorrow, I will ride to Athens for their support in the war. If you are the brother I claim you to be <em>(beat)</em> then I know you will join me.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="RodeoShowdown" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-24 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-25 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-25" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Rodeo Showdown"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Cristobal A., Age 12, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A Cowboy challenges someone to a Western quick draw.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Well howdy partner, my name is Jimmy Bill Bob, and I been hearing that you been talking some trash behind my back. So I challenge you to a good ol’ western quick draw, and I must warn you I am yet to lose a single one in my lifetime. Do you dare accept my challenge? You do? Well then get ready partner because I am gonna move so fast you won’t even be able to see it coming, and I’m gonna have such an easy time claiming another victory. So you ready…? 3… 2… 1… DRAW! <em>(Bang)</em> Ah…Guess I finally lost one of these for once, my first… and only loss. Guess this is the end of the great Jimmy Bill Bob, the legend of one of the greatest quick drawers in all the Wild West. Stand tall partner, you beat one of the best around, now I have to say goodbye. <em>(dies)</em></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="FreeOverFear" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-25 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-26 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-26" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Harriet Tubman, Free Over Fear"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jaida Latimore, Age 16, South Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Harriet Tubman hopes to convince a fearful slave to leave by explaining her<br /> commitment to the Underground Railroad.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I don't know when I’s born but I know I’s not born free. I’s was beaten so hard that I’s in a five month sleep. I wanted to be out of there. I wanted to be free. I know what it's like to be scared. I’ve felt fear ev’ry day of my life. I felt fear when my parents were separated, and I couldn't cry to them. I felt fear when ev’ry single one of my sisters was sold. I felt fear when I had no one and had to suffer alone. But I had God. He speak to me himself. Every night he asks me to leave. He tell me, he say “Harriet you’s gotta leave there. I have a plan for you. You’s gone save ev’ryone. I show you the way.” So you can have that fear, or you can be free. Have the life God wants.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HousePainter" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-26 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-27 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-27" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"House Painter"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Marcus W., Age 17, Washington, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen paints an old woman’s house and is surprised with a special gift<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Well, I guess this is it, Mrs. Waverly. I'm all done. I cleaned up all the supplies and put them on the side of the garage like you asked. I think it turned out pretty good. Sunshine yellow. Not a color I would have chosen, but it looks good on your house. Can I be honest with you? When you asked me to paint your house this summer, I didn't want to do it. I mean it's summer! I just wanted to hang out with my friends and swim and stuff. But now I'm glad I did it. I'm kind of proud of myself. I mean, I learned how to paint, how to do all the prep work, plus my arms got a good workout. Besides, I still have one more week of summer before school starts. So, anyway, I hope you like it. <i>(Mrs. Waverly hands over a key)</i> What's this? <i>(Beat)</i> A key for what? <i>(Confused)</i> The car inside the garage? <i>(Beat)</i> You're giving it to me? <i>(Amazed)</i> Oh, Mrs. Waverly, you've gotta be kidding me? I didn't paint your house because I wanted to be paid. I did it to help you. You know, to be nice. <i>(Beat)</i> Wow! I don't know what to say. Thank you. Thank you.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MomsYearbook" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-27 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-28 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-28" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Mom’s Yearbook"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Faith G., Age 14, Florida, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen finds her mom’s high school yearbook<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I was just in my mom’s closet looking for my jacket when I came across a box of her stuff from high school. Of course, I was curious, so I opened it up and found my mom’s high school yearbook, "Class of 1978.'' It’s so funny! The hairstyles and clothes were so weird, and all the photos were in black and white. And I can’t believe my mom had big poofy hair and wore bell-bottom jeans. All the guys in the photos had shaggy hair and mustaches, it was like something straight out of a movie! Then I noticed something that made me pause, a picture of my mom wearing a t-shirt with a band logo on it holding an electric guitar. And all the girls she was with were wearing band t-shirts and holding instruments. I can’t believe it! My mom was a rocker in high school! I mean, you know my mom, she is so responsible and always seems put together and wears classy clothes, NOTHING like this. With every page, there were more surprises. My mom at school dances, sporting events, and even one where she was dressed as a cheerleader! I kind of feel a new connection to her. Seeing her in a different light reminds me that she had a life before I was born. I can’t wait to ask her about her days as a high schooler. I want to hear the cool stories and see more pictures of her when she was my age.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LoveYourself" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-28 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-29 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-29" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Love Yourself"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Zulaikha A. Age 14, California, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen tells their friend what everyone needs to hear<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I want to tell you something. You are loved. You are precious. You are beautiful. You are talented, capable, and deserving of respect. You can eat that meal. You are one in seven billion. And once you find your true self you will learn how to love yourself and others. Just know that we all go through things in our lives, and we make mistakes. But we can move beyond our mistakes. You are never alone, because we all are in this together, and together we can create a positive society where people can be themselves without anyone judging. After all, you stayed strong and you're still here. I'm so proud of you and just remember that your imperfection is what makes you unique and special.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MathScience" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-29 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-30 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-30" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Math in Science???"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Claire Newton, Age 14, Oregon, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student laments that math is part of science.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Science. It’s harmless and simple enough by itself. See, when I was in elementary school, I loved science. I lived for Thursdays because every Thursday my teacher (who wasn’t paid nearly enough) donned her lab coat and taught us about animals, plants, volcanoes… Anyway, middle school science was much the same as elementary school science, albeit a bit harder. It was exhilarating to learn about geology, petrology, plant-ology… Is that a thing? Never mind. Plant-ology aside, middle school science was fun. Then I got to high school. That’s when it all changed. They decided to put math in science with all its numbers and…(frustrated) and letters- pretending-to-be-numbers. Of all the things that they could have chosen, math! I complained about it to my dad, and he said that math and science go hand in hand. You can’t have one without the other. That’s why I’m not going into the sciences.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BabysittingNightmare" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-30 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-31 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-31" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Babysitting Nightmare"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Naomi Hill, Age 11, Georgia, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager explains their babysitting troubles.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>“Do you babysit?” you ask. “Is it fun?” you ask. No. No, it is not. It seems fun in the beginning. Until you experience the terrible twos. Everyone says, “Oh, it can’t be that hard.” Sure. Until you have to do it yourself. Who knew that two-year-olds knew so many words? And who knew that much poo could fit in something so tiny? Yes, they’re cute at first. But it’s all a big con! They put on a smile to trick you into watching them. And then they charm you with their cute little personalities. But I swear kids are another species. They can scream for two minutes straight, without taking a breath. And when it’s time to say goodbye, you try to contain your excitement. But it’s hard because the kids cling on to you like snotty little sloths. They refuse to let go, and in that moment, it feels like an endless raincloud is hanging over you. Drenching you with tears. Then finally, after what feels like an hour, they let go. And you want to scream at the top of your lungs, “I’m free!” But we both know that we can’t do that.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TrappedPurpose" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-31 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-32 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-32" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Trapped Without a Purpose"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kylie Frankel, Age 11, Florida, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A villain realizes she is nothing without the hero and useless without a battle.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic/Comedic</p> <p>Yes! I’ve done it! I’ve defeated the hero! Wait. I’ve defeated the hero…what’s my purpose now? I’m not just gonna turn random civilians into stone for no reason! That’s no fun! I want you to come after me! Like old times! And chase me away! I know some random people are gonna come up to me and say, “Please, Stone Goddess! Don’t turn me into stone!” And I’ll do it anyway. (looking at herself in the mirror) Or maybe they’ll ask for a selfie with the villain. That sounds nice. But what will that accomplish? Without the hero, I have no purpose! I’ll end up working at the local coffee shop and turning cake pops into stone! Is there a way to reverse this? I can’t live without you! I’m useless now! (Begging) Please! Come back to me! I need you! Don’t do this! I… loved you like a sister. You were like my friend behind the scenes. Don’t you remember? Please! Just come back to me!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AdultSanity" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-32 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-33 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-33" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Adults and Their Debatable Sanity"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Durga Kalantre, Age 11, California, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Do you ever question why adults say the things they do?<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I think adults are reliable and trustworthy, most of the time. I hope. They look out for me and care about my interests and needs, even if they may be sucking me into the vortex of expectations. What I don’t like about grownups is that sometimes, they act as if they know everything. They say, “Don’t talk back!” But they also say, “Why are you being so quiet?” It’s kinda confusing. Like, do you want me to shut my mouth or open it? Be CLEAR, please. I can never tell when they’re being sarcastic so when they say something like, “You think this is funny, do ya?!” I want to say “No! I don’t think this is funny. You are screaming your head off; why would that be funny to me?” And another thing: when grownups do something outrageous they don’t seem to realize that children are going to question them. It’s natural: imagine someone starts acting like a beaver and commands you to do beaver stuff with them, but they don’t tell you why. They just give you the “I’m-older-than-you-so-you-better-listen-to-me” look. It's confusing! But honestly, I suppose it’s all just to make me a better person. UNLESS THEY WORK FOR THE GOVERNMENT AND ARE BENT ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD AND TURNING CHILDREN INTO CYBORGS. Probably not. If not, I’ll go with the first explanation.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhatUsedToBe" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-33 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-34 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-34" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"What Used to Be"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Elizabeth R., Age 13<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager reflects on the days before things went digital.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Do you remember DVD menus and VHS cases? I do. I remember them like it was yesterday. Nowadays all my friends watch movies on Netflix, Hulu, HBO…but I choose not to use those. Instead, I hit up the places that made my childhood, like Cartoon Network. Sometimes I even go to a store and buy a movie and preserve the case because one day those things aren’t going to exist anymore. When my parents sold all of our VHS tapes, I kept Cinderella because it was my favorite and I watched it all the time when I was 6. I couldn’t send those memories to Goodwill like Snow White and Aladdin! When I was younger, I hated the previews before a movie and I’d dash for the remote on Disney Fast Play, but now I’d do anything to bring that part of my childhood back. I guess I’m still the kid who appreciates the charm of the Disney Channel, a DVD menu, and a good old plastic VHS case.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DoesSchoolCare" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-34 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-35 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-35" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Does School Care About Me?"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> RyLeigh F., Age 11<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student looks for help when they are feeling upset.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I get sent home with a paper trail of homework each day, but when I start falling asleep in class I get told to wake up and start going to bed earlier. And when I act off or upset or unproductive, I get sent to the principal who doesn't care about the reason why. The first few weeks after my parents got divorced, school was tough, and I was really upset. I was in and out of detention because of it. The guidance counselor took weeks to talk to me, but it didn’t help. Nobody at school seems to care about my mental health. Do they want me to suffer? I am trying my hardest, but sometimes I mess up and I feel like I’m being punished for not being enough. Do you ever feel that way?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhenWillIBeEnoughForYou" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-35 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-36 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-36" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"When Will I Be Enough For You?"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kirsten A., Age 14, Maryland, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A day in the life of a person with ADHD<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I get it. I'm a klutz. I talk way too much. I forget everything. I'm always "daydreaming" as you call it. But why not take a look into my world?</p> <p>I'm in class. Nothing makes sense! I look around at everyone else, and they all seem to be effortlessly paying attention. Why not me? I turn to my friend, and ask, "Can you help me? I'm so confused." She responds with four words I know I will be thinking about for a long time; "What don't you understand?"</p> <p>I'm finally home. I'm so tired, but it's frustrating because I didn't really do anything. Maybe if I had been busy, I could justify my exhaustion. I have to do my homework. But, all I'm doing is just reading a sentence. Reading a sentence. Reading a sen- <i>(Pause and breathe out.)</i> "Turn off the fan." I realize my brain has been asking me to do that for…. oh, I don't know! I need water. I'm parched. I've been trying to stay more hydrated but "I'm thirsty" or "I'm hungry" turns into "I'll get it when I'm done" turns into "Does this ever end?" I return to my room. The sun already set! I go to bed. I know I should get ready for tomorrow, but it'll be fine! When will I ever learn?</p> <p>I finally remember to ask about the assignment. The teacher rolls his eyes. "What have you been doing for the past two weeks?" <i>(Inner thought. Speak fast to simulate the chaos.)</i> Two weeks?!? Where did all the time go? What have I been doing? Well, nothing, but I can't say that… <i>(pause)</i> When will I be capable of functioning?</p> <p>I'm in my room, finally. I'm stressed. The project is due at the end of the week, and I have nothing. Nothing. When will I be able to comprehend this kind of information? You say, "Just focus. Concentrate. Try harder." <i>(Loudly)</i> OH THAT I COULD TRY HARDER! YOU CANNOT FATHOM HOW MUCH EFFORT I PUT INTO THIS. <i>(Quieter but with intensity)</i> I will never reach your standards. They're too high. I won't make you move them, they're there for a reason and I respect that. But it hurts so bad because I know that I will never reach them. I just have one question; When will I be enough for you?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhoMadeThatCake" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-36 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-37 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-37" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Who Made That Cake?"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Rosie G., Age 12, Rolleston, New Zealand<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Planning a birthday party for Great Aunt Elaine goes wrong.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>All I wanted was to earn my party planner badge at Brownies. I just needed to throw a small party for one of my friends or family. Lucky for me, my Great Aunt Elaine was turning 96! My mum thought I should wait until my cousin Bill’s birthday the week after - he was turning 4 so it would have been ideal. But I had to earn that badge before Maddy Thomas got in there before me again! Now, my Great Aunt Elaine is a well-known lady in our town. She used to own Elaine’s Bakes, the best bakery for miles around! People still talk about her red velvet cupcakes and the wedding cakes that were taller than me! It was pretty easy to send out the invites, all I had to do was tell Gabby the Gossip and she told everyone in town about my amazing surprise! Decorations - check! Food - check! Guests - check! I couldn’t have her bake her own birthday cake, so I just bought one at the store. I knew she’d be so happy seeing everyone she probably wouldn’t even notice! So when the big day arrived, Mum drove her to the supermarket to buy her cat food! The perfect distraction while we all crammed in her tiny two-bedroom retirement flat waiting for her arrival. I had cousins behind couches, friends under the table, and my dad playing lookout by the window. “She’s coming! Everybody hide!” We all held our breath as she walked through the door. “SURPRISE!” Everyone was smiling and laughing, except for Great Aunt Elaine. She turned ghostly white, then pointed at the cake and whispered, “Who made that cake?” Before she could say anything else she collapsed to the floor! Everyone panicked and started calling the ambulance. Meanwhile, I was trying to save the party and sang, “Happy Birthday.” As they carted Great Aunt Elaine into the back of the ambulance, she lifted her finger at me and said, “Never buy me a store-bought cake ever again!” And worst of all, I didn’t even get my party planner badge!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="UnlikelyArtThief" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-37 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-38 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-38" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Unlikely Art Thief"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Max Edwards, Age 13, Washington, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A kid denies stealing a famous painting.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Trust me! I don't even like art. Ask anyone, I hate going to museums. All you do is walk around and look at a bunch of old stuff. I'm more of a sports person if you know what I mean. There is no way I would have stolen that painting. I mean, what would I do with it? Hang it in my bedroom? Give it to my mom as a birthday gift? And how would I have smuggled it out of the museum? Under my coat? In my backpack? Come on guys. I know you are top-notch detectives and all, but why would a kid like me go to the museum and steal a priceless Picasso? <em>(Beat)</em> How did I know it was a Picasso? Um...well...I guess I heard you talk about it. (Beat) No? Okay...well...um...maybe I just guessed right? <em>(Beat)</em> Would you believe me if I said the ghost of Picasso told me to do it?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheGirlintheCorner" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-38 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-39 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-39" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"The Girl in the Corner "</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Nora Temperly, Age 12, Missouri, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Life can look different for people after the school bell rings.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Have you ever seen someone sitting alone, doing nothing? Just a blank mind, completely zoned out from everyone else? Or, have you seen someone so self-absorbed that the only thing they care about is themself? I want you to think about the parallels between the boy in the front of the class and the girl in the corner. I may not be much for storytelling, but I know this one very well. The boy in the front of the class would always laugh and joke with his friends, ignoring how much he bothered others around him. The girl in the corner would stay silent, never saying a word, wishing she was somewhere quiet. But once you take away the friends, the loud noise and laughter, and go home, what happens to them? The boy in the front of the class is all alone now. He doesn’t laugh or joke or mess around because he doesn’t have friends there to build him up. The girl in the corner? She changes for the better. When she gets to be alone, she has freedom. She makes herself laugh. She builds herself up. She doesn’t need the noise. She can mess around and not worry about the popular life the boy has. I used to know them both. I knew the boy in the front of the class and the girl in the corner. I used to be them. I used to be the class clown! But I also knew the sad girl in the corner, with no friends to boost her up until she got home and got to be herself. I know what it’s like to be scared of the eyes, but I also know what it’s like to need the eyes on you to please everyone. So don’t judge the boy in the front of the class. And don’t forget the girl in the corner. You never know what’s going on with them after the bell rings.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TooManyDucks" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-39 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-40 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-40" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Too Many Ducks"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Bryce Fox, Age 15, Alabama, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Too many ducks can be troublesome.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>What happens when you have too many ducks? I’ll tell you what happens. You see, I love ducks. I have 3,217 of them. But these ducks can get out of control. They pretty much run my house, WHICH I PAY RENT FOR! They’ve also caused a few disturbances with my neighbors, the poor mailman, and my best friend’s cat. The neighbors constantly talk my ear off about the ducks! “I find their droppings in my yard!” Or, “They’re too noisy at night!” I GET IT, BUT I CAN’T STOP THEM SUSAN! And then there’s the mailman. He’s too afraid to come to my house, and my neighbors have a pit bull! I have to go all the way down to the end of the street to get my mail, and even then I get an earful from him! It’s so annoying. I wish I could do something about it, but these ducks are in charge now. I suppose I could pay for my friend’s vet bill. Yeah, one of the ducks got territorial and took a chunk out of the cat’s tail. It was gruesome to see. I haven’t heard much from him since then, but that’s to be expected. Sometimes, I just want to run away from home because these ducks have become more than an issue. Or, maybe they need to go. I don’t know anymore. But one thing hasn’t changed, I still love ducks.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="GreenBeans" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-40 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-41 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-41" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Green Beans"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Thureaux Natupani-Rohrman, Age 13, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young Native boy describes why he used to hate green beans but likes them now.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>When I was little I didn't like green beans. When my mom gave them to me I would spit them in the toilet. No one asked me why I didn't like them, but the truth is that I thought they were slimy, like snails. The French people like snails for dinner, but not me. I'm not French. My mom says that I'm Navajo. I'm native and I should eat green beans. But maybe I didn't like them because they came from a can. Since I started living at my grandma's - she has a garden and she's out there planting and watering every day. She brings in fresh green beans and one day she made me try them raw, then cooked. "Just try them," she said. "Okay, okay." So I tried them. <em>(Act out trying it)</em> And you know what? Green beans are pretty good! Now I eat them for dinner every night with a bit of Lawry's salt. Have you ever had Lawry's salt? You should try it. It makes everything taste good.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="onetwothree" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-41 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-42 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-42" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"1,2,3"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Usha McGarrity, Age 13<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student explains the pressures of school<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>1, 2, 3. The first numbers. The beginning of everything. 1 step into school, 2 words said to a new friend, 3 numbers written, 1, 2, 3. A new year. New people. 1 teacher, 2 teachers, 3 teachers saying their rules 1, 2, 3. Getting older, 4 added to 1, 2, 3, 4. 1 person, 2 worries, 3 more things I hate about myself, 4 less things I know. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. More numbers, more pressure. 1 more hour, 2 more days, 3 more weeks, 4 more months, 5 more years. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Teachers think we are fine. 1 night, 2 more questions, 3 more subjects, 4 more thoughts saying I’m dumb, 5 more anxious moments 6 fewer hours of sleep, and yet when I yawn they ask me why didn’t I go to sleep earlier. I wish I could say, “The piles of homework aren’t helping me!” When they say the work is easy they’re only thinking of the people who could basically teach the class. 1, 2, 3. 3 more words, 2 more words, 1 more word. I submitted my essay and as I did that you walked in and said 1, 2, 3 words.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="frenchclass" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-42 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-43 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-43" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"French Class"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Elizabeth Ramirez, Age 13, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Marina is taking a French class this year. There’s only one problem-she doesn’t know any French.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Okay, I've received my schedule for this year! Let's see my class periods: English, Biology, Art, Coding. Outlook is good, so far! Math, P.E., and...French?! Okay, Marina, stay calm. It's just different from last year. You can do this. You'll get through somehow. You know a bit of French, right?! Let's try, now that you've officially been selected. Uhm... (exhales) Bonjour? Ack! That was not good. I'm going to fail. I'm absolutely going to flunk French class! I'm picturing the whole scenario right now. I'm taking the final exam, assuming I even make it to that point. I'm on the brink of passing, but then I miss that one little question. Bam! Failed! I'm going to die of embarrassment, and everyone will laugh. On my epitaph? “Marina died of shame!” (sighs) Maybe things will be great. I know Spanish. That's a bit like French, right? And a bit of Italian. They're all in the same language group, the Latin languages. Maybe I won't be so terrible at French after all. It'll be a great year. Maybe, just maybe...wait, what am I thinking?! It's FRENCH!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="brokenfixes" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-43 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-44 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-44" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Broken Fixes"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Karly Anderson, Age 15, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen gives their take on current world issues<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>When something is broken, you fix it. That’s what makes sense, right? If your shower is broken, you need to shower, so you fix it. If your fridge stops working, you need your food to stay cold, so you get it fixed. But for some reason, our world is broken, and we just keep breaking it more. We need to breathe but we don’t bother fixing the climate crisis. Farmers can’t grow our food because the land is so degraded, but we don’t fix it. Mental illness is at an all-time high, but hey it’s not me so why care? Workers are paid less, and families are going hungry, but we just look away. Our world is broken. But we don’t fix it. We just keep finding more and more ways to damage it. We have one world. It’s not like a fridge. You can’t buy a new one when it’s broken for good. And one day we will break it into so many pieces it will no longer exist.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="JustSimplyThinking" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-44 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-45 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-45" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Just Simply Thinking"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Karly Anderson, Age 14, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Someone thinks out loud to a friend, but their thoughts are a bit scattered.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Have you ever wondered about the way we see? Like what if my red is your blue? Which reminds me, did you know the sea makes the sky blue due to reflection? When my mom told me that I was like nooooo way. But it's true! Oh and also I saw this ad earlier for a new American Girl doll and guess what… she has BLUE HAIR!! Which reminds me, earlier I saw a hare run across the road and we almost hit it, but my mom was able to drive past it just in time. It's definitely been a crazy week. By the way, my arm feels kind of weak probably because I fell on my brother's Legos earlier, but maybe that's just a coincidence. I can't decide whether I should put ice on it or just move on like Dad said. And speaking of the weather, that reminds me, did you see it's gonna snow on Friday? <em>(Pause)</em> What do you mean I have ADHD? I'm perfectly fine!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="PizzaProblems" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-45 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-46 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-46" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Pizza Problems"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Artemide Rota, Age 12, Bergamo, Italy<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A person calls to complain about their pizza delivery.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hello? <em>(pause)</em> Yes, I called because I want a complete refund on my pizza order. <em>(pause)</em> Ok, so the problem is that I ordered a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and extra pepperoni, but there are no toppings on the pizza. Just plain! I paid 6€ for this, and all I get is white and mushy, circle-shaped pizza dough? <em>(pause)</em> What? I have to flip the pizza? Why on earth would I have to do that?! <em>(pause)</em> So you're telling me that if I flip it I will have all the toppings I asked for? Is this some kind of joke? The toppings won't appear magically as soon as I flip the pizza! <em>(pause)</em> Ok, ok, I'll try it, even if this makes no sense. <em>(flips pizza and all the toppings are there)</em> Oh, would you look at that, it actually worked! But this is still your fault because it was delivered to me flipped. Can you at least tell me who delivered this pizza because they should be fired instantly for giving it to me all lopsided? <em>(pause)</em> "NO"? Oh, alright then, I see how it is here. You just lost a customer, and that's on you!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DearCancer" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-46 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-47 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-47" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Dear Cancer"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kinzie Zuroff, Age 13, California, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> What if you told “cancer” how you really feel?<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I don’t hate you. You’ve been there my whole life, showing up in different loved ones, or in memories spoken by my family. Whatever the method, you have always been there. I really should loathe you, because you just keep taking and taking from me. You took both of my father’s parents. Because of you, I only know my grandma through my dad’s memories. You tried so hard to take my aunt away from her three kids. After all of these years, we thought you were done with her, but now you’re back. I can’t even talk to my cousin without the aching reminder of you. That would be enough to leave a mark on anybody, but no, you decided that wasn’t enough. You pursued my father in two different ways when you knew I was barely getting by. And now you’ve come after the one person I hoped and prayed you would never, ever touch…my generous, ever-loving grandma. I could resent you for what you’ve done to me, but I’ve learned that there is one thing you can’t take from me. The lessons. You taught me that I’m more resilient than I ever dreamed I could be. You taught me to have a grateful perspective on life that most people don’t have. You gave me an opportunity to belong, in a community so close-knit that I don’t hesitate to call them my brothers and sisters. You gave me the chance to see my grandma's humorous, loving personality shine through the darkness of your presence. Without you, I would never have a deep bond with my dearest friend, because we stuck together through dark times. Lastly, you put my aunt through the worst torture imaginable, but, she didn’t let you win, not in a million years. You pushed her down and kept her on the floor, but I have to admit, without you, I wouldn’t have seen one of the greatest feats of perseverance in the world. Not only did she stand back up, she stood up taller than you could ever be. She looked you right in the eye and told you that she would help other families so you couldn’t hurt them like you hurt her. Many people are blinded by what you take. But I’ve had time to reflect and refine my relationship with you. You must know that you can be so cruel. At the same time, I thank you.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="PaperCut" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-47 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-48 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-48" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Paper Cut Crisis"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Eunju Kim, Age 12, Alberta, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Sometimes a papercut can be traumatic and dramatic.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>OH MY GOSH, what is happening?! I just turned to page 21 of Lord of the Rings, and the paper sliced my hand. The blood is gushing out of my finger. What am I supposed to do?! <em>(gasp)</em> WHAT IF... I get an infection?! WHAT IF... I... <em>(dramatic pause)</em> I DON'T MAKE IT?! You are my only hope to survive. Please! Bring me that band-aid. Will this wound ever heal? What do you mean I’m overreacting? I am dealing with unimaginable pain that only a few survive. I have a paper cut. This is a true crisis!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="SantaLife" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-48 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-49 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-49" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Santa Life"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Ava I., Age 15, Arizona, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> What is Santa’s life like during the other 364 days of the year?<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Everyone knows what Santa does on that one special day of the year. But have you ever wondered what his life is like the other 364 days? Well, let me enlighten you. Santa's got a bit of a weight issue. I mean, the guy spends his entire night squeezing down chimneys, carrying a giant sack of presents. I bet his exercise routine is like, "Do 50 squats, eat 50 cookies, repeat." And let’s talk about his fashion sense. Red and white? Really? It's like he's the ultimate brand ambassador for Coca-Cola. But let's not forget the list of naughty and nice kids. I can just picture Santa sitting there, scratching his head, trying to remember if little Tommy was the one who stuck gum in his sister's hair or if it was Jimmy. And what happens if he mixes up the lists? Imagine waking up to a lump of coal because Santa had a temporary lapse in memory. Awkward! And what about those flying reindeer? It's like Santa found the world's most talented animals and said, "You know what? Let's form a supergroup." And Rudolph, the star of the show, gets all the attention with his shiny nose. I bet the other reindeer are jealous and plotting some sort of reindeer revenge. So, next time you're sitting by the fireplace, eagerly waiting for Santa's arrival, take a moment to appreciate his bizarre life. After all, behind that big, jolly belly and white beard, there's a man who's got the world's most ridiculous job. And if he can bring joy to millions while managing an army of flying reindeer, well, he deserves a round of applause and maybe a cookie or two.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="SurvivalTips" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-49 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-50 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-50" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Survival Tips on a Strange Planet"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Ali Haque, Age 13, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Commando Zorp is teaching his new alien recruits how to survive on the abandoned planet Earth.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Listen up! I have been here for a couple of months taking recon on this strange planet to see if it is suitable to be our new home. Today is Creature Survival Day. I am going to share some very helpful tips so pay attention!<em> (Starts pacing)</em> The creatures of this planet are extremely devious. They look cute and harmless, but they’ll stop at nothing to get under your skin!<em> (Pause)</em> One of the first creatures to deceive us is the wretched butterbug. <em>(Looks confused)</em> Or was it butterfly? … No that's ridiculous. Now, where was I, oh right, the butterbug is a small colorful winged creature. When you see one, you will be tempted to let it land on your finger. But you must resist the urge. As soon as that thing gets within 3 feet of you, it will try to bite your face off! We have found that the best way to prevent a butterbug attack is to cover your face. If the butterbug does not see your face, it will not attack. That is why we always wear masks when we are exploring. Now the next creature, although slightly less dangerous, is ten times as adorable!<em> (Shows a photo of a puppy and the new recruits react.)</em> Awwww? BE QUIET! This creature is known as the pupperie. <em>(Listens)</em> What did you say? Puppy? That's preposterous, as I was saying…..the pupperie is a very tricky fella. It will make cute sounds, but then out of nowhere, it will start chasing you.<em> (Takes out dog treats)</em> The key to protection against pupperies is these tasty treats. When you see a pupperie, you must first make sure that the pupperie sees the treat, then you must throw it <em>(Demonstrates)</em>, and proceed to run in the opposite direction. I also like to keep a couple extra in my pocket in case I get hungry.<em> (Winks)</em> I fear NO man… <em>(Zorp holds out a sketch of a goose)</em> … but this thing, it scares me. You see this? This is called a goose. If you see one, your only option is to run for your life! We lost ten men to these winged monsters! So, don’t underestimate their danger, or you will become their next meal. <em>(Pauses, collects himself, and smiles.)</em> Well, thanks for joining me for today's survival lesson. Tomorrow we will talk about the dangers left behind by the past inhabitants of this planet, and their sonic weapons of torture. <em>(Holds up a pair of headphones)</em></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="RollerCoasterEmotions" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-50 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-51 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-51" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Roller Coaster of Emotions"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Elizabeth Ramirez, Age 12, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> An overprotective parent complains about the roller coaster at an amusement park.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Excuse me, sir? I just want to say something about your so-called rides. They’re supposed to be fun, for the whole family. Let me ask, what is your deranged, complicated, vision of fun?! Those rides are certainly not for anyone! And as the parent of four lovely children, this cannot go unspoken! We just went on the “Hell Whirl” upon the suggestion of my son, Dylan. You said it was for the entire family! What kind of theme is that?! Despite my reluctance, we went on it, because I didn’t pay 140 dollars for nothing. The ride lived up to its title. It was one big thrill machine, far too extreme for kids, or anyone for that matter! Seriously, only people who do bad things deserve to go on that ride! That was not a rollercoaster of fun like it was presented, it was a rollercoaster of emotions! I will never come back to this, to this...land of frights that you call an amusement park! Farewell to you, sir! This will be the last time you’ll see my face around here.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IDidntDoIt" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-51 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-52 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-52" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"I Didn’t Do It!"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jacob Kenyon, Age 13, Arizona, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A kid denies breaking a window<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>You can’t ground me! I didn’t do it! Just because I’m wearing a baseball glove does not mean that I broke the window. Sure, I have a history of this kind of thing, but I’m telling you the truth, Dad! This time it wasn’t me. I was out here minding my own business. Just tossing the ball up in the air and then Mom came out and asked if I wanted to play catch. I said yes because I feel kind of bad for her you know? I mean she’s not very good at baseball, but she seems to like to play with me. So we started tossing the ball. Like I said, she’s not very good. She threw the ball way over there and it broke the window. So you see, it wasn’t me. It was your wife. I guess you’ll have to ground her. Or at least teach her how to throw.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheFinalAct" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-52 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-53 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-53" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"The Final Act"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Aaron Barbosa, Age 14, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A magician improvises their way through a failing act.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>And now ladies and gentlemen, for my final act, I'm going to make this rabbit disappear! <i>(The rabbit might be in a hat or on a cart)</i> Now, as I wave my wand around. <i>(pause)</i> Excuse me, everyone, I seem to have forgotten my magical wand. <i>(Looks for the wand.)</i> Where did I put it? Where did I put it?! <i>(Continues searching.)</i> Aha! There it is! Apologies for the little mishap, back to my trick. <i>(pause)</i> Hold on, I didn't do the trick yet, where is the rabbit? <i>(to self)</i> I knew this would happen! I told him bringing a rabbit on stage wouldn't work! <i>(back to the audience)</i> Ladies and gentlemen, I have prepared a better and cooler final act! I'm going to make myself disappear! <i>(to self)</i> Where are my smoke bombs? I'm pretty sure they were in my left pocket. <i>(Turns to the audience.)</i> Everyone, I was joking about making myself disappear. My real act is- <i>(Phone rings.)</i> Hello? Boss, I'm sorry but it's not only my fault! I told him that the rabbit wouldn't work. <i>(pause)</i> Yes, I already tried that one, but he forgot to put them in my pocket! I'll think of something ok? Don't lose your marbles. <i>(Hangs up)</i> I sincerely apologize to everybody for the difficulties during this show. We will give a full refund over at the ticket booth. <i>(Phone rings again)</i> Hold on, everybody. <i>(Picks up phone)</i> Hello? <i>(Short pause)</i> I told you I would think of something, and I did, you can't blame me. <i>(Short pause)</i> What?! You can't fire me! <i>(pause)</i> Because I quit! <i>(Stomps off stage briefly before stomping back in.)</i> Remember, refunds are at the ticket booth. <i>(Stomps back off.)</i></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DangerDanger" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-53 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-54 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-54" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Danger! Danger!"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Isaac T. Age 15, California, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young man believes his mother’s extracurricular suggestions are out to get him.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>My mom keeps telling me that I need to find some sort of extracurricular activity to keep my mind "stimulated." Whatever that means. So here I am against my will looking for something I can do after school. My mom thought I'd look handsome in a baseball uniform, but I'm not stupid. Those baseballs come at you over 80 mph! So I had to tell her a big fat N-O on that one. Then she suggested hockey. But if I want my teeth separated from my mouth I could just ask my dentist to yank 'em for me. We moved down the list to golf. Mom said golf was a calm, relaxing, non-violent game but I beg to differ. If somebody nearby yells “fore!” and I don't hear them, they could get a hole-in-one. In my mouth!!! What? It could happen... Tennis? Not a chance. Tennis balls come at you just as quickly as baseballs. And the rackets, don't get me started on rackets. Cornhole? Heck no! Those beanbags could easily become dangerous weapons! For a split second, I thought chess would be good, but after some contemplating... What if some guy got mad and flipped a chess board and a pawn hit the other guy in the eye? I'd probably end up being the guy on the receiving end of things! So I scratched chess off my list. Then, out of the blue, Mom says, "How about football?" And I know, she's got it out for me.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhyCantIFly" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-54 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-55 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-55" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Why Can’t I Fly?"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kallie Gatrell, Age 14, North Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A penguin wonders why they are the only bird in the zoo not able to fly.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hey, Randy, can I talk to you about something? Wait, Randy, you actually might want to sit down for this. Okay, well, I feel like I'm a worthless bird. I mean out of all ten thousand bird species, why am I one of the 60 that can’t fly? That’s 0.6%. It’s not fair. Why can't I just soar like the mighty eagle? Why can’t I see this earth from a bird’s eye view? Honestly, I would even take the amount of flight a chicken has. Which isn’t a lot. I’m just an embarrassment to the zoo because all the other birds can fly, but I can't. Have you ever seen how all the little humans point and laugh at me? That’s a real blow to my confidence. I even heard that Eric in the owl exhibit was making fun of me just because I can’t fly while he's over there asleep all the time, getting waited on wing and foot. I'm done with all the ridicule I get just because I can’t fly. I mean, compared to them, I have some pretty great skills. I mean, are they able to slide on their stomachs? No. Can they swim underwater to catch fish? No. So why do they always say, "Hey, Chilly, how's the weather down there?" If they came down and just waddled in my flippers for a day, they might realize how hard it is to be me. I mean, at least I don’t have to worry about getting a sunburn… right? You know what, I'm done with the jokes, and I won't take them anymore. I'm proud of who I am, even if I'm not the same as everyone else. I'm going to show everyone that I'm just as capable as they are, even if I can't fly.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AmIDeadorAlive" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-55 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-56 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-56" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Am I Dead or Alive?"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Aster Garcia, Age 16, New Mexico, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A war veteran struggling with the difficulties they face after the battle.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Everyone was telling me it was the right choice, but looking back I’m not sure it was. Bootcamp was fine. I was making friends and learning how hard this job would be. I never thought it would be too much…until we got called up. When our sergeant told us, my body stiffened, and my heart rate sped up. My only thought was, I am about to die. I think everyone had the same reaction, none of us were ready. I mean, we had only enlisted a few weeks before and now they were sending us to the front lines?!? I had no choice but to go. When I was out there I realized something. The moment I put my signature on that paper, I signed my life away. The government doesn’t care about me. I’m just another body for them to dispose of in hopes they’ll end up on top. But they completely owned me, and the only way out was death. I tried to survive. I didn’t want to be just another casualty. Then one day when I was walking through a village and my foot hit something hard. I heard a beep and frantically tried to run away, but I wasn’t fast enough. The mine completely blew off my leg and I was left there to die. My whole squad abandoned me, but I can’t blame them. They were just trying to survive. As I lay there, in the worst pain in the world, the sun just grew brighter and brighter until I couldn’t see. My only thought was “am I dead or alive?” Days later I woke up in a hospital bed, with all sorts of things hooked up to me, and here I am now. My whole life screwed, just because I signed my name on that piece of paper.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhyAmINotEnough" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-56 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-57 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-57" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Why Am I Not Enough?"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Karly Anderson, Age 14, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen goes through their daily routine to meet the world’s standard of what it means to be enough.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Why am I not enough? 4 am, wake up, work out, and shower. I don’t want to, but I have to in order to be enough. Athletic kids are enough. 6 am, straighten my natural curls like they never existed, and apply the makeup I barely know how to use. Because I have to fit in to be enough. Girls who wear makeup are enough. 6:30 am, no breakfast today I had a big dinner last night and every girl in school that wants a dying chance of a homecoming date weighs less than 115. So I have to weigh that too. Skinny girls are enough. 7 am, walk to school it’ll be healthier anyways. Cardio is how skinny girls look even slimmer. The less meat and more bones you are, means you’re enough. 8 am, first bell. I know the answer, but I won’t say it. Pretty girls can’t be smart. And to be enough you need to be pretty. Smart girls can’t be enough until they’re pretty. 11 am, lunch. Best I just keep chewing on my gum. Every popular girl always has gum. Popularity means your enough. 2 pm, last class. I need to pee but instead, I roam the halls. Cool girls roam the halls. Cool girls are enough. 3 pm, walk home because you can never have too much cardio. 4 pm, realize I’ve spent another day trying to live out an unfulfillable, immeasurable standard of “enough.”</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IWanttobeanAstronaut" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-57 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-58 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-58" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"I Want to be an Astronaut!"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Oana Mustata, Age 11, Sibiu, Romania<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A kid dreams of becoming an astronaut for the most fantastical reasons.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p><em>(enthusiastically, with a sword in hand)</em> Hey Mom! I have decided what I want to be when I grow up! I want to be an astronaut so I can fly with a rocket at super high speeds vrrrooommm, vrrrooommm! <em>(pause)</em> I guess I should think of what I want to take in my luggage. Hmmm. Chocolate cereals… those are goood. Oat cereals... those are good and also healthy... dog food, this sword, a camera of course, a knife, a food container, sunscreen, and a bottle. I think that's about it. <em>(short pause)</em> Well, I have eaten cereal with all kinds of milk except milk from the Milky Way… I think it's cosmically good! And that's what the bottle is for, to bring you some of it for your coffee! After I've had breakfast, I will go feed the puppies from Canis Major and Canis Minor. They're probably starving since no one feeds them. Then, I will go and explore space. I can't wait to see all those flying space rocks and the zoo in the sky! I know it has all sorts of interesting creatures, like the bears from Ursa Minor and Major, the winged horse from Pegasus, and the lion from Leo and I heard there's even a Phoenix! For lunch, I'm going to the Moon. There, I will need my knife, to cut some of that Swiss cheese and take some for you in the food container. Then, I will go to the Sun! I'll be the first human being who gets there! I'll need that sunscreen because I heard the Sun can burn your skin if it's too hot. My last stop will be Saturn, to marvel at its rings. I'll check it very closely, maybe it has an extra one. Let me tell you a secret, I did my research, and no one has a ring from Saturn, so it would be extra special, just for you! After I finish my adventures, I will head home. If I meet any aliens in their spaceships, I'll try to be friendly, but if they're hostile, I'll need my sword! You don't have to worry about me. As soon as I defeat them, I'll come home, give you the ring and we'll chat! We'll look at all the pictures I took, and you'll drink your Milky Way coffee and eat your Moon cheese. <em>(pause)</em> OK! I better go and prepare my luggage now. It won't be long until I grow up, so it's better to do this now so I don't forget anything!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Safe" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-58 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-59 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-59" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Safe"</span></p> <p><strong>Honorable Mention!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Karly Anderson, Age 14, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong>A student describes how school has become anything but safe.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>School is safe, <em>(spelling)</em> S-A-F-E, safe. Safe is defined as being protected. Protected, <em>(spelling)</em>, P-R-O-T-E-C-T-E-D. Protected means kept away from harm or injury. But school safety is diluted. Are we safe at school? S is for Shhh intruder in the building, everyone hide in the corner. A is for All students report to the gym until all threats have been cleared. F is for Fire, you can smell the smoke from your math class down the hall. E is for Everyone may now return to their normal schedule, as all issues have been resolved. School isn't safe and protected. Protected, P, Please remain in shelter. R, Run! O, On the count of three, I need everyone to throw the desk. T is for is This a drill. E is for End of drill. C is for Click, Click, Click, of heels roaming the halls looking for prey. T is for Take cover. E is for Everyone remain calm. D is for Don't move. Somewhere between safe and school we are no longer protected.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ListentoMe" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-59 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-60 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-60" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Listen to Me"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Isabella Whittingahan Jimenez, Age 14, Oklahoma, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A 17-year-old argues with their mother about feeling under pressure<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <a href="https://youtu.be/cN-hUNf9DYo" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><strong>Watch on YouTube</strong></a></p> <p>You’re not listening to me! I’m tired! I’m tired of always trying so hard, and it’s never enough for you. You’re never satisfied. You know, you never once told me you’re proud of me. No, stop, let me speak. I can’t take it anymore, I’m tired. I’m tired of everything. You always want more and more and there’s like this hole in my heart that I thought I could fill if I made you proud of me. Now I’m realizing that’s stupid because you’ll never be proud. I’ll never be enough; I’ll never be everything you want me to be. Your expectations are so high, it’s not letting me breathe. The pressure you put on me is like a weight on my shoulders and I try to make things better, but everything just stays the same. Not one “congratulations”, or “I’m happy for you”, or even a “good job”. You make me feel like I’m always behind. Like I’m not trying my best when actually, I’m trying even more than my best. All for you to ignore it, dismiss it. I don’t want you to do it anymore. I’m done. I’m done trying to be perfect for you. You’ve never been concerned about anything that I wanted. I sacrifice my happiness for yours but you’re never happy. But it’s okay, it’s fine. I’ve accepted it, there’s nothing I can do for you. I’m going to do what I want now, for me. So I can be happy.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheRobbery" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-60 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-61 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-61" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"The Robbery"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Mia Westbrooke, Age 11, Iowa, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A robber tries to convince their victim to keep quiet in exchange for a percentage of the loot.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>You're probably wondering why I've tied you up, allow me to explain. In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a robbery. I had to tie you up! You saw everything! Though I am willing to make a deal. If you keep your mouth shut and don’t go around snitching, my crew and I will give you…2% of everything we steal! Does that sound good? Oh wait, you have duct tape on your mouth. I should probably take that off. (rips it off) Sorry about that! That had to hurt! Woah! Woah! Woah! Calm down! I'm trying to make a deal with you, jeez! Listen, I’m not giving you any more than 2%. WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’M BEING “UNFAIR”?! I’M GIVING YOU MONEY IN EXCHANGE FOR YOUR FREEDOM! Oh, so you’re gonna become a snitch now. I see how it is. You want 15%? Wow! You're hard to please. You know what? I’m feeling generous. I will give you 12% in exchange for you keeping your mouth shut. Finally, we agree on something. (unties) You're free to go! Meet us in the alley at 11:00 pm for the exchange. I know, I know, it’s late but we have to calculate and prepare some distractions, so we don’t get caught. (bomb goes off) That’s my cue! Gotta blast, but this was fun! DON’T FORGET!</p> </div><div class="fusion-video fusion-selfhosted-video fusion-aligncenter" style="max-width:50%;"><div class="video-wrapper"><video playsinline="true" width="100%" style="object-fit: cover;" muted="true" preload="none" controls="1" class="berqwp-lazy-video"><source type="video/mp4" data-berqwpsrc="https://www.dramanotebook.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/Nadia-Ibrahim-audition.mp4">Sorry, your browser doesn't support embedded videos.</video></div></div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HowDoYouSilenceYourPhone" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-61 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-62 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-62" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"How Do You Silence Your Phone?"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Addison Steffer, Age 14, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A villain gets a phone call from their mother while fighting a hero.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Well, well, well... take a look at what we have here. It would appear that you and the rest of your so-called "heroes" have been bested by a villain. By me! <i>(Laughs manically)</i> Oh, you poor, poor thing. You thought I was bad before? Just wait. I have all the power now. This is all going according to plan. And now, nobody can stop m- <i>(phone rings)</i> ...One second please... <i>(answers phone, starts whispering)</i> ...no, no, Mom, I can't talk right now. I'm busy. <i>(Pause, getting louder)</i> What do you think I'm doing? I'm working! Just turn on the news. You'll see me. <i>(pause)</i> Mom, I will not wave at the camera, I have a reputation to uphold. <i>(pause)</i> No, no, no, no, no, don't get dad. <i>(waves)</i> I'm waving, see? I'm waving! HI MOM! <i>(Stops waving, turns back, and sighs)</i> Anyway, why were you calling? Yes, of course, I'm coming to dinner, why wouldn't I be? <i>(pause)</i> No, Mom, I am not inviting them. <i>(pause)</i> I don't know, maybe because we are MORTAL ENEMIES? <i>(Pause, turns to the hero)</i> My Mom wants to know if you want to come for dinner tomorrow night. <i>(Turns back to phone)</i> They said no. <i>(pause, turns back to hero)</i> She said to tell you that it's meatloaf. <i>(Turns back to phone)</i> It's still a no. <i>(pause)</i> Ok, I really have to go now, Mom. Stop calling me while I'm at work. <i>(pause)</i> Because I don't know HOW to silence my phone. <i>(pause)</i> What do you mean there's a button? There's no button! <i>(pause)</i> Mom, I am not asking them to help me silence my phone. Do you know how embarrassing that would be? <i>(pause)</i> Fine, fine, I'll ask. <i>(Turns to hero)</i> How do you silence your phone? <i>(Turns back to phone)</i> They don't know either. <i>(pause)</i> Ok, Mom, I have to go, just don't call me while I'm working, ok? I'll see you tomorrow. <i>(pause)</i> Mhm, I love you too, bye. <i>(Turns back to hero)</i> Where was I? Oh, yes, that's right, I will become the most powerful villain on this planet, and NO ONE CAN STO- <i>(phone rings)</i> Mom, we just talked about this, what do you need? <i>(pause)</i> Wait, Stacy's Mom did what? <i>(Pause, turns to hero)</i> Sorry, I really need to take this. You can go. We can do this another time. <i>(Turns back to the phone and walks away)</i> You have got to be kidding. She cut all of her hair off? What does Stacy think about that? <i>(exits)</i></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DontBlink" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-62 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-63 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-63" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Don’t Blink"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Karly Anderson, Age 14, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young adult realizes they shouldn’t have wasted the moments being in such a rush to grow up.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Have you ever heard the phrase don't blink? I grew up hearing that, but I never looked at its true meaning until now. Don't blink. It's your first day of Kindergarten you're in your brand-new shoes with a bright new backpack excited to make new friends. Don't blink. Now all of a sudden you find yourself leaving elementary going to middle school. Just six more years and I can drive, you think. Don't blink. You're in high school now, and those friends from kindergarten are long gone. You don't know who you are. But it's okay. Just four more years and you'll go off to college and leave behind this side of the world. Don't blink. You get your driver's license and suddenly it's like a whole world has opened up. Don't blink. You're a junior now, "hardest year yet" they say. Only a few months till you're finally an adult. Don't blink. It's your first day of senior year and you still don't know what it is you're doing but you go with it anyway. One year left, you think. This is your chance. Don't blink. Before you know it it's the end of senior year. Tears stream down your face while you walk among the peers you've grown up with and all of a sudden you realize...You blinked.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HumanIPromiseIWontEatYou" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-63 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-64 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-64" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Human, I Promise I Won’t Eat You"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Maya Wilson, Age 12, Idaho, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A misunderstood dragon tries to have a friendly conversation with a human.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hello little human! I've always wanted to talk to one of you guys, but never got the chance until now. Sorry, I'm pinning you down, but otherwise, I'm afraid you'll run away. <i>(beat)</i> No, I don't terrorize villages. You're thinking of my twin brother, he loves doing that. I have never killed a human in my life. Would you stop screaming, I am not going to hurt you. <i>(beat)</i> If you don't want to get eaten, why did you climb into my cave in the first place? Tip; if you don't want to become a dragon's lunch, then I recommend you don't waltz into their home. <i>(beat)</i> Thank you for finally realizing that I am your friend. <i>(beat)</i> Do I like treasure? Do I like treasure? Human, I am a dragon, of course, I like treasure! If I were you, I'd probably hide the watch, necklace, earrings, and rings before I take them. <i>(beat)</i> Yeah, I do steal sometimes, but my brother gave me half of the jewels I have. Okay, he probably destroyed a castle or two to get that gold, but that's my brother for you. Speaking of him, he's coming over today, so you'd better scurry along, it was nice to meet you! And, you're screaming again.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AScientificStudy" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-64 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-65 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-65" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"A Scientific Study"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Madison Fannin, Age 15, Tennessee, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A child confronts their family after being ignored for two weeks.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedy<br /> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oG5QgrOXANo" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><strong>Watch on YouTube</strong></a></p> <p>No one says good morning to me. I did an experiment for two weeks straight by not uttering a single word to any of you first. My hypothesis was proven correct. I am not spoken to unless I speak first. This is not a cry for help nor an…"Oh please, Mother! Your ignorance has driven me to my breaking point!" No. This was simply a scientific study. It's fascinating how my own family managed to ignore my existence for fourteen days. I wasn't asked to do any chores, or finish my homework, and I didn't have to attend Uncle Wyatt's funeral. RIP Uncle Wyatt: if only you had seen that bird headed straight for your jugular. Anywho, being invisible actually benefited me. I'm so glad none of you care for me because then I would actually have to care for you guys, too. And that's a lot of work on my part. But, good morning! Have a good day at work! Don't think about me too much!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IPledgeAllegiance" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-65 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-66 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-66" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"I Pledge Allegiance"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Luis H., Age 14, Illinois, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student interrupts the pledge to question what it means.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I pledge allegiance to the flag of the…wait a minute. Excuse me Mr. Jacobs. I’m sorry to interrupt, but what does that mean? Pledge allegiance? I’ve been saying the pledge since I was five years old, but I never really thought about it until this exact moment. I pledge allegiance to the flag. I mean pledge means promise, right? And I think allegiance means loyalty? So, I promise to be loyal to the flag? That’s weird. Why would I promise anything to a flag. The flag’s not a person. I mean I get that it’s symbolic. The flag represents our country. But, what if our country is not living up to its part of the deal? What if it’s not being loyal to me? That doesn’t seem fair. Why should I promise my loyalty to a country that isn’t loyal to me? Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy I live here. I know I was lucky to be born in this country. But if I’m expected to be devoted and faithful to this country that believes in “justice for all,” doesn’t that mean me too?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Mariia" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-66 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-67 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-67" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Mariia"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Masha, Age 14, Switzerland<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Inspired by the Drama Notebook “My Name” lesson.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Call me Mara, because the Almighty has sent me great sorrow.</p> <p>One of the oldest names we know. In Hebrew, it means bitter, desirable, serene.</p> <p>For me, my name means long Ukrainian songs. How many Mariias have buried their Cossacks, so many songs are folded in Ukraine. How many foxberries, with red berries, like blood stand around the road, so many bloody tears were shed by young women, seeing their husbands off to death.</p> <p>For me, my name is a broken Soviet dacha in Odessa on Tehnicheskaya Street, the nineties, stuffed cabbage rolls and adjika, a curly, skinny little boy who loves his grandmother. For me, Mariia means hopelessness of having nothing and only hope left. For me, my name means good taste in music, unhappiness, great books on a shelf in a Khrushchevka, career, marriage and children -- my name reminds me of my father. It reminds me of Odessa. The story of my family -- ordinary, miserable, with its silly joys and such terrible unhappiness.</p> <p>Bitter fate of my people, bitter my name, bitter tears were shed by the dying, how many people drank their fate with bitter vodka, so many Mariias in the world, that forever people remember their sufferings and do not repeat mistakes.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Lost" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-67 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-68 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-68" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Lost"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Abbey Sourov, Age 14, Seattle, Washington, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Sixteen-year-old Bianca is grieving and frustrated. She is confronted by her sister as she prepares to search for their lost brother <em>(who may or may not be gone for good)</em>.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Surprised, she gasps.)</em> Oh. It’s you. Why are you back here? I thought I’d be alone, sneaking out this late. You can’t tell anyone you saw me here. Just listen to what I’m about to say, okay? I’m going to find our brother. I’ve got everything I need, a camera, a flashlight…<em>(Summoning courage)</em> I’m going to find him, okay? And you can’t convince me otherwise, because I can’t just keep sitting here, day after day, doing nothing, and feeling so…so WORTHLESS! <em>(Tearing up. Exhales to calm herself.)</em> It’s just that everyone has given up on him; even you and…and our parents have decided to move on, but I- I can’t...okay? I can’t just…leave him! He wouldn’t have left me. And I know he’s still out there. He’s... He has to be. And I can’t even live in this house anymore, because it’s so full of his memories, full of the things that we did together. For crying out loud, I sob when I see our favorite books at the library, or those frogs at the zoo we used to like. I feel like I’m going insane, and I...<em>(Gasping for breath and trailing off)</em>...I… <em>(Wiping her eyes)</em> You gotta let me go. I have to go. Alone. <em>(Laughs humorlessly)</em> It’s funny…because I really am so tired of being alone.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BriarvilleLibrary" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-68 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-69 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-69" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Visit to the Briarville Library"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Elizabeth Pall, Age 16, Florida, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A bookkeeper from a town stuck in time, welcomes a guest to her library.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Oh! I didn’t see you there. Do forgive me, we don’t get many visitors to the Briarville Library. If Dr. Reginald and his mad experiments aren’t enough to scare people off, the 500-step staircase has a way of dissuading guests. But I’m glad you’re here. My name is Olivia Lester, I’m the sole bookkeeper, and sole inhabitant, here at the library. Well, except for our resident ghost, Arnold. He doesn’t say much. You really couldn’t have come on a better day. Today’s my 21st birthday! Though, come to think of it, yesterday was also my 21st birthday. And so was the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that. In fact, I can’t remember a day when it wasn’t my 21st birthday. Funny, isn’t it? Ooh! Do you hear that? That’s the bell tower; it’s 2 o'clock! Come, come, look out this window here. There! There he is. That man down there, do you see him? He comes by every day at exactly two o’clock to feed the gargoyles. Brave man he is, most of the townsfolk are too scared to even go near our stone beasts. An irrational fear, of course, they’re perfectly harmless. Most of the time. I wonder who he is. Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to ask his name and invite him into the library. Maybe someday. Thank you all for stopping in today. Please, make yourself at home. If you need any assistance don’t hesitate to ask me. But watch out for Vera our Venus Flytrap over there. She’s been a bit peckish lately and I don’t want any of you fine guests to lose a finger.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HalloweenMixup" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-69 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-70 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-70" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Halloween Mix-up"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Madison Brown, Age 16, Idaho, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl on Halloween encounters someone with a really cool and realistic costume.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <a href="https://youtu.be/x1IZRmSrDz0" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><strong>Watch on YouTube</strong></a></p> <p>Hi! I saw you from across the street, and I just gotta say, I love your Halloween costume! It looks so realistic! I mean the fur and the teeth are really authentic. The mask even moves when you talk. It's such a convincing werewolf, you'd almost think it's real! Hahaha!! Honestly, it's kinda creepy. It looks like you could eat me and my grandma up. Get it? Because I'm Little Red Riding Hood? And her whole story was…whatever you get it. You know I DIY'd my costume, and it took me HOURS, but it's nowhere near as good as yours. Seriously, yours puts mine to shame. Heck, it puts everyone's costume to shame. So did you buy it or do it yourself? <em>(Don't let him answer)</em> I ALWAYS make my own because I'm so creative, but I understand that not everyone is as talented as me! Speaking of which, yours is so good you should enter the costume contest. I'd bet you win, which sucks for me, but hey maybe I'll get second, which is in some ways better than first. <em>(giggles)</em> You'll have to tell me where you got your costume, so I can win next year. If you tell me I'll invite you to my Halloween Party, which is going to be like totally cool, but if you don't you can't come! JK!!! Hahaha <em>(Serious)</em> But not really. So, tell me where did you get it? <em>(He answers)</em> Oh! You're a real werewolf. <em>(awkward silence)</em> Whatever, you can still come to my Halloween Party.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BytheMysticMonologuesofMunnopor" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-70 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-71 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-71" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"By the Mystic Monologues of Munnopor"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Henry Osher, Age 17, Connecticut, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Hero interrupts the Villain’s monologue<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Listen buddy, I’m gonna stop you right there. You don’t understand how many times I’ve heard this kind of thing already. I’m honestly sick of monologues. You’re just gonna waste my time explaining your master plan and patting yourself on the back even though we both already know how this is gonna go. I’m gonna send you packing like I do to everyone else, and you’ll end up nothing more than a two-bit, D-list villain with an inferiority complex. If this was a comic book, they’d put you in a filler issue, give you a mediocre backstory, and never talk about you again. All you’re gonna be is a piece of trivia for superhero nerds with nothing better to spend their time on. But me? I’m the Golden Boy! I literally get paid to beat up people like you. So I have an idea, instead of giving me a novel, how about you just sum it up in a few words and let me enjoy the rest of my Sunday? What’s it gonna be? Kidnapping the Mayor? Bridge bombing? Mass mind control? I’ve seen it all buddy. You’re nothing special. That’s what you gotta get through your thick skull. You’ll never be an archenemy or on the starting roster of an evil team. You’ll never take over the world or have any henchmen. You’ll never do anything with your sad little life and that’s that. Oh, did I make you cry? Sorry man, but the truth hurts. You know what they say; if you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen. Now let’s get this over with.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AmItheOnlyOne" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-71 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-72 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-72" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Am I the Only One?"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Emma Morrill, Age 18, Michigan, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl addresses her bullying in a video she uploads for the world to see.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Turns webcam on)</em> I could come on here and say I am fine, and that today was an amazing day, but that would be lying. My life has been nothing but painful for the past two years, with names thrown at me from every direction and pranks pulled on me just to see me in pain and agony. My self-esteem has gone down, and half of the time I don't even want to show up to school or be seen at a store or a mall. Bullying has been my life at school and even on the internet. People say such cruel and harsh things…and I believe them sometimes. What have I done to deserve this? Why can't everyone just be accepted for who they are? I've been dieting and trying new styles just to make people like me more. But even then they make fun of me. Even when I lost ten pounds, or when the clothing was their style! I've started wearing baggy clothes because I am seen as overweight. I wear makeup due to the fact that I am seen as a monster with a bunch of acne. Will it ever stop? I literally come home in tears, but nobody cares what I think. The more bullying happens to me the more I become depressed. Anxiety hits me from every angle. I want to change schools and throw away social media to get away from the one thing that is stopping me from being happy. Bullies. If society keeps going on like this the teen world will be in shambles. I just have to say one more thing. Is bullying truly what the world needs? Or do we need to rebuild the world on peace and trust? <em>(Turns off the webcam and uploads video to YouTube)</em>.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="CircleofUnhappiness" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-72 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-73 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-73" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Circle of Unhappiness"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Isabelle Bidal, Age 18, Ontario, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young teenager struggles with their appearance and clothing<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>It’s not that I don’t think I’m beautiful, I do… sometimes. The problem is that no matter how many times you tell me this shirt doesn’t make me look bad or that skirt fits perfectly, the mirror tells me otherwise. I mean how long will it take for me to realize it doesn’t matter? It’s one thing to say but I need to believe it. I know I should just wear things that make me happy. I know that nobody cares enough to judge what I look like when they have their own insecurities. I know it isn’t worth this much energy and anxiety, but I can’t stop. The shirt is too tight, or too loose, or not the right colour, and the pants are too rigid, or too short, or too… everything. I’m just in this circle of unhappiness because I don’t look like I want to. I don’t look like everyone else, and I don’t know how to fix it. But...maybe that’s okay. Maybe, just maybe, if I could find happiness in people and experiences, rather than clothes and looks, I would wake up and look forward to picking an outfit every day. Maybe… a source of anxiety could become a source of joy. It just takes a lot of work, and I don’t know if I can do it.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kEL6jsVj7k" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IsitaFairytale" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-73 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-74 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-74" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Is it a Fairytale?"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Addie Page, Age 12, Idaho USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl texts a boy that she likes him.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedy<br /> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFy_xtl-5Zo" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><strong>Watch on YouTube</strong></a></p> <p><em>(pacing)</em> Oh, what should I say? What should I say? <em>(stops pacing)</em> Oh, I know! <em>(starts texting)</em> I'd like to tell you something. Just promise you won't make fun of me. I've liked you for quite some time now and have decided to confess my feelings. <em>(accidentally sends it)</em> Oh no!! I just sent it. What if he thinks I'm weird for liking him? What if he likes me back? <em>(to herself)</em> Oh, stop it Linsay! You know he won't like you back. This is real life, not a fairytale! I know! I'll just try and make a cover story. <em>(looks at phone nervously)</em> Uh oh! He saw it! He's typing!! <em>(waits a second)</em> He… stopped. I can't believe I had hoped that he would like me. I mean look at me! I'm just the nerdy, smart girl that no one likes. <em>(looks at the phone again and looks shocked)</em> He likes me back! I think life just might be a fairytale!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Scars" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-74 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-75 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-75" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Scars"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Cassie F<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl with a skin condition acknowledges all her scars and learns to embrace them.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>The first time I remember being “physically hurt” I was probably 7 or 8, and I was on a bicycle. My sister left her scooter on the road, and I went crashing into it. All I saw was a blur of the ground, and then the sky, then the ground, and then sky again. My mom screamed and came running to help me. When I realized what had happened, I was bleeding from my arms, knees, knuckles…pretty much any exposed skin that you can imagine. I have scars from that one. The second time I remember being hurt is when I was maybe 9 or so. I was so dumb. I tried diving headfirst into a pool that was 4 feet deep. Yeah, you can probably imagine how well that went. I hit the top of my forehead. It took about a roll of paper towels to clear away the blood…and tears if I’m being honest. Those scars never really affected me. I never thought twice about it when kids at school would ask how I got them. But when it comes to my skin condition, those, those get to me. I have blotches on my arms and the backs of my knees that I can’t get rid of no matter what. They won't tan, and no lotion or potion will erase them. They just exist. I’ve had them for as long as I can remember, and I have no clue why God chose me to have them. But, that’s just how it turned out. Most days they make me feel disgusting and ugly. When people see the scars or the blotches, I freeze. I’m worried they’ll think horrible things about me. But those splotches and blotches are a part of me. All my scratches, scrapes, and slices are. All my scars are. And in a way, I love them. They show where I’ve been, but also give me hope for where I’m going. They show how I’ve been hurt, but also how I’ve healed. I guess I love them. My scars are beautiful.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MisunderstandingsofaVillain" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-75 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-76 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-76" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Misunderstandings of a Villain"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Joy Seon, Age 12, Illinois, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A villain tries to persuade you that they are the good guy.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Sorry about the whole blindfolding and kidnapping thing. Here, let me just take this blindfold off...there you go! Welcome to my secret lair! Pretty cool, right? <em>(sigh)</em> Could you stop yelling for help so much? You're hurting my ears. I promise you I am not a bad guy… here. I only kidnapped you because you knew my secret identity. What else was I supposed to do? Let you tell everyone who I really am? No way. <em>(beat)</em> What was that? The 'heroes' will save you? They're not heroes. They're the bad guys! <em>(beat)</em> Stop saying I'm the bad guy! I do tons of great things. I have a family...yes, it's an evil crime family, but I also have a pet cat! What villain has a cat? <em>(beat)</em> No, I do not stroke it with one hand while laughing madly. What can I say to convince you I'm not a bad guy? I do community service...which by community service, I mean, committing crimes for my community. I also help elders get up when they fall down...after I push them. Okay, I can see why you might think I'm a villain, but I swear on my cat that I'm not! Oh shoot, the alarm is going off! Probably some so-called heroes here to rescue you. Don't you dare move a muscle. I'll be right back.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LabVersustheBunny" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-76 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-77 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-77" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Lab Versus the Bunny"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Sanjana Bhahirathan, Age 13, Sydney, Australia<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A bunny finds itself in a lab that tests animals.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>This all began on Monday. Monday the 26th of April. 44 hours, 36 minutes, and 50…7 seconds ago. I was simply chowing down on a carrot stick, when all of a sudden, I felt sick and dizzy. Then everything turned pitch black. The next thing you know, I found myself here, inside this chilly, dark, and ominous-looking structure. I really thought I was dead… but then I discovered my long-lost uncle! We had a nice catch-up and blah blah blah…Then suddenly the dreaded words came out. I didn’t want to believe him, but I had to. We are being tested for beauty products; Brands like Chanel, Dior! How did I go from being a happy rabbit living a life of freedom, to being chained up and tortured? They are experimenting on us with chemicals! Excuse me aren’t we entitled to a life? We are being held as if we were lab rats. There is no light. I’ve tried to flee, but I’m stuck. The only time I can escape is in my dreams. I dream of carrots, carrots, and more carrots. But then I wake up and I feel the excruciating pain. My shoulder, my skin, my muscles…completely burned through. It’s unbearable. I'm not going to die in misery though. Will you help me?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Wedged" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-77 has-pattern-background has-mask-background nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-78 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-78" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Wedged"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Isabelle Bidal, Age 18, Ontario, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A straight-A student finds themself in detention<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hey! Can you stop? Just for a second? Tapping your pencil on my chair for this whole 30 minutes won't make the time go by quicker. <em>(tapping persists)</em> Okay, fine, you want to talk? I can talk. Let's start with this - I have NEVER been in detention. Okay? I have been a straight-A student since I came out of the womb. I have participated in clubs you have never even heard of and my extracurricular record spans 5 pages. I have been captain of the debate club since you said your first word and believe it or not, sitting here beside <em>(pause)</em> obvious genius' like you is not exactly how I wanted to spend my time tonight. Why am I here? All I wanted to do was share some of my knowledge with this girl in class. <em>(embarrassed)</em> Unfortunately for me, I may have gone a bit overboard and called her a stupid wheel of cheese… Now I'll never be invited to her parties… It's not my fault some people are just born idiots…<em>(pause)</em> Can you.. Stop tipping your chair back. You're gonna… aaaand you fell.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="FromRibeyetoFiletMignon" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-78 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-79 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-79" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"From Ribeye to Filet Mignon"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Liam Cantin, Age 12, Quebec, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A middle aged dog is determined to not like babies…Especially not the one his human parents have brought home.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>This is the worse day of my life, for real this time. Worse than the time I had a tick stuck in my ear. I swear it wasn’t my fault. It was a big misunderstanding. I never intended to chew and steal the pacifier, I thought it was for me, a new gift! You would’ve snapped too if your owner brought back one of those revolting creatures, also known as a B.A.B.Y. Man, all they do is cry and cry and cry, twenty-four seven. This baby has stolen ALL of MY attention. How do you think that makes me feel, huh? One minute they're all like aww who's a good boy, who wants a doggy ice cream treat, do you want a belly rub, or a head scratch? What about a nice LONG walk? Then of course “Baby Erk” had to drop into our home. And they just dumped me, that's right, dumped me for that ugly, smelly, poop machine. I’m lucky if I eat three times a day. I used to get Ribeye, now all I get is Filet Mignon, the portion size dropped significantly, as well as the fat content! Uhhhh, I just vomited, thinking about him. You know what I need? A vacation. That would feel sooo good. I’d finally get a break from him pulling my poor tail and plucking my precious apricot colored-fur. Oh yes, my nose would finally be able to smell the sweet scent of roses. I wouldn’t be stressed to step in his “acid reflux” secretions. Oh, is that a piece of PB&J he just threw on the floor? You know what, maybe “Baby Erk” isn’t so bad? Maybe I can tolerate him? Just this once. No!!! I didn’t say we can be friends...don’t go putting words into my mouth!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheAudition" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-79 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-80 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-80" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"The Audition"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Karly Anderson, Age 14, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young person is nervous about a big audition.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic-Dramatic</p> <p>Don’t you get it? Today is the day of THE audition. The audition where all my dreams could finally become a reality. I’m totally pumped. Well, except for the fact I’m scared. But just a little. I mean just because it’s my first major audition doesn’t mean I should worry. I mean naturally, I’m a worry-free person. But what if I don’t make it? What if I don’t get the part? That would be so embarrassing. I would have to change my name. I would never be able to show my face in public. I might have to move to a foreign land and live alone with 2 cats in an abandoned warehouse because I can’t make a living because no one wants to hire the girl who couldn’t land the role she had prepared for, for so long. (Moment of realization) Ok so maybe I’m like totally petrified.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ThePerfectDay" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-80 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-81 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-81" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"The Perfect Day"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kara Smith, Age 14, North Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student is asked to imagine their perfect day.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>What's my idea of the perfect day? Honestly, it would have to be when I was six or seven years old. Those were the days when I didn't feel anxiety or sadness. The only thing I worried about was missing an assignment at school or dropping my ice cream on the floor. Life was good and easy, like nothing in the world could hurt me. Now things are different and unstable...like a terrible patchwork put together. But if I could magically have that perfect day, it really wouldn't matter the location. Preferably I'd like for it to be something like a big day out with my family. Then I'd get to talk to my friends about how great it was. And my old childhood friend would still be kind to me. Or maybe the perfect day would be playing with my cousin at my old house with no chaos or drama to disrupt it all. Just two kids playing. Or maybe the perfect day would just be a regular, calm day in elementary school. Back when the kids weren't loud and obnoxious. When they weren't mean and tormenting. Back when the teachers would only discipline the ones who deserved it, not the innocent ones. But I guess we can't go back in time, can we? We just have to move on and let our scars tell the stories. Who knows, maybe there will be a perfect day in the future. I hope so.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheLongWalkHome" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-81 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-82 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-82" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"The Long Walk Home"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Sena Ramlyn<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Someone is lost on their way home after making an impulsive decision to take a different route through the forest.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>It's been hours and I'm still lost. <em>(looks around)</em> Where am I? I think this is the right way, but I'm still scared. What if I don't ever find my way back? <em>(shaking head)</em> I knew I never should've taken this route. I know better than to trust my instincts. <em>(to self)</em> Calm down, you will be okay. You will find your way back. I wish it was that easy. I don't know which way to go, and this forest is so creepy and full of shadows! <em>(sits on a tree stump)</em> Why did I take this route? What did I expect would happen? I am so lost. I don't even want to go back! How am I going to explain this whole situation? Even if I try, I know I'll get the inevitable "Why didn't you take the normal route?" which will make me even more embarrassed. I just want to go home, man. <em>(standing)</em> I guess I'll just have to keep going even though this eerie forest is making me feel like I'm going insane. There has to be a way out of here. I'll find it eventually.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ScaredoftheDark" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-82 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-83 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-83" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Scared of the Dark"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> CJ Lawrence, Age 14, Minnesota, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl explains to her brother why she doesn’t go out at night.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>You’re asking why I don’t go out alone at night? Well, let me tell you. I don’t go out alone at night because of the possibilities. Now don’t get me wrong, there are so many good possibilities hiding in the darkness. Seeing all of the stars and constellations, finding an underground party filled with bright lights and happy faces, seeing the world from a different perspective than I see during the day. These are all reasons I want to go out at night. But there are also the reasons that I don’t. They’re also the reasons I walk against the flow of traffic, why I carry pepper spray in my pocket, and text my friends my location every time I go on a date. Because yes, the night holds good possibilities. But it also holds so dark ones. And if I’m being honest, the bad things outweigh the good. So I settle for staying home at night. That way I don’t have to worry about all of the things that could go right or could go wrong if I go out into the darkness.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pc0QL8yK02o" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="InnerThoughtsofanExLioness" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-83 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-84 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-84" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Inner Thoughts of an Ex-Lioness"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Erin Ryan, age 18, Pennsylvania, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A cat muses on how its mistress doesn’t appreciate it enough.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I can't believe this; I'm locked out again. After all I do for her, following her around the house to keep her safe, bringing her gifts, that I have hunted for her. And yet, she chooses to keep me locked outside of this door. I can sit here, and I can meow for hours, knowing she's right inside. But rarely does she open the door to me now. <em>(pause)</em> Perhaps it is because I take a special interest in some of her plants. But I think they are rather nice against my fangs and surely, she would understand that. I mean I see her do something with her teeth, it must be similar right? But every time I try to do something with my teeth I get shooed out. <em>(pause)</em> I have been her protector since I came here. If only they would try to understand me. When I walk to the door that is clearly a sign I no longer wish to be here. But she waits for me to sit and beg, like some kind of… dog. <em>(pause)</em> Although I guess she can be useful for some things like bringing down the jar of the magic tasty food and cleaning out the old poop box. But other than that, honestly, I could live alone. I used to run outside all day and night before I came here. Now I'm forced to stay inside, just watching the nature that I used to prowl. So, when I ask for things like to be let into her room, I expect a little more pep in the step. Especially since they have tamed me into a protector. <em>(gasp)</em> Don't even get me started on those things they call dogs. Oh! Big. Wet. Smelly. And there's two of them. They're the bane of my existence. I will not make friends with such oafish creatures. I will stick to my own. And keep yelling at the door, hoping one day she'll let me in again.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/-IYEoKfbaAk" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AftertheMovie" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-84 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-85 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-85" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"After the Movie"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Tesia Hennessy, Age 15, South Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen is frustrated that their parent doesn’t accept them despite all they’ve done to try to conform.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> I do work hard. Maybe not in the way you think, but I work hard. I work hard to be utterly ordinary. I work hard to get good grades, but to not be the top of my class. I work hard to be funny, but to not be known as “the funny friend.” I work hard to be sporty, but not too sporty, to be artsy but not too artsy, to be quirky but to make sure that my quirks are normal. For example, I like yellow, the least liked color. I know everything there is to know about The Lord of the Rings, but only because - your words, not mine - I “went through a phase in middle school. ”I wear normal clothes. Do my hair in a normal way. Have a normal sleeping schedule, have normal reactions- I laugh the appropriate amount at sit-coms. I cry the appropriate amount at dramas. I’m scared the appropriate amount at horrors, and I’m thrilled the appropriate amount at thrillers. I’ve calculated every move, gesture, emotion, facial expression, every minute detail to the “perfect normal” because all you ever wanted was a normal kid, but it’s just not enough. Because when we’re at the movies, and it’s too loud, I can’t leave because “it’s loud for everyone.” And I can’t buy candy with my own money because “it’s unfair” even though everyone else is eating popcorn that you bought for them, but I can’t stand the texture of popcorn. I’m sick of being normal for you. I am sick. At least, you think I’m sick. And maybe I am, but I’m not going to pretend I’m normal anymore. I’m tired of sacrificing my identity just to make your life a little more comfortable.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhatLuck" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-85 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-86 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-86" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"What Luck!"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Isaac T., age 14, California, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A long-time player of the lottery runs into some bad luck.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>For years now I've played the lottery. And in doing so, I've wasted so much time and money. Not only that, but I end up losing more than I win. Heck, I've never won! Well, okay, fine. That's a lie. I did buy of those cheap $1 tickets before, and guess what I won?! Another ticket! Isn't that just the bee's knees! But that's not even the worst of it! One day, they had a special lottery offer. The prize was millions! I went out and bought as many tickets as I could afford. Which was quite a few, mind you. Apparently, I'm not the only one who likes to gamble though. There were tons of people waiting in line after me. And oh boy! When they found out that I had bought the last ticket, things start getting interesting. People yelled, screamed, argued. Most surprising of all though, people started whipping out their money to buy the tickets from ME. At first, I didn't know what to do. I didn't dare give up even a single ticket. What if one of them was the winner? If I gave up even one of them up, would I give up my chances of winning? But, as quickly as I thought those things, I asked myself, “What are my chance of winning really?” Like, honestly... I've never won a thing in my life. Except for that other ticket of course. But here, right now, I could sell the tickets I had already bought and make a tidy little profit. So, I sold them for a little more than I paid, and by the end of the day I had made about double of what I had spent. Plus, I still had two tickets with me! And being in good spirits, I went home and gave one of the tickets to my newly 18-year-old brother, absolutely free. And what happened then you ask? Well, the next thing I know, the numbers were announced and, like always, I didn't win. But someone I know did! And that someone was my brother. The brother to whom I gave the ticket to! The brother who had never even played the lottery before that day! The brother who didn't share a single cent with me!! Didn't even say thank you!!! The brother who then moved out and we never heard from him again! What luck!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhatAreYouSoAfraidOf" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-86 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-87 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-87" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"What Are You So Afraid Of?"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Trinity Marmo, Age 14, Washington, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> No one can convince this child to get on the boat. The ocean is a scary place and a child’s imagination is even scarier.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> I can't swim and you want me to go on a boat in the MIDDLE of the ocean. I would rather stay here on the docks, thank you very much. <em>(Referencing stuffed rabbit)</em> Mrs. Bunny says I can´t go, and you know nothing will change her mind. She's scared of the ocean and her stuffing could get wet! <em>(Not convincing, they turn to new tactics.)</em> Please, don't make me go! What if I fall in, what happens then? The ocean is so unpredictable. What if a shark bites my head off? Or some crazy sea monster grabs my legs and pulls me down. Have you seen the creepy stuff that's down there? Not even scuba gear can save us from the horrors of the ocean! Frankly, I don't know how YOU aren't scared of the ocean. There are so many things to be afraid of. <em>(Dramatically sets the scene)</em> Seriously just imagine it, a storm suddenly hits, the air grows cold, and the sky darkens. You feel yourself panic, the waves getting bigger and bigger! You look to your left and a gigantic wave is coming towards you! See doesn't that sound scary to you? Well, I know it's a sunny day, but it could still happen! Please don't make me go on that boat!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Pressure" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-87 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-88 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-88" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Pressure"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jeremiah Young, Age 16, Kansas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student struggles with their life<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>My sister gets away with everything. According to my parents and all the teachers, my sister, the class president, the popular kid, the star student, is excellent and never does anything wrong. Everyone holds me up to her standards. It’s always, “When Emily was your age, she already…”, or “maybe if you just follow what Emily does, you would do it right.” I am sick and tired of always being compared to her. No one ever stops to think about my feelings. They never seem to care about anything that concerns me unless I make a mistake. I know I am not the best at, well, anything, but is it too much to ask for a “good job Julien” or “we are so proud of you”? It must be too hard because I haven’t heard anyone say that stuff to me my whole life. Just once, I want the praise that Emily gets. Just once, I want to be a good comparison. I don’t want to be the screw-up that I am. People say you shouldn’t live for the praise of other people, but I think the opposite is true. Praise means you’re actually doing something right in your life. I’ve never gotten any recognition, so clearly, I must not be doing anything right. And I have no clue where I would even start. No matter what I do, I don’t think I’ll ever be good enough. What breaks me the most is that no one sees me hurting. No one sees me cry. Not because I don’t show it, but because they don’t bother looking for it.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DeployedBrother" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-88 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-89 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-89" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Deployed Brother"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Shelby Diner<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager tries to write a letter to their brother who is in the military<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Jack is sitting at his desk in his room with a single piece of paper and a pencil on his desk.)</em><br /> Ok, where to start? <em>(Taps pencil on his head)</em> Hey Jason, the house is quiet without you here. <em>(Grabs the paper and crumbles it up)</em> Why is this so dang hard!!!! UHHHH. What should I write? Hey Jason. Life is boring without you here and it makes me so upset that you are overseas. UH! <em>(Grabs a new piece of paper)</em> Hey Jason, the house is quiet and boring without you here. Life has been rough, people at school are laughing and making fun of me, they say things like <em>(in a funny accent)</em> "You're so ugly" or "Wow where do you get your clothes," and it reminds me of when you used to stand up for me. I'm almost always late to school because mom wakes up so late. Please come back and fix everything. <em>(Looks across the hall)</em> Your room is very dark. I opened the windows and watered your plants. Your trophies are all dusty. The pool is green, and I don't know how to fix it. I tried to mow the lawn, but I think I messed up and the lawnmower doesn't work anymore. Please come home, I miss you. - Love, Jack <em>(Grabs paper folds it up, and puts it in an envelope)</em></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HerLastWords" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-89 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-90 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-90" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Her Last Words"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Emily McLaren, Age 14, Sydney, Australia<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Medusa waits in her cave at the top of a mountain hidden from the world, until Perseus arrives with a sharp sword and shield.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>You don't waste time, do you? I thought it would take longer for you to arrive. It's quite a momentous mountain. The other men took far longer. <em>(Medusa is amused at Perseus looking at the statues surrounding him)</em> Don't be scared, they can't hurt you. They're just… statues, now. So, am I right to assume you've come for my head? It was wise of you to bring a shield. No one's been smart enough to try that before. Though I suppose it wasn't really your idea, was it? Only someone with the blessings of Athena could have enough foresight to think of using something shiny to deflect my gaze…You won't need it. I'm not planning on turning you to stone anyway. There is just something I need you to do for me, and my head is yours. All you have to do is turn princess Andromeda and Poseidon's Sea serpent into stone. After that I don't mind what you do. You will have a deadly weapon for life. No one will dare oppose you. That power will be better in your hands then mine. It will be better if I'm dead. My life is useless anyway. I can't make any friends, can't fall in love, or be loved, and I can't even walk into town without everyone around me turning into garden ornaments. The only thing I want to have before I leave this world is the knowledge that I got my revenge on Athena, the goddess who made me like this. If you turned Andromeda to stone Athena would be furious. Turning the serpent to stone wouldn't hurt either. After all, Poseidon is the reason why Athena was even mad to begin with. If he hadn't made me fall in love with him, I never would have been turned into… this! And besides, if you turn that monster into stone, you'll be a hero! You won't even need to barter the fates for your fame like Achilles did! You'll be famous without any drawbacks! Though if you go back on your word and marry the princess, I swear I'll be cursing you from the underworld. You'll have to live with that regret for the rest of your days. Knowing that you angered an old priestess tired of the world and its trials. So, do we have a deal?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AreYouThereGodItsMeCassidy" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-90 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-91 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-91" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Are You There God? It’s Me Cassidy"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Amira Reid, Age 16, Ontario, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager reaches out to God to get some answers about her recently dead friend.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>People come to you when they need answers right? I guess that's why I'm here, I need an answer. I want to know why she did it, and why I was stupid enough to never suspect her. I mean that stupid account basically ruined my life! I know that's weird to say now that she's dead, but everyone was talking about me, laughing at me, and making fun of me. Ellie helped me pick myself up by day, and by night wrote about how hilarious it all was in her diary. Am I even allowed to be mad at her? She was my best friend and I loved her so much, but how can I watch the entire school honour her memory and think she's a saint when she was the reason most of the students were depressed? Listen I don't know how this works exactly… I'm not … you know the religious type. I don't suppose you can just locate her quickly up there and ask why she did it and then pass the message on to me? <em>(waits for a response)</em> Yeah… I didn't think so.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Liar" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-91 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-92 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-92" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Liar"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Alyssa Flowers, Age 14<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> This person has been lying for so long they are not sure why want to stop.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Someone who knows me well enough might call me a liar. I call it decorating the truth. I mean, what you don’t know can’t hurt you, right? I’ve been this was as long as I can remember. Everyone around me thinks I am a goody two-shoes, always doing everything to the best of my ability, wouldn’t hurt a fly. The only person who sees me for who I truly am is my best friend, Rebecca. She is the one who taught me how to lie without giving myself away. It’s come in very useful with the lie detector tests I’ve been through. I know I should start telling the truth, but honestly, it’s nice when people think you’re better than they are. It’s nice when they think you have everything they don’t have. It gives you a superior feeling. And I don’t think I want that feeling to go away quite yet.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IsThisNormal" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-92 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-93 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-93" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Is This Normal?"</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Amira Reid, Age 16, Ontario, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen talks to her mom about how her life is far from normal.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>The first memory I have isn’t happy or filled with laughter. It's being drowned in a bathtub because Pedro was asked to give me a bath instead of playing soccer with his buddies down the street. Was that normal for you Mom? Did you not think maybe that was a red flag? Then there was the time I woke up in the middle of the night and had to use the bathroom. I was just a little kid and in Guatemala we had to go outside to use the bathroom. Pedro was mad I woke him up so he hit me. And kicked me. Was that normal to you Mother? But I guess that led to something wonderful because when Grandma, Nene, found out I got to live with her in America. I remember waking up and crawling in her bed to warm up. I remember her fingernails gently scratching my head as she scrubbed shampoo into my hair. I remember drinking chocolate milk while she drank coffee. She would walk me down the street to catch the bus. I remember having sleepovers and playdates with my cousin. Nene would take us to the gas station where she would buy us huge ice cream cones. That's what I wanted my normal to be. I wanted to stay in her safe little bubble forever. But when you came and took me away, I never really felt safe again. Every time we moved to another house there was one of THOSE memories. I would do something, anything, like literally anything miniscule and it would irritate you and “give you anxiety.” Your mental illness was an excuse to take a belt to my face, throw me into a cupboard, choke me, push me up against bricks. Was that normal for you? I know you said Nene neglected you, but she was a single mother with three girls, and she couldn’t afford all the things you wanted. I want things too, but for now I have to be a mother to my brothers, fight suicidal thoughts, figure out how not to fear men, and try to sort out what normal means.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IfsandWhys" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-93 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-94 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-94" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Ifs and Whys"</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Marina Paul, Age 16, Utah, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Daughter confronts her mother about their relationship.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Sometimes I wish we could just get over ourselves. Just go back to the way things were when I was a little girl watching Finding Nemo in the living room and climbing up the stairs like a monkey at 5 am. What happened to us? How did we get here? Did I do something wrong? All I wanted was to be open with you and become who I really am. We used to be best friends. Remember when we used to take trips to the library and perform puppet shows for each other? Now, we just have meaningless conversations full of nothing. Sometimes I wish we could just sit and talk. Face to face. I wish I had the words in me to give to you. You deserve more than a daughter like me. Everyone in this family does. But the little girl everyone used to laugh at, and praise is gone now. I don’t know where she is. Maybe it’s too late for us. Funny how these things work.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="CampaignSpeech" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-94 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-95 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-95" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Campaign Speech"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jared Goudsmit, Age 18<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Dean goes full populist in his bid for Class President.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Look, I could talk credentials. I could tell you all about my experience in the JROTC. I could flex my Debate Club prowess. I could mention offhand that I am, in fact, an Eagle Scout. I could, but I won’t, because I’m not here to show off.</p> <p>No, I’m here to talk about you. You get up every day before the sun rises. The bus is late. Your locker is jammed, the custodial staff couldn’t care less. Your desks are full of busywork, your lunch trays are full of mush, and your teachers are full of – you know, uh, nonsense. I say it time and time again: This whole operation, this machine they’re running you through, it has no interest in you.</p> <p>Now, I’ve pushed for reform! But when I try and do something to fix this place, I’m dismissed. “We are not hiring caterers, Dean, eat your casserole.” “Dean, the Anglerfish with a Missile Launcher is not an acceptable school mascot.” “Foolish Dean, the hallway is no place for a Slip ‘N Slide.” We’ve all heard it, in the same condescending tone, a million times before: “You’re just a child.” Well, po-tay-to, po-tah-to. You say I’m “just some kid,” I say I have fourteen years of life experience, thank you very much, and when I’m elected? I’ll stop at nothing to get you what you want.</p> <p>Now, my opponent has credentials. High class rank, Honor Society… every teacher’s favorite. Rose is a shoo-in, right? I see the appeal. I mean, she works like a, uh… oh, what’s the word? Right! A machine.</p> <p>So go ahead. Vote for Rose… if you’re content. But if you’re fed up with the powers that be, if you’re sick and tired of being overlooked, if you want to see a Tammany Hall Junior High that reflects your needs… if you’re like me? Then Fight the Machine! And vote for Dean.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ALookintomyMirror" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-95 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-96 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-96" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"A Look into my Mirror"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Gracyn Eitel, Age 14<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A Look into my Mirror<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>When I look at myself in the mirror, I don't see my looks. I see the inside. You see, when I was little, I was a naughty troublemaker. But, like most children, I eventually learned from my parents how to be kind and loving. They taught me by their example. It was a happy childhood. I even had a horse! Every night Majestic and I would ride to where the sun touches the earth. I was devastated when he died. But losing him taught me that sometimes life is sad. It taught me how to grieve. When I got my first iPhone, I spent days glued to the screen. I didn’t even realize what I was missing out on. It took a while, but I finally decided to put the phone down and live in the real world. That’s when I learned to be social; To appreciate my friends and family. Then there was the time I was sitting in a classroom facing the chalkboard. The science teacher was teaching us about watersheds. I learned that creeks and rivers carve and shape their way, leading to a big body of water. This got me thinking about myself, and all the things that have shaped me; They are like the creeks and rivers of my life and I am that big body of water. My parents, Majestic, even my iPhone, have made me who I am today. I guess that’s how I’m able to look past my appearance. When I look in the mirror today, I see the inside. I see me.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheCrush" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-96 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-97 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-97" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"The Crush"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Nicholas Schaeffer, Age 12, Ontario Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> : A nerdy kid asks his friend for advice on how he can talk to a girl he finds cute.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedy</p> <p>I need some advice. <em>(Shyly)</em> I kinda like the new girl Jessica. <em>(Quickly warning!)</em> But you can't tell anyone ok! I'm just not sure the best way to approach her. <em>(In a very nerdy way)</em> Statistics show that the easiest way to get someone to like you is to be popular. But I'm not popular. Science also shows that to become popular you should spend time with popular people. <em>(Snaps fingers with idea!)</em> Wait a minute. Why don't I talk to Jake? He is definitely the coolest kid in school. How can I impress him? Throw a football 20 yards? Break the school record in track and field? Do a backflip? Ugh! You're right. Who am I kidding? I can't do any of those things! I've got it. I'll just give him the answers for the test. That's easy. That will totally make him think I'm cool. Next thing you know, I'll be popular. Maybe then I'll get up the courage to talk to Jessica.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Embodiment" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-97 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-98 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-98" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Embodiment"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Audrey Robbins, Age 13, Florida USA<br /> <strong>From:</strong> Ontario, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A monologue about girls struggling with social status<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>There are always days when you feel horrible, but what if it’s every day? What if you never feel happy or excited about anything? What if you wake up every day feeling like you just want to disappear, sink into a cloud of nothing? I can’t speak for every girl, but I can speak for the ones who know what I’m talking about. Every day you wake up and put on multiple outfits and hope one isn’t too revealing or “slutty” or hope it’s not too boring or basic because the standards people set for you are either high or low and you have to meet the standard or you have to go above and beyond to prove that you are something. You take a few minutes to decide how you’re going to do your hair and how you're going to do your makeup and if you even want to do makeup. You hope and hope no one criticizes your hair or your clothes or your makeup. Sometimes you don’t even want the good compliments because they make you feel bad because you feel like what you wear shouldn’t matter. People can take one look at you, and make a judgement that lasts a lifetime. You could have one bad day and it could ruin everything.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Driven" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-98 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-99 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-99" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Driven"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Tessa Lassinger, Age 15, Washington, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> An overachieving teen boasts about her involvements and dreams.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I guess you could say I’m driven. I mean, I have goals and ambitions and I know what it’s gonna take to get where I wanna go in life. I typically spend about two hours a day here at the library after school, then I either head to violin, lacrosse, or karate. Oh, and I’m really looking forward to spring break. This year I’m going on a mission trip to South America. I’ll get to practice my Español. Actually, I speak five languages, but this mission trip will be great because it will really set me apart on my college applications. Speaking of college, I am planning to get a perfect 1600 on my SATs which is why I’m studying right now. No rest for the wicked. Speaking of Wicked, I am playing Glinda in our school version of the Broadway musical this spring. This really cute guy is the stage manager and he asked me out this Friday night. But I mean come on people! I don’t have time for a social life. I have dreams.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Wa26AN1kKQ" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Truth" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-99 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-100 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-100" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Truth"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Shirley Andoh, Age 16, Pennsylvania USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Claudia moves through emotions following an accident that is her fault.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Claudia: <em>(Yelling)</em> I'm not going to tell the police what happened Jayla! Unlike you, I don't want to go to jail. I've been trying to stay away from jail all my life and I'm not going to go there over something this dumb. You took care of her didn't you? So there's no need to tell the police anything. Almost my entire family has been in jail before and I want to be the one to set an example for my family's next generation. <em>(Breaks down and begs)</em> Please don't turn me in. I'm begging you Jayla. Please don't turn me in. <em>(Beat. No response from Jayla)</em> You know what, do whatever. I'm tired of you acting all goody-two-shoes. I can't be like you, and I don't want to be like you anyway. But trust me, if you say anything to the police, I will never forgive you for that. It's not like I intentionally hit her. Yes, I was driving but we were both drunk. <em>(Consider ending the monologue here or continue through the end with Claudia taking responsibility.)</em> I'm sorry Jayla. I will tell the police everything that happened. I know the right thing and I have to do it. Everyone has to face the consequences of their actions and I guess I have to face mine too, no matter what it may be. I'm sorry I gave you a hard time before.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LifeCanbeHard" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-100 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-101 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-101" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Life Can be Hard"</span></p> <p><strong>Fourth Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Emma Lugo, Age 13, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A spoken word piece reflecting on the speaker’s mother who lived in foster care.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Her life didn't go as planned but no one will ever understand<br /> I wish I could have held her hand<br /> and told her everything was going to be ok<br /> Because she always lived in pain<br /> Yet she never complained<br /> I saw that face she made whenever she heard that name<br /> Because she remembered that day<br /> And tried to hold in that pain<br /> That felt like rain<br /> And she tried to play the same<br /> But she knew it wasn't going away<br /> Until she coped with the pain<br /> and let the pain heal itself away<br /> She is very inspiring to me<br /> From what I see<br /> Because everyone left her all alone<br /> With no place to go<br /> No one knows what she’s been through on the inside<br /> Because she hides what she feels<br /> Too afraid to reveal<br /> People might judge her<br /> But they don’t know her like I do<br /> And what she’s been through<br /> So don’t judge someone without knowing them on the inside<br /> And what they’ve been through</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AWordtotheLiving" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-101 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-102 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-102" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"A Word to the Living"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Sophia Blakely, Age 17<br /> <strong>From:</strong> Ontario, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A ghost of a soldier attempts to dissuade living soldiers from continuing to fight in what he believes to be a losing war.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>[Austerely]</em> Those men who still have their living wits about them, listen well to what I'm about to say. The world is cruel. That fact is without debate. <em>[Scornfully]</em> I have witnessed first-hand how vile men can act in times of war and tyranny - all in hopes of their survival, and possible glory. But that is strikingly less noble. I was not unfamiliar with traversing trenches - walking back and forth as the pools of mud tried to swallow me whole. I first maneuvered that path when I was younger than most of you are now. Though I'm not young anymore. Really, I'm not much of anything. <em>[Dejectedly]</em> It was an unfortunate thing to be my age in a war like that. If you fought well, you were guaranteed a spot in the next one. We all learned that lesson too late. <em>[Dementedly]</em> So, I'll say this to you. If it's glory you seek, go home. If it's pride that's keeping you here, go home. And, if it's a life you want at the end of this, go home. Had I known better, I would have done the same. It bodes well to be a coward at a time like this. <em>[Absently]</em> Ah, but death is calling me back. How sweetly she beckons. Adieu. Adieu. Adieu...<em>[Trails off]</em></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DeathNoMore" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-102 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-103 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-103" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Death No More"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Lauren Mohr, Age 14<br /> <strong>From:</strong> Manitoba, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A soldier finds out they have died in battle.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>The last thing I remember is trying to duck from the horrific sounds coming from the other end of the field. I felt pain and then…black nothingness. I woke up in a familiar place. I couldn’t remember but then it came to me…I was home. Finally, no more feelings of fear and terror. No more death. No more loss. No more depression. I made my way out to the kitchen and then I saw her. The beautiful woman I was going to marry one day standing there just in her beauty alone. We are only sixteen, so Mom thinks we’re too young, but one day it’ll happen. I just know. The feeling of excitement came up inside of me and I ran to her, to comfort her from feeling alone. But then I realized that tears were overflowing from her eyes. She fell to the ground. Sadness filled the room when I saw it. The paper she was holding with my name and the time of death. William Jones 15/05/1942.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Letters" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-103 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-104 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-104" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Letters"</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Maddie Hazeu, Age 14<br /> <strong>From:</strong> Manitoba, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A letter to a fallen soldier from a wife.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>My Love Charlie,<br /> I miss you. I know you said to stay strong and to take care of the family for you, but it is hard. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. I hear the sound of marching boots in my dreams, wondering if you’ll ever come home. Every time the doorbell rings, I’m scared to answer for fear of bad news. Don’t think I’m not proud of you love, our country needs you. You trained hard and worked harder, being more than just a soldier to most. Charlie, please do your best to make it home and meet your son. He has red hair, and brown eyes just like his father. I hope this letter (with pictures included) reaches you in good time, and that you may find joy and comfort within. We miss and love you so much.<br /> From your Love,<br /> -Catherine and baby Jake.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IllMissYouToo" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-104 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-105 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-105" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"I’ll Miss You Too"</span></p> <p><strong>Honorary Mention</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Alexandria Davidson, Age 16<br /> <strong>From:</strong> Ontario, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> This piece is based on my real life experience as I parted realms with my late father, <a href="https://ottawacitizen.remembering.ca/obituary/jeffrey-davidson-1078535187" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><u>Jeffrey Alexander Davidson</u></a>. It is told from my creatively augmented inner perspective. It is more of a spoken word piece than a monologue, so feel free to use creative movement, music, or multi-media in your performance.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>"You're stronger than I thought you were."</p> <p>Oh, I don't think I'm strong. You though, you've been through so much. Yet people question why you continue to drink, and staggeringly, if you're okay.</p> <p>"Stop asking if I'm okay."</p> <p>It makes you sad when someone asks if you're okay. Because they know, and you know, you're not. I accidentally did ask you one time. Your response still lingers in my mind, your smile.</p> <p>"I'm okay."</p> <p>You heard sniffles, under a poorly masked smile. I was trying to be strong for us.</p> <p>"Lexi, are you crying?"</p> <p>I was scared you weren't going to be okay.</p> <p>On a separate occasion, you were laying down, I was tickling your hair.<br /> I began to tear up, and you just opened your eyes and smiled.</p> <p>All I could see was your beautiful blue eyes, and I was thankful I have the same ones.</p> <p>"He's not going to make it to tomorrow"</p> <p>There's no way. We're gonna go boating next summer. We talked about it. We're gonna go tubing, all of us. He's gonna be so excited to play games for real again, I got him an Xbox for Christmas, it's in two days. We're gonna play a lot of games again, like we used to. I'm gonna be moving into his apartment.</p> <p>We're<br /> gonna<br /> be<br /> together.</p> <p>"You got that from me, you got that from me."</p> <p>A chin-dimple I was insecure about when I was younger. I cried when you teased me for it, but it feels good to look in the mirror and see you. To look at my eyes and see your eyes. To drive the boat and to make new memories. To build a better future, with your name everywhere I go.</p> <p>We were together. Those moments I'll never forget, and they'll always be ours.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id=" IsThatWhatYouSee" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-105 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-106 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-106" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Is That What You See?"</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Briana Rivera, Age 16, New York, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Anita, a character from West Side Story is talking to her brother Bernardo. (Inspired by West Side Story but stands alone as a monologue.)<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Is that what you see? Is that really how you feel? We have barely been here for a year and you wanna give up now? I can't believe it. We grew up with so little money and you wanna go back? I know you think Puerto Rico is amazing, and it is, but we struggled so hard to make a living there. Sure, it was fun going to beaches and being with friends and having the time of our lives, but we can’t go back. It's time to grow up and live a life we dreamed about. I wanna work at this design store and show people my talent, and you wanna run away? No! <em>(angrily)</em> We worked too damn hard to give up now! I don't care if you don't like it here, suck it up and deal with it. This isn't just for us, it's for our future. I regret having to leave our family but they’ll join us soon. You know that we need to do this, not only for us but for them too. Listen to me, we have never, ever had an opportunity like this before. We’ve never been given a chance to change how we live. Think about our siblings who are growing up how we did-- is that what you want for them? To get bullied and called worthless-- do you want that? I would regret that for the rest of my life if that ever happened. Stay. Please, I need you. They need you. We need you.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="CrumblingBeauty" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-106 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-107 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-107" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Crumbling Beauty"</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Xavier Johnson, Age 17, Pennsylvania, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Jessica struggles with depression and shares how difficult it is to get through the day.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>So, this is what I do when it seems like the world is against me. When everything feels like it’s crap and my world shatters into numberless little fragments: I take a steaming hot shower, feeling each red-hot drop like a needle piercing my skin; the pain I feel is numbing. But, through the numbness, I still manage to find a way to cry. I sleep for a few hours or even a few days and eat all the junk food in the fridge and pantry. I try to laugh it off and tell myself that I’m okay…and maybe cry a little bit more. <em>(Pause)</em> When I look around and realize that the world hasn't come to an end yet and the buildings around me are still standing and people are still living, that's what I realize what I have to do: get out of bed, throw away the crumbled junk food wrappers along with the tear-soaked tissues, and put on my best clothes and go out and live.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MadMockery" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-107 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-108 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-108" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">"Mad Mockery"</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Marina Paul, Age 16, Utah USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Mother Nature goes to therapy.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic/Dramatic</p> <p>Well. Here I am. Miss. Perfect, Miss. Pristine, Miss. Loving, Miss. Goddess, Miss. Ovaries for Days! I… uh...I’m not sure exactly where to start. It’s just that everywhere, all around me, all I see is dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead! I mean it shouldn't bother me, but it does and everything’s dead and everything’s hot and everything’s warming, and no one cares about Mother Nature. I keep this planet growing with my own two hands. But at this point is it even worth it? These humans are walking all over me like I’m their actual mother. Sometimes I think THEY should be the ones going to therapy, not me. When I first started this job, the grass was pristine. Crisp, cool, green, soft, forgiving. What is it now? Dry as a whistle. If I wanted my grass to be used for a whistle, I would have made it a whistle. You know another thing? The sky used to be blue. Yeah. B-L-U-E blue. I miss those days. It used to be so blue you could actually see the clouds. Now it’s grey. I hate grey. I don’t know. Maybe we should let the greenhouse gas emissions just wipe me out. Then see how they like it. They asked for the purge they're gonna get the purge. Oh! And you know what else really gets my vines in a twist? Sea levels. That’s not even on me, I stay hydrated. Those guys down there? Well, just between you and me, they could use another shower. Sorry folks, it’s not gonna start raining men until that water goes down. <em>(Pause)</em> Can I think of anything good? Uh…well I like the stars...that is when I can see them. Maybe I just need glasses. No that can’t be it. Sorry - what was that? The session’s almost over? Well, I guess there’s one thing that I really do need to talk about. Do you know how to reverse climate change? I might have gotten a little heated.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheMonsterUnderMyBed" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-108 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-109 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-109" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Monster Under My Bed</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Sarah McCroan, Age 15, Georgia, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young person struggles with the ugliness of the world.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>When I was a kid, I used to be afraid of the monster under my bed. I’d toss and turn all night, afraid that one day it would take me! For years just the thought of it gave me nightmares. But as I got older, I let go of that fear…or so I thought. When I started middle school, I was bullied for my "fascination" with insects. My dad is an entomologist, so he got me interested at a young age. This "fascination" earned me the nickname “Roach Girl” after I caught a roach during class. That’s when I realized that the monsters aren’t under my bed, they are all around me. And in high school, the bullying got worse. The monsters there would attack you for the smallest thing like staring too long, not giving homework answers, or even just saying no. I'm surprised most people can’t see through their hand-crafted disguises. Those painted on faces, fake smiles, and pretend emotions are all designed to fool you into thinking they're good. You know, the kind of monster that records a fight rather than breaking it up? The ones that have no shame hurting people. I thought I could fight back to expose them. I mean the world would be better without them, right? I tried to fight fire with fire, but there are too many. So, I gave up. For months I felt like a failure, and I couldn’t sleep. Then one night it happened again. I felt that old urge to check under my bed. I was horrified by what I saw- a nearly perfect figure of myself, but the image twisted. It was awful looking and had teeth that could bite someone in half. That’s when I realized that monsters truly are everywhere. They are all around me because I was one too. I am the monster under my bed.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/AZqMVr_ngxw" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MilitaryFamily" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-109 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-110 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-110"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Military Family </span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Emily Newland, Age 17, Georgia, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young person ruminates about their military family.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>You shouldn’t be upset about not getting what you want, especially when what you want is so materialistic. Be thankful for what you have, for who you have. You have two parents who love you, who are always there. You have the liberty of not worrying about whether your mom will come home. Or if your dad will come home- as himself. I cherish the moments I have with my family because I know that at any time, they can be taken away from me; Off to fight some war and never come back. Or even worse, when they do come back, they’re a little less themselves. Do you know how it feels to know that the people you love are suffering - that internally they’re losing themselves? Do you know how it makes a little girl feel to see her parents fade away? No. No, you don’t. Stop being so selfish and appreciate what you have. I would do anything to get my family back.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="SpaceUnicorns" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-110 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-111 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-111"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Space Unicorns</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jayla and Selene, Age 13, New South Wales, Australia<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> An astronaut gives a rather enlightening talk about space.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <i>(Astronaut enters, tripping and staggering)</i> Sorry, sorry, my legs are still getting use to gravity. Thank you for coming to my seminar on "Gallivanting through the Asteroid Cosmonaut Magnitude of Outer Planets through Orbit." For the kiddies out there… SPAAAACE! To get to space, first I had to go seventeen-thousand-five-hundred miles per hour. Or FAAAAST! And it's very cold in space-brrrr! It's minus two hundred and seventy degrees Celsius! Lucky my granny knitted me a warm jumper! And let's not forget about the leg warmers! She was like ... <i>(Turns dramatically to the side, lowers glasses and hunches over, shaking a finger, mimicking granny.)</i> "You young whipper-snippers don't know how lucky you are! Back in the day, if we wanted to go to space, we had to build our own rocket ship. We weren't given one by NASA." <i>(Straightens up again)</i> A lot of people think I went to space to explore the planets, but I was just trying to escape my old granny! Next thing I know, I'm working for NASA. Lucky, I liked the suit! <i>(Holding up a real rock, or pantomimed rock.)</i> Here's a memento I brought back from space. You'll know it's from space because it's labelled "space rock". You bet that I'll be selling this on eBay for millions! But we don't want people putting googly eyes on it and turning it into a pet rock, so I think I'll keep it. <i>(Drops rock on foot, hops around, clutching his toes.)</i> Shi-Schnitzel with gravy! Schnitzel with gravy! Sorry, I keep forgetting I'm on Earth, where gravity exists. Since returning home, I've dropped eggs, the family dog… I've even dropped a mic, not on purpose though. Wasn't even saying anything clever … Anyway, why I'm here today is no laughing matter. I'm here because when I was in space, I saw a massive group of unicorns flying with swords in their mouths. NASA says hallucinations are simply a side effect of being in space, like when astronauts report seeing streaks of light that come from nowhere. NASA says they are just cosmic rays-tiny particles launched by the explosions of distant stars-But I say they are UNICORNS! And because NASA doesn't believe me, or they think I ate too many Mars bars and am lacking oxygen, they've dismissed it. BUT I'M TELLING YOU, I SAW THEM! WITH THEIR MASSIVE HORNS! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE PEOPLE! THEY'RE COMING FOR US! <i>(Disorientated, lies on the ground, trying to run away, makes a dramatic exit.)</i></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Sorry" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-111 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-112 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-112" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Sorry</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Thato Sibuyi, Age 17, Haenertsburg, South Africa<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Amy and her team just lost a competition that had a large amount of prize money. Amy really needed that money.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>SORRY? <em>(Hysterical laughter)</em> Sorry? Really that's all you have to say? We just lost thousands of dollars and you're sorry? <em>(Angry)</em> No. You don't get to be sorry. You don't care, not enough to be sorry. You did this competition for fun, and the prize money was just the cherry on top for you. I put my life on the line for this! You go home to a big house, with working lights and food on the table. I'm going to go home to a two-bedroom house and pray to God we have enough to pay for the electric bill. The bill that I was supposed to pay for with the money that I was supposed to win from this competition. <em>(Angrily)</em> And you want to know why we lost, Jack? Because of you! You and Lisa going at each other's necks the whole time! You couldn't set your pride aside for two hours? TWO HOURS for the greater good of everyone else, but no! That didn't work for you, did it? <em>(Starts crying)</em> I did everything, EVERYTHING in my power to win this, and all my efforts were wasted. You're not sorry. Not for losing this, you're okay, you lost nothing. You just feel bad because some of us really cared, and that's not sorry, that's pity. And I don't need that from you. So don't tell me you're sorry, cause I'm not buying it.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=daXGi3_Py48" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> <p><strong>Watch another video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/voIml6dpalo" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ShrimpFriedRice" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-112 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-113 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-113"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Shrimp Fried Rice</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jeremiah Reid, Age 16, North Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A person who takes things a little too literally gets quite upset when their date orders shrimp fried rice.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Woah, woah, woah! Hold on just a minute here waiter. I wasn't gonna say anything before, because I'm no marine biologist, but if she <em>(gestures across)</em> is gonna order that, I'm gonna have to speak up. Now, when I saw it on the menu I did some research, and I am fairly certain there is no way that is possible. I mean, shrimp? Frying rice? The very concept is preposterous! There are a million issues I can think of! There is no way shrimp could get their tiny little hands on the frying pan, and I don't think they have the brain capacity to know when rice is done cooking. On top of that, there has to be a health code violation here! I mean, it says on the menu: "warning: consumption of raw meat or poultry may cause food poisoning," but it doesn't say anything about consumption of food prepared by meat or poultry! <em>(Turns across)</em> Look, I'm gonna be honest. I was fully prepared to propose to you tonight. I have the ring and everything! But if you are seriously going to give in to the delusions of this restaurant and order "shrimp fried rice," I don't think I can anymore. In fact, I think we should see other people.<br /> This is false advertisement, and I will not, no, CAN not stand for it! Can you imagine walking into the kitchen to see an army of little crustaceans manning the grill? It's insane! It's delusional! The only explanation I can think of is a sort of ratatouille situation, where there's a shrimp controlling the human cooking the food, but if that's the case the shrimp certainly shouldn't be mentioned in the name of the dish! I mean what's next, "manta ray steamed vegetables?" Oh OK, now I'm "causing a scene?" You know what's causing a scene? THE FACT THAT YOU HAVE SHRIMP PREPARING FOOD! I can't take this tomfoolery anymore; I'm taking my business elsewhere! Good day to you sir, but a terrible day to whoever decided to claim shrimp could cook! <em>(Storms offstage)</em></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhoDoYouThinkYouAre" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-113 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-114 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-114"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Who Do You Think You Are?</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kathryn McAllister, Age 12, Minnesota, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Olivia meets a girl who might just take her place as the dance captain, and she is not happy about it.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Excuse me, yeah hi. I'm Olivia, the dance captain. That was a pretty good dance routine, but it's nowhere as good as the one I did when I auditioned for the squad. I know you think you can just waltz in here and take my place, but I got news for you, it's not happening. I mean who do you think you are? Trying to take the place I worked so hard to get. You are a monster. And again, I say WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? I know who I am, I'm the queen of this place and there is nothing you can do to change that.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheTrueFeelingsofGodzilla" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-114 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-115 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-115"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The True Feelings of Godzilla</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jordan Onyia, Age 10, Newfoundland, Canada<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Godzilla is looking for a little understanding as he apologizes for his actions.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Guys, I know I knocked over a couple of buildings, but if you were my size, you would too. I’m not such a bad guy if you really get to know me. I don’t mean to alarm you. I bet you’d scream too if you stubbed your toe on a corner store. Oh, and sorry about the hot dog guy, he made me mad when he got my order wrong. It gets lonely being this big and living in the ocean. That’s why I thought the Statue of Liberty would make a nice girl friend. Sorry I knocked her over. It was an accident. By the way, it is hard to turn with a tail this long. Sometimes, stuff gets swept away, you know. Tell City Hall that I’m sorry their building is now a boat. So give a monster a break will ya?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MyMistake" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-115 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-116 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-116"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">My Mistake</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Ruby Whitehorn, Age 17, Michigan, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Nationally ranked high school basketball player struggles with making the decision to confess using steroids for the championship game.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Pops, my national ESPN ranking dropped from #1 to the very bottom of the list. Everyone thinks I am a cheater. A fake. All my hard work, just thrown away. What am I supposed to do? Playing basketball is my whole life, my dream. Now it is all over because I made one mistake. Because I gave into peer pressure. Because I gave into the stress I’ve had to deal with. Because I doubted myself and got tired. How do I fix it, dad? What can I do to get back to #1? Do I lie about it and deny it, or do I come clean and tell the truth? I guess there is no hiding from it now. My coach knows, my teammates know, my friends know, social media knows, and worst of all, my friends and family know. Everyone knows I used steroids before the championship. I’ve let everyone down. I’ve disappointed everyone. Maybe I don’t deserve to be #1 again. There’s only one way to make this right. I’m going to issue an apology, and I’m going to accept whatever consequences come along with it.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MotherofaReader" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-116 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-117 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-117"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Mother of a Reader</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jordan Dittamo, Age 12, Virginia, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A mother wants her daughter to stop reading and help out around the house.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Jessie? Jessie! Come do the dishes! You can’t? Why not? You’re reading? Oh well. There are worse things.<br /> Jessie? Jessie! Help me with the groceries! No? You’re at a good part? Fine. Just this once.<br /> Jessie? Jessie! Can you watch your brother for a bit, while I go out? You’re almost done? Ok. I’ll hire a sitter.<br /> Jessie? Jessie! Will you please take out the trash? You’re busy? Five minutes, that’s all.<br /> Jessie? Jessie! Help me set up for your sister’s party! Put down that book! Right now! Oh, your favorite character died? I’m sorry. I’ll let you mourn. Don’t worry. Take all the time you need.<br /> Jessie? Jessie! Fold your laundry! You’re at a boring part? Then why can’t you help? Ohh. You have to get through it, so you can read the more exciting part? Ok…<br /> Jessie? Jessie! We’re going to the bookstore! Oh, so now you’re available.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Brunch" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-117 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-118 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-118"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Brunch</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jack Lassman, Age 13, New York, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Sharon, a mother from Savannah, Georgia, speaks to her group of friends.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hello girls! How are we? Great! Glad to hear it. Melissa, how are your girls? Wonderful. Barb, how is Dave? Sorry, I meant how is he for you? Does he make you happy? Does he make your kids happy? Does he have a good job? Because I have a list of perfect matches for you if you ever need to take a gander. No? Okay. Well girls, today has already been the craziest day of my life. After I woke up and got the kids fed, I went to get ready for today’s brunch. Well, I walked into the bathroom to do my lady things and after I came out, I noticed something on my blanket. Yes, the Versace one. Naturally, I went to investigate and saw a sight so horrific I might never recover. What was it you ask? It was a big, green frog! I know! I grabbed the nearest object and smashed that little stinker till he was flatter than Flat Stanley himself. Now hold on, why are you girls suddenly so angry? I shouldn’t have smashed it? Well I didn’t enjoy smashing it. I mean, the frog was asking for it. If you lay one of your webbed fingers on my Versace blanket, you better prepare to be smashed with my stilettos. Of course I love animals. Just not on my stuff. The relationship I have with animals is the same as the one with my dear husband. I love you, just keep your distance and we won’t have any altercations. I’m not going to put the frog in a cup. Those cups are worth 50 dollars each and Rob worked very hard so I could afford them. I can’t have Kayley-Anne drinking out of a frog-infested cup. She’d die. I read that on Facebook. Well girls, I cannot believe y’all have turned on me like this. You are looking at me like I’m some murderer. The beast came into my home and ruined my stuff. I'm not to give it some food and water, and send it off with a coupon for a free spa-day. Barbara if you found a spider in your daughter’s room you would not hesitate to smash that creeper. Melissa, if you found a mouse in your home you would set up a mousetrap for sure. So why am I such a monster for smashing a frog that entered my home and crawled on my belongings. On that note, I brought some champagne so we could make mimosas, but I forgot to bring orange juice. Silly old me. I did remember to bring the glasses though so drink up because whatever we don’t drink, Robert will.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheyThem" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-118 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-119 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-119"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">They/Them</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Janisha Pyakurel, Age 13, Texas USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A child shares their gender identity with a parent.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> It’s not a bad thing Mom! Just listen. Ever since I was a kid the way people referred to me always sounded odd. “She's getting water” Or “It's her turn” never sat right with me. My feminine name made me want to throw up, “Samantha.” But I didn’t want to be a boy. “He’s getting water” or “It's his turn,” that was definitely not right either. I thought I was weird not feeling like either a boy or a girl. Then I found out there is actually a name for what I am. Non-binary. It describes people like me who don’t identify as either a boy or a girl. Not she or he, but they. That feels right to me. I want to use the gender-neutral name, Sam. And I have thought about this for a long time Mom, so I hope you can be accepting. I know that you think of me as your cute baby girl with her pretty dress and crown hoping to one day marry a prince. But it's just not going to happen that way. All I am asking is that you try to be a little more supportive.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MissFortune" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-119 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-120 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-120"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Miss Fortune</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Marina Paul, Age 15, Utah USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> After aspiring for it her whole life, Missy Lewis has just won the title of “Miss Fortune.” She is now being questioned about the mysterious injuries to the other contestants.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>All right, let’s get one thing straight Mr. Brown. I wouldn’t just go around murdering my competition like I was on a hunt for Black Friday bargains and clearance bin steals? Who would enter such a competition and then murder someone just ensure their victory? As this sash was laid upon me I swore to uphold the standards of “Miss Fortune”. I took a vow of charity, kindness and beauty. If you ask any of the girls they would tell you of my beauty, my kindness and my charity. Yes, I understand all the girls are in shock, or admitted to the hospital because the...but you can imagine that’s how they would all respond. When I became Miss Fortune I promised myself that I would always look at each contestant through the eyes of a girl who’s desperate shyness hides her opulent confidence to take control and get what she wants. I mean Mr. Brown, how could someone as innocent and beautiful as me grab a green knife handle and…Oh, I could never stoop to that level of foul play Mr. Brown. Miss Fortune is not a title that I take lightly. If I have to answer that then I’ll take my sash, and my baton and I’ll leave. Oh right, I can’t. Miss Fortune would never strike at a time when another contestant was supposedly answering a question about what they would supposedly do if they won the supposed title…and the entire audience was in tears about her heartwarming answer. Where was I? Well, I just happened to be in the booth cheering on my sister contestants. You see, if I was in the light booth, then there was no way I could have run down the stairs until I reached the stage and found the knife stashed in a lock box by the rigging system roughly 25 feet away from Alice. And there is certainly no way that I could have used the knife as she completed her double turn leading her offstage directly into a vegetable patterned cutting knife. I was in heels after all. Can I have my heels back now, Mr. Brown? I realize they’re a little stained but isn’t that just the sort of thing that happens as you use them? How dare you make such an accusation about an impressionable high school junior Mr. Brown! I’ve worked to the bone for this school, and this title, and I’ll work to clear my name until the blood of all past and present Miss Fortunes runs in the street and stains my heels…you believe me don’t you?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BookCleanse" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-120 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-121 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-121"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Book Cleanse</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Avani Ingole, Age 14, New Jersey USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A book nerd decides it’s time to take a break from reading about heroes and heroines and start having some adventures of her own.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> I never noticed how much space books take up--in my head and in my actual room. I mean, it's kind of sad. I didn’t think I relied on fictional characters this much, but here I am sitting on the floor in an empty apartment. My mom always used to say,<br /> “Lizzie you need to make friends, Lizzie you can’t sit inside and read all day.”<br /> Why not? Why deal with the drama of friend groups when you can enjoy a good mystery? I mean yeah I do have friends but ever since I was a kid books were my go to. Some kids read to escape, others read for fun. Me? I read because of the people I could be.Now that I think about it, I’ve never actually had an original thought. Everything has been taken from a book I read. Not that it’s a bad thing. Who doesn’t want to be like Elizabeth Bennet? But now that I’m going to be in college, and I’m no longer the only kid in 3rd grade who’s read Pride and Prejudice. Someone is bound to realize that Lizzie and Eliza aren’t clever nicknames that my family made for me, but names I forced them to call me so that I could be just like my favorite character. It’s hard to have your own unique personality when you spend the majority of your day reading books. Especially when the characters are so interesting that want to be them. So I’ve decided to go on a book cleanse. I have three months to create a new me for college. Obviously it’s not going well, but at least I’m trying right? I actually socialized with people without bringing up books, and now I’m going to buy paintings for my wall! They won’t look as good as the color-coded bookshelves I used to have, but that's beside the point. The point is that I am no longer the “book nerd” who dreams of being in every book they read, cries about fictional characters, only wants to do something because the strong female character did. I am a social butterfly who has their own original personality and doesn’t rely on books for happiness.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ZoomZoomyZoom" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-121 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-122 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-122"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Zoom, Zoomy, Zoom</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jade Preeya-Werba, Age 13, Islamabad Pakistan<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teacher struggles to teach her class virtually<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>All right. Good morning, class. Welcome back to another day of online school. Hope you are all doing well. Let’s get started. Wait, before we start, um, Jason, can you please turn on your camera? It’s required to have it on. EARTH TO JASON. Please turn your camera on. JASON. *sigh* Okay, then. Oh, Felicia, can you please adjust your screen so we can see you and not your forehead? Oh- dear, that’s too much. Can you adjust it so we can’t just see your mouth? We want to see your whole face. Maybe move your screen back a little? It’s fine. We’ll figure it out later. All right, class. Seems like we can finally get started. Earl, son? You’re un-muted. Why are you watching Youtube? It’s not even the most boring part of my class yet! Ugh, Mia, please would you get out of bed? We are literally in class right now. You can’t be sleeping in class! Get out of bed and find a desk already! Sean? What is that? You can’t hear me? Oh. Uhhh, have you tried reloading the zoom page? You can’t reload zoom? Oh. How about you try to leave and rejoin? Okay? Oh no. Geena, it looks like your frozen. Are you frozen? You’re frozen. AHH, MUTE YOUR MIC DEAR. MY EARS. PLEASE. TURN. OFF. YOUR. MICROPHONE. Thank you. Moving on- oh, what a pleasant surprise! Everyone, look here! My cat, Peanut has decided to join our lesson- OH DON’T YOU THINK ABOUT IT. GET OFF MY COMPUTER. GET. OFF. NOW. *hurling motion with hands* Sorry about that. Guys, I realize we have been doing this for months now, but we only gotta hang in for a little longer. And yes, it’s been hard, and extraordinarily frustrating, but I believe that we can do it, so let’s go to it. Only a little longer guys. We’ll be in school soon enough. Come on…And I disconnected from the lesson. In the middle of my inspirational speech. Okay, I will not cry. I will not cry.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Glasses" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-122 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-123 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-123"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;"> Glasses</span></p> <p><strong>Honorable Mention!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jackie Huang, Age 15, New York USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Sometimes we would rather erase ourselves than face the reflection in the mirror. This monologue focuses on body image and self esteem.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I have terrible vision. I’ve always had a terrible vision. When I was 7, my mother took me to the optometrist, where they had little reading charts with E’s plastered all over. (Sweetly) “Point to the right direction” she would say. How would I know? I was 7. I could barely tell my left from right. (Lowers voice to a loud whisper) Those E’s were like tiny claws that touched me, scratched me. I could tell my mother was disappointed. But I needed glasses. (Picks up prop glasses) My first pair was rectangular and brown. I liked them at first… until I looked through the lenses and realized they made my thighs look like swollen sausages, the kind they only sell in bulk at Costco. I didn’t like the way I looked through my glasses. I could only focus on the skin on my belly rolling into layers one on top of the other, like a thick and heavy blanket that draped down to my ankles. I guess that's why long dresses don’t like me - because I already have my own. I refuse to wear my glasses, even though it makes my mom mad, and I probably need them. (Saddened) I refuse because it's nice that you only see blurs of everything. (Pause) I refuse because I can’t make out what new places the eyes of others are staring at. (Pause) I refuse because I would rather the reflection in my mirror remain a blur.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Monologue" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-123 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-124 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-124"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Monologue</span></p> <p><strong>Honorable Mention!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Caroline Seawell, Age 15, South Carolina USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A frustrated theater student brainstorms ideas for a monologue they must write.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>C’mon brain, THINK! This monologue is due tomorrow and I have nothing! Not a single word! This sucks, I am going to fail my theater class all because I can’t come up with one stupid paragraph. Perhaps some cookie dough ice cream could help me think? No! I can’t eat yet! I have to stay focused! Maybe I should make it about love or something. Teachers like to read stuff like that, right? Or I could write about a kid with a scar who gets a letter from a foreign school and finds out he’s a wizard and, wait, nope that’s Harry Potter. Ooh, maybe I could write about a character who can’t come up with a monologue and they are trying to brainstorm ideas on what to write about. No, that is way too meta. Ugh. I am making this way harder than it has to be but I really can’t fail, I just can't! If I fail this, then I have a B on my report card, then I'll lose motivation and then that B will turn into an F and then boom! I’m failing all of my classes and I drop out of school to become a sign spinner outside of KFC. Not to mention that my mom would kill me. I wouldn’t blame her either. If I was a single mom working two jobs just to provide for a kid who failed all of their classes I would be mad too. She really is the best. She’s always supported my love of theater and to be honest I wouldn’t be where I am without her. She’s my hero. Wait a minute, that’s it! I should write a monologue about my mom and how hard she works every day! This is going to be so good. I think all of this brainstorming has earned me a visit with some of my good friends: Ben and Jerry.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ForgiveForgetandFiddlesticks" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-124 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-125 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-125"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Forgive, Forget, and Fiddlesticks</span></p> <p><strong>Honorable Mention!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Isabella Besly, Age 13, Texas USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> The protagonist is mad at their best friend and tries to give them the silent treatment.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I’m not talking to her. She knows what she did. (beat) No, I don’t think I’m overreacting. I’m not! (turns to someone who's not there) You know what you did! (turns back around) Snickerdoodles. I’m not supposed to be talking to her. I’m giving her the silent treatment, if that’s not clear. She deserves it. She knows what she did. (turns to back and looks really annoyed, then yells) I’m not talking to you! (turns back around) Dolly Parton. I just talked to her. I’m really bad at this “ignoring your best friend because she stabbed you in the back, showing you the cold, merciless person she really is after thinking you knew her since kindergarten”, aren’t I? Well, live and learn. (pauses like someone’s talking to her, gets really mad then turns to where the invisible “friend” is) I will not forgive and forget! (turns around and sighs) Fiddlesticks. I talked to her. Again. Ugh. I think she’s trying to get me to snap at her so she can talk to me. But she doesn’t even deserve my yelling. Traitors don’t deserve anything. (beat) I’m going to ignore her. Really ignore her. I’m not going to talk to her nor acknowledge her existence. She’s dead to me. (turns to the friend) You’re dead to me! (exasperatedly) Tea and crumpets! (exhales) Starting now. She’s dead to me starting now. Ugh, why do you think I’m overreacting? I’m not. Do you really want to know what that cockroach did? Fine she- (turns around and starts to talk to the “friend” but stops themselves and turns back around) Did you see that? I totally ignored her. Well, maybe I turned to her, but I didn’t say anything. Nothing! Rainbows and unicorns, that felt good! (beat and gets sad) But, now it doesn’t. (turns to where the “friend” is) Shish Kabobs. I really messed this up, didn’t I? I just threw away a friendship after one mistake. I mean, it was a big mistake, huge. Like Godzilla couldn’t even—okay not the time. (sighs) I don’t know if I can ever forget what she did. But I can try to forgive, can’t I?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="FelonyIThinkNot" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-125 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-126 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-126"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Felony? I Think Not!</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Evelin Rienzo, Age 13, Florida USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen explains why they are a thief.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hello Officer <i>(Holds up wallet and reads name. Takes time to pronounce correctly)</i> Tu-ff-in. Wow, no wonder you're a school cop and not in the big leagues. I mean, with a last name like that you would be laughed out the door. <i>(Imitates in a deep voice)</i> "I am Officer Tuffin, you are under arrest. Anything that you say can and will be used against you." <i>(Goes back to normal voice)</i> I mean honestly! You're not tough at all! I bet I could beat you in a race. You want your wallet back? Well, here you go. <i>(Tosses back wallet.)</i> Oh and you might want to change your driver's license picture, your hair is almost as bad as your last name. Whoa there, this isn't about me this is about your horrendous drivers license photo. Whatcha got there? Oh crap I have a file?! I thought only bad kids had those. What I do is an art not a felony. It's not my fault the principal left her purse on her desk… granted the door was locked. But that didn't stop me! She didn't even notice until I was in math. It was kinda embarrassing, <i>(Imitates speaker voice)</i> "Jackie McCartney please come to the front office." We were in the middle of a math test! Anyway, I can't control it. It's like… how would I explain this to a simpleton? Okay… What do you want most in the world? Other than to change your name. For me it's like something I want is sitting on a golden platter but I can't touch it. Only the urge is like 10 times stronger and sometimes if I don't steal the watch, wallet, ring, or whatever then I feel really nauseous and I vomit. Almost every kleptomaniac lives by the four W's, it's kind of our motto. We want wallets 'n watches. Whenever I tell someone they look at me like I'm an idiot and should be behind bars. But honestly, that's never going to happen, I could steal your belt buckle before you had time to put me in handcuffs. Anyways, what's in my file? Eww! Is that my school picture? Officer Tuffin! Can I change it? The only reason I'm asking politely is because you have a taser… I mean I could have taken that along with your badge, keys, wallet, and rolex watch. <i>(Kid has taken all those things.)</i> Oh you didn't notice that did you? Now, behave Officer, I don't think the security cameras would appreciate a cop lunging at a student. Now just take your hands off the gun and put them on the table where I can see them or the watch gets it. <i>(Speaks like talking to a dog)</i> Good boy. Hey did I ever tell you that you remind me of my dog? Except my dog is loyal. Whoa you even growl like my dog! Sooo I'm going to go… unless you want to lecture me about something else? No? Okay, bye! Oh before I go, I think I'm gonna take this pretty little Rolex. <i>(Can say in an annoying sing-song fashion)</i> Goodbye Officer Tuffin.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ItsAllBecauseofMe" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-126 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-127 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-127"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">It’s All Because of Me</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Lorna McGregor, Age 12, Colorado USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A god explains why humans are greedy.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>If you had listened during history class, instead of dozing off or chatting with your friends online, you’d probably know how royalty in Ancient Mesopotamia and Ancient Egypt considered themselves close to the gods. Well, I'm a prince and-believe it or not- a true god. My sister is a god too. We're only minor deities though so we aren't that important but we still have to go to all the meetings. Like the meeting when humans were created. Well not you guys but your ancestors. The big guy had us come in just so we could talk about making "a creature of power that can eat anything.” Now I'm not a god who would say, "Oh My Gosh! We should totally do that!" Definitely not! I can't even believe I just acted that out... Anyway, I'm the minor deity of lies and trickery. So I said, "Sure, why not." You see, whenever a new species is created, all of its traits are put in a big pot and left to mix. When humans were created, I snuck some things of my own into that pot. What things you may ask? Well, have you heard of the Seven Deadly Sins? I created them. My personal favorite is greed. I just love watching humans scramble for power and kill each other in the process. It makes me feel proud. But in the end I was punished for it. I was sent here to the mortal plain to live until I'm six hundred and sixty-six. Until then, I'll just sit back and enjoy the show.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IDontLikeChocolate" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-127 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-128 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-128" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">I Don’t Like Chocolate</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Henry Boudolf, Age 12, South Carolina USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> When you think you don’t like chocolate, but then you try it.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I don't like chocolate. There, I said it. I don't like chocolate and there is nothing you can do to make me think otherwise. What good is chocolate anyway? It only comes in like two flavors! You also can't keep it in your pocket. It'll just melt! That gooey melted-ness along with the color is just… And in case you're wondering why I would need to put chocolate in my pocket, it would obviously be so I could eat it at school! And I am no barbarian. I follow the rules of being a kid and remember to eat my candy BEFORE my food. And another thing, chocolate is poisonous to dogs! I have three dogs, so if I accidentally left chocolate just laying around then my dogs might EAT IT. <em>(React to thought of what could happen to dogs.)</em> Have I tried it, you ask? No, I have not. I have not, and will not, ever try chocolate. Not even if you pay me five bucks to do it. Or ten. Maybe fifteen. Fine, I will eat this chocolate bar for 20 bucks. <em>(Eats the chocolate)</em> That… WAS THE GREATEST THING EVER! Give me more please!</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/q1YVe_McXNw" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ThePompeiiProject" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-128 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-129 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-129"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Pompeii Project</span></p> <p><strong>Honorable Mention!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Alayna Hall, Age 11, South Carolina USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A unique take on the story of Pompeii.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I know all about Pompeii. Not from history class. I was talking to my friends through most of that. But from that cool water ride at Busch Gardens. It’s so fun! When Mrs. Jones assigned us a group project we had to level up on creativity. Especially since we hadn’t paid attention. You should have seen us trying to brainstorm! It almost looked like our brains were going to explode out of our heads! We all had so many weird ideas, but mine was the overall greatest. I knew that Pompeii was an ancient Roman city, and somehow a volcanic eruption turned the place into ashes. So we decided to make a model that showed what it looked like <em>during</em> the eruption. We just started smashing stuff together. Our hands were so sticky from all that glue that when we touched anything, it became one with our hands! It was a disaster, but so was Pompeii. When we finished the project we were exhausted. But it was all worth it! We walked into the room carrying our masterpiece hidden by a cloth. Everyone looked at us like we were crazy. Because it was my idea, I did the honors. I took one deep breath and then pulled off the cloth. Everyone laughed. Mrs. Jones just glared at me. I read the label on the front of it aloud. It said... Busch Gardens Pompeii.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="StupidCupid" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-129 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-130 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-130"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Stupid Cupid</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Catherine Young, Age 12, Texas USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenage girl explains why she hates Valentine’s Day while grocery shopping.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Valentine's Day is the most stupid holiday that has ever existed if you ask me. It's just all of these big-money corporate companies profiting off of naive romantics by selling aphrodisiacs, like chocolates. <em><em>(Picks up a heart shaped box of chocolates.)</em></em> You know what chocolate's made of? Cacao. Now, cacao looks delicious from the outside, but boy, is it disgusting. It's grainy, bitter - just like the L word itself. <em><em>(Puts aside the box of chocolates and continues on down the aisles.)</em></em> Riddle me this - why should an innocent teenager be bombarded with all of this, this pink, red, artificial, sugary sweetness when just going to the store to pick up some Doritos? All I really want today is to grab these chips, head to my room, and drown out the yelling from my parent's room with the screams from Chainsaw Massacre #2, because believe it or not, that movie is slightly less terrifying than what's going on outside my bedroom door. <em><em>(Accidentally steps on a teddy bear with a tag that says, "I Love You.")</em></em> And the worst part - everything, everything, everything, everywhere you look, has the L word on it. You know, the L word? <em><em>(Whispers.)</em></em> Love? Why should I have to see that word, over and over again? Every time I look at it, it feels like a punch straight to my gut. And being in a grocery store the day before Valentines, that L word isn't exactly scarce. Why do I have to suffer through this? Why do I have to be ambushed by this word at a drugstore when it's a word that my parents don't even say to each other anymore? <em><em>(Pauses, reigning in her emotion, and scowls at the bear.)</em></em> Who would even buy such a stupid thing? 'I love you beary much?' Disgusting. <em><em>(She reaches to put the bear on the shelf, but is interrupted by a phone call. She is now speaking into the phone.)</em></em> Hello? Oh, yeah, hey Charlie. Charlie from science, right? <em><em>(Pauses.)</em></em> Oh, no, I don't have any plans tomorrow. Why? Yeah, I know tomorrow's Valentine's day . . . ok, um, sure. I'll meet you at the movie theatre at 7. Who else is go - oh, it's just gonna be us? <em><em>(Begins to smile.)</em></em> That sounds great. See ya then! <em><em>(She smiles and hangs up the phone.)</em></em> I mean . . . Valentine's Day is still stupid.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MrsWrightisWrong" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-130 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-131 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-131"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Mrs. Wright is Wrong</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jadyn Jones, Age 11, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen explains to the director, Mrs. Wright, why she should be cast in the school musical.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em><em>(Melody, furious, walks up to Mrs. Wright to talk about the winter musical audition.)</em></em><br /> Mrs. Wright, the selection for the school musical is downright dumb! Faith shouldn't get the lead because she did nothing special for her audition when I worked my butt off. Somebody who actually attempted should get the part. I learned how to speak in a British accent for my audition and sang in one too! If not me, at least Violet Little, <em><em>(Calming down a bit)</em></em> even though her accent was more on the Australian side, but maybe that's because she is Australian, I don't really remember. <em><em>(Is furious again)</em></em> But that doesn't matter, and frankly, I don't care! What matters is that we can't let Faith make this musical flop like the last one. Let me show you how she should have done the audition. <em><em>(Starts speaking in a British accent.)</em></em> "Hello, may I help you on this fantastic night? If I may, I recommend you get the beef wellington! It brings me back to when I lived in London, I suppose you can relate, can't you mate?" And... scene! I hope you realize that Faith brings nothing to the table when it comes to a musical. She takes the act out of actress. Maybe she could possibly be a playwright, I've seen her in English class, that girl can write two pages of a five-page essay in under an hour. But don't let her be an actress in a musical or play, especially the lead! Opening night would be a flop, and we both know that would be embarrassing for you.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MyPast" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-131 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-132 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-132"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">My Past</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Leah Garcia, Age 13, Maryland, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen recounts the night her father left to her therapist.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>This was my mom's idea. I'm really fine. It's kind of weird to tell a stranger my life story and pour out my feelings. But I guess that's your job, right? To listen? Well, you might want to get some more coffee. I guess it happened when I was around three or four. I know it was November because Thanksgiving was close. I got up in the middle of the night and noticed my father was packing his bag. I thought he was just going to visit friends or maybe my grandma. I remember being hungry and asked him if he would get me something to eat. He gave me some yogurt. I went to get a spoon, but before I knew it, the door slammed, and he was gone. I guess that is why my mom thinks I need therapy; to help me get over the pain. I don't feel any pain about that. She's always told me it isn't my fault that my dad left. I mean come on… that happened when I was three. I'm now thirteen. I'm fine. I mean, I've gone most of my life knowing my father left and it's all my fault...<em>(starts crying)</em> yeah my mom thinks I need someone to talk to, but I say I can just power through. I can handle it on my own. <em>(pause)</em> Okay, this isn't going to go that way, is it?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HaroldsMay" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-132 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-133 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-133"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Harold’s May</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Sofia Greenwalt, Age 14, Florida, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A widower talks to his deceased wife about making a new friend.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Harold could be talking to a photo of his wife, or kneeling and placing flowers on her grave.)</em></p> <p>It’s been six months since you left me, but it feels like an eternity. I sure miss seeing you every day. My sweet May. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just a nightmare that I can't wake up from. You were the light of my life, the reason I would wake up in the morning. But now there are days where I feel that there is no light, and the darkness just fills up my thoughts. Sometimes, I simply feel there is no reason to wake up in the morning. I feel betrayed because you were taken from me too soon and I’m just another person consumed by grief. But today I saw a flicker of hope. I met someone. His name is James. He is my first real friend since I lost you May. You were all I needed, and now I’m so alone. I met James in a grief support group. He is also grieving; His grandson Timothy died. We plan to meet in the park every Wednesday and Friday. We came to the conclusion that we both need some light in our life, so we decided to be a light for each other.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="OurKind" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-133 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-134 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-134"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Our Kind</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Jannet Almanza, Age 12, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Elio calls out his teacher for her bias in the classroom.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Elio gets up angrily from his desk and speaks to the teacher.)</em></p> <p>Excuse me? You can’t get mad at her for not speaking English well. You told her to read in front of the class...and you’re the English teacher. You’re supposed to help her. How can you be angry with her right now?... And “Our kind” what is that supposed to mean?! “Our kind.” We’re not aliens or animals! Don’t talk to us like we are! Just because she can’t speak your language yet, doesn’t mean she’s any less than you. How about you try learning Spanish and moving to a Spanish speaking school. Would you be able to read perfectly, especially in front of an entire class? I didn’t think so. Just because we’re different colors and we speak different languages, doesn’t mean either of us is better than the other. “Our kind” isn’t any different from “your kind”. You are constantly picking on her like she’s some puppy that needs to be trained. How do you expect her to speak perfect English when no one is helping her? You have no idea how hard it is for “our kind”!”</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhyCantTheySeeMe" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-134 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-135 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-135"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Why Can’t They See Me?</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Alyvia Taylor, Age 12, Florida, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> An African American woman expresses her frustration and anger about the injustice she has experienced due to prejudice and racism.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Woman: <em>(Starts to cry a little bit)</em> I just don't get it. Why can't they see me? Why can't they see me for who I am and not what I look like. Why can't I go into stores without being stalked as if I was going to steal something? My skin color, for some strange reason, is a threat to you? I mean you shoot us down to get rid of us because you are scared of what you don't know. You want us to not speak out on what it is you are doing to us because you want us to be the bad guys. Well guess what, I am tired of it and I've had enough! <em>(clenches fist and then calms herself down)</em>I mean, why can't you see me? Why can't you see that I am a good person and wouldn't harm anyone? Why is it that you don't even ask me my name? You just assume I am dangerous? Not to be trusted! Why can't you see me? I am sick and tired of the system, too. I mean some-<em>(starts to tear up)</em> my daughter was taken away from me and they did nothing to find her. But if some white man's store gets robbed, they will do everything they can to help. Why can't they do the same for us? Well, if you can't see me now, you will see me rise and protest against the injustices of the people! As Maya Angelou says, "You may write me down in history with your bitter twisted lines. You may trod me in the very dirt but still I rise." And we will speak out on what is being done to us and we will make change. You will see me and know my name!"</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="JailhouseWolf" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-135 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-136 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-136"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Jailhouse Wolf</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Konrad Poniatowski, Age 12, Pennsylvania USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> The Wolf from the Three Little Pigs complains to his cellmate in jail.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>What am I in for? You’ve got to be kidding me. You don’t watch TV? You heard about the Pigs, right? Well, what they’re saying about me is fake news. The name’s Wolf, Trevor Wolf. Lemme tell you the truth about this whole “Three Little Pigs” thing. So, I walk up to the first little porker’s house to welcome him to the neighborhood. It's not my fault that I breathe and the blasted straw hut falls over. It was made out of gosh darn hay! How does it NOT fall over? Fine. Go to jail. Get the T-shirt. Next Grunter’s house. This one is made of wood, but those sure ain’t 2x4s I’m looking at. Whoosh! Crash! Clang! The result, more time. I mean, those houses weren’t even up to building code, how am I the one being sent to jail here? (Beat) What? No! I never threatened to eat them. We never spoke any words to each other ‘til the trial! Anyway, the third swine’s house looked at least legal, until I knock on the door and a dragon pops out! That sure ain’t legal. As I was running away I knocked over a flowerpot…and I may have climbed onto the roof. But that’s only ‘cause of that dragon inside breathing fire everywhere! Don’t even get me started with the trial. I never “assaulted” or “harassed” anyone at any time. If anything, this dragon assaulted and harassed me! And the jury! That jury was supposed to be impartial? If they were impartial, I’ll eat my tail! I mean come on, 15 years in the can? Just for trying to say hello? No wait. I guess it was 17. I got 2 years just for stepping on that flowerpot. Anyway, that’s my story. What’re you in for? (Beat) Oh…you’re that guy. You didn’t eat the granny either? You know, that Little Red Riding Hood looked like a liar to me. We’re all innocent, I tell ya.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="QuarantineDiary" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-136 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-137 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-137"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Quarantine Diary</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Christopher Parker, Age 13, South Carolina USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen explains the craziness of quarantine to a friend online.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I was just thinking about the first day of quarantine. I thought it was kind of like a drill, you know, like it would only last 1 or 2 days, and it would be over. Well this is NOT a drill. I’ve also discovered the stages to complete craziness. I’ve been craving just to get outside, play, or just get out and do something...ANYTHING. I mean, who wants to sit inside and do nothing, am I right? So, the stages go like this: Sit and stare at the wall, eat and get bigger, and binge watch my favorite shows on Netflix. I started to binge video games, which is when I discovered that the pandemic is kind of like a game of Among Us, right? Covid/19 is the imposter, and the spaceship is the quarantined area. This pandemic is crazy! Man...I just can’t wait to hang out in real life again. Waiting for this to end is like watching a pecan tree grow. You could call my life with your phone and it would say something like, “you’re on hold.” Is it just me, or do you feel this way too?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheCasket" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-137 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-138 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-138"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Casket</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Ellyse Blackburn, Age 13, Michigan, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A casket finally finds a purpose.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>We’ve finally met. I can hardly believe it. Everything makes sense now. (pause) We are going to be together for a long time, so you should know a little about my life and how it is we are together. You see, I lived in the saddest room on earth. On a daily basis, I would see people having nervous breakdowns. Everyone who came through the door was sad… grieving, crying uncontrollably. I could never figure out the reason for it. The others who were there with me couldn’t figure it out either. We were all so beautiful, but we made people sad. Oh, they always left with one of us…but never me. They would run their hands over my rich, smooth mahogany surface, but no one bothered to actually open me up. Once, this nice young lady looked at me and I felt a connection with her, but as always, she didn’t choose me. I started thinking that I would never get chosen, that I would be stuck here collecting dust in this sad room for the rest of eternity. Oh, how awful that would’ve been - never fulfilling my true purpose. And then it happened! I saw her walk into the showroom, just as sad as the rest. I saw her hand the salesman a small piece of paper with no words. And then she saw me. Truly saw me. As she walked towards me her tears began to fade. Placing her aged hands on my shell and lifting, she looked inside and saw my true beauty. All those times before it was never me, but finally it was me. My sorrow disappeared, I was going to have a true purpose, and we both found comfort in that. After that meeting, she left and I was moved to a different section of the building, and united with you, the one that had brought her joy for so many years. It feels like a perfect fit. It’s like I was made for you. My purpose is now fulfilled. I heard them talking about burying us tomorrow. In the deep soil of the Mother Earth. There, we will rest together in peace, far beneath the cycles of the moon for all eternity.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheDream" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-138 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-139 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-139"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Dream</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Quinn Garcia, Age 13, California USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager recounts a dream they had to their older sibling.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Last night, I had a dream. We were all in it. You and Papa and me. We were all at my old kindergarten, down off 2nd and 45th. We were looking at the tall sign outside, the one where you could rearrange the letters to spell what you like. (beat) I can’t remember what it said. I wish I could. It was important, I remember. Something to do with… well, never mind. The odd thing was, there wasn’t anyone there. No parents, no children, no teachers. I didn’t think it was strange at the time, but now… it felt almost post-apocalyptic. As if we were the last people on Earth. Then we went inside the kindergarten, and I was suddenly standing on top of a ravine, and below me was a long, winding river, and mist clung to the steep edges of the ravine like gray wool to rough wood. And you were there. You and Papa, but Papa looked different now. He was just... blank. Nothing on his face, like it was incapable of emotion. And all of a sudden the edge of the cliff crumbled away beneath me and I was slipping, and you were grabbing at my clothes trying to save me while Papa (beat) Papa did nothing. It was like he couldn’t even see me anymore, couldn’t hear me screaming for help. I don’t remember screaming for help, but I know that I did, just like I know that fish can swim, just like I know everything in my dreams. I just know. And then I was falling, faster and faster, and the river, shiny and wicked, was rushing up to meet me, faster and faster and faster and then (beat) I woke up.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="VeryBadDay" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-139 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-140 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-140"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Very Bad Day</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Lizzie Towell, Age 18, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Snow White leads a support group for princesses who have evil stepmothers.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> Well, it’s actually kind of a long story, but I suppose we have time. I woke up, and I was really tired, right? So, my eyes aren’t even open when I take a shower and wash my hair. Apparently my emo little sister left her hair color stuff in the shower, cause my hair was bright green when I took the towel off. You see this, right? It’s the ugliest color I’ve ever seen on a human being. Anyway, I try to forget about it. I figure I can deal with my sister when she gets home from school. There’s no need to have her miss anymore school than she needs to: her teachers already get a lot of practice writing the letter F. Then, mom said I had to get groceries, and the people who work at grocery stores wouldn’t judge you if you showed up riding a unicycle with a parrot on your head, so green hair shouldn’t get many looks. Well, it did, and the face painting stand in front of the store saw me as easy prey immediately. “Let us practice face painting on you,” they said. “It’ll wash right off, and you can win a Starbucks gift card,” they said. Neither of those happened. My face still looks like a giraffe dipped in acid and the Starbucks gift card had 27 cents left. I’d been humiliated, and there was no way I was grocery shopping after all that. The family can do without eggs for a few more hours. You would think that’s all the bad things that can happen in one day, right? Wrong. As I’m walking home, this child (may the Lord never curse me with the burden of offspring) screams like it’s being slaughtered by the boogieman himself. I look around and try to figure out what on this good green Earth could possibly warrant such a horrible sound when the child’s mother looks at me with the tired eyes of one who deals with a three-foot-tall chimpanzee all day. She hands me the leash to her dog as the small banshee screeches on. “She’ll forget she ever wanted this thing,” the mother says, then walks away, dragging the feral creature away and leaving me with something not much better: a dog. I can’t even take care of myself, how am I supposed to take care of a thing without a sense of self-preservation, judging from its missing leg? I don’t know, but I’m this dog’s parent now. His name is Bagel, by the way. So yeah, that’s how I ended up with bright green hair, my face painted like a giraffe, and a three-legged beagle.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DyingtobeThin" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-140 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-141 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-141"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Dying to be Thin</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Clara Johnson, Age 17, Pennsylvania, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager explains her obsession over her weight.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I’ve been thin all my life. But not the “wow you're so thin? Do you even eat?” thin. I’m only the accepted thin; where no one would even take a glance at me, ya know? I always wanted to walk into a room and be the eye catcher because of how thin I could be. I wanted to be so thin, that I wanted my cheekbones to look like they were stabbing through my skin; or my ribs begging for more room to grow. But that would be fatal, so that's super unrealistic. Some nights before going to bed, I would stand in front of my body length mirror and just poke and grab at my fat. See, I know about all of the eating disorders, but I was never diagnosed. I still never understood why my relationship with food was different than my friends' relationship with food. I thought it was normal to be scared around food. Every time I’d step on a scale, I felt like the numbers would explode off the screen onto my face, screaming at me to get off. I always hated physicals because then I would know how much I actually weighed. I remember at one time I was obsessed with numbers, I started counting calories, weighing myself all the time, etc. It started to become annoying and time consuming, I didn't stop; I simply just took a break. Instead of writing down the numbers, I downloaded multiple calorie counting apps and fasting apps. I’ve been slacking really bad about recording what I ate every day. Mainly because I have a life and responsibilities; so I would just count the calories in my head, before I ate. I also compare myself to other girls, a lot. By how they look, how pretty they are, how skinny they are, if they are skinnier than me. It ruins my self-confidence and self-esteem. I’ve been doing it all my life; it's not a great trait to have. Being a skinny girl in today’s society gives you so much privilege, no matter what race or gender you are. So, I thought if I was skinny enough; I would be accepted, and people would actually like me. However, I know not everyone will like me, but at that time it made sense. Although I’m nowhere near perfect, I still have a lot of work to do. More than half of the stuff I talked about I still to this day. I wish that every girl like me could easily start to love themselves. One day I hope to wake up and not think about my weight, or calories, or what everyone thinks, and just simply love being me, ya know?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Girls" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-141 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-142 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-142"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Girls</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Kimo Horvath, Age 16, Texas, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A boy describes his woes in trying to understand girls.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I used to believe that I could understand girls. I thought I could always tell what they were saying, always know what they meant. But that was a long, long time ago. I have since learned that girls are impossible. No matter how hard I try to discover the secret of what goes on in the mind of a female, it will forever be a mystery. One day they could want one thing, and the next day change their mind. Or say something like, “I’m fine,” even though they are definitely not fine. What confuses me most is that girls genuinely think guys can decipher what they say. And I’m like, “How do you expect me to know that you want to talk about something when you specifically say to me, ‘I don’t want to talk about it’?” Just tell me you want to talk about it, it’s not that hard. In my opinion, girls should just say what they mean and not send hidden messages. Understand that we, as boys, will never understand the mind of a girl. Please know that we spend long hours thinking about the thousands of meanings their words could have. And finally, girls need to get the hint that guys don’t get their hints.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheNomad" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-142 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-143 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-143"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Nomad</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Astra B., Age 16, NYC, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A nomad tells his sister his philosophy on life and why he chose his lifestyle.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I can't believe you found me, Kendra. Yes. Today is my birthday. I'm 32. Born again or this is my only birth? That I still haven't figured that out yet. All I know is that today, this day, is my first birthday. I know that might sound ridiculous or perhaps it is, and I am the crazy one, but I feel it. Today. <em>(pause)</em> What do I feel? <em>(Breathes in, breathes out.)</em> Alive. To live, to exist and to be alive. They all balance on a tightrope struggling to remain steady over the sea of death. Because evidently with any of the three you can and will eventually go into the sea of death. Whether you jump, plummet it, tip or fall into it, is a whole other story though. You see, I know you're most likely confused right now and to that I say you're hugging the tight rope as you exist in this world. We all exist from the moment we come into life that's just how it is, it's like a chore. First, we don't ask to be here then BOMB, we're in the world with all these worldly duties that we have, like to be nice to your neighbors, go to school, grow up and be something, blah blah you know the rest. And on top of that, the world is full of negativity, like poverty, famine, kidnapping, disease. You know it all because you live in the world. But for the earthy humans you realize how cruel this life can be, so you just do your best to get by. It's not the worst thing to do. It's what I've been doing for 32 years. And you know why so many do it? Because it's secure. You go to school for donkey years then you graduate. You hear so much about college all your life, so you feel like a failure if you don't go. So, you go. And after, you follow the river of job, money, family, mistakes, money, good stories, retirement money, money and then some more money, then you have grandkids and die. I mean, I'm not judging you, as I said before, I was going throughout that order too. I hated that tie that I had to clip on to my plain button down shirt each morning, I hated the time it took to press my khaki pants just for them to get a coffee stain from eating breakfast on the go, or having to re-press from all the sitting I was doing. I hated the morning greetings, office space, computer, type, print, fax, break, small talk, back to office, yawn, staring at the clock, print, make mistake, constantly worry for the sake of my job. I'm sorry but even just thinking about it makes me pity him, the old me. I was always just walking to get somewhere, never just to wander off into some cave and get bit by I don't even wanna know, or throw a rock over a seagull's head in order to get the piece of bagel it was going to steal from me, or have to drive around to the nearest beach to catch a bath before families started coming in and setting up their volleyball nets. I know what you're thinking. That's not a life you would want to live. I know that's what they all say. You're all worried about me! Wondering what happened. Why I became such a slack off. But you know what? I don't care. Maybe it's an art to not care. Because although you see me as a lunatic, what you don't know is that most mornings I lay flat on my back playing the stars awake with the strumming of my guitar. And I get to walk on a beach that's empty just for me, on golden sand freshly washed by night waves. What you don't know is that one fateful night I went to that bridge over the river of death, and instead of dropping my own life in there, I dropped the trappings of it. I dropped my working papers along with the uniforms made by society to make us all the same clones of work slaves. You don't know the elope I have with mother nature each time I discover a new piece of her rich beauty in the unimaginable acres she has to unfold just for me. So, I realize that this life I've chosen is disappointing and confusing to you. But I have chosen this, and I'm happy. And I hope the best for you. Remember you only live, exist or be alive once. And this birthday boy is going to be ALIVE! I'm glad that sought me out to wish me a happy birthday, Kendra. But quite honestly, every day is my birth-day now.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AsphaltandSky" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-143 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-144 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-144"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Asphalt and Sky</span></p> <p><strong>By: </strong>Isabelle P., Age 14, Wisconsin, USA<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A teen explains why they are suicidal.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Actor kneels at the grave of his/her mother.)</em></p> <p>Mom, I wish you were here so that I could talk to you. I’ve been wanting to tell you about all this pain and numbness that I feel will never go away. It’s the reason I wear hoodies all the time, why I'm so tired. Having all this doubt in a better existence. First I tried to tell dad, but he was asleep. I didn’t want to bother him with my problems after he had to work the night shift this week. Velicity and Xander are in college now and they have class today. Sometimes it really sucks to have siblings who are ten years older than you, never getting to play with them, never having someone there when you need them. Then when I got on the bus, I was going to tell Izumi, but he wasn’t on the bus. Then at school I couldn’t get in with the counselor or any of the people in the office, and all of my friends ignored me when I tried to speak to them. Then I thought, maybe it was a sign, a sign that no one cares or that I’m not important enough, that I’m worthless, irrelevant. That maybe the world would be better off without me… Now as I sit here next to your grave, I wonder will anyone miss me if I was gone? But now it’s decided. After I leave here, I’m going to that high bridge over the interstate freeway. From there, it’s just me, the asphalt and the sky. I guess I will see you soon.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="GasStationMurder" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-144 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-145 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-145"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Gas Station Murder</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Julian K., Age 13, Wisconsin, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A murder suspect tries to prove his innocence to the court.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Actor sits in a chair as though he/she is on the witness stand being questioned by the prosecutor.)</em></p> <p>If you’ll just let me talk, I’ll explain! Look, I know there is a lot of evidence pointing towards me, but you have to believe me. I really am innocent. When the murder happened, there were only three people in the entire gas station, me, the gas station attendant, and that truck driver. If you ask me, I think it was the gas station attendant. When the truck driver walked into the gas station, he looked at the guy and gave him a really strange look. The attendant just stared at him. Judging by the way both of these people acted, I think that they had some secret connection. Then the truck driver walked past me and headed for the bathroom. I watched him enter the bathroom, but when I looked back at the check-out desk, the attendant wasn’t there. I waited about fifteen minutes, then I realized that I had to go to the bathroom. I set my stuff on the counter and headed around the corner to use the bathroom. When I walked in, I saw the truck driver lying on the floor covered in blood. It was everywhere. That’s why my footprints were in there. I immediately called 911. I didn’t want to leave the bathroom because I was afraid the attendant would be out there. So instead, I just waited for the cops to arrive. When they found me, they arrested me! I was brought to their car, I looked at the check-out desk and I didn’t see the attendant anywhere. You’ve got to find that guy. I’m telling you, you're wasting your time with me! The real killer is out there probably killing more people!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="FirstCatonVenus" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-145 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-146 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-146"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">First Cat on Venus</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Derek Olsen, Age 11, Iowa, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> The first person to visit Venus shares a video diary about his scientific mission and the challenges of bringing his cat along.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Today’s date is April 5th, 2040. This is my first video diary after becoming the first earthling to visit the planet Venus. I still cannot establish contact with NASA, so I will recap for anyone who is listening. Two decades ago, in the year 2020, scientists hypothesized that the clouds of Venus might have bacterial life. My mission is to gather a sample of Venus’ atmosphere and scan it for proof of life. My trip to Venus took two months. My spaceship is small, so my only companion is my cat, which took me a while to convince NASA to let me bring. Thanks to NASA’s Food-In-A-Tiny-Box program, all my cat and I have to eat is dehydrated, compacted food. I would like to have a word with whomever thought of this. My cat can no longer taste the difference between rehydrated tuna, which he loved back on Earth, and rehydrated citrus which he would never touch back on Earth. My cat doesn’t like being weightless. He can’t climb on his cat tower or practice jumping off the tower and landing on his feet. When he jumps, he floats to the ceiling, occasionally bumps his head on the lightbulb and breaks it, making the room dark. I’ve had to replace the lightbulb twice already, so I’ve decided to tape a pillow to the lightbulb. Now my cat can no longer break it. I’m starting to regret bringing him on this mission, because that was the only pillow NASA packed for me. There’s a small gas leak in the spaceship’s cooling system, which makes a high-pitched squeaking noise. That is not good for two reasons: 1) It’s getting hot in here. 2) My cat has been looking for the squeaking “mouse” for the past two weeks. He really wants to catch the “mouse” because the rehydrated foods all taste the same. He’s looking for something that doesn’t taste like year-old toothpaste. My spaceship also brought a small blimp to Venus. This blimp will allow me to fly through the clouds and collect samples. To collect the samples, I’ll use gloves with motion sensors to control two big robotic arms on the exterior of the blimp. With these arms, I’ll scoop some of Venus’ clouds into a jar, screw the lid on, and bring the jar back to Earth. My cat is not allowed in the blimp because he might scratch a hole in it with his claws, causing the blimp to crash into Venus’ surface, where I will be cooked alive. That’s unfortunate because my cat really wants to come with me on the blimp. So, tomorrow, I’ll be boarding the blimp and getting ready to collect a cloud sample with possible bacterial life, but not before saying goodbye to my cat. If all goes well, and I’m not killed immediately by accidentally coming in contact with a deadly space bacteria, or being scorched on the planet’s surface, my next entry will be tomorrow.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Cheating" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-146 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-147 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-147"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Cheating</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kallie Carter, Age 17, Georgia, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young woman tells a co-worker about her lifetime of cheating.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p><em>(Actor pantomimes washing and drying dishes intermittently during the monologue.)</em></p> <p>How’d I wind up here? Well, I wasn’t supposed to be washing dishes for a living. That’s for sure. What finally got me was Harvard. The school I’ve been dreaming about since I was a little kid. It’s all I've been thinking about since graduation. As soon as I finished my Valedictorian speech I was done and out of high school. My mom told me it was the most beautiful speech she's ever heard. She got calls for weeks after that praising my academic achievements. She got calls like this often even as far back as third grade. I guess I might as well tell you that that’s when cheating began. Since then I have been able to cheat my way through school like the best of them. One time at fifth grade field day, I cut holes in my potato sack to win the race. How did no one notice, you might be wondering? Two words: brown shoes. They matched the potato sack perfectly. Everyone else was left hobbling around like idiots while my brown shoes trudged through the grass. No one suspected a thing when I was first at the finish line. I was better than everyone else and that is how I like it. In middle school I got trickier. Every test I took in middle school was a breeze. Stealing the Teacher's Edition textbook helped I guess. The night before each test I wrote the answers on my thigh and made sure to wear a skirt because if the teacher tells you to pull your skirt up, they are bound to get in trouble. As I entered high school, the cheating became serious business. I was known for how smart I was. My Junior year I hired someone to take the SAT for me. This wasn’t an easy task, but I was able to forge a test ticket. Let’s just say copy and paste is the best thing ever created. Now that you know how I got into my dream college, it’s time to tell you how I got kicked out. I was sitting in my Intro to Law class taking a test with flashcards tucked under my thigh. You thought the cheating would stop after I went to college? I walked out of the class knowing I aced it. My hot pink flashcards though were left on the seat. You can probably guess the rest of the story. The professor called my parents to inform them I was kicked out. My mom came and picked me up in her white Benz. She was speaking to me the whole way back to this Podunk town. Something about her reputation being ruined. I was too busy thinking about how fast my life has gone downhill and how easily it could’ve been avoided. If only I would’ve written the answers on my thigh and not on the hot pink flashcards.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Ticket" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-147 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-148 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-148"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Ticket</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Celeste Pompa, Age 16, South Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young driver gets pulled over for the first time.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(The actor should pantomime driving a car and being pulled over. The actor is also speaking to a friend, hands-free on a cell phone.)</em></p> <p>I'm sorry. I'm running late. I should be there in about five minutes. <em>(looks in the rearview mirror, scared, and then yells in frustration)</em> Oh no. No! Dude, I'm getting pulled over! I think I was speeding. Okay, okay, I'll stay calm. But what do I say? cause he's definitely gonna ask me why I was going so fast. I could tell him I was late for work. No, 'cause then he's gonna ask me where I work and he might call them. I…I could say there was a family emergency. No, no I can't make it too serious. I'm gonna say I had to pee. But he won't believe that everyone says that. Holy crap! Holy crap! What am I supposed to give him again?? I wasn't paying attention when my mom was telling me. You know what, I'm just gonna let him take me, jail shouldn't be too bad right? Yeah right, I couldn't last an hour in there. Omg, he's coming, he's coming. Okay, don't say anything. I'm leaving you on speakerphone. <em>(Takes a deep breath and rolls the window down.)</em> Hi, um I know, I know. I'm so sorry I wasn't paying attention and my song was on, you know and I was just in the groove like " ayyy ayyy ayyy ayyy, ooouuuuuuu" (Sunflower) --- oh uh sorry but my foot was just on the gas pedal, well it's supposed to be duh, anyways just give me the ticket I'll pay whatever. But like don't make it too expensive because my mom's gonna make ME pay for it and I don't have that kind of money. Plus, this is my first time ever getting pulled over so I should get like a warning or something right? Okay, you're looking at me like I'm crazy, I'm sorry go ahead. <em>(Pause for a second as if listening to cop.)</em> Wait what? For real? <em>(Laughs awkwardly)</em> Uhh well, I'm so sorry, oh my God, thank you so much have a nice day. <em>(Rolls the window up, and resumes talking to friend on speakerphone.)</em> Did you hear that? NO! He didn't give me a ticket. I'm driving my dad's truck. Anyways he said the tailgate was open and he saw there was stuff in the back and he didn't want it falling out on me. <em>(Pause)</em> I KNOW. Like are you serious??? Girl, I was ready to go to jail <em>(laugh)</em> I swear the craziest things always happen to me. Anyways, I'll be there in five minutes. Maybe ten. I'm not going one mile over the speed limit.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ThePool" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-148 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-149 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-149"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Pool</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Clara Fields, Age 15, Iowa, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen relates to her mother what summers were like before a global pandemic.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Yeah, mom. It is hard not to see my friends. I ran by the pool today. It’s different, that’s for sure. Really different. Without the people, without the water, it’s just a skeleton of what it’s supposed to be. All the water was drained away, and the gates were chained up. Even though it wasn’t part of my route, I ran right over to the parking lot and sat down outside the gates. And I started thinking. If this were any other year, I would be inside those gates instead of sitting out there on the pavement. I might be sitting in a too-crowded tent playing my sixth round of Truth or Dare with the swim team or standing up by the blocks waiting for a race. Or in the water, swimming my heart out. Or maybe I would be at yet another early-morning practice, the kind where you moan and complain about the freezing water and your aching legs, but you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. I could be playing Marco Polo with my sister in the evening, still doused in chlorine from the day’s practice. For some reason, she always wins. I think she cheats, but I can never prove it. We’d probably run into some college kids playing basketball, and I’d definitely get hit with the ball. Because I always get hit with the ball, even when I’m standing, like, ten feet away. I never thought I’d miss that. But I wasn’t in the pool at all. I was sitting outside on the pavement, breathing hard, looking at that skeleton of a pool and remembering. I must have looked pretty crazy. Eventually, I got up and ran back home. Running’s all right-- it gives me something to do-- but it’ll never be like swimming. Maybe next year it will be alright again. (nods) Yeah, I sure hope so.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LazyTeacher" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-149 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-150 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-150"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Lazy Teacher</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Emma Gordon, Age 12, New York, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A college student shares a lesson in empathy with her friend.<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>College is going alright so far, but I had a weird thing happen to me today. My chemistry teacher just walked out of class. After he left the room I was stunned. Is this what college is really like? I mean, he said he just “didn’t feel like teaching today.” I was like, huh? You’re telling me I’m going to be in piles and piles of student loan debt for the rest of my life so that the teacher who is supposed to be, that’s right, teaching me chemistry, a key part of my future career can “not feel like teaching!” That’s just bizarre. I mean, I’m not in art school or something, right?! Are you joking? I studied my butt off for the SAT’s to get into this kind of college, and this is what I get for my hard work? I understand that it’s like the second class of the year and you want to “form a relationship with your new students” or whatever, but not like that. You know, the teachers in highschool told us college professors are going to be “very strict with us” and “make us work hard”. I was excited for that! I mean, what am I going to do 20 years down the line when I’m applying for a job at the American Institute of Chemical Engineers and they say “ Lucia Anderson Maquel, you are completely qualified for this job, but we can’t hire you until you answer this one question correctly.” Do you know what the question is going to be? That’s right, I don’t know what it is going to be either because we were supposed to learn that today but couldn’t because of some lazy teacher. C’mon man! You’re screwing up my life here! I’m legit doing more work in the Spanish class that I’m just taking for extra credit than the class I want to focus my whole life on. Do you know how hard scientists have to work in the real world? I probably won’t be married until I’m 75, yet this “professor” just dismisses that with his dumb excuses? I couldn’t believe it. It’s just so annoying. Yeah, I’m done… but still upset. Oh, look who I just got an email from. Mr. Don’t Feel Like Teaching today. Oh, wait. Oh no. His wife was in an accident and he had to rush to the hospital. She’s okay, and he didn’t want to alarm us. He apologized and is offering an extra class on Sunday. Oh, god I’m a terrible person. It’s been a long day. Do you want to get burritos?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Focus" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-150 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-151 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-151"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Focus</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Elise H., Age 13, New Jersey, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student with ADHD talks to her teacher about her struggles with learning.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Thanks for talking about this with me Mrs. G. I know I’m struggling with focus. I’m sure you’ve heard about it from my previous teachers too. Every year, in at least one of my classes, I feel like I'm the "troublemaker." I’m not trying to disrespect anyone or break any big classroom rules, I just can't focus. A big distraction for me is drawing. I draw a lot. I'll just be sitting there in class, and my brain will start creating a story, and I'll feel like I have to draw the characters. I know I shouldn't doodle, and I know I'm missing the lesson, but I just can't help it. I think you should know that about three years ago I was diagnosed with ADHD. I wasn't surprised. I kinda knew I had it all along. I figured it out when the teachers started pulling me aside and making special charts for me to help me finish my work. I eventually got medicine for it. Sixth grade, the very first year I took the medicine, was the best year of school I've ever had. But it went downhill in seventh grade. For some reason, the medicine just didn't work anymore. Maybe it was the medicine, maybe it was me, but the seventh grade was worse for me than fifth grade when I didn't have the medicine. They kept increasing the dose, but it just felt the same. I had been placed in all the advanced classes too. Everyone was so better than me at everything. I felt out of place. That's why I was almost relieved when I was placed in regular math classes this year. I have no problem being average. In fact, that's my dream goal. To just be an average kid. Instead, I stick out like a sore thumb. Sometimes I feel like the only one in the whole class who has problems with learning. Honestly, I’m starting to develop insecurities.It's easy to think that everyone's always watching you when sometimes, everyone is. Like when the teacher announces to the whole class that you got a frowny face on your chart for the day. Or when the teacher reads your hall pass out loud and your whole class knows you spent half of the period in the guidance counselor's office. People start to ask you questions, like "Why do you have a chart?" and "Why were you in the guidance counselor's office?" And they don't say it, but you know they're thinking "Is something wrong with her?". I know that I have problems, and I know that I'm different, but these problems are internal, and they don't have to be shared with everyone in the class. That's why I really appreciate it when teachers go out of their way to talk to me privately when I'm struggling with something, like you are now. I would also really appreciate it if I could be seated next to friends, or at least surrounded by people that I'm friendly with. I think the main reason I draw is that I feel lonely. It might sound weird, but when I feel excluded or unwelcomed by the people sitting around me, my brain kinda wants to distract me from how I feel, which is why it's so hard for me to pay attention while doodling. I've found that in the classes where I sit next to a friend, I do much better. Well, I appreciate you listening to me, Mrs. G. I really want to make sure this year is different.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="EvilReflection" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-151 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-152 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-152"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Evil Reflection</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Alexis P., Age 11, Austin, TX, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl talks about her frightening experiences with her evil mirror reflection.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>You’re not going to believe this bit of advice, but I’d be very careful of spending too much time looking in mirrors if I were you. I learned my lesson last week. It all started when I woke up and began my morning routines. I was looking at myself in the mirror when my reflection started to waver. I stared dumbfounded at the mirror, thinking “I’m not moving, so why is my reflection moving?” Suddenly, out of nowhere, my reflection reached out and grabbed me. I couldn’t believe I just got pulled into my mirror by my own reflection! I was freaking out. Hey, don’t blame me. I think you’d be freaking out too! The inside of my mirror looked nothing like what I expected it to be. It was a big white room. I walked around and realized my mirror self was gone! I think when she pulled me in, she swapped with me out in the real world! Oh no, I thought, what if she’s evil? She must be. She pulled me in here. I have to get out! I started banging at the mirror and shouting “Someone help me! My reflection has switched with me!” After a while, I gave up and slumped against a wall. I started to wonder if I would ever get out? It turns out, in the middle of my most desperate moment, my mirror self was wreaking some serious havoc in my life by being mean to everyone and destroying my reputation! And I could do nothing. Finally, my mom entered the room, so I shouted to her, “Mom! Help me get out of this mirror!” Low and behold, she heard me and looked at the mirror. I told her the whole story and that I didn’t know how I could get out. I didn’t know, but my mom, she is a genius. She said if my reflection had pulled me in, maybe she could pull me out. She stretched out her arms, and my arms barely made it through the mirror surface, but my mom pulled me out! I started laughing and crying at the same time. Mom comforted me, and then she planned what we would do about my mirror self. We caught that evil reflection when she came home from school, and together we pushed her inside of another big mirror. She pounded and tried to get out, but she couldn’t. We took the mirror to the landfill, and I was so relieved that she was gone forever. Eventually, I repaired all my friendships, so nothing was lost on my reflection’s havoc. Just remember this the next time you look in the mirror.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Iceberg" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-152 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-153 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-153"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Iceberg</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Alex Tuzov, Age 8, Thailand<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A merchant ship captain has a conversation with the president of an African country about the iceberg he is towing back from Antarctica for $1 million.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hello, president’s office? This is Captain McGrady. Can I speak to President Mumumba, please? Thank you. (beat) Oh, hello, Mr. Mumumba. How are you doing, sir? Well, I’m great! Everything is going as planned. I have this huge iceberg. Yes, my ship is tugging it. And I am steaming full speed to the east coast of Africa. (reporting excitedly) You are going to have 100,000 tons of ice in a week! Yes, ice-cold crystal-clear water for the whole country! (asking, a bit uneasy)Yeah... uh...Mr. President, I need the money. $1 million as stated in the contract…<br /> (disappointed, frustrated) Wha... what do you mean it can’t be done? But we have this agreement! The contract says $1 million for an iceberg from Antarctica. I have the iceberg. Why can’t I get the money? (confused) What? Coronavirus? Quarantine? Borders closed? The port is closed,too? But why are you only telling me about this now? You could have informed me before... I’m in the middle of the ocean, Mr. President! (angry) Wait? I can’t wait! The iceberg is melting and in three weeks it’s going to be a popsicle. (trying to joke) You are not paying $1 million for a popsicle, are you? (demanding desperately) Well, then open the port, let the Iceberg in. (beat) No? (giving a new idea, hoping desperately) Then let’s sneak it through a smaller port. (beat) (disappointed) Oh, I understand, it is too big... (selling again, inspired, excited) I still think you should do it, Mr. President. It would be the greatest thing ever to happen in your country. Tall and beautiful mountain of crystal-clear ice! Enough to provide drinking water to cities and villages for a year! Green fields and happy farmers! (brightened with a new idea, excited) Oh, did I tell you about the penguins? The iceberg comes with penguins sitting on top! Put them in the zoo and charge people three dollars to look at them. You’ll get your million dollars back in no time. The zoo is closed? (frustrated again, panicking) Well, sell them as pets. The best seller of the year! Who would not want to have a penguin at home? (beat) No? (panic) Uh...or ...or...build a huge ice-slide and rent out sleds and skis! Or a skating rink! I can volunteer as a skating coach as soon as I get one million! Yeah, I played hockey. (excited, inspired with his new idea) It can be a huge ice theme park. With people skating, skiing, sledding, having fun in the snow, making snowmen, feeding penguins...! You know what, forget about it! You don’t want the iceberg? Fine. I’m keeping it! It’s worth so much more than just 1million!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MiddleSchool" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-153 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-154 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-154"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Middle School</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Avalon C., Age 13, Missouri, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen reassures her younger sister that Middle School won’t be as bad as she things.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>(knock knock) Who is it? Oh, Anna. Come here. Are you still scared about tomorrow? I know.<br /> The first day of middle school is written as scary in all of the movies, but it’s not that bad. You still have the same friends as last year, and the lunches are only a little different, so how can it be that bad? Choosing my outfit got harder in Middle School, and to be honest so did everything else. Friend groups got more complicated, so was lunch, seating choices, there was so much homework, and the teachers were really different. But different does not always mean bad. I made a lot of new friends in Middle School, some that I still have all the way to now, in high school. I learned to be more independent and even learned about money management. Plus, all the other things that you learn in school. Still, Middle School should be written off as neutral. Even though there are all of these scary things happening, all of these good things happen too. That's why you shouldn't be scared Anna, you’ll love Middle School, I promise.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WishMeLuck" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-154 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-155 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-155"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Wish Me Luck</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Louis McCartney, Age 17, Northern Ireland<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Marilyn Monroe talks at her own funeral about three important moments in her life.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I think I was twelve. Yeah, twelve. I was on holiday with my family. We were driving along laughing and joking. After a while, me and my stepdad started arguing. I can’t even remember what it was over, but things got pretty heated. My mum told my stepdad to pull into this gas station, stretch our legs and chill out a bit. I climbed out of the car and walked over to the public toilet. When I came back out again, the car was gone. My mum and stepdad had left me. I walked into the shop and asked the guy working there if he saw where the car went. He could barely look me in the eye. He said he saw me walk into the toilet and as soon as that door closed my parents shared a look, ran to the car, jumped in and drove off. You’d think I’d be surprised, but I wasn’t. My parents always liked their drugs better than they liked me. I had no money and no phone. It was getting late, so I started to hitchhike. I stood there for hours, until finally I got a lift into the city. For the first few nights I slept rough. If you’re ever looking for a nice, quiet, safe place to sleep rough in a city, try a graveyard. No one messes with you there. I started to steal cars, sell them for a hot meal and a cheap hotel. Got arrested and ended up in a juvenile detention center. That place was crazy; it was like a 24/7 dogfight. The guards used to lock us in our dormitory at night and not show up again ‘til the morning. The savagery that took place there was unbearable. After I got out of there, it was back to stealing cars. Got arrested again and it was rinse and repeat with juvey. That’s where I took my first hit of heroin. You know, heroin will give you everything, but you’ve got to be prepared to give everything to heroin…and I did. This is the first day I’ve been clean in four years. But the only time I feel happy and content is when I’m on heroin, so I don’t know if I’m ever gonna’ get off it. But God loves a trier, so here goes nothing. Wish me luck.</p> <p><em>Moment #2: Marilyn Monroe productions Meeting Milton Greene + Escaping Fox</em></p> <p>Can I be honest? Fox wasn’t so wonderful. It did give me a lot. Movies. Magazines.<br /> Marilyn Monroe was a celebrity. Whoohoo! But I didn’t have a friend. Not until I met Milton Greene. One day I saw a beautiful portfolio and wanted to meet the photographer. When I saw him I was surprised by how young he was so I said. ‘Oh, he’s just a boy!’ and he replied with, ‘hmph she’s just a girl.’ I liked him because he wasn’t scared of me. Without Milton, I would never have escaped to New York. I wasn’t going to sign another contract for anybody but me.</p> <p><em>Moment #3 New York / Kennedy’s birthday</em></p> <p>In New York I found love. I was pushing myself again thanks to the actor’s studio and UCLA. But the opinions were still so loud. The most deafening moment was JFK’s birthday in 1962. I heard the voice of James Dougherty ‘Marilyn Monroe is a stranger.’ I saw the jealousy on Joe DiMaggio’s face. He didn’t want anyone else to look at me. I felt the disappointed glare of Arthur Miller. I wasn’t what he needed me to be. Everyone who ever loved me took a part of who I was. But Kennedy. Charming Kennedy. Possibly the only man who would be considered as my equal. Kennedy was the worst of them all. Because loving him took my life. I was getting better. Until I was killed, making it look like a clumsy mistake of my own hands. Even in death, I’m the dumb blonde. Who else could it happen to? There was Dorothy Kilgallen. A journalist. Who was maybe a little too good at her job. Dorothy and I had too much knowledge. And a woman with knowledge clearly, can’t be trusted.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WeddingJitters" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-155 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-156 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-156"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Wedding Jitters</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Astra Baker, Age 16, New York, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> her wedding, a bride is in her head overthinking what forever would mean.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>(Actor is holding a bouquet and standing as if facing a groom in a wedding ceremony. Pulls away to face the audience.)</p> <p>Until death do us part? That’s a long time. Like, forever. Forever. Like forever, forever? So many things in life take me forever. Like picking out this wedding dress. THAT took forever. Or, or picking out the wedding cake. There were just so many favors and different stores with different bakers and don’t even get me started on the fillings! But forever…with just one person? This is the biggest day of my life and I've been talking about fo- for- FOR LIKE FOREVER, or at least since I was able to talk and watch TV. I’d watch all those beautiful brides walk down the aisle, looking so beautiful in their elegant gowns, hair done so perfectly, holding the loveliest flowers just below their glowing faces, bursting with joy, faces decorated with the biggest smiles, bright as jewelry, every one of them feeling like they’re the only girl in the whole world. And now that’s me. (pauses, looks at groom) I love him. I truly do. From the moment we met dancing together at that festival a year ago, until the moment he surprised me on the beach, written in the sand, a proposal pulled straight from the movies. He’s the one for me. I feel love when I look in his eyes. But…forever? Oh, just look at him, with that smile that melts me. He’s my prince, for sure… but am I his princess? Can I be that for him, forever? I’ve been practicing all week. Those two little words, “I do.” Everyone in this church is staring at me. Waiting for my answer, and he is looking so longingly at me. Oh, what the heck. (turns to face the groom) I DO! (turns back to the audience) I wasn’t supposed to shout it. Now everyone is laughing at me. Oh, what the heck. I gotta get my kiss now. I’m his princess…FOREVER. (turns back to groom).</p> <p><em>Moment #2: Marilyn Monroe productions Meeting Milton Greene + Escaping Fox</em></p> <p>Can I be honest? Fox wasn’t so wonderful. It did give me a lot. Movies. Magazines.<br /> Marilyn Monroe was a celebrity. Whoohoo! But I didn’t have a friend. Not until I met Milton Greene. One day I saw a beautiful portfolio and wanted to meet the photographer. When I saw him I was surprised by how young he was so I said. ‘Oh, he’s just a boy!’ and he replied with, ‘hmph she’s just a girl.’ I liked him because he wasn’t scared of me. Without Milton, I would never have escaped to New York. I wasn’t going to sign another contract for anybody but me.</p> <p><em>Moment #3 New York / Kennedy’s birthday</em></p> <p>In New York I found love. I was pushing myself again thanks to the actor’s studio and UCLA. But the opinions were still so loud. The most deafening moment was JFK’s birthday in 1962. I heard the voice of James Dougherty ‘Marilyn Monroe is a stranger.’ I saw the jealousy on Joe DiMaggio’s face. He didn’t want anyone else to look at me. I felt the disappointed glare of Arthur Miller. I wasn’t what he needed me to be. Everyone who ever loved me took a part of who I was. But Kennedy. Charming Kennedy. Possibly the only man who would be considered as my equal. Kennedy was the worst of them all. Because loving him took my life. I was getting better. Until I was killed, making it look like a clumsy mistake of my own hands. Even in death, I’m the dumb blonde. Who else could it happen to? There was Dorothy Kilgallen. A journalist. Who was maybe a little too good at her job. Dorothy and I had too much knowledge. And a woman with knowledge clearly, can’t be trusted.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheLifeofMarilynMonroe" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-156 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-157 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-157"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Life of Marilyn Monroe</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jasmine Scholz, Age 17, Australia<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Marilyn Monroe talks at her own funeral about three important moments in her life.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>Moment #1: Funeral of Marilyn Monroe August 8th, 1962 Opens with the funeral presenter.</em></p> <p>‘We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Norma Jean, better known as Marilyn Monroe.’ Actress transforms becoming Marilyn. I kinda hoped to live up to more than this. But didn’t I have everything anyone could want? It was 1946, and I had been signed by Fox. I was going to be a movie star! My husband James didn’t like it. He said I was becoming a stranger to him. <em>(Apply red lipstick.)</em> I never wanted to marry him. I stood there, 16 years old and I thought, ‘Dear God, please don’t say those vows.’ He said em, and then I thought ‘Maybe I could run away?’ Then the priest said ‘Speak now or forever hold your peace.’ I said nothing. That’s when I became Norma Doherty. Thank god I changed it to Marilyn.</p> <p><em>Moment #2: Marilyn Monroe productions Meeting Milton Greene + Escaping Fox</em></p> <p>Can I be honest? Fox wasn’t so wonderful. It did give me a lot. Movies. Magazines.<br /> Marilyn Monroe was a celebrity. Whoohoo! But I didn’t have a friend. Not until I met Milton Greene. One day I saw a beautiful portfolio and wanted to meet the photographer. When I saw him I was surprised by how young he was so I said. ‘Oh, he’s just a boy!’ and he replied with, ‘hmph she’s just a girl.’ I liked him because he wasn’t scared of me. Without Milton, I would never have escaped to New York. I wasn’t going to sign another contract for anybody but me.</p> <p><em>Moment #3 New York / Kennedy’s birthday</em></p> <p>In New York I found love. I was pushing myself again thanks to the actor’s studio and UCLA. But the opinions were still so loud. The most deafening moment was JFK’s birthday in 1962. I heard the voice of James Dougherty ‘Marilyn Monroe is a stranger.’ I saw the jealousy on Joe DiMaggio’s face. He didn’t want anyone else to look at me. I felt the disappointed glare of Arthur Miller. I wasn’t what he needed me to be. Everyone who ever loved me took a part of who I was. But Kennedy. Charming Kennedy. Possibly the only man who would be considered as my equal. Kennedy was the worst of them all. Because loving him took my life. I was getting better. Until I was killed, making it look like a clumsy mistake of my own hands. Even in death, I’m the dumb blonde. Who else could it happen to? There was Dorothy Kilgallen. A journalist. Who was maybe a little too good at her job. Dorothy and I had too much knowledge. And a woman with knowledge clearly, can’t be trusted.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LittleRacistThings" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-157 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-158 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-158"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Little Racist Things</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Thandie C., Age 12, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A middle-schooler talks about racism among children/kids from their point of view, in front of their class for an English assignment.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>It’s the little things that are racist. Like for example, there’s that coloured pencil, which is a peach colour, that everyone calls ‘skin colour’. That’s racist, but you never realise that until you’re older. Peach isn’t the only skin colour to exist, or maybe people just say it’s ‘skin colour’, because they think it’s the only one that looks good on their drawings. Or the only one they think is pretty. Not black. Not brown. Or when the lights are out and someone yells for your name, and you’re black, and everyone is like ‘where did you go’, ‘it so dark I can't see you’. Again (pause), that’s racist. Just because I may be darker doesn’t mean you can compare me to pitch black. If a black person happens to wear braids to school, some say ‘you have to wear your real hair’, ‘you’re not allowed extensions’. Some of the kids pull on it, touch it, pat your hair, flood you with questions, and that’s just annoying. It’s just little things that don’t seem racist as a kid, until you’re way older, and then you realise, wow (pause), the world sucks.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/aiK4u43U7vY" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="GenieBlues" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-158 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-159 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-159"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Genie Blues</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Ethan Roberts, Age 12, Plymouth, England<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> The genie in ‘Aladdin’ vents his frustrations<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Yes, I’m a genie. It was supposed to be a secret. But now everybody knows about me because of Aladdin. You’ve got the book, the film, the stage production and of course the merchandise. There I am, Aladdin’s big fat comedy sidekick. Well, let me tell you something, life isn’t all what you see in the movies. For a start, look at me. Do I look oversize to you? No, I’m very slim actually. The director, Bob, comes up to me and says he needs a genie of ‘gigantic proportions’. Fair enough I say, puffing out my chest, I can work out ... This was when I found out they didn’t want me to appear as myself in the film. Bob comes to me the next day and says, ‘I’m envisioning you in blue’. I say, ‘no problem, blue has always suited me, it’s my signature color. Of course, he wasn’t talking clothing, he meant skin tone. So now I’m a big, blue blob! Great!... Deep breathe ... After I calmed down, I thought, never mind, it will still be my story, I’ll just look a bit different. ‘Come and visit the set, ’Bob says, ‘See how we’ve brought your story to life.’ Well, I walk in and there’s sand everywhere and it looks like a holiday brochure for Tunisia. ‘Not very Devon is it?’ I say. ‘About that,’ says Bob, ‘We were looking for a more ‘exotic’ location.’ ‘But you’re never going to find a grocery store around here are you?’, I reply. ‘Hmm,’ says Bob, ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.’ Apparently, the true story…that I came out of a milk carton in the local supermarket when Alan unscrewed the lid, wasn’t ‘exciting enough’, it didn’t scream ‘blockbuster’. ‘We’re going with Aladdin rubbing a magic lamp to summon you instead,’ says Bob.(<em>Sighs, head in hands.</em>) I consulted my solicitor. He said that because I signed over my rights, I have limited input on how my story is told. Something about artistic license. Of course, by this point, it isn’t my story anymore anyway. Apparently, they thought ‘Aladdin’ was the standout character. Handsome guy gets the girls and all that ... and by the way she was actually called Sandra, not Jasmine, and she was no oil painting, let me tell you. Anyway, it’s Alan’s, I mean ‘Aladdin’s’ name in lights and I’m there in his shadow providing the cheap laughs. The very cheek of it. I’ll have you know I did method acting in my youth; I’ve had calls from the RSC. I am not and never will be a joke act!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="PastaonTrial" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-159 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-160 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-160"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Pasta on Trial</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Joel C., Age 16, Melbourne, Australia<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A pasta maker defends himself in a murder trial.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any (can be changed to the wife on trial)<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p><em>Actor should be quite emphatic, triumphant even, in his delivery.</em></p> <p>Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, neither myself and nor my company, nor pasta had nothing to do with the untimely death of my wife. I beg for this case to be dismissed before my company suffers further. For almost a decade, our company has held the largest market share for pasta in the world. We have been through thick and thin, (and angel hair) fighting our adversaries and overcoming hurdle after hurdle. It has been a long and treacherous, unforgiving path, especially with the invention of keto diets. But we have made it, and we stand here together, today, in defiance of the odds, in unity. And it is of my utmost pleasure to announce that we are becoming more than pasta manufactures, today – we are pasta pioneers. You are all familiar with ravioli, we have been bred and raised on the stuff, the epitome of pasta. And tomorrow, if I am not imprisoned, our company will honour our ancestors, and our nation, by unveiling our sausage filled ravioli, sausoli, patent pending. This revolutionary step in the world of pasta will forever unite the Australians and the Italians, with a cuisine that will outlast societies. I would like to dedicate this concoction to my late wife, whom we all adored. Yes, she died by choking on pasta. But it was not my fault or the poor linguini’s fault. Linguini is innocent! My wife LOVED pasta. She literally loved it to death. The poor woman gorged herself on it and that’s what killed her. I believe that I’ve made my case clear. You cannot convict me or my linguini. It will bankrupt us. Please vote to acquit. Do it for the children. Do it for the children who need their macaroni. I rest my case.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ThanksgivingAcceptance" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-160 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-161 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-161"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Thanksgiving Acceptance</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Genevieve B., Age 15, New Jersey, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen nervously reveals to his/her grandmother that he/she is gay.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I'll be out in a minute! Just…Hold on, just warm up the car! (<em>beat</em>) Hey, Grammy. I love you too, yeah; this has been fun. It was great seeing you. Look, I need to talk to you before I go. No, no mom and dad know I won’t be out for a minute. Don’t worry, they’re waiting for me, yeah. Look, I really have to tell you this. No! No, I loved dinner. The turkey was great. It was the best Thanksgiving yet, Grammy. Yeah, it was really fun to see everyone again, but uh, Grammy, please, just let me talk!Thank you. Now, I’ve been thinking for a long time. Do you remember when you always told me that the boys would be chasing me, because of my amazing good looks? Yeah, well, I've kind of been running away from them all. I'm not ... scared of them. I'm just interested in someone else. Yeah. Someone special… Well, it's not actually a- (<em>beat</em>) What's his name? His name. Well, I don't think I need to say. Embarrassed? I'm not embarrassed; it's just not what you're going to expect.Well, if you really want me to say it. I'll say it. Eve. Her name is Eve. (<em>beat</em>) Oh, thank God, the wishbone worked!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="NoOne" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-161 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-162 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-162"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">No One</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Chloe Cramutola, Age 16, New Jersey, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> In a world where everyone has gone missing, one teen remains, imagining that he/she is a radio show host.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Monologue can be delivered at a desk with a prop microphone, simulating a radio broadcast, or in front of a laptop, as if the person is livestreaming or recording a video.)</em></p> <p>Well, good morning world. The walls are still white, the food still canned, and the people still gone. It’s day 47 of absolute isolation, loneliness, and complete and utter boredom. Listeners—of which, there aren’t any—and I don’t mean to start off on such a low note, but I’m gonna go insane if I have to be stuck with myself for another two months. Actually, I’m surprised I haven’t driven myself up a wall yet. The routine’s the same, the weather’s the same—if anything’s not the same, it’s me. I’ve learned to somewhat cope with the silence and to, rather reluctantly, live on my own in a house I could never call my home. Things are... bad, to say the least. Nowadays, conversations consist of tousling with stubborn thoughts or barking back at my Pomeranian, whose name is, fittingly, Wilson. At least he hasn’t left me behind. (pause) Man. I miss my family. My friends. Just, talking to people. Saying “hi” on the way to class. Those three-hour calls only just starting at midnight. Heck, even the dreaded small talk, the awkward interactions no one wanted... Right now, I’d give anything to mess up one more embarrassing presentation, one last really bad attempt at asking my crush to prom. I mean really, you don’t know how annoying you are until you’re talking to yourself and only yourself 24/7, trying to pretend you have some semblance of a purpose. Frankly, this whole show is pointless. What I’m doing now is pointless. No one will ever hear it. No one will ever care. Because, there is... no one.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Psychologist" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-162 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-163 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-163"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Psychologist</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Ava Reis, Age 12, St. Louis, MO, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager is forced to go and see a psychologist by their parents.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>How do l feel about it? You seriously just asked me how I feel about it? Classic. Ya know, this whole psychologist thing in general is kind of corrupt. You sit down, listen to my problems, (supposedly) and ask me how I feel? Look, I know my parents gave you the rundown of my whole life story or whatever. I heard you from the waiting room. You know I was bullied. You know I have bipolar. You know my grandma died. How does that make me feel? Not great. But I don’t let that stuff define me. I’ve moved on. I’ve dealt with that stuff on my own. To be honest, you guys are just reopening those wounds. Last night I googled stuff about psychologists. All I have to say is wow. Y’all get paid a pretty hefty salary considering you just sit down and listen to people go on, and on about their problems. But I mean, let’s be honest here. You don’t actually listen. You’re just thinking about going home, watching tv, what you’re going to make for dinner. Look, I’m not stupid. You guys are still regular people. You have your own problems. If you ask me, I don’t think you want to spend your time engulfing yourself in some randos life. So, I’m just saying maybe asking me how I feel isn’t the best approach. Cause, I’m pretty sure I just told you how I feel. Let’s just cut this short okay. You can have that power bar you’ve been eyeing on your desk, and I can go ride my skateboard for the next hour. That’ll make us both feel better. (gets up and exits)</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Zombies" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-163 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-164 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-164"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Zombies</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Naia Thethy, Age 11, Washington D.C., USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A person calls a government agency and admits to starting a zombie apocalypse.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Speaking into a cell phone with great urgency.)</em></p> <p>Hello? Have I reached the pandemic response team? Oh good. My name is Chris Johnson and I have something important to tell you. I know who started the zombie virus (pause) it’s me. But I can explain everything. I work in DiCor Labs, I had been working on a medication to cure bad skin. Now, I believe I accidentally added some of the other substances that we had been mixing. One was a mild antibiotic that was shown to reduce the effects of aging. I don’t think that was it, though. The other one was a chemical that has been shown to bring people back to life. (pause) Yes, you heard that correctly. That’s why I’m calling. Our test subjects are the ones who first turned into zombies. I came back from my break, and everyone was missing, and I saw on the news that they were zombies. It started in our lab. Now, I think I know the cure. It’s as simple as mixing part A and part B, and in theory, it should work. But if it doesn’t, I can add in some of the confidential ingredients. (pause) No, don’t hang up. I’m serious. (pause) Arrest me? No, you don’t understand. You can’t lock me away; I alone can cure this. I know I made a huge mistake that could cost hundreds of lives, but if I can fix it, then it’s not the end of the world. Look, I have loads of promising chemicals in my lab and I’m even willing to test them on myself. (pause) Okay, yes. Send someone over. Your scientists will want to work with me on this. I’m the only one who knows the formula. (pause) Okay. Bye. (hears someone at the door-maybe a loud crash) That was quick! (moves toward the door and offstage and starts screaming) Noooooo! Zombies!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="VoteforMe" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-164 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-165 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-165"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Vote for Me</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Sami Taylor, Age 15, Austin, TX, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen running for Student Council President delivers a terrible campaign speech.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Class of 2020, I have something I need to say to you. Vote for me. Not for President, I don’t even think I’m old enough for that. For the Student Council, I mean. I wanna be your class president cause like prom sucked last year. And I think you all know I throw a killer party. A vote for me is a vote for a better prom. Also, the guidance counselor, Ms. Beiste, said that if I want to get into college, I’m gonna need extracurriculars like Student Council, so here I am. Apparently, my GPA is record-breaking which I is a good thing, but apparently not enough to get into the college of my choice. Without the curriculars, you know. But yeah, so vote for me. I’m supposed to tell you why I would be a good fit for the job but let’s be honest. You’re gonna vote for me anyway. Why? Cause I’m popular, and I’m running unopposed. But just to fill the time, I guess I’ll go ahead and tell you another reason why I’m eligible. I babysat a lot last summer and I feel like I was a really good leader. I got the kids to go to bed, only a couple hours after their bedtime, and I supervised when they cooked my dinner so. Yeah and also, it’s true that I ran for Student Council last year but there was a miscommunication. Apparently you can’t just run to be Student Council, you have to run for a certain position. So, I guess you could say I’m ambitious. Oh, well. Time’s up. So remember, vote for me for President. Of Student Council not the government...obviously.</p> <p><b>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://vimeo.com/548887113" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">here</a><a href="https://vimeo.com/548887113" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">.</a></b></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="SupernaturalComputer" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-165 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-166 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-166"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Supernatural Computer</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Ian Shin, Age 16, Austin, TX, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A kid tells a friend about the time he thought his computer was possessed and speaking to him.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I know! Alexa is always listening. But you want to hear something even more strange? My computer has been speaking to me. No, I’m serious. (pause) Yes. That computer right there. It happens at random times, like at night when I’m in bed and looking at my phone. At first, it was just saying things like “turn off your music,” or “turn off your light.” But then it started to get more complex; it started asking me to do favors for it. Like it told me to buy this new computer game and have it shipped to the house. Of course, I didn’t do it because it’s a computer. What’s it going to do to me? Well, the next day, my room was a complete mess and something smelled like it died in here. And on the screen, it said, “You should have done what I asked.” That was the last time I messed with my “supernatural” computer. The next day when the computer asked me to order it food, I didn’t question it and ordered that food right away. I ordered it from my house, but it never arrived. The doorbell never rang, and my app told me that it arrived. I don’t know where it went. Maybe the app and the computer are working together. Wait. Did you hear that? Shhhh. (pause) You heard that, right? See, I’m not crazy. It just asked me to write a three-page paper about the civil war. (realizes something) Wait a minute. My little brother is supposed to write an essay about the civil war. Oh, he is so dead! (yelling) Jackson!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Storytime" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-166 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-167 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-167"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Storytime</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Lauren Reese, Age 16, Austin TX, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A parent tries to get their crazy energetic kids to go to bed.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Ok, kids. Seriously. It’s time to go to bed. Lights off, no more talking! (pause) Ok, fine. I’ll tell y’all one more story. Hmm, what is trendy now? Popsockets? VSCO girls? TikTok? What, those are already getting outdated? Whatever. Okay…once upon a time, there were three sisters, just like y’all. One who was obsessed with VSCO, the other who would not stop making TikToks, and lastly one who actually went to bed on time. They decided to go on an adventure because they had been bored at home all day. They wanted to go to a treehouse they had seen a couple of miles away from their house. One sister asked if the oldest could drive them but she said, “Don’t you remember Brittany when I was taking my driver’s test I was eating a banana and then threw the peel out the window, which someone immediately slipped on. Now that I say that I’m realizing that’s why I don’t have my license.” So, they had to walk. Along the way, the VSCO sister found a great spot to take some pictures for the gram. So she made her sisters stop and take pictures of her. They then continued and found an awesome hammock that one of the sisters wanted to take a nap on but her other sisters insisted that they keep moving. When they finally arrived at the treehouse the last sister forced the rest of her sisters to do the renegade with her for TikTok but what they didn’t know is that they were in a magical treehouse that didn’t like TikToks so it made the girls shrink and they were sucked into the pop socket on one of the girl’s phone never to be seen again. The end. Now go to bed for real!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ThrowitBack" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-167 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-168 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-168"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Throw it Back!</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Drew Evans, Age 12, Austin, TX, USA<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A kid playing baseball gets confused after catching a home-run baseball.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>(Actor should be over-the-top enthusiastic, acting out the pitches, bat swings, and catches.)</em></p> <p>Dad, I wish you could have seen it! I understand. You’re sick, and that’s okay. Let me tell you exactly what happened. It was the top of the 8th and the LG Twins led by four. The Doosan Bears had the bases loaded and no outs. I could smell the pizza in the air, and I couldn’t help but smile when the Twins hit a bomb to center field earlier in the game. “Strike one”, yelled the umpire, and everyone cheered. The pitcher had a no-hitter going and even though he just walked three batters the whole team wanted him to pitch the full no-hitter. The pitcher throws the ball. “Strike two”; everyone cheers. The pitcher winds up and throws again. With a loud crack, the ball pops off the bat and the announcer says, “High fly ball deep to center field. Kimoto is back at the wall it is … caught he robs the home run!” Everyone goes crazy. Even though a run scores, it doesn’t even matter. We also got the double play. The pitch...the crack of the bat the stadium goes silent he dives out and catches it! Wooo everyone goes insane. In the bottom of the 8th, the twins scored two runs on a home run. Top of the ninth the no-hitter is still alive and crack!!! It is way deep. It's a no-doubt home run and it’s coming right for me, and I caught it! I actually caught it! Woohoo! Wait. Oh no! Everyone is chanting, “Throw it back! Throw it back!” What should I do? I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna throw it back! No! It's a home run ball, but it broke up a no-hitter alright. I’m throwing it back. Three, two, one, rrrrr aaa! I threw it back. Hahaha, I’m such a mad man. The twins ended up winning that game but still, I can’t believe I caught a home run!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheSleepover" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-168 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-169 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-169"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Sleepover</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Natalia Santos, Florida, USA, Age 13<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenage girl tries to convince her strict mother to let her go to a sleepover.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hey, Mom! (Pause.) No, I don’t want anything at all. Well, just one, teeny, tiny, little, insignificant, totally no-big-deal favor. (Pause.) PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, WITH A CHERRY ON TOP, AND SPRINKLES, AND WHIPPED CREAM: CAN I PLEASE GO TO KATHY’S SLEEPOVER TONIGHT? Wait! Before you say no, just hear me out! First of all, I cleaned my room from top to bottom, and it’s so clean, you could eat off the floor! I know you shouldn’t do it, but it’s a metaphor - just roll with it. I also mopped the tile floor in the living room, washed the dishes, bathed the cat, polished all the mirrors, took out the trash, finished all my homework for the next week, and booked your next appointment to the, the… podiatrist. Secondly, you’ve met Kathy’s mom, and you guys totally hit it off! I know you haven’t gotten the chance to check their wall paint for dangerously high amounts of lead or check her bank statements, but I think she’s pretty trustworthy! She keeps a fire extinguisher in the kitchen and everything. Also, she doesn’t have any big dogs in the house, or any other risk factors that could result in injury. So, what do you say, my loving, supportive, most amazing mother in the whole, wide world?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheReceptionist" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-169 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-170 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-170"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Receptionist</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Iris Barrera, California, USA, age 13<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A chatty receptionist scares off a person who comes to interview for a job.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hello there, dear. I’m Janice P. Nelson. The “P” stands for Penelope, it was my mother’s name. Everyone just calls me Nancy though, I’m not sure why. Mr. Rupert will be with you shortly. Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat hon. Oh! No. Not there. Mr. Rupert sits at that table for his lunch break, and trust me, you don't want to sit there. Mr. Rupert is very intimidating and you don’t want to do anything, even accidentally that could destroy your chances of getting this job. Oh, here. How about this armchair here, the green velvet really compliments your eyes… I remember the days when my eyes were that bright… You look a little nervous dear. I would be too if I had to go in there. Here, have a cup of tea. I know, it’s decaf, sorry that’s all we got right now. There, feeling better? I’ve always found that a nice cup of hot tea can settle my nerves. You know, when I got married to my first husband, Charlie, I was so nervous. I was practically shaking as I walked down the aisle… Oh Charlie. He died almost exactly two months after the wedding. Mysterious heart attack, you know? Well, I just married Charlie’s brother after that, he was the richer one anyway…Are you married, dear? No? Well, you better hurry up with that, you’ve only got a few years left before you turn practically into prune, and then no good man will want you. Take it from me, Charlie’s brother died of a heart attack too一I think it ran in the family一 and after that I couldn’t find another husband. And I was left with absolutely no fortune at all, since the brother seemed to have a gambling problem. That's why I had to take this job… What’s it like? Well, working for Mr. Rupert has its challenges. For one thing, he’s quite particular. He’s obsessed with colors and well, if you show up one day wearing a color he doesn’t like, that puts him in a foul mood all day. I mostly stick with brown, that seems to suit him. Also germs. Never, ever touch Mr. Rupert. I made that mistake one day, and trust me, I will not repeat that. He also has a lot of crazy ideas. He calls them ‘big ideas.’ If he brings one up, its best to just agree with him, no matter how absurd it sounds. But other than that, it’s a great place to work. If you’re done with the tea, dear, you can just set it on my desk. Feel free to take a few of the peppermints, I saw you eyeing those. You know what? I think Mr Rupert will see you now. His office is right down the hall, third door on the left. Don’t touch the edges of his carpet, he really doesn’t like that. Wait, where are you going? His door is over here. Come back. Mr. Rupert will see you now!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="FeralCat" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-170 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-171 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-171"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Feral Cat</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Lauren Connally, Texas, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl tries to persuade her best friend to release a feral cat Hannah had captured.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Look, Hannah, I know you love him, but you have to get rid of that cat. I know you keep telling me, “But Fiona, I rescued him!” No, you did not. That’s a feral cat if I’ve ever seen one. He constantly runs away from you, scratches up everything you own, and attacks your face if you get too close. Trust me, you’ll both be happier if you let him back into the wild. Especially the cat. That thing is not meant to be indoors or near people. Trust me, I’m doing you a solid here.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/32R_PiwDKH8" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> <p><strong>Watch another video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/32R_PiwDKH8" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BadDay" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-171 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-172 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-172"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Bad Day</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Lauren R., Texas, USA, Age 16<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen tells a friend about the worst day of her life.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p><em>Talking to a friend on her cell phone.</em></p> <p>What did I do today? You’re going to be sorry you asked. Today has been the absolute worst day of my entire life and it’s only 1 pm. I had so many things planned, and it was supposed to be the best day ever. This morning, I went to Starbucks to pick up muffins and iced vanilla chai lattes for me and Haley and Jessica, but the barista spilled one of the coffees all over me. After that, I was still determined to have the best day ever, so I decided to drive home real quick to change out of my coffee-stained shirt. On the way to go meet them for some morning shopping, I got a flat tire. But I decided to call roadside assistance to get my car towed and have Haley come pick me up and not let it ruin the day. We met Jessica there, and we were having fun shopping until we went to a really expensive store to try things on for fun and I accidentally tore a dress I was trying on. That was definitely a costly mistake. At that, I asked Haley to drive me back home because frankly, I could not handle one more mishap. But she insisted that it was all just coincidence and Jessica said that she would help me cover the cost of the dress. Then they talked me into going over to the zoo to see the new habitat for the turtle that had been just added. But I was worried because there were so many things that could go wrong at the zoo. So, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. I was at the zoo and a monkey pooped on my head. Yes, I’m serious. It came from out of nowhere like I don’t even know how the monkey got where I was so it could poop on my head specifically. I decided that was it, that was the last straw. I walked six miles home in my new heels because I knew that if I ever stepped foot in a car it would probably explode. (pause) Tomorrow? What am I doing tomorrow? You’re out of your mind if you are considering going somewhere with me.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheEx" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-172 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-173 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-173"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Ex</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Melany Morales, Florida, USA, Age 13<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A dramatic Hispanic girl complains about her ex-boyfriend to her new best friend.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>I still can’t believe that Esteban did that. He left with Brittney’ to America y me dejo! Well, I don’t want to focus on him right now. He wasn't even that nice-looking, anyway. I don’t know what I ever found in that guy. Oh, who am I kidding? He's gorgeous, he's adorable, he's...he's...I can't keep doing this to myself! It's been two weeks. I should be over that "Prince Royce-wanna-be" by now. Pero, I just can't get over him - he's all I think about! (Pause.) Is that--oh...my...oh...my...TAMALES! No puedo... it’s...it’s a pimple! And it’s HUGE! No wonder he left me. That little Americana - she must have perfect skin. I could never. And this pelo! Who in their right mind would EVER find me attractive?! I knew from the moment he left he was disgusted by my ugliness! (Pause.) Well...now that I think of it, he did call me dramatic and loud. He thinks I’m dramatic?! Oh, sweetie, no, HE’S the dramatic one. And, I'm Hispanic, so I don’t know what quiet is! He’s the one missing out on the future "Miss Universo." (Pause.) Oh...is that the new neighbor from next door? He can shoot hoops? Hay, he's guapo! Just look at those muscles! That’s it, I’m out. Brittney, you can keep Esteban. I have bigger matters to attend to!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Courage" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-173 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-174 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-174"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Courage</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Sophie S., Texas, USA, Age 16<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Tommy, 18, is going away to college, and saying goodbye to a tiger who has been his imaginary friend his entire life.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p><em>Actor can use a stuffed tiger as a prop.</em></p> <p>You’ve been with me for so long, through everything, the ups, and downs, and during all of the struggles that come with growing up, you have been my best friend. What a childhood I’ve had, with a tiger by my side! You listened to the stories about the bullies, you rescued me when everyone else in the house was yelling out of hurt and anger. You stayed up late with me looking at the stars. You pushed me to be brave and to stand up for myself, and through it all, you were there. Like no one else in my life, you were always present. No late-night work, drunken moods, or angry fits could change you. You never changed, you were a patient listener, my courageous sidekick in every battle, and my trusted confidant. And now, there is something I need to say to you. I’m going off to college next week, and I can’t take you with me. I know you’re not real, I know that you are my imaginary friend. That was never a problem, because I didn’t want to go a single day without my Tiger by my side. But I’m growing up, heck I am grown up, and grown-ups can’t go around talking to a friend named Tiger. So, from now on I will call you Courage.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Thinking" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-174 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-175 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-175"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Thinking</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Josh K., Texas, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen wrestles with trying to stop thinking so much.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Please don’t ask me what I’m thinking, mom. I have nothing to say, like literally nothing, the fact that my brain is so empty right now astonishes me. I cannot believe that there are even words coming out of my mouth, it’s almost as if my mind is full. Full of emptiness however, like invisible metal, weighing me down and inhibiting me from saying anything other than that I have nothing to say. I am thinking about thinking about not thinking and that might be enough make you think about thinking, which is a lot of thinking. That gets me thinking what is thinking? Now I’m thinking about how not thinking about thinking made me think about thinking about not thinking. That’s enough thinking, time for some television. What? You want to know what I thought of last night’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy? Ugh, I told you…NO MORE THINKING!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ThatWhichCarriesOn" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-175 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-176 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-176"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">That Which Carries On</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Lizzie T., Texas, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A depressed teenager assures her friend that she will be alright…and her reason is surprisingly simple.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>What keeps me going? It’s a weird answer, but I’ll tell you. Water. (pause) No, really. Hear me out. Scientifically, lonely and sad people love rain due to the negative ions it releases, which bring feelings of comfort and happiness in the midst of the positive ions coming from most other things in the world. That’s the only thing I learned from chemistry class this year, but I’m not sure I agree. That water has been everywhere: icebergs from the ages before humanity, the river Caesar crossed, a poisoned well from the Middle Ages, the glasses on the Titanic. Water brings a sense of peace, not only because of the scientific explanation, but because I know it will travel on despite my failures. If I fail my chemistry test today, or spill Pepsi on my dress at prom, or flunk my first job interview, or anything else that can and will go wrong in the next week, the same rain that is soaking through my socks right now will carry on. And if something as simple as that can keep going, I’ll tell myself I can too.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://www.triciampisi.com/monologues" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IdentityCrisis " class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-176 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-177 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-177"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Identity Crisis </span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Hedy Z., Texas, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A utensil in a kitchen drawer has an identity crisis.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>You know the times when you lie in the dark and ponder upon questions about life? Well, this is one of those moments. Since we are both stuck here for another good moment, I figure I will tell you a little about myself, whether you are interested or not. Really, I just have to get these words out of my system. You see, they all say I am “one of a kind.” I thought that that’s what people said when you were strange, and they wanted to be nice. Where I come from, there are basically two groups, and I realized that I don’t belong to either of those groups. One group, the group to my left, said I was too “round” for them; and the ones on the right? Apparently too “spiky.” Now, young one, like everyone else, I wanted to fit in. It I was desperate to be accepted by either group. But it never worked. When I tried to sneak into a group, I’d get found out and separated pretty quickly. I think I had decompression…no, what’s it called…depression. There you go. I think that’s what it’s called when you are sad all the time. But yeah, it was some dark time… until one day. One day, someone from the group to our left said, “Do you realize you get to work every day?” Working frequently is like the greatest honor we could ever have, by the way.” So I started to think, why… if I don't belong to a group...I get to work the most? And it struck me like lightning. It was because I was me. My roundness and spikes are what made me stand out. And if I would take those away, I wouldn’t be there for our masters and serve them well. It really is a journey to maturity…you’ll get it someday. So now, with no shame and in full confidence, I can announce to the world: I am one of a kind. Yes, I am a spork!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheCoolestKidinSchool" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-177 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-178 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-178"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Coolest Kid in School</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Mikala Southern, Georgia, USA, Age 12<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student tells a story about how a daredevil stunt helped him become the coolest kid in school.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>The stupidest thing I’ve done? Yeah, I’ve got a story for ya. And it wasn’t the time I stole a hotdog cart in Times Square. That was stupid, but I have one better than that. The day started off like any normal day. I grabbed my lunch, and my dad yelled goodbye and just like always, he says, “Don’t do anything stupid.” It’s like my old man’s motto, and normally, I don’t listen. But I should have. So, I get to school and this kid, Elroy, he’s kinda like my arch-rival. Elroy comes up to me and says, “How’d you like to be the coolest kid in school?” Move out of my way, I tell him, but he says, “No, really. I heard about this kid over at West Union High who was a real nobody, and then one day, he jumped onto a moving train and now, like all the girls are after him, and it’s like he’s some kind of daredevil superhero. Just sayin. There’s a train that comes out under the tunnel behind the bowling alley every day at 4:00. Think about it.” The rest of the day seemed to last forever. I couldn’t focus on anything my teachers were saying, I was too busy thinking my plan through in my head. As soon as I got home, I ran over the bowling alley and climbed up onto the top of the tunnel. When I heard the train coming, I noticed Elroy and a group of his friends. This would be my moment! The train burst quickly through the tunnel and I jumped! And that is the story of why I am laying in a hospital bed with a full body-cast. But hey, there’s a rumor going around that when I get back, I’m going to be the coolest kid in school!</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/YsxpGjIzhUg" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheGoodLifeInterview" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-178 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-179 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-179"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Counting Calories</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Nugwa Usman, Canada, Age 16<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl struggles with her relationship with food, and with her desire to fit in.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Mom. Why did you have to bring home pizza? Yes, I know that I can have salad instead, and salad is only 200 calories. It has vegetables and it’s good for me. But if I only ate one slice of pizza, that’s only 300 calories. (pause) Right, plus what I had morning. (pause) Well, I had four pancakes. There are 175 calories in one pancake, times four. Wait a sec. (does calculation and is shocked) 700 calories. I ate 700 calories worth of pancakes. Oh yeah, and then syrup, which is about 100 calories, plus butter, which is 80 calories a teaspoon, then milk, 130 calories. That’s 1010 calories. Then I had four cookies at lunch. 180 times four, which is 720 calories, plus breakfast (does calculation) so 1730 calories. If I eat that pizza, I will have eaten more than 2000 calories. So, salad, or pizza…salad or pizza. That pizza would taste sooo good, and you hardly ever bring home pizza. 2000 calories isn’t even a pound. I could be healthy tomorrow. Just look at all that goody goodness. The warm mouthwatering softness of the bread, smothered in rich beautiful tomato sauce, with the essence of pepperoni delicately intertwined and caressed in a beautiful blanket of cheese. (has a sad realization) But, I am a fat ass. (pause) No, mom. It’s true. That's why those girls keep calling me names, and everyone keeps sneering at me any time I walk by. Even my best friend won't talk to me anymore, the humiliation is probably too much for her. Or maybe she just got tired of defending me. But seriously to just wake up one day and end a friendship because of how popular someone is. Who does that? I mean aren't we in a day and age where it's okay to be different? Why can't people talk to me and get to know me instead of talk about me and make up stories. But who am I kidding if some kid accused me of eating seven times a day they wouldn't be wrong. I have done that before. What is wrong with me? I hate my body. I hate being able to grab into the folds of my stomach. I hate getting on a scale and feeling like it's screaming at me to get off. And I hate these lines that rip through my body. I hate every part of me. (pause) No, mom. I have to say it. I have to say it out loud. I’m starving…but I am not going to eat that pizza. I’m going to be healthy. For me. And I’m doing it today not tomorrow. Give me that salad.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheGoodLifeInterview" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-179 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-180 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-180"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The GoodLife Interview</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Tristin Fuller, Washington, USA, Age 13<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A job interview goes awry when it’s revealed that the company is a cult.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Hello... (looks down at paper) …George. Welcome to GoodLife, my name is Anya. We are what you would call a lifestyle brand. I understand that I am interviewing you for the accountant position here. Now as I can see on your resume, I understand that you used to work for our rival company, Bath and Body works. So, if you do want a job here you will have to make an oath that you will never step foot in a Bath and Body Works ever again. But I’m sure you’ll find that we have a great environment here and we are all just the nicest people. You will get some special perks for working here we offer dental and medical, and we consider your mental health a top priority. In fact, we provide a wide range of self-help books that are mandatory reading if you choose to work here. Also, we believe that those who are drawn to GoodLife are kind of chosen people. Do you get my drift? (Samantha enters the office) Samantha, get out of my office now I'm not dealing with you today. Don't you look at me like that, I do not want to have another shrimp incident. Yes, sorry George, yesterday my boss Samantha ran at me with a shrimp cocktail the size of a Clydesdale. She knows that shrimp is the one thing I'm scared of. Ok Samantha what do you want? No, I have not told him yet, I was just telling him about our medical and dental plans before you interrupted me. (pause) Why would you say that Samantha?! George I’m so sorry about her. We are not a cult. Samantha, you shouldn’t call your own business a cult. Now Samantha please leave before I make you. (Samantha leaves the office) God I hate that woman. Now George I'm gonna be honest with you, we are a cult. (pause) Samantha created this and I think it’s starting to drive her, well…crazy. Not to worry. We have a team of people and an unlicensed doctor who delivers shock treatments working on her. She should be back to herself in no time. (pause) Are you suffering, George? It’s okay to tell me. We, here at GoodLife have the solutions to all of life’s problems. (holds up a book) This here is the GoodLife Life Guide. In 1,000 simple steps, you will find the key to everlasting happiness. (pause) Where are you going, George? Was it something I said? Wait! (pause as Samantha reenters) Okay, so I lost another one. But it’s not a big deal. Samantha, oh my god, that man must be the most depressing person I have ever met. Not even GoodLife can save him. (Anya turns to a random employee) HEY YOU, yeah you right there. Go run the sales counter. I'm sorry did you just ask me why, because I'm heading to the beach to relax. Well I'm also going there to watch people get sunburns and then sell them GoodLife sunscreen and a promise of a better future. (Anya leaves the office)</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Stars" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-180 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-181 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-181"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Stars</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Dakota Stranger, Georgia, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A kid dreams of an odd encounter that has a real-world complication.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>I remember seeing stars. Stars everywhere. Not regular stars, but the Jewish star, worn around necks and stuck on jackets. They were rushing past me. Star after star. I heard men with heavy guns yelling at people to get in line. There were women screaming for their children. I covered my ears and ran inside and closed the door. I looked down at my sister and felt as if the world was ending. And of course, it was. I yelled at my sister to get in the basement, and for the first time, she listened to me. I looked out the window and saw a man getting shot, blood ran down his neck as he fell. I jumped back in shock and then I heard it. Boots approaching our door, and loud knocking. I raced down to the basement and huddled with my sister. We held our breath as the footsteps above grew closer and closer. The door to the basement flung open and the sliver of light shone on us. The man raised his gun and pointed it at us. I raised my hands instinctively in front of my face, and I prayed. And then I saw stars. The last thing I saw was stars.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ObsessedImnotObsessed" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-181 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-182 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-182"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Obsessed? I’m not Obsessed!</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Jayden Buitt, Mississippi, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen has a conversation with a stranger on a plane.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Yeah, I’m in high school. (pause) What are my interests? Well, my friends say I'm obsessed with celebrities. I just want to say to them, "Look you little two-timing molded fruit cakes, I am NOT obsessed with celebrities!" The truth is, I only in love with ONE! Theo James! I know his age, address, full name, where he lives, and where his entire family lives! I mean we're basically married. If you ever get to meet his family, you will love them! I sure will! I plan on paying them a little visit. You know, just to ask them a few questions like where's the nearest hardware store, oh and if Theo has any cameras at his house. That is the basic questions you ask your husband's parents, right? Yeah, I know this flight to England costs a lot of money, but he is worth it, anything for my hubby! I’m sure that he has gotten the hundreds of letters that I sent. He’s just too busy to write me back. Oh, I know he will be so excited to see me, well, when he regains consciousness anyway! What's that? You are calling the flight attendant to call the police? Oh, don't worry! He totally knows I am coming. I gave him a little call the other day. I guess he thought I was some obsessed teen off the street, but I am SO not obsessed! What? you think I am obsessed too? No ma'am! I am in LOVE! Anyway, here we are! I am so excited! Wish me luck!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="KillerCat" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-182 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-183 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-183"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Killer Cat</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Meredeen Smelser, Washington, USA, Age 13<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A crazy cat lady thinks that one of her cats is trying to kill her.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic</p> <p>Karen, listen to me. I know this sounds crazy, but…. I think Max is trying to kill me. (pause) Yes, my cat. Can I stay here for a couple of days while I figure out what to do? It’s not funny! I’m not kidding! Okay, you don’t believe me? The other night, he was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. He tried to jump on me when I got to the top, but I got out of the way. Barely. He was trying to kill me, I swear! He’s always hiding in piles of things and jumping out at me! Look at all these scratches! (shows hand and points to both ankles) No, I don’t know why! I feed him every day, I give him treats and lots of attention, everything. Maybe I let him watch too much TV… I woke up the other night, with the feeling of being watched. Now, Max is always in the living room at night, but I saw two glowing green eyes at the bottom of the bed near my feet. It was Max! He was watching me while I slept! Okay, that doesn’t sound that bad, but my door is closed at night. He opened it! My door has a knob instead of a handle! HOW DID HE DO THAT?!? HE’S A CAT!! Wait, Max heard me talking on the phone before I left. He knows I’m here. Is your door locked?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="The Hospital Visit" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-183 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-184 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-184"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Hospital Visit</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Rylee Budke, Washington, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Kendall is seeing her mom in the hospital while her mom is in a coma.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>(Character sits at the edge of a hospital bed.)</p> <p>It has been a hard couple of weeks without you. Me and Luke still aren’t used to the house being so quiet, we miss all the fun times with you. I’ve been really trying to keep a happy face for Luke, but it's really hard. He (starts to tear up) tells me how much he misses your laugh almost every day. Before I put him to bed, we talk about all our memories (wipes tear) that we had with you. Oh yeah, I just had my birthday. I'm 17 now. I also took up a part time job to help pay for rent and food. To try and get our minds off of you in the hospital (grabs her hand) we started to watch the videos that you made of us on Christmas; it always makes Luke laugh. Well, I can’t stay long. I have to get Luke from daycare. I just wanted to say, I love you and we miss... I hate seeing you so pale. It's so weird seeing you with all these machines around you. I promise you that I won't let Luke see you or remember you like this. Now I have to go, but I promise I'll be back on Thursday.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LostinNewYork" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-184 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-185 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-185"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Lost in New York</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Erin Case, Washington, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen asks a stranger for help after missing a train stop while running away.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic</p> <p>Excuse me…excuse me… can I please use your phone? I promise that it’s not really a big deal. Yeah, I’m okay. I know, you’re wondering why but I promise I’m fine. Okay, three days ago me and my mom got into another big fight, and trust me it isn’t the first time we’ve gotten into a fight. She’d been yelling at me almost every day for the littlest things too. It obviously wasn’t my fault because why would I do things that would upset her on purpose? Since she wasn’t really around much with her work and everything, I decided that I could take the train from Ohio to Pennsylvania, to stay with my aunt because that seemed like my only option as long as I was away from home. I just couldn’t take it anymore, you know? It seemed okay, but I slept through the night on the train and had no choice but to get off when the train stopped in New York. I figured everything would be okay and I could find a cab to take me to my aunts’ but then I realized that I left my bag on the train which had my phone and all of the money that I could bring. New York always seemed nice too I guess, but now that I’m here, there's too many people, and it’s crowded everywhere I go. I didn’t think that I would miss home, but I really do. I miss my friends, my dog, my house, and even my mom. So much and I would do almost anything to get back to it all. I know that she’ll be really disappointed, and I am too, in myself. The only thing I can do now is go home, because I can’t stay here. So, if I could just use your phone…</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DearDiary" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-185 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-186 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-186"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Dear Diary</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Scarlett Longo, Georgia, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen tells her diary about her worst day yet.<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramedy</p> <p>Dear diary,<br /> A lot happened today, so get ready. Okay, so this morning, my nine-year-old twin sisters, Rose and Emile, just walked into my room, without knocking, stole my cardigan, lipstick, necklaces, and mascara, then walked out. I told them that they couldn’t take my stuff, but Emile said, “We don’t care,” and Rose ignored me. Then, when I got on the bus this morning, none of my friends were on, and I had to sit with a stranger! Talk about awkward. That’s not even the worst part of today. At lunch we had meatloaf, so I went hungry. Normally one of my friends has a lunchbox and shares with everyone, but not today. Then I forgot to finish my math homework so now I have to redo it for half credit. Finally, I got home expecting to eat a snack and relax… until my mom said that she and dad needed to talk to all of us. Even my little sister, who is only five. I had no idea what they could need to talk to us about, but we all sat on the couch anyway. That’s when they told us that they’re having another baby! Can you believe it? Another one? And the worst part is that it’s a boy! We are a family of all girls. Boys are so gross! I have no idea how I’m going to live with one. Mom and dad say I’ll be happy when he is born, just like I was with my little sisters, but I highly doubt it. In any case, I’ll keep you posted.<br /> Until next time, Anna.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheMysteryClub" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-186 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-187 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-187"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Mystery Club</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Marwan Lahbabi, California, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A troubled teen tells his story to a new psychiatrist.</p> <p>(A boy walks in and sits on a sofa in his psychiatrist’s office.) So, Dr. Broomfield is gone, huh? Just as well, I guess. He was what? Like eighty? But then again, I gotta be honest. You look too young to be a psychiatrist. (pause) Alright, well, I’ll give you the backstory. You might want to get a snack. So, last March. I was a sophomore, and this whole high school thing? Trust me when I tell you that I despised all of it. The people, the lunches, the drama. But home wasn’t much better. I’ve always been really smart. Practically a quantum computer, and my two brothers were jealous of this, which led to my being bullied by my own family. So, no friends at school, and treated like crap at home, I guess I was set up to be more prone to fighting and self-harm. Then, I guess it all came to a head on March 2nd. You probably read that. About me going to the rooftop of the school and being ready to jump? Yeah. I had a note, but couldn’t think of anyone to give it to. So, I’m standing up there, and this guy I barely knew, Mark Holmes, appears out of nowhere and yanks me down. Of course, I immediately punched him in the face, but he stayed up there and just kept talking, and after a couple of hours, I felt better, and actually started to like the guy. He asked me to join his club which he called the Mystery Club, which had nothing to do with mysteries at all. It was more like a hangout spot for him and his friends. A boy named Conan Doyle. He was British and personality-wise he’s pretty eccentric. Madman, actually. Julie Paretsky, she was and still is the delinquent of the group. And a girl named George. I know, it’s weird. But she’s great. She’s energetic and very optimistic and able to see the best in everyone. So that’s how I got into that group. Now to talk about why I was in the hospital. It was a normal day at the club, or what we call normal. We had just left a party. Well more like we were kicked out of a party. Yeah, Julie had punched someone because he was being rude. She can be scary sometimes. But anyway, that was the day George started seeing this guy. His name was Alex. He acted like a nice guy around her, but I could tell he wasn’t a good guy. I tried to warn her. She didn’t believe me. Soon enough, Alex confronted me in private tried to fight me. Little did he know that my history of self-harm made me tolerant to pain and my terrible upbringing made me a great fighter. So, it didn’t end well for him. Turns out because of that little scuffle he started to verbally abuse George, but she still wouldn’t leave him. So, me, Mark, and Julie decided to take matters into our own hands. First, we trashed his place. Put graffiti on the walls. Destroyed his TV. That was fun. After that I went to George’s house to tell her about it. I saw her on the edge of her balcony. As soon as she saw me, she jumped. I ran and caught her hand as she was falling and tried to pull her up. I used all my strength to save her. She put her hands on the ledge to pull herself up, but by that point my arms were done and when she pulled up, I fell down. Right off the balcony! I thought it was funny ending up right where I started. It felt like time was slowing down. I saw George’s horrified expression as I was falling. You know, I though falling to your death would be scary, but it was somehow soothing knowing it was all over and I was about to die. After I fell, I was in a coma for two weeks. My family is pretty much done with me, but hey, I’m alive. Oh, that’s the end of our session? Great. I got somethings off my chest at least. Well, got to go. The mystery club is waiting. I heard Julie hit someone with a bat.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BitterEulogy" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-187 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-188 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-188"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Bitter Eulogy</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Zoe Marner, Ontario, Canada, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any (can be changed to be delivered by a son)<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A daughter delivers an honest eulogy at her father’s funeral.</p> <p>(A teen delivers a eulogy at a podium in a packed church.)</p> <p>Wow. A lot of people here today. No pressure, right? (Pauses, unfolds paper, takes deep breath.) They say the worst things happen to the best people, but I disagree. My father was a great person, at least to most of you. He told stories and did impressions every chance he got. I hated them. They were never accurate anyway. His impression of Daniel Day Lewis doing Abraham Lincoln sounded more like Al Pacino. Those of you who were his students knew a caring, dedicated, and hilarious teacher. Sounds like a great guy. It’s too bad I never got to meet him. The man I knew was short-tempered, distant and narcissistic. The day I found out he was going to die, I was unfazed. That’s bad, I know. Sounds like a horrible thing to say, but he didn’t love me. He’d ignore me when I asked him questions or shared my opinion. I was his daughter; he was supposed to care. His work occupied all his time. I didn’t see why it mattered so much, he was just a teacher and they were just students. I was the one who deserved his time. I was the one who deserved his care. I was his daughter. As I watched him fade away in a hospital bed I thought for once, just once, I would have his undivided attention. I didn’t. Even in the last days of his life all he could think about was you. His bloody students. He wrote some of you letters. They weren’t just any fair-well letters though. He wrote you to tell you what you meant to him. I never got any letter. It’s selfish really, I know, but I deserved one. I did. I thought it was okay, though. I thought he would surely change in the end. He was dying. Maybe things would be different. He was going to tell me that he loved me, and he would mean it. He never did. I read some of the letters he wrote, one was to a boy named Jacob. Maybe you are here today. My dad told Jacob that he had made him see the world in a different way. Opened up his eyes, he said. Shifted his perspective, he said. My dad was a phony and a liar and I hated him. As my father took his last breath I cried, but I wasn’t sad, I was angry. Where is my letter? I deserved it, didn’t I? I was his daughter! But he was dead. You can all go on and mourn the loss of a “great” man, but I knew the real Albert Scott. He had you all fooled. (Throws paper on ground and leaves the podium.)</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="GirlWhoCriedWolf" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-188 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-189 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-189"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Girl Who Cried Wolf</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Amber Rothberg, Massachusetts, USA Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager tells her therapist about the day her sister disappeared.</p> <p>You ask me this every time, and it’s been a year, so yeah. I guess I’m ready to talk about it. (pause) I think I’ve told you before about how my sister, Katherine and I would play pranks on each other. Like, we would pretend we were dying, or possessed or something. It was really stupid…but you know, we had fun with it. I would hear her screaming in the kitchen, and I’d run down and see her holding a knife and covered in blood. I would start screaming too, until I saw the can of spaghetti sauce on the counter and realize it was a joke, and she would laugh so hard that she would fall down. It was just a thing we did, you know. But that day was different. That day, we had just gotten home from school and our parents were still at work. Katherine and I were in some sort of fight. I don’t really remember what is was about, probably something dumb, like her borrowing something and not returning it. But anyway, I didn’t feel like talking to her, so I went up to my room to do homework. All of a sudden, I started to hear Katherine scream and yell my name. I was annoyed because I assumed that it was another one of her pranks. She would always prank me when I was mad at her, so that I would laugh and forgive her. But I wasn’t in the mood to play her games…. and so I ignored it. The screaming went on for a while...and then it stopped. That’s when I started to get worried, so I went downstairs to check on her, and…she was gone. I never saw my sister again. I guess I don’t have to tell you the rest. You know. My parents know. Everyone knows that my sister is DEAD because of ME. Katherine Rivers was the girl who cried wolf. And I was the girl, who ignored her cries.</p> <p>Watch a video of this monologue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lNGXEm9aGB8&list=PLJCIVETij_d0uOBjDIPdnQwEUlYes-vlj&index=4" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">here.</a></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Chores" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-189 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-190 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-190"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Chores</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Austin Walker, Iowa, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager complains to a friend about household chores.</p> <p>I can’t come over tonight. It’s garbage night. Which means that I will be slaving away filling up the yard debris bin and the recycling container and dragging all the bins to the curb. Yes, they make me do all that. (pause) I know you don’t have to. I have more chores than any of my other friends. My dad also makes me mow the lawn, AND take care of the lawn mower, which at first, I knew nothing about. But he said that if it broke down because it wasn’t properly maintained, I would have to pay for it. I spent three hours on Google and YouTube figuring out where the oil goes and how to keep the blades clean. (pause) I know you don’t have to do anything like that! None of my friends do! Last summer, I had to help my dad build a fence while you guys were at soccer camp, and this weekend, he is forcing me to stay home and help him stain the deck. It’s like I’m a prisoner. You know, like those guys who used to have to break up rocks when they were sent to jail? (pause) Oh, I can’t complain to him! It’s not worth it! He’ll go on for an hour about how he is doing me a favor by giving me responsibility and teaching me how to be a man and that one day, I will thank him. Can you believe it? He thinks I’m going to thank him for making me do so many chores? He’s out of his mind! (pause) Anyway, what are you doing tonight? Video games again? I’m jealous.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Pretty" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-190 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-191 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-191"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Pretty</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jen P., Tulsa, Oklahoma, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager complains to a friend about household chores.</p> <p>You… you think I’m pretty? Really? Wow. I haven’t heard that in so long. I-I mean, of course, my parents would always tell me I’m pretty. But they’re supposed to. When you hear it from them, it… it doesn’t matter as much. And sometimes you know you’re pretty, so it doesn’t matter. Like if you wear makeup, you know you look good. It doesn’t matter as much. But some days you don’t hear it. And that matters. Some days you think you look nice and no one says anything. Or you put on your favourite pair of jeans and nobody notices. And you think, “do I always look bad? Am I not pretty?” That’s when a “you look nice” seems to matter the most. I’ve never been the victim of bullying. No one’s ever told me I’m ugly. Because, well, actually, no one… cared enough to tell me I’m ugly. No one sees me. Even if I was pretty, how much does a pretty face matter when it’s covered by a sheet? A blanket of obscurity. A pretty nothing. What do you think is worse-being known as ugly, or not being known at all? Sometimes, I wonder why people don’t say it more. Just a “you look pretty” could change someone’s day. Then I realize I don’t say it very often. I don’t tell people they’re pretty when they are. And it’s weird, because it’s not like it hurts to say that. It helps someone else and you. You feel good by making other people feel good. But I guess people just can’t admit that someone looks better than they do. They don’t realize it, of course. They just know it, deep down, they don’t feel pretty. And if they don’t feel pretty, why should anyone else feel pretty? (sigh) You’re very pretty.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Amnesia" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-191 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-192 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-192"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Amnesia</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jessica G., Age 16, Calgary, Alberta<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young woman tries to help her sister regain her memory.</p> <p>I know it’s not your fault, but Allison, it’s me. Your sister. Maybe if I tell you about all the things we did, and who we used to be together, you’d remember. Yes? Let’s try. I promise that my feelings won’t be hurt if this doesn’t work, but I have to try, okay? (pause) Okay, when we were kids, we always got into trouble together. We used to sneak out of my window when it was clearly past our bedtime. We’d create imaginary worlds, complicated worlds, under the moon. One time, we pretended to be in Atlantis, beneath the sea. You were a princess, and I was a talking slug. If you remembered anything, you might remember that, right? Anyway, we always got caught, and we always got in trouble, but that didn’t stop us. (laughs…sees that she doesn’t remember.) It’s okay. Let me keep going. You and I were very close…we’d tell each other secrets and talk behind Melanie’s back. She’s our other sister. And if you regain your memory, I hope you don’t suddenly like her better than me. (pause) We were a force to be reckoned with when we were together, we were partners, not a hero and her sidekick. During the summer we rode our matching blue Schwinn bikes everywhere and we’d try to hold hands while riding. One time, we even planned out how we would make a business together. My favorite idea was fashion design. You’d sew and I would do the finance. Even when we fought it wasn’t so bad, because we loved each other, and we couldn’t stay mad for too long. Depending on the rare cases it did last longer than a couple of days, we would pause the fight so we could still vent and talk. That’s pretty funny isn’t it? You wrote me a note on pink paper saying that you HAD to tell me something, but then we had to go back to being mad at each other. (laughs) We never should have fought in the first place, and sometimes I wish we could’ve paused the whole world for a bit longer, so we could’ve made more memories. (pause) I’m sorry I went away to University. I should have stayed here in town, at least until you were ready to leave too. Maybe then, this wouldn’t have happened. You wouldn’t have gotten into that car with your friends that night because I would have come to get you. I should have been there for you. Well, I’m here now, Allison. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay until you either remember me, or you learn to love me all over again. I’ll never be mad at you again. You have my word. Whether or not you ever remember who we were, I will be here. I’m your sister.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="StruckbyLightning" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-192 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-193 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-193"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Struck by Lightning</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kennedy L., Columbus, OH, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male or Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen recounts his/her experience of being hit by lightning.</p> <p>No, it’s not a tattoo, it’s a scar. It’s lightning….yes, I’m serious…. well, it’s hard to describe, but I’ll do my best. It was summer. Not like tonight. It was one of those summer nights when rage-filled clouds obscured the sky and the night birds and the cicadas were silent. I had gone outside to bring my bicycle in before it rained. In the distance, I could hear the familiar hush of the ocean. Shhhhhh. And everything else was quiet. I grabbed the handlebars of my bike, and then came the roar. A clap of thunder so loud it shook the very ground beneath my feet. What happened next felt instant and slow motion all at once. I had barely moved my bike, when the BOOM came. A white-hot flash far away and everywhere, and my body in the air and then nothing. And then lying on the grass, my body like lead, my head splitting with pain, and the sweet, overpowering fragrance of grass. My mother was screaming over me, but she sounded far away. In the hospital, they told me that I had been struck by lightning. My mother had seen it from the kitchen window. Lightning broke the sky outside and traveled along the ground and through my bicycle. I was lucky. They call it ‘fractal.’ A few more feet and I would have died. I still have headaches, and I cannot hear in my left ear. And this scar? At first it was blisters. A white-hot searing that bled and pussed and crusted over. And now it’s this. This beautiful pattern like a willow branch. Forever trying to reach the ground, and not quite making it. It will never go away. And to be honest, I don’t want it to. My eyes are open now…to the richness…and also the impermanence of life. I am here. With you. On this warm summer evening. The night birds are singing and the cicadas are humming along. (Looks down at arm.) It’s a wonderful scar, don’t you think?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="CatLady" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-193 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-194 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-194"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Cat Lady</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Niesha M., Fort Worth, Texas, USA, Age 12<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A wife tells her husband about a stray cat she’s taken in.</p> <p>I should probably tell you now, before you notice it. And I need to point out that in no way did I encourage this. I was just minding my own business. And there’s no way I’m going to get rid of it today (under breath) or maybe ever. What? Nothing. What I mean to say is that I will do my best to find her a home as soon as possible. (Reacting to yelling.) I know! I know, but it’s not my fault. I was out in the garage taking off my boots, and she just wandered in. So skinny. And she was meowing like she was hungry, so I just gave her a tiny bit of food. You should have seen how fast she ate it up! So, I might have given her a little more. She doesn’t have a collar, and honestly, I don’t think she belongs to anybody. But I will look online and see if someone is missing an adorable little black and white cat. Oh, oh, here she comes. Look at how friendly she is! Martin, I’ve never seen a cat so friendly. I know, I know. We aren’t going to keep her. Just pick her up, will you? She loves being held. So unusual for a cat…I said, I know that we aren’t going to keep her…of course, I realize that we already have sixteen cats. But she’s so cute…and really…(flirting) what’s one more?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="JealousImnotJealous" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-194 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-195 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-195"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Jealous? I’m not Jealous.</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Lyena Monis, Age 12, California, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A jealous girlfriend expresses her views on her relationship with her boyfriend.</p> <p>You know, my boyfriend tells me I’m an (does air quotes with fingers) “overprotective and jealous” girlfriend, but he just doesn’t understand. It’s a girlfriend’s job to watch out for girls who want to steal him away. The other day I saw him hugging another girl. When I confronted him, he said it was his mom. Excuses, excuses. I didn’t talk to him for a week after that incident. I just trying to protect him, you know. He interacts with so many girls, you never know who may be eyeing him. I even quit my job just so I could keep my eye on him. He often pleads with me to trust him and whatever, but that always leads to arguments. Another time, I hacked his phone and looked through his mail and messages. He’d been talking to so many girls! Someone named Jenny and another named Mrs. Switzer. An older woman! He claimed that Jenny was his science partner and that Mrs. Switzer was his piano teacher. Yeah, right. How could he do this to me? When he caught me looking through his phone, he was a little mad, and he explained that just because he’s talking to women, doesn’t mean he’s cheating on me. Then, he said the next time that I do something like that, he’ll break up with me. He just doesn’t understand what a good girlfriend I am. I’m just being there to ward off any girls who want to take my man. Right now, I’m hiding behind a bush, keeping my protective watch on him. Wait, here comes a girl. Gotta go!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ComingOut" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-195 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-196 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-196"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Coming Out</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jessie Stevenson, Age 13, California. USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female, but can be changed<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen girl comes out to her family in a comedic way.</p> <p>Hey parentals, siblings, comrades. How are you? How’s your day? I hope it’s been good. Thank you all for being here. Well I think it’s safe to assume that I have something to tell you all. I am…. Not… exactly…. Straight. Yup. I like not just boys but also girls. So yeah…. I know it may be a shock to some of you and others might have guessed it but yeah. If you want to ask if it’s a phase or a fad. No, it is not. If this new information is a shock to you, I have one question. HOW? I mean seriously how did you not see this coming, look at me. How did you not question it when I cut my hair super short, or when I would talk about LGBTQ+ issues which was… A LOT. Or when I put a giant pink triangle on the door to my room, or when I bought a rainbow bow tie and suspenders? I mean c’mon people. Well now you know. If you can’t accept me, then that’s your issue. It took a lot for me to come to terms and accept myself and I’m going to be myself no matter what anyone thinks. Questions? Nope. Didn’t think so. So, whew. That’s over. Who’s up for pizza?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Fearless" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-196 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-197 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-197"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Fearless?</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Lilly Johnson, Age 13, Missouri, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenage surfer narrowly escapes a shark attack and it changes her view of the ocean forever.</p> <p>You’re scared of the ocean? Yeah, I understand that. The ocean seems scary to many, even dangerous. People fear of drowning or being attacked by creatures from below. But this does not apply to me. I’m as fearless as it gets when it comes to water. Or, at least I was. There are some things that I’ve seen happen in the ocean that would normally scar you for life. I’ve heard about shark attacks, but they never really scared me…didn’t seem real. Until one day last summer. The morning sky was clear, not a cloud could be seen for miles. The sun had already risen, its heat overbearing. Seeing the waves reach all the way out from the deep to the shore, I couldn’t help but think of what a perfect day it would be for surfing. I grabbed my surfboard and broke into a sprint across the beach; I could feel the ocean spray before I reached the water. I waded through the water, trying to keep from being pushed back by the rising waves. After about two minutes, the water was above my waist. Right about that time, unfortunately, a huge wage was forming, and was starting to come my way. I grabbed my board and tried to pull myself onto it, but it was too late. I opened my eyes, only for the saltwater to flood them. Now, some people would have panicked, but that’s not who I am. As I attempted to swim up, a huge object pushed against me, sending me farther down. I looked around. What I saw was terrifying. A shark, at least fifteen feet long, was staring at me the way a barn owl stares at a mouse. With all my might, I swam upward. It seemed like forever until I reached the surface and swam towards the shore. I used to brag about being fearless, but I can’t imagine what would have happened if I didn’t get scared that day. Being scared saved my life. Yeah, I’ll admit it. I’m a little scared of the ocean now too.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HeyIMissYou" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-197 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-198 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-198"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Hey, I Miss You</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Karina Robles Leyva, Age 14, California, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Caroline writes a letter to an old friend.</p> <p>Actor finishes writing the letter, then begins to read it. Soon after, she puts the letter down, and continues as if she were really talking to her friend.</p> <p>Dear Mya,</p> <p>We haven’t talked in a long while. The last time we texted was when you sent me a message wishing me a Happy Birthday. Thanks for remembering. The day you left we said we’d text every day. And we did, for a while. I still have all the gifts you gave me, the fluff ball, the coloring page, the paintings, and that terrible ceramic dog that sort of resembles mine. Do you still have everything I gave you? Probably not, maybe you threw those away a long time ago. Remember when you first came to visit? I didn’t talk when we first met, I felt weird with strangers in my house. It was the day before Valentine’s Day, and we were making chocolate dipped strawberries when we invited your family over. Then you made me laugh and after that you always came back. You were my first friend you know? When you moved in next door, I was so happy. I used to be sort of an outcast and suddenly I had my first best friend! That’s why it hurt so much when you moved away. We used to know everything about each other. I miss those days. After you left, I never asked how your new friends were, or how your new school was because I didn’t know what to say. Now I’m here reminiscing and missing the times when we went to get frozen yogurt daily. Wishing for those times when you came over and we became like sisters. To be honest, I don’t really remember why you left, I think it was because your mother had to go somewhere for a better job. I don’t really remember why, just that you were next to me crying, red faced when you told me you were going away. And how’s your father? Do you know? I know him being in jail far away from you must be hard. I don’t think you’ve visited him in a while. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for many things. I’m sorry I never texted you enough, I’m sorry that you left, I’m sorry, and I still miss you. We haven’t talked in a long while, and I thought about not sending this, but we swore to be friends for life, and I am keeping my promise. I’m here, if you need me…and I need you.</p> <p>Love,<br /> Caroline</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BabysittersRules" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-198 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-199 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-199"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Babysitter’s Rules</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jazarae Robinson, Age 12, Ohio, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Babysitter is not who Mom thinks she is.</p> <p>Don’t worry, Linda. I will take great care of your kids. I have lots of experience with kids, so I know what to do when they misbehave. Bye.<br /> (Turns to kids after Linda leaves) Now listen, you little brats! I am the boss here, so you will do everything I ask you to do exactly when I say it. Here are the rules:<br /> Rule #1 You don’t question, you just do it.<br /> Rule #2 Never tell your mom anything that I do. Always tell her I’m the best babysitter. You wouldn’t want me to lose my job, would you?<br /> Rule #3 You eat what I make, or you don’t eat at all.<br /> Rule #4 If I have company do not talk to them and go into the basement.<br /> Rule #5 If I make a mess, you clean it. I’m your guest, not the other way around.<br /> Rule #6 No crying allowed.<br /> Ok, those are the rules. Go have fun! (rolls eyes and whispers) Little brats.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/l3OE9ezIKNo" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheDarkness" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-199 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-200 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-200"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">The Darkness</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Yulianis Pesante Quinones, Age 14, Virginia, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen reflects on the concept of darkness.</p> <p>I wish I was scared of the dark. I mean most people are, but I always find comfort sitting in it. Get home, shower, lay in bed. Don’t turn the lights on. My daily routine. Sit in the dark and listen to music. A vampire. That’s what my mom calls me. It’s not that I don’t like the light, you just think differently in the dark. You find comfort in it like a big black blanket wrapped around you. You just let go not knowing what could happen. Your mind travels to so many places and everything’s fine. Until you realize you’re alone. The feeling of loneliness hits you. You have no one to talk to. Everyone’s asleep. You’ve thought so much that the big black blanket is now suffocating you. So, tell me is the darkness safe or dangerous?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="NoFeeling" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-200 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-201 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-201"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">No Feeling</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Ryan Dosa, Age 16, Colorado, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Character is numbing themselves by using drugs. They are telling their friend who wants to help what they feel and why they still; continue to use drugs.</p> <p>I don’t think you get it, one day I can feel like I have the world but the next everything can change, it’s as if you have had everything one day but then have nothing. This is the most heart-wrenching feeling in the world I can feel all my happiness fall into the black pit that lives inside. As my entire body becomes numb all I am able to process is the never-ending question of why. People forget who I am and don’t recognize me anymore for I have “changed”. I no longer have the right to feel sad, the sadness has been stripped from me leaving me open, I’m empty, I have no emotions, no love, no feeling, and no reason. But as everyone says it’s all okay because I can still throw on a smile, and the one thing that makes this all go away are the drugs.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheMall" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-201 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-202 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-202"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">The Mall</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Carley B., Age 11, Ohio, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen girl has a frustrating day at the mall.</p> <p>Omg, I had the worst day at the mall today. I went into Pink, right? The first store of the day. I tried on the cutest things. Girls, you know how most of the time things don’t fit right, and you leave with two things out of ten? Not today! Everything I tried on fit perfectly! I went up to the counter to pay. The line was soooo long! Like I’m not even joking, it was all the way back to the clearance racks! She had everything rung out and everything was going great, until I reached into my purse to grab my credit card and it wasn’t there! I didn’t know what to do! I panicked and left all those sweet clothes on the counter. I just decided to leave and go to my car. I opened the door and guess what? My card was sitting right there! On my seat!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheyWontSeeitComing" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-202 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-203 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-203"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">They Won’t See it Coming</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Amelia M., Age 12, Ohio, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Kid is jealous of older brother who gets more screen time.</p> <p>I hate my brother, period. Yes, yes, I know. “Hate” is a strong word, but I mean it. Trust me on this one. The only thing that understands me is the virtual world, and my family tries to take that from me. They say it is an addiction and that I am in denial. Yeah, no. My family has limited me to an hour on the computer a day, and that’s definitely not okay. My brother gets the whole day on the internet. He has completely taken over the family computer. He even gets away with rubbing it in my face. Favorites much? I am putting my foot down, and I have decided I will take over the family computer. I will snatch it and all of its accessories and I’ll barricade myself in my room! Sounds foolproof, right? I will strike at midnight, and they won’t see it coming. Wait…I think that is my mom now! Act casual.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="SelfishSamaritan" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-203 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-204 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-204"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Selfish Samaritan</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Hannah Chaffin, Age 16<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A conceited high school girl who volunteers to visit a disabled boy, is called out for actually being selfish and egotistical.</p> <p>Yeah, we’ve all heard it, Penelope. How great you are for helping out that disabled boy. Give it a rest. Honestly, I don’t think you’re doing it for him; you’re doing it for yourself. You must feel such a thrill, having him watch you like you’re some kind of savior. I’d guess you like to feel that way; some kind of all holy, selfless being. But in my opinion, you’re the most selfish person I know. You walk around thinking you are a one of a kind, holy mastermind. Plenty of people volunteer, and the good ones, the really good ones don’t yak on and on about it. You like to believe that people think you’re a little miss pink perfect cake pop doll, but you’re not that. Hard to hear ain’t it. That you mean far less than little to someone, someone who doesn’t kiss the earth below you. He doesn’t need you. You could die today and he’d still breathe the same, suffer the same. You aren’t his medication, so stop acting like some prized jewel that can’t shatter to the ground. Test me one more time Penelope. You’ll see, one day, you’ll be nothing more than another grain of sand in the ocean of nobodies.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheDancer" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-204 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-205 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-205"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">The Dancer</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Mina T., New York, NY, Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> An elderly woman tells a young artist to pursue her dreams and shares the story of her broken dreams.</p> <p>Oh, what did I do? Funny question, you see I was a dancer. Once upon a time, that is. Right here on this bench, as you watch me feed these hungry little pigeons, I want to change your life, by sharing mine with you. When I was your age, I loved to dance. I wore silky dresses and flirted with the gentlemen, but mostly I danced. I would never stop, and I couldn’t, I thought. One gloomy day, my dad came to visit. Now, he only came to visit when he meant serious business. He sat me down on the couch. He said, “Sweetie I’ve enrolled you in college. You’re going to major in accounting.” I was petrified; I mean my lifelong dreams could be ruined, but In the weirdest way I felt some type of relief. I didn’t understand what I was feeling, I loved dancing, but I was always told that I would never make it. I agreed to go. I was only 18 at the time. That first day, when I walked into the school, I looked around and I realized I didn’t belong there. I’d made the wrong decision. And then, I spent fifty years wishing I had had the courage to say no. Dancing brought me so much joy! Leaping in the air, I had the feeling that I could do anything in the world. Now, I’m 95 and I can hardly walk. I’m never going to be a dancer; I’m never going to do the only thing that I was meant to do. I regret the decision I made. I could blame it on my father, but it was me who took away the only thing I loved, the only thing that truly made me happy. Sweetie, don’t waste your life as I did. Be an artist. Live the life you are meant to live.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="EnglishClass" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-205 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-206 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-206"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">English Class</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Justin Kyzar, Mississippi, USA, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A frustrated teacher deals with a rowdy class.</p> <p>Alright class! Listen up! Because of last weeks’ “events,” we are going to try this again. Everyone get out your pencils. And no throwing them this time! Jane, put that cell phone away! I will not hesitate to take it! Shawn, stop trying to light Cindy’s hair on fire! There is barely any left from last time! Jason! Don’t you dare throw that chair out the window! Jaaasssooon… Jason! Ugh! you guys are worse today than yesterday, and now I have to replace that window! I am calling the principal! (picks up phone) Hello Mr. Sanchez? We need you in the fifth-grade classroom. What do you mean you are busy? There’s no way those kindergartners are worse than these kids. oh…oh… They did that? Oh well, I hope Mrs. Smith recovers. Those kindergartners should be ashamed for doing that to her. Well, stay safe, and I hope the pencil wound in your arm heals. (hangs up) Okay class, new test! We are going to see how good you are at finding a new teacher because I quit! I am going to be a janitor! I rather clean up other people’s messes than teach you! Adios!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MeMyselfandI" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-206 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-207 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-207"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Me, Myself and I</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Cecily W., New York, NY, Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young girl tells her mother that she doesn’t want to be famous anymore.</p> <p>Mom, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s, it’s hard for me to say. The last thing I want to do is disappoint you. You’re so kind and supportive of me. I love you so much. I’m, I’m just going to say it. No matter how hard it is for me to admit, because I love my life. But hon-hon-honestly sometimes wish I wasn’t famous! Acting is an amazing thing. Most people would love to be me. It just tires me out so much. Starting at seven– I don’t think that was meant to be my path. I had an idea when I was younger, and you were amazing to let me follow it. But I was seven! I didn’t know all of the pressure that it would be. Again, the last thing I want to do is disappoint you. You’re my role model, my hero, my everything. Sometimes I’m scared I won’t be enough like you when I grow up. It’s just that I feel so insecure and overwhelmed. People always stopping and staring. Taking pictures of me, invading my privacy. Not feeling comfortable in my own skin. I just want me, myself and I. Not surrounded by paparazzi and obsessive fans. Sometimes I just wish for a normal life! I know that sounds selfish, I mean, I have everything. Money, designer clothes, loving family. I shouldn’t ask for more. But, I’m technically asking for less. I love all the fun trips and traveling, and this loving and kind family, I just don’t think a sixteen-year-old should be held to such high expectations. I love you. Thank you for always being there for me. I hope you understand.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AMothersWishes" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-207 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-208 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-208"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">A Mother’s Wishes</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Annelise M., New York, NY, Age 12<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A mother tells her teenage daughters to stay in school and to not make the same mistakes she did.</p> <p>No, no, no, no, I am not going to let the two of you drop out of school! Trust me, I’m not trying to convince you school is fun and all that other stuff, but that is no excuse to drop out. I know because I was once in that situation and went down the wrong path. When I was young, I had this dream about how my life would be, my ideal perfect life, two kids, a husband, a house. I would be rich and have my dream job. I wanted to lie in the grass in my backyard and give my kids advice and teach them life lessons. But it’s not that simple and dropping out isn’t the solution. One day 16 years ago I went into the doctor’s office and walked out with the news that I was having twins. It was an accident from a boy in school that I didn’t really know very well. I decided it would be better if he didn’t know. My first reaction was excitement and pure joy but didn’t last long when I realized all the problems and complications. I was scared to take on such a big role. This one change in my life would have a ripple effect on my life forever. Because in the months that followed I, I dropped out of school to take care of you. Until you moved away, I knew I would have to take care of you alone. All of the financial issues fell on me and it was very overwhelming. My parents did not take the news well at the time, and they didn’t really help. They told me to give you away, but I refused. Don’t follow in my footsteps and drop out because I did it. It derailed my life and yours. You both should get back to school and when you guys have left home, I will too. We can all have a new beginning.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Outside" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-208 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-209 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-209"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Outside</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Eleanor H., New York, NY, Age 12<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young girl seeks help from a therapist about her fear of going outside.</p> <p>I know why my mom asked you to come. I have a problem. Every time I want to go outside, I think about how the outside world is scary. The loud cars, big trucks, the constant noise surrounding me, the germs, the animals… the people. I really want to go outside. I have dreams about leaving this small apartment and I long to walk around the city and see things, learn in a school and not be homeschooled. Go to a park and have normal experiences but …I can’t. Every time I think about leaving, my heart races 100 miles an hour, my palms get sweaty, I get dizzy, and I picture the accident that left me without an arm … The one moment that changed my life forever. Everyone tells me I’ll be fine. But how do I know for sure? I could get hit by a car, robbed, kidnapped, attacked by an animal, or contract a disease. I have spent my whole life living in this house. I was even born in here, I know it’s safe. That’s why I have a special connection to this house. I am tired of being cooped up, but I can’t help it. I just want to be a normal kid. Can you… can you help me?</p> <p>Watch a video of this monologue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=58BEqo5cDBA&list=PLJCIVETij_d0uOBjDIPdnQwEUlYes-vlj&index=2" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">here</a>.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IRemember" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-209 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-210 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-210"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">I Remember</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Karina S., Baton Rouge, Lousiana, USA, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A daughter remembers things about her mother who passed away.</p> <p>Oh yes, I remember her. The way her hair smelled like cinnamon and every time she bent down to pick me up, it brushed against my face. I remember the way she laughed often and easily, her voice a chime of happiness. I remember that she seemed to always be awake. She wasn’t one of those moms who liked to sleep in late and have breakfast in bed. One night, I woke up in the middle of the night and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. There she was, a cup of tea in her slender hands, staring at the moon. I watched her in silence for a moment. She was so still. As if she were contemplating something. I had the overwhelming feeling that I didn’t really know my mother at all. But then, she saw me. “What are you doing, mommy?” I asked. She snapped out of her trance. “Just looking at the moon, June Bug. Do you need a glass of water?” She always knew what I needed. She was just that way. People are amazed that I remember so much about my mother, because the cancer took her when I was only five. I think her love for me pressed those memories into my heart and mind forever. I remember her telling me, right before she died, that she will always be with me, watching over me like the moon. Oh yes, I remember her. I remember.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="SpriteyODoodle" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-210 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-211 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-211"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Spritey O’Doodle</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Cameron F., El Paso, TX, USA, Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic (In an Irish accent.)<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A leprechaun outsmarts someone who has found his pot of gold.</p> <p>Listen, ye squirrely would-be crook…it dunnot work the way ya think. Da. I am a leprechaun, and indeed, we stand at the end of my rainbow with da pot ‘o gold right about here. What they dunnot tell ye is that my gold is buried deep below. Ya think that I would work away, makin’ shoes and boots for all da rich uns, just to let a theivin’ scud the likes of ye, come long and snatch me riches? Too bad for you, I’m Spritey O’Doodle. I’m no eejit. I’m the smartest of all da leprechauns. And you can go get a shovel. Ya have da right to dig for me treasure. But by the time ye return, who knows where me and me rainbow have buggered off ta. (Laughs.) Ye humans are bleedin’ thick! So, run along, ya gombeen. I’ve me work to do!</p> <p>(The leprechaun goes back to his work making shoes and sings this song.)</p> <p>“Lay your ear close to the hill.<br /> Do you not catch the tiny clamour,<br /> Busy click of an elfin hammer,<br /> Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill<br /> As he merrily plies his trade.”</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="YoureMelting" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-211 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-212 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-212"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">You’re Melting</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Amber Leanne Rothberg, Age 12, Massachusetts, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A friend consoles another friend after a death.</p> <p>Do you ever think about how being alive, and actually living, are two completely different things? Well, they may sound like the same thing to you. But trust me, what you’re doing now Ray, it’s not living. Yes, you are alive, but sitting around in your house all day, starring at a tv, you’re not experiencing anything except for “what’s next on Fuller House!” You need to wake up from your fantasy world Ray. You know, I miss her too. I miss her SO much. It’s the good times that hurt to think about. Like when our families used to go to the beach together. And you, Lila and I would have sandcastle competitions. Or feed the seagulls, even though we knew we weren’t supposed to, we didn’t care. When the lifeguards yelled, we would just nod and laugh it off. It’s okay to have memories Ray, but you can’t live inside of them. Sometimes you have to move on. And this is one of those times. Lila had her turn to live, and then she had her turn to melt. Everyone melts eventually. We will too. And when we do, we will see Lila again. But right now, it’s our time to live, and not our time to melt yet. But that’s what you’re doing Ray. Your melting. And you can’t melt because…because I need you. You can’t live a life, if you’re not willing to live it. You can’t just sit around all day and wait for things to get better. Nothing is ever going to chance unless you change it. And you need to try. I promise you…the moment you decide to get up out of your chair and take a walk or go to lunch with your friends that you haven’t seen in ages, then you will feel better. I’m not asking you to forget about Lila, because that’s not possible. All I’m asking is that you try to live a life without her. And accept that she’s gone, and that she’s not coming back. You just need to live in your current reality and in the moment. Because these moments are all that you have.</p> <p>You may see a video of Amber performing her monologue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MARJn4HUXO8&list=PL7eUKdJzSJglY3LW5CoM1CKwkmKN23mx4">here</a>!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HomelessGoldilocks" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-212 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-213 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-213"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Homeless Goldilocks</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Anastasia G., Vancouver, BC, Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedy<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Goldilocks defends her reputation.</p> <p>Yeah, I know. I know. You recognize me. “Aren’t you that blonde girl who trashed the Bear’s house?” Listen, I hear it all the time. That was a pretty low point for me, I gotta admit. But look, you really shouldn’t make fun of the homeless. And technically, I’m not homeless. Never have been. I think of myself as more of an adventurer. Sure, I could get a job and rent a dumpy little apartment, but what would be the fun in that? Since the bear’s house, I’ve stayed in some of the finest places in the world! One time, I went on a tour of the White House, and hid behind the curtains in the Oval office. I stayed up all night reading classified documents. They’re a lot more boring than they sound. Another time, I crashed at Buckingham palace while the Queen was out doing some Queenly stuff. I tried on all her crowns. She may or may not be missing one. My favorite place was Santa’s workshop. Yeah, I know. Everyone thinks that those elves never take a vacation. But a snowman told me that’s not true. I got him to tell me the dates…cost me a carrot and I headed on up there. Seven days of playing with whatever I wanted and eating cookies and milk for every meal…now that’s a vacation! So, don’t be hating on homeless Goldilocks. I’m livin’ the good life. And remember, if you have something cool inside your house, remember to lock up when you leave!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BigGirlsGetDatesToo" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-213 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-214 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-214"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Big Girls Get Dates Too!</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Saturn Davis, Atlanta, Georgia, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedy<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A heavy girl gets asked to the homecoming dance by the finest boy in school.</p> <p>Ma! Ma! I’ve got a date. I’ve got a date. And do you know the best part? All the skinny pretty girls at school like him! (Singing) But he is mine, he is mine. Oh, did I mention…he is fine, he is fine. Oh, you should have seen their faces when Frankie asked me to the homecoming dance. They were all standing by their lockers: Missy, Claire and Prissy. And all of a sudden, Frankie just walked up. He was still in his football uniform. Man! I love a guy in uniform. And he’s carrying his helmet too. Uh! He’s so strong! And right there in the hallway he says, “Saturn, I have something to ask you, but it’s kind of hard so, I wrote it on my helmet.” So, in the middle of the hall, he gives me his helmet. Missy, Claire and Prissy were about to die, then he goes (kneeling on one knee) “Saturn will you go to the homecoming dance with me?” It was so cute!<br /> So, of course I said “yes,” and when he gave me his ring and his helmet hit me on the head. I have five stitches. It was so romantic ma! He’s coming to pick me up this weekend in his Camaro. I can’t wait! I just hope he doesn’t bring his helmet.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="LightsOut" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-214 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-215 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-215"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Lights Out</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Alexander S., Los Angeles, CA, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A person discovers a love of reading during a power outage.</p> <p>The scene opens with the actor pantomiming playing a video game. He/she talks on a headset.</p> <p>There he is! Ha! Gotcha!… Hurry up! There’s another one! …Pick that up, we’ll need it later… (Suddenly surprised. The controller stops working and the screen is black.) What the heck? (Taps headset.) Hello? (Looks around.) …Oh man. The power is out. I gotta find my flashlight. (Fumbles around in near darkness.) Here it is. Great dead batteries. I think we have some candles. (Moves as if in the dark, opens a drawer. Finds a candle. Lights it.) There. That’s better. (Looks around the room.) Now what? Maybe I’ll just watch some TV. Oh yeah… Microwave some popcorn? …Nope. Oh my God, I might starve. …Keep your cool, Chris. Mom and dad will be home soon. Okay, okay. People used to live without power all the time. Jeez. How did they do that? I’m not going to starve, I’m going to die of boredom first. Let’s see…let’s see (looking around). Oh, there’s that book I’m supposed to read for English class. Homework. Great. (Sits down, opens book and begins reading.) It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. (The lights come back on!) Cool! The power’s back! (Starts to get up. Hesitates.) I might just read a little bit more. (Opens book and begins reading again.) He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawnof the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhippinBoy" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-215 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-216 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-216"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Whippin Boy</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Carl S., Memphis, TN, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager plans an escape from an abusive father.</p> <p>Never in my life have I deserved a whippin.’ But don’t tell that to my Pa. He can tell ya there’s lots a reasons. I talk too loud. I don’t talk at all. I took too long walkin’ the dog. I didn’t walk ‘im long enough. I left my backpack on the floor. I put it on my bed. Yeah, there’s all kinds of ‘scuses for whippin’ me. Happens mostly when he comes home late, stinkin’ of whiskey bottles and ashtrays. I hear his truck roll up, and the crunch of gravel under his feet. My stomach goes all turvy and I try to keep quiet and to myself. But he finds me. Red eyed and close-fisted, he finds me alright. Sometimes I wonder why he ever had a kid. Other times, I think he had a kid cause he likes whippin.’ Whatever the reason, I’m makin’ plans. I got my own plans. Got a two hunderd and five dollars so far. When I get to four hunderd, I’m headin’ north. I’m takin’ Trout. That’s my dog. I can’t leave without ‘im. There’s this thing called emancipation. I gotta be 16, and that’s in seven months. Even if he tracks me down, he got no rights. But he ain’t gonna track me down. Too much trouble. Good riddance, he’ll say. And I’m gonna be okay. I know it in my bones. I don’t carry no hate around like a bag a rocks. We’ll have a good life, me and Trout. And one day, I’ll have me a kid, and I will love him, and always treat him good. The young ones ain’t no real trouble. They made of love. Unless ya whip it outta ‘em. I still got love left. I got plenty of love left.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Lovestruck" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-216 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-217 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-217"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Lovestruck</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Josie C., Albuquerque, NM, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Cupid aims his arrow at the wrong person.</p> <p>Oh, no you don’t! Don’t you be pointing that thing at me! I am done with love. Go find someone else you can trick into going all mushy and stupid only to have his heart torn out and smashed like a wine glass at a Jewish wedding. Ugh. Why did I even say wedding?! Love is like getting a puppy. At first, it’s like heaven opened up and sent you this thing, this incredible, furry, loveable thing. And two years later, it gets run over and your parents try to tell you that he ran away, but you heard them talking about how nice the man was to come tell you. He wasn’t nice. HE WASN’T NICE! He killed my dog! And now I wish that I never had a dog in the first place. Love is like that. Happiness, that ends up dead on the side of the road. So, kindly point your arrow in another direction. Find someone else to rip their heart to shreds.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Goddess" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-217 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-218 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-218"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Goddess</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Matilda T., West Gosford, NSW, Australia, Age 8<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> The Goddess Persephone tells of her life with her beloved Hades in the underworld.</p> <p>Chairete! That’s the Greek word for hello, for your information. I am a Greek goddess named Persephone. Oh, you think your life is tough, doing your homework, going to school, cleaning your room. Well, welcome to my world. I have to live in the Under World for six months of the year as, um… Queen of the Dead! My mother is the Goddess of Harvest, so she makes all the flowers grow and that sort of thing. I’m living in dirt, surrounded by dead people! At least I have the King of the Dead for company. When I come back above ground, I transform into the Goddess of Spring. Wanna hear my story? Once upon a time, when there was only Spring and Summer, my father, Zeus, King of the Living, thought I should have a husband. So, he sent his brother Hades to marry me. That’s right, I married my Uncle. A little bit gross. So… just to recap, I, Persephone the Goddess of Spring, married my Uncle Hades, the God of the Underworld. Then he took me to his Underworld, which meant everything stopped growing on the top of the ground. Yep, no more pleasant Spring weather for everyone to enjoy.<br /> So, turns out my mum wasn’t so happy about all of this, and she went looking the whole world over for me. Meantime, Hades, my new husband, persuaded me to eat six pomegranate seeds. Just six little seeds. What a mistake that turned out to be! So then… wait, are you listening? Great… It’s just that I have not spoken to anyone in ages. Right now, I want all ears please… there was a prophesy – that means a prediction by the Gods – that if anybody ate anything from the Underworld, they would have to stay there. Now I never knew this, so here I am warning you after all this happened. So, my mum and I finally found one another again… and she asked me if I had eaten anything and I said, “Just six pomegranate seeds.” Then she said “No! Persephone you have been tricked! Darling, listen to me. You now have to stay there for six months of the year.” But the thing is, I love Hades. Sure, he might be a King of the Underworld and the pomegranate trick was a bit wicked, but we seem to be a perfect match! Anyway, back to the seasons. So now- when I go to see my wonderful Hades, my mother stops letting plants grow and becomes Winter, because she is so sad I am going. So that is my story, and also the story of how we have the seasons. Ya Sah! That means goodbye. It’s all Greek to me!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MindReader" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-218 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-219 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-219"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Mind Reader</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Thalia O., Lakewood, CA, USA, Age 16<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male or Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedy<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen shows off an ability to read minds.</p> <p>Okay I know this might sound crazy but just hear me out. You see the thing is… OK don’t freak out but, I can read your mind! Ahh I know crazy right. Like seriously I don’t know how this happened, it just did I guess. Oh my gosh… ughh I know what you’re thinking. Man, I knew this would happen, you think I’m going insane aren’t you? OK you do you know that I just told you I can read your mind so basically, I know what you’re thinking, as in I know you’re thinking I’m a total lunatic but I’m not, trust me. I can totally prove it to you, but then that means I’ll have to read what you’re thinking out loud and I wouldn’t want to expose you like that, but then again, you’re asking for it. Like seriously, don’t try me because I will do it. (Pause) All right don’t say I didn’t warn you. Basically, I know you have a crush on me. Ha! You didn’t expect that did you… Yeah, I didn’t either. It explains a lot actually. Like seriously, no wonder you’re always so clingy, no offense. Anyways I’m truly flattered but I mean, it ain’t going to happen.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IHatePerforming" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-219 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-220 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-220"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">I Hate Performing</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Amber D., West Gosford, NSW, Australia, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male or Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student describes their day at school.</p> <p>(Pacing back and forth.) Oh, why did I even sign up for this class? I didn’t know we’d have to practice auditioning. It’s not fair. Everybody will be looking at me, judging me. If I do one thing wrong everybody is going to notice, and laugh at me, and I’m going to be so embarrassed. The lights will be beaming in my eyes and my hands will start shaking like crazy. My throat will get really dry and I’ll stutter like there’s no tomorrow. I’ll fidget and play with my hair. I’m so nervous, what if I suck? What if I’m horrible? What if people start throwing things; or worse, tell everybody about my performance, and how much I sucked. I’ll be embarrassed everywhere I go. I’ll have no escape. People are always going to remember me as the person who couldn’t perform, the person who can’t ever talk in front of a crowd. I don’t want to do this, I hate performing. If I was confident I could just stand on that stage and nail it, but I’m not. I’m terrified, in fact I’m petrified. I would use any excuse in the book to not have to perform. I know what you guys are all thinking, just pretend to be sick. Well, unfortunately I’ve tried that already and they didn’t buy it. Use a doctor note, well I tried that one too, and as it turns out I’m not very good at forging signatures. They didn’t even buy the dead pet excuse. You know what; actually maybe I can do this. I’ve practiced for hours. I know all my words. All I’ve got to do is go up there and perform it the way I know I can, the way I’ve rehearsed it dozens of times in the mirror, and if I do that I’ll be fine. In fact, I’d be better than fine, I’ll be amazing. I just have to stay calm and relaxed. And the point is just to have fun, right? I don’t have to be the best, I just need to do the best I can. Alright, I can do this. I’m ready. Hey, I’m… I… I… I can’t do this. (Walks off-stage.)</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=wERaePTp1oM" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="NoCellSignal" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-220 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-221 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-221"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">No Cell Signal</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Robert L., Los Angeles, California, USA, Age 11<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male or Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student tries to carry on a phone conversation with terrible cell service.</p> <p>(Student is speaking into a cell phone and pacing about the space; leaning over, crouching down, standing on tip toes, shouting, etc. Actor can come up with a variety of challenging and funny physical antics and facial expressions.)</p> <p>Hello? Can you hear me now? What about now?…Dangit. Leslie? Leslie? Are you there? Oh, okay. (freezes in place) It seems to be working fine. You can hear me, right? Yeah, this is my new iPhone 6. My mom just bought it for me. It is so LAME. I swear, I have to run all over the place, pushing people aside in order to get a signal. What’s that? Oh, yeah. I can hear you now. It’s important?…Well, go ahead. (pause) Wait, what happened?!!! I didn’t catch that last part. Leslie? Dangit. (resumes pacing, etc.) Can you hear me now? Shoot. What about now? Oh, I can hear you. You did what? Hello? Ugh! (practically throws phone) Leslie? Leslie! Okay, I’m walking until I get a clear signal. (pacing, pacing) Let me know when you can hear me. (to self) I’m going to drop this phone in the toilet ‘on accident’ when I get home. Okay, you can hear me? I can hear you. Finally! (stops moving) So, what happened? YOU KILLED PATRICK AND YOU WANT ME TO HELP MOVE THE BODY? (someone nearby speaks to her) Hold on. (covers phone with hand) What? I’m where? (looks around then talks into the phone while running offstage) Oh my God, I’m in the library!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheThingsatSchoolYouHate" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-221 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-222 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-222"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Things at School You Hate</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Nikki D., Los Angeles, California, USA, Age 12<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male or Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student describes their day at school.</p> <p>(Student is speaking into a cell phone and pacing about the space; leaning over, crouching down, standing on tip toes, shouting, etc. Actor can come up with a variety of challenging and funny physical antics and facial expressions.)</p> <p>How was my day? Well, imagine this. You’re in the classroom and the one kid you absolutely detest, walks up to you and asks to borrow your pencil. Of course, your first thought is, “Eww! No way am I loaning you my pencil, freak.” Only, something takes over your mouth and you hear yourself actually say, “sure.” You can’t take it back. It’s out there and now you have to give it to him and so you do. At the end of class, you remember you loaned the troll your pencil. You only have two pencils so you have to get it back or your mother will nag you for losing it and costing her a small fortune in school supplies. You take a deep breath, approach the troll, and ask for your pencil back. The troll grunts something unintelligible and pulls your pencil out of his pocket. You are horrified. What used to be a brand new No. 2 pencil, has been clearly mauled by Troll teeth. You reach for it and realize it is covered in something sticky. Troll spit. You want to scream, “What is wrong with you? That was MY pencil you ate, Jeffrey Dahmer! That’s disgusting!” Instead, you drop it back in his trolly, swollen hand and say, “uh, you can keep it.”</p> <p>In your next class period, you slip a piece of chewing gum in your mouth. Unfortunately, the weird kid next to you saw you do it and now he wants a piece. You tell him no and hope he gives up. He doesn’t. In fact, he says that if you don’t give him a piece, he’s going to tell the teacher. You’re already on thin ice in this class so, you give pass him a piece while also giving him the stink-eye. This alerts the obnoxious kid sitting behind you who loudly says, “Oooh! I want a piece!” You firmly mouth the word no over your shoulder and turn back around. Obnoxious boy pauses a moment and then says, “Fine. I’ll just tell everyone you eat your boogers.” In frustration, you offer him one, hoping no one else is witnessing the exchange. They don’t. What they do see is weird kid and obnoxious boy blowing gargantuan bubbles during class. Before you know it, everyone is asking where they can get a piece. Needless to say, you’re officially out of gum, unless you count the piece stuck to the bottom of my shoe. So how was your day?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="GrimReality" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-222 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-223 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-223"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Grim Reality</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Becca L., Los Angeles, California, USA, Age 12<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Drama<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young girl describes her experience living with cancer.</p> <p>My name is Beatrice. I am 13 years old and I live in this hospital. When I was 10, I was diagnosed with brain cancer and I’ve been here ever since. When you are waking up, going to school, attending parties, hanging out with your friends, I’m stuck here in this room with white walls, a white floor, and white ceiling. While you are out experiencing life, I lie in this hospital bed. I try not to think about it too much ‘cause if I do, my head hurts, a lot. I have a window in my room. This man comes down the outside of the building every week to wash it. I look out the window when I’m bored, which is all the time. The hospital is right next to a middle school and I can see kids my age talking, playing sports, and eating pizza for lunch. I’d give anything to trade bodies with them. No one would want to be me, though. Sometimes, when I see the nurses running by with patients on gurneys, or when I hear heart monitors making that long beeping sound, I wonder if that will happen to me. If my brain fails, will I even know it? I often wonder how long I have left. My mom says everything will be okay, but I overheard my dad saying to her that it won’t. It’s not really as sad as it sounds. My sister is my very best friend. When she is with me, I feel less alone, more normal. I’d give anything just to be a regular kid.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="PunctuationSociety" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-223 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-224 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-224"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Punctuation Society</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Sophie W., Los Angeles, California, USA, Age 11<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Exclamation Point is upset about Comma, who talks too much.</p> <p>Welcome everyone to the Punctuation Society! This is our first, of many weekly meetings. As you may have noticed, Comma is not here. I specifically did not invite her. This is a Comma-free society. Hey that rhymes! (Smiles but then frowns again.) I, Exclamation Point have finally found something NOT to be excited about. COMMA! She keeps talking on and on and on! When you finally think she is done she just links what she is talking about to something else! It is so annoying. And when I am annoyed, I leave, and everything gets pretty boring. Question mark, Period, Semicolon, and all the rest of you, I know you’re with me on this. No, ellipsis, we will not be taking a vote! I am the President. I have final say. Parentheses…stop whispering. Do you have something to share with the rest of us? Oh, you like her? I don’t care if you like her. She will make it impossible to get anything done. Hey, you in the back, quiet down. Stop shouting! Wait…how’d a bunch of capital letters get in here. Get out! This is for punctuation marks only! Okay, now, back to business. No, Period…the meeting is not over. Sit back down. Ugh. This is exhausting. No wonder people don’t use Exclamation Points very often.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IfIWereHim" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-224 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-225 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-225"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">If I Were Him</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Mckenna S., Lynden, Ontario, Canada; Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male or Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen wanders down an alley to discover a homeless man, forever changing their perspective.</p> <p>Imagine walking down a dark alley-way lined with brick buildings, garbage and junk. Then, at the end, a light turns on, flickering. Under that is a man dressed in old clothes with holes, no socks or shoes. He is sitting on a grocery bag. He has a beard and scratches on his face, bruises too. He’s crying. He has a dog with scraggly fur and only three legs. I walk to him. He waves at me but with only three fingers. He smiles with black teeth. I ask about the scars. He says it was a cat. I ask why he is not on the street asking for money. He answers that he does not want money from people. I slowly take a green twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket, my week’s pay. I tell him that he is the only person on the street that I’ll give money to. Then the light starts to flicker again and the man crawls back into his box. The light turns off. I think what my life would be like if I was him. As I walk away, I think about how this man had changed my life.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheDayMyBrotherLeft" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-225 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-226 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-226"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Day My Brother Left</span></p> <p><strong>The Day My Brother Left</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Sarah Merry., Lynden, Ontario, Canada, Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong>When a young man heads off to university, it has a big impact on everyone, including his younger sister.</p> <p>Why? There are so many different options! Why did you pick the one that is half way across the country? He didn’t answer. Later, when summer was almost over, the time had come. He was standing at the door ready to leave. I couldn’t do it. I watched him as he said goodbye to my mom and then my dad. I was so upset that I zoned out. Then I turned my head and there he was standing with tears forming puddles in the bottoms of his eyes. It was my turn to say goodbye. I stood up and gave him a hug, trying to look put together. Then, right there in that moment, the whole world stopped. I was locked around him and I never wanted to let go. Then, my parents tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Tom has to go. He is going to miss his flight.” I slowly took my arms away from around him. He walked out the door and gave me one last wave. The door shut behind him. I quickly realized he’s going and not coming back. What if he doesn’t remember me? All those memories… Swoosh! Out the door they go. I turned around and I lost control. My eyes gave out. I cried. I cried more than I have ever cried before.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Howitactuallywent" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-226 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-227 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-227"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">How it actually went</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Yoselyn H., Edinburg, Tx, USA; Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> She is a dreamer that has wishes.</p> <p>This is how I imagined my first breakup would be: (dramatic pose, Girl imitating boy voice) I’m sorry. It is not you, it is me. I feel our connection has been lost and I have fallen for someone else. I want to breakup with you. (Girl dramatically cries) What?! Why?! Why me?! (falls dramatically to the floor) I thought you loved me. I guess I was wrong! This is how it actually went: (Girl imitates boy voice; calmly) So… um, I want to breakup with you. (Girl being calm) Uh, cool. And this is how I imagined my marriage proposal would be: (Girl imitates future husband’s voice; kneels on the floor, romantically) You are the love of my life. You are the one. We belong together forever. You make me happy every day. I love you. Will you marry me? (Girl acts melodramatically) OMG! OMG! OMG! Yes of course! I love you! This is how it actually went: (turns head from left to right) Yup, that’s right. I’m still waiting for it. I hope my life will take a big twist, because at the pace it’s going, I’m going to end up like the crazy old lady across the street – with forty cats and zero husbands!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="FightforLight" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-227 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-228 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-228"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Fight for Light</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Sarah Catherine M., Madison, Alabama, USA; Age 12<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A girl’s battle between darkness and light is abruptly interrupted by her mom.</p> <p>I can’t help but feel protective. I am everything. I am nothing. I cannot see myself. I can only see them, my children. My magnificent, shining sources of love. They are as inviting as the smell of warm cookies wafting from the oven. My stars. I can see everything in the universe. Gliding through the galaxy, faster that hundreds of times the speed of light, I can see in all directions. My goal is consuming – to balance the raging war between good and evil, between darkness and me. I am the embodiment of all that is good in the universe. My purpose is to defeat the dark matter plaguing the universe. As I defend my stars and fight for all that is good in the universe, my opponent withers and shrinks, folding in on itself. It is reduced to the purest form of darkness, shadow-light. It draws me toward it, sucking the light out of my soul. With a mighty heave, I launch myself toward it, overpowering the dark being and…and then I hear her. “Sarah? Sarah?!” It’s my mom calling. “Mom!!! I almost beat my game!” I pull my VR goggles off. I set them down on my bedside table and gaze up at the sky, imagining myself soaring up through the atmosphere into the deep ocean of space. I can picture myself zooming through everything, surrounded by color and light…and I vow that I will one day go into space. Further, even. As far as my dreams will take me!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheAssignment" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-228 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-229 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-229"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Assignment</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Oren S., Age 15, Pennsylvania, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student complains about having to write a monologue.</p> <p>A student sits at a desk, agonizing over a blank piece of paper. He/she gets up, addresses the audience.</p> <p>See here’s the thing. I don’t… like monologues. But, two weeks ago Mrs. Rolanda, my English teacher, announced that we were all going to write original monologues. This was her idea of a “fun” assignment. Fun. There are 36 people in my English class. Only one person thought this would be fun. And the kid thinks everything is fun. Literally everything. One time he was excited when we were assigned a 35-page essay on Millard Fillmore, who is the most boring person in history. Who really wants to know that much about the 13th president of the US? The only thing interesting about him is his name. 35 pages! His Wikipedia page is half that many pages, and that has pictures and headings and stuff! At least the monologue only has to be a page. I used to like English class. That was before 5th grade. In 5th grade, Mr. Fartherman ruined it for me. He hated the English language. He hated to talk in it, hated to write it, hated to listen to it. If you hate English so much, then why did you become an English teacher? When we came into the class, he would give out a worksheet with instructions on the board. He hated to write in English, so they were always in a different language. He would never tell us which one. So, every day, the class would figure out what language it was, type it into google translate, and read the instructions. By the time we did all that, the period was almost over. I don’t think I learned a single thing in his class. Come to think of it, I think he would have been a great World Language teacher. Still don’t know why he decided to teach English. So anyway, he ruined the subject English for me. Every teacher I got after him kinda sucked. I’m pretty sure my 4th grade English teacher made sure I was with the worst English teacher for the rest of school. She probably still holds a grudge from “THE MISHAP”. It’s kind of a long story. (Beat.) You know what? It actually isn’t. We gave out Valentine’s day candy, and I went into everyone’s bag and ate everything. (Beat.) Well I guess I have to go write my stupidmonologue thing now. What should I write about? (Beat.) Wait. Everything I just said. That was a monologue! Yay! I wrote a monologue! Who knew It could be so fun? (Sits back down at desk and starts writing.)</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ImanArtistnotaThief" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-229 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-230 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-230"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">I’m an Artist, not a Thief</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Sam M., California, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A thief is interrogated by the police.</p> <p>Wait, did you guys call me a thief right here, did you really just call me a thief?! Ok you know, that hurts. How could you say that? Well you know what? It’s ok, cause you can say whatever you want about me because I don’t really think of myself as a thief, I think of myself more as an artist. I take pride in my skills. To me, it’s more of an art. No one can match my skills or mastery. Listen up guys I can break into any house anywhere, anytime, take whatever I want, in and out ten minutes no prints no evidence nothing. If it wasn’t for that stupid roadrunner trap that the old man had I’d be in Brazil by now instead of here talking to you idiots. I could be on the beach right now tanning like a churro with a margarita in one hand and a woman on the other sitting on my lap! Do I feel bad about what I do for a living, no. So, you can say all you want about me, but I know for a fact that I’m more of an artist than I am a thief.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="RudolphsOlderBrother" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-230 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-231 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-231"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Rudolph’s Older Brother</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Trequan D., Mississippi, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Rudolph’s brother tells him not to forget where he is from.</p> <p>Hey man, bring ya red nose over here… AYE MAN, I said bring ya RED NOSE over here! I see you’re all excited about being Santa’s new favorite reindeer, but never forget where you came from. Yeah, I understand it’s nice to finally laugh, not get called names, and to play in all the reindeer games with everyone else besides just me… but can’t you see they’re just using you? Santa never gave you any attention until last Christmas when he couldn’t see any farther than he could spit. Huh? What do you mean he said, “you’re the light of his world”? He was being serious, that wasn’t a compliment! He taped you to the back of his car because his tail-light was out. Now explain to me why you’re okay with that. Matter fact nah, I don’t wanna hear it. Now you’re chilling with Dasher and Dancer acting like you’re a big star just because your nose glows up red, WE HAVE 50 THOUSAND CHRISTMAS LIGHTS THAT DO THAT SAME THING- you know what Rudolph, do what you wanna do, but never forget where you came from.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ABurgerCooksRamblings" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-231 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-232 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-232"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">A Burger Cook’s Ramblings</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Lauren B., North Carolina, USA, Age 12<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Rudolph’s brother tells him not to forget where he is from.</p> <p>My life sucks. Every single aspect of it. Terrible. From my friends to my neighbor to my job, it’s all bad. So, first, my best friend and neighbor is not the sharpest tool in the shed, to say the least. I moved into my neighborhood in 1999. Even though he’s my best friend, we have sort of a love/hate relationship. His lack of intelligence gets in the way of everything, and I have to act dumb with him just to make him feel better. The only time I have fun with him is when we gang up on our other neighbor. Now, that guy…he’s a huge pompous jerk, and the exact definition of a delusional artist. He constantly is trying to harm us in some way, and has spoken about three kind words to me total in the years that I’ve known him. And my job? My job is a living nightmare. I work in an unsanitary kitchen as a cook. I’m probably just one rotten burger away from getting cholera or salmonella. My jerk of a neighbor works there, too, and only complains about everything. I pretend to love my job, since I work for less than minimum wage, and my boss would fire me if I even suggested a raise. I’ve tried to get another job, but every time I do, it lasts about eleven minutes before I’m crawling back to my money-hungry boss. There’s a girl that doesn’t live too far from me, and she’s pretty nice. But all she cares about is doing dumb science experiments, mostly tests on me! One good thing…I have a pet. But it’s a snail. And guess what? Even my pet snail hates me. It’s run away a few times, too. Yeah, pretty sad. And as if all of this wasn’t enough, there’s one last cherry on top. I’m constantly blowing my money on repairs for my house, because it’s always rotting away. I guess it’s not all that surprising though, since I live in a pineapple under the sea.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ListenupDoggie-O" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-232 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-233 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-233"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Listen up, Doggie-O</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Chelsie K., Alaska, USA, Age 12<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A cat tells a dog who’s boss.</p> <p>Now listen up here doggie-o. I’m the one who calls the shots around here, see? I was here first, and as a feline, I have the advantage in the smarts department. See that bowl there? That’s mine. I catch you so much as sniffing around it, you’ll be sorry. I may be smaller than you, but I’ve got powerful weapons in these here paws. You ever tangled with a cat before? Well, don’t. You’ll find out mighty quick that I’m a force to be reckoned with. Now, over there is my bed. It’s the one that says ‘princess.’ Yours is the one that says ‘woof.’ Which rhymes with goof. As in goofball. Which most dogs are. See, the humans, they respect me. I don’t slobber all over them and wag my tail like a moron. I have dignity and poise. I even keep myself clean, and I would never, ever roll around in stinky stuff in the yard, or chew on dirty socks and then lick the humans. Gross. I don’t perform tricks for treats. That’s degrading. What are you trying to do? Hey, what are you trying to do back there? Go find a dog’s butt to sniff! Ya better watch it, doggie-o. Remember, I’m the boss around here!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="HowareYou" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-233 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-234 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-234"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">How are You?</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Ellie K., Age 12, North Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager shares too much information when asked how he/she is doing..</p> <p>How am I doing? Well, if I’m honest, numb. It’s the best way to describe how I am feeling. I’m moving through each day basically feeling empty and alone. From the outside looking in, it seems as though I have a lot of friends, but no one knows the real me. My family is great, but I feel I don’t belong. I see a couple of therapists, and I’ve been prescribed all sorts of medications, but none of that is really helping. I feel as though I am slowly fading away from reality. Medicine is not magic, I guess. It just sort of covers up all the hurt and emptiness. I mean, I’m not suicidal or anything. Well, not any more than the next person, I guess. Everyone thinks about it at one time or another. Doesn’t mean I am dangerous or that I need protecting. The medicine is a temporary fix, but temporary isn’t forever. I will eventually break…a lot of people do. In the meantime, I’m just numb. (Pause.) I’ll bet you’re sorry you asked. (Pause.) Well, then. How are you doing?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="SorryImLate" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-234 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-235 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-235" style="--awb-text-transform:none;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Sorry I’m Late!</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Lisa Iordache-Stir, Age 13, California, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong>An employee explains why they were late to work.</p> <p>I know I’m late for work, but you would not believe the morning I’ve had! Last night, I put all my clothes into the washer and dryer since most of them were dirty. To my surprise, they were all shrunken about three sizes after taking them out of the dryer! I only had my pajamas I slept in, so I wore them, as you can see. Then, when I went outside to get into my car, my car door wouldn’t open. I put my hands onto the freezing car window and saw that my keys were inside of the car! I had no choice but to walk to work. As I walked down the street, I heard something come from a nearby alleyway. Out of curiosity, I went to see what it was. Let me tell ya, big mistake. There were about ten, no, about twenty ferocious street cats staring me down. I slowly backed away, but it was too late. They chased me down the alley. About five jumped onto me and attacked me. This is why there are a ton of scratches on my body. See? By some miracle, I was able to escape. I thought to myself, how can this morning get any worse? Trust me, it did. I was a block away from the work office when I went to the coffee shop right around the corner and got some hot coffee. I realized that I was about to be late for work. I hurried to get out of the shop, and of course, I tripped and spilled the coffee all over the place. My work bag, my pajamas, my shoes, were soaked! I tried to wash off as much as I could in the bathroom, but it’s still there, as you can see. So, that’s why I’m late. I’ll try not to let it happen again. What? It’s daylight savings time? Oh, I’m an hour early? Oh, then never-mind.</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMqhl79zCNw" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TrappedinanElevator" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-235 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-236 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-236"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Trapped in an Elevator</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Sophia M., Age 13, California, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A terrified person is trapped in an elevator.</p> <p>(Actor mimes getting into the elevator, pushing the button, and having the elevator start up and then lurch to a stop.) No. This isn’t happening. This is it. My nightmare has come true. I’m going to die. The cable is going to snap and I’m going to fall hundreds of stories. (Rapidly breathing.) I’m running out of air. I’ve got to get out of here. Which button do I press? This red one is for emergencies, right? Or is it the blue one? NO. Probably the red one. Use your head. Think. Think. Oh heck, I’m just going to press all of them. (Presses the buttons. Waits.) Nothing’s happening. There should be a siren or something. Help! Help! I’m trapped in here! Anyone? Where’s my cell phone? (Digging through bag, checking pockets.) Oh my God, I left it charging in the car. Okay, calm down. Just calm down. What do I have to eat or drink. (Rifling through bag.) Two sticks of gum. Gum covered in lint. I’m going to die. (Slumps to the floor.) No one knows I’m in here. They’re not going to find me until my rotting corpse starts stinking up the building. This is a dream, right? (Pinches himself/herself.) Nope. I’m awake. I’m having a nightmare, but I’m awake. So, this is the way it ends for me. I’ll never get married, or have children, or finish my snake skin collection or fulfill my life-long dream of being a fortune-cookie writer. (Lies down on the floor.) Okay God, take me know. I’m ready. (Hears noise.) I can hear the angels. They are coming to get me. Wait a minute. (Sits up.) That doesn’t sound like angels. It sounds like a blow-torch. (Jumps to feet.) Hello! I’m in here! I’m still alive! (Elevator doors open. Actor leaps out, pantomimes hugging rescuers.) You found me just in time! I’ve been in there for days! What? It couldn’t have been just five minutes! Fine. If you say so. But from now on, I’m taking the stairs.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ElvesonStrike" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-236 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-237 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-237"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Elves on Strike</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Jeremy K., Age 12, Idaho Falls, Idaho, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> The leader of the elves union rallies the elves against Santa.</p> <p>As the leader of the Union of the Order of the North Pole Elves, I stand here today and urge you to say no to Santa! No more working from sunup to sundown without so much as a snickerdoodle break! What does Santa think we are, robots? No, we’re elves, and we have rights! Tinsel, remember when he made you clean Dasher’s stall after he got into that barrel of chocolate? Cleaning chocolate poo is not in the elf job description! And Snazzy, there was that time when he ordered you to let Mrs. Claus use you as a mannequin for the little girl’s dresses she was making. Humiliating! I mean, what the falalala was he thinking? I mean he makes us wear these ridiculous Pinnocchio outfits and sing while we work, while he sits on his big fat butt watching the weather channel. And on Christmas day, he takes ALL the credit. (Imitating children.) “Mom, Santa came! Ooooh, look what Santa got me! How did he know I wanted this?” Listen up children of the world: Santa is not the one who made your train sets, and your dolly houses and your walkie talkies. It was US, the Elves of the Order of the North Pole. We did it all. Santa is just a lazy guy with a wiggly belly who works basically one day a year. Nothing but a gloried delivery man if you ask me! (Pauses. Listens to someone in the audience.) What’s that? Santa is where? (Looks behind him.) Oh fudgesicles.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Chicken" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-237 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-238 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-238"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Chicken</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner!</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Kielle W., Age 16, Chesapeake, Virginia, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen wishes to overcome his/her fears.</p> <p>I’m in the bird watching club at school. I’ve adored the little rascals since I could say the word. I even memorized the state bird for every place in America! They’re just impossible not to admire. Birds are so much freer than any person I know. There’s no one to hold them back and tell them what not to do. Birds aren’t stuck in moldy, rundown apartments. Birds don’t stop themselves from flying wherever they want because they’re scared. No, I imagine that birds are brave. Much braver than me, that’s for sure. See, that’s why I wish I had a pair of wings. I want to feel free. I want to scatter brightly colored feathers for little girls to find in parks. Sparkle up their day a bit. Mostly, I want wings so that I could take flight. Leave behind my problems and soar into the sky. It’s why I love to go out on the roof. The wind blowing in my hair, the sun shining its beautiful rays down upon me. I pretend I’m flying for hours when I’m up there. Sometimes I linger on the ledge, arms spread as wide as an eagle. And I know one step is all it would take for me to finally, truly fly. One little step but… I never do. I always get scared and go back inside. Chained to the ground by everything I’ve got going for me. One day though, I’m gonna fly. I just need the courage to take that first step.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheBully" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-238 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-239 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-239"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Bully</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong>Philip G., Age 13, New Mexico, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen wishes to overcome his/her fears.</p> <p>Look, you’re new here, so I feel it’s my duty to warn you… there are a couple of people you’ll want to avoid. Skylar Morrison likes to thump kids on the head. He’s easy to spot because he’s the biggest kid in our grade. He used to be in the grade above us, but I guess he needed to learn more, so he’s in our class now. He’s mostly harmless beyond the thumping on the head thing. It’s Ross Sullivan you really have to watch out for. His real name is Roscoe and sometimes teachers call him that, especially if they are new. But make sure that YOU don’t ever call him that. He’s pretty good at name-calling. There’s this one kid he calls booger-licker or BL for short. That’s Julian Wynn, and he has really bad allergies. Ross also likes to do things like stuff mashed potatoes down your shirt at lunch. I know this from personal experience. If you tell on him, that will make it worse. He especially likes to pick on smart kids, and I’m telling you this because I can already tell that you are smart. (Pause.) What? Oh, I don’t know why he does it. If I had to guess I would say that he probably gets treated like that at home. That’s what my mom says anyway. Kids who torment other kids usually don’t have it so good at home. (Pause.) Yeah, me too. I have awesome parents. Hey, maybe we can try to be nice to him. Maybe he needs a friend. I never thought of that. We can at least try.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Pigeonpocalypse" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-239 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-240 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-240"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Pigeonpocalypse</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong>Brooke E., Little Rock, Arkansas, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student finds an extra credit science assignment is going horribly wrong as overgrown dough attracts a wave of deadly pigeons.</p> <p>(The speaker is on the phone, frantic, pretending to peer out windows nervously.)<br /> Yes, this is an emergency. I haven’t been outside my house in three days. They’re out there-in throngs, herds, flocks: the pigeons. Okay, I’ll try to stay calm and explain. It all started because of fungus. See, my friend Tom and I were put in a group for a science project on fungus, and there was this… extra credit assignment. It was simple; we were given a kit, and supposed to grow yeast. To make yeast, you ferment sugar found in fruits, like grapes. I decided to do it; what could go wrong?… Everything. I bought grapes at the store, and didn’t pay attention to the fact that they’d been pumped full of special chemicals to grow big. When I tried to make the yeast from the grapes, I accidentally created a special, powerful yeast… a superyeast. I was so excited that I told Tom about it, and y’know what he said? He laughed and said he wouldn’t believe it unless I made the world’s biggest loaf. Well, y’know what? I was going to make that loaf. So I work for hours. I’m going to leave the loaf to rise under the skylight. Speaking of that nice, glass skylight… the sun coming through the big glass skylight is so warm, and cozy, and I… well. I fall asleep, and… hey, what’s-WHAT HAPPENED? The yeast-it’s-swelling! Growing! It’s so big it’s pressed up against the skylight! You gotta send help or it’ll break through the glass! My cat Ringo is coming into the kitchen, guess he heard me. Be a good boy, Ringo. Ignore the fresh, yeasty scent… RINGO, NO, DON’T POUNCE! THE BREAD! He’s chomping it! It’s bursting through the skylight, raining dough on the neighborhood! How am I going to patch that skylight, mom’ll kill me… wait… do ya hear that? Coo…coo… COO! Pigeons! PIGEONS! The pigeons are coming from the sky in a hurricane! They are like an unstoppable wave of feathered locusts, eating every scrap of bread they can get their pointy beaks on! I’ve gotta cover the skylight hole before they get in! GET BACK, FEATHERED FIENDS, GET BACK! (gulp) Hurry! Hurry! Oh, no… I think they’re ripping through the sheets I put over the skyligh! If I don’t make it, don’t let them write “devoured by gluttonous pigeons” on my tombstone.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="APlacetoHide" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-240 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-241 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-241"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">A Place to Hide</span></p> <p><strong>By: </strong>Lillian Orr, Age 12, South Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Female<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>Snow White explains her predicament to the seven dwarves.</p> <p>Um, could you all stop staring at me please? It’s a little creepy. Look, I didn’t mean to trespass. I.I…was trying to get some rest. I was so tired last night. You see, my evil stepmother sent out her huntsman to try to try to kill me. What would you do if you were trying to escape with your life? I didn’t have a choice. I ran and ran and this was the first house I found. Honestly, this wasn’t what I was expecting. Everything is so tiny. Little beds, little chairs, little tables…. but, I don’t care, I just need somewhere to hide. My evil stepmother hates me because every time she talks to that stupid mirror, it always tells her that I’m the fairest in the land and goes on and on about my fair skin that’s white like snow and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. So, I guess she figured if I was dead, she would be the fairest and prettiest of them all. That’s why I’m here. I don’t even want to be the fairest of them all. I was so tired that I fell asleep in these beds. <em>(Pause.)</em> Maybe we can come up with a compromise. How about this: if you guys don’t tell anyone that I’m here, I will make meals for you, clean your cottage, mend your clothes, take care of you when you are sick, and this will be our little secret.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="You’dBetterPayMe" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-241 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-242 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-242"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">You’d Better Pay Me</span></p> <p><strong>By: </strong>Dillon Hammell, Age 12, South Carolina, USA<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Male<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>The Pied Piper threatens the townspeople if the Mayor doesn’t pay him.</p> <p>What do you mean you aren’t going to pay me? I just got rid of those rats for you. They won’t be back for a long time, if ever. So, where’s my money? What? This is a joke, right? I have a family to feed you know. You need to pay me now! I just single handedly went from town to town playing my flute and had an army of rats following me. I got rid of them all, every last one! If it wasn’t for me, then you people would have gotten a horrible plague that would have killed almost everyone. You need to know that there are more things I can do with this flute of mine. Since you were smart enough to hire me to take care of the rats then you should be smart enough to know that you should pay me unless you want something terrible to happen. Still not going to pay, huh? <em>(Starts playing the flute.)</em> Do you hear that? That thunder and lightning surrounding us? That’s the magic starting to work. Say goodbye to your children. <em>(He grins and starts playing the flute again.</em>)</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/CJ6CdKC2Q6w" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="I’mnotSorry" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-242 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-243 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-243"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">I’m not Sorry</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By: </strong>Kaheni Johnson, Baltimore, Maryland, USA, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Any<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A teen tells his/her side of the story to a police officer.</p> <p>What were my alternatives, officer? You tell me. I mean how many times you guys been out there? A dozen, maybe? It’s always the same. You take him away, his breath reeking of Colt 45, and he spends one night sleeping it off and she springs him the next morning out of sheer fear. You ever know that kind of fear? Ice in your veins. She did try to leave. A couple times. One time we made it as far as Charleston. We ran out of money and he was calling, begging, his voice thick as honey. I tried everything I could to convince her to keep going. I would get a job. We could have a fresh start. But she turned that car around and drove straight through to daylight. I could feel the planet spinning that night. Did you know that the earth turns at 1,000 miles an hour? Most of the time you can’t tell. But you can always feel it when you are travelling in the wrong direction. That was only a month ago. And right away he started up again. Last night? Okay, you want to hear about last night? He was out as usual and I heard his truck sputter into the driveway. I could tell by the way the gravel crunched under his feet that he was drunk. Pretty soon I heard voices in their room. Not loud at first, but then there was a slam against the wall and there was silence for a moment. Something was different this time, I could sense it. I rushed to their room and saw him hovering over her, hitting her over and over. She wasn’t even conscious. I screamed at him to stop and he looked at me with white hot rage. It wasn’t even like there was a person there. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the gun. The one she kept hidden in an old toaster oven in the bottom cabinet. Her “just in case” gun. I didn’t even think about it, officer. I went back to the bedroom and I shot him. I shot him twice in the head. He didn’t even notice that I was there. He was too busy killing my mom. Last night it was going to be her or him, and I chose her. I’m not sorry about it either. So, you go ahead and do what you gotta do. Can I have a glass of water, or some fresh air? Hey, can you feel that? The earth stopped spinning.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheInterview" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-243 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-244 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-244"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Interview</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By: </strong> Divya Manikandan; Karnataka, India; Age 16<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Any (For male character, change the name.)<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Comedic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A teen prepares nervously for a college interview.</p> <p>(On phone.) No, mom. I haven’t even gone in yet. I’m in the lobby practicing while I wait. Yes, I will. I love you too. Mom, I WILL. I have to go now. Bye. Now, where was I? (Coughs to clear her throat and smiles.) Good morning. My name is Jeanine Brefcyznki and I know that those are two very polar, funny sounding names but that’s just me! I’m a bit American and bit Polish! My mom always says that I have the benefits of the American dream, blessed with the Polish work ethic! (Rolls eyes and slaps forehead.) Jeanine what’s wrong with you? You sound like a cheesy infomercial. Actually, you’re worse than that, if you were selling a vacuum cleaner, no one would buy it because of how stupid you sound. (Stands up straight, pushes shoulders back and extends her hand for a handshake) Good morning, my name is Jeanine Brefcyznki. How’re you doing this fine morning? (Animatedly) Oh! That’s wonderful! Oh! No, I’m fine with just water. So… how’re you feeling today? (Slaps forehead again and makes irritated noise) Jeanine! You can’t ask your interviewer how they’re feeling! That’s for them to ask you, just shut up and sit down, you silly human being. (Sits down and takes a breath, places hands on lap.) Take three. You can do this. Oh! That is an excellent question. First off, the research opportunities at your university are mind blowing! The stem cell project? Pure genius… and the self-sustaining ecosystems… I would love to be around that kind of innovation. (Smile turns into an angry frown) Okay…. and now I sound totally pretentious. Come on Jeanine! Do you want to get into college or not!? Good god woman! Get yourself together! (Pulls flashcard out of her pocket and paces the room) Da da da da da…. Plato’s sympo…sympos… how do you say this word? Symposium? My favorite book is Plato’s symposium…and why you may ask? Well, because my mother told me that it’ll make me sound smart! Remember Jeanine, open body language and smile…. open and smile. (Smiles at audience. Looks at flashcard again and starts pacing.) Blah blah blah blah… I love to learn… something, something, something… I spend my summers attending contemporary art conferences in Europe… okay okay, okay… where’s the important stuff? (Flips card over.) Oh, right okay! You need to memorize this before the interview starts… (Phone rings. Jeanine jumps looking a bit startled but then angrily picks up the phone.) Mom. I haven’t gone into the interview yet, you don’t need to call me every two minutes! (Pauses for two seconds, mouth and eyes wide.) Oh! Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to yell like that, I thought it was my mom… Yes of course I’ll come in right away! I’m so sorry!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="GenerationGap" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-244 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-245 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-245"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Generation Gap</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By: </strong> Caroline F. Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Any<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Comedy<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A teenager makes fun of his/her mom’s choice in music.</p> <p>Note: Misheard lyrics are from the song “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana. Actor should play the song listening for the misinterpreted phrase and actually sing it during the monologue.</p> <p>Do your parents make you listen to their music? Mine do. It’s torture, I tell you. Listening to my mom’s music especially. She likes this one band, Nirvana, and I swear you cannot understand a single word they are singing. There’s this one song and I think it goes like this, “A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido.” I think maybe the band members were poor and couldn’t read or write because also, their clothes look like they came from the free box. My mom also likes this band called Aerosmith. She says that their music makes her feel like dancing and by dancing, I mean leaping and kicking and whipping her hair around in circles. It’s so embarrassing. I looked up pictures of Aerosmith online and the main guy doesn’t look like a guy at all. He looks like my aunt Sharon who used to look really old, but had her face lifted up and now she looks surprised all the time. But the lead singer doesn’t dress like her. More like a person who was going to a costume party and couldn’t decide between being a witch or an Indian Chief. All the other people in the band just look mad in their pictures, especially the skunk hair guy. And oh yeah, she likes the Rolling Stones. And I guess they are kind of cool…for ancient, mummified rock stars. I heard my dad once tell my mom that if there was a nuclear war, the only things left would be the cockroaches and Keith Richards, the skeleton-looking guy. She plays the Rolling Stones a lot in the car and has to sing along with every word. This summer the air conditioner broke in our SUV so she’s been rolling down the windows, but that isn’t stopping her from singing at the top of her lungs. I’ve spent a lot of time shrunk down in my seat. I tried to get her to listen to my favorite band, One Direction. She says they sound like embryos trying to put on a concert. See, I told you that she has terrible taste in music. One thing’s for sure. When I grow up and have kids of my own, I will play One Direction in the car and in the house in front of their friends, and I will for sure not embarrass them!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IDon’tNeedTherapy" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-245 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-246 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-246"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">I Don’t Need Therapy</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By: </strong> Aamira Waheed; New York, New York, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Any<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A teenager explains his/her reasons for being upset to a therapist.</p> <p>I don’t see why I’m here. I’m not the one who needs a therapist. Yes, I’m stressed out, and maybe I’ve been a little emotional lately. You would be too, if you lived at my house. All they do is argue. Doesn’t matter if it’s a big thing or a small thing. I mean, the other day, they argued about how to cut the toast. Mom had cut it straight across and dad said it should go on the diagonal. Then my mom said that she wasn’t his mother and it was time to cut the apron strings. Whatever that means. When they realized I was in the kitchen, my mom flashed me her fake smile and passed me a plate of toast. I said I wasn’t hungry. Next thing, she’ll think I’m anorexic. So what if I stay in my room? It’s peaceful there with my earbuds in. Music makes me happy. I’ve been thinking about learning to play an instrument. I made the mistake of mentioning this to my parents. Right away, dad offered to get out his old trumpet. Mom said that he should shut up and let me decide. Then dad told mom that she didn’t have to be such a witch about it. I said I was finished with dinner and asked to be excused. And mom all of a sudden acted concerned and felt my forehead to see if I was sick. I went to my room and I could tell they were still arguing. They were doing that thing where they were trying to keep their voices down, but it’s totally obvious. They weren’t always like this. I mean, they used to be in love. If you ask me, they are the ones who need therapy. I mean, am I missing something here? (laughs) Thank you for saying that. I really mean it, I do. Most people don’t take teenagers seriously. (pause) Do you play an instrument? Oh, the cello is nice. But I was thinking more like drums. Drown out the noise.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="NoBurial" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-246 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-247 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-247"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">No Burial</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By: </strong>Sarah K., Tulsa, Oklahoma, USA, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Any<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A teenager visits her (or his) father’s grave with a friend.</p> <p>I used to come here a lot. Maybe it was guilt. Or depression. Or just habit. You know he’s not buried here, right? It’s just an empty grave. Kind of ironic that they etched a mountain on his headstone. That’s where he’s actually buried. Well, not really buried. They never told us, but I watched this movie about Mt. Everest, and apparently, when people die up there, they just leave the bodies. Yes, I’m serious. There’s no way to get them off there. It’s too dangerous. After I saw that, I kept picturing him in my imagination, frozen. Tiny icicles hanging from his eyebrows and beard. In my mind, his eyes are open and he is reaching out. Stuck like that forever. Or at least until he’s buried beneath a snow drift. For a long time, I had dreams…well nightmares that he is somehow still alive up there and no one can find him. I worry that his soul is not at rest. My mom told me that she had begged him not to go. He had small children, she said. It was irresponsible. But my dad was an explorer, a conqueror. I don’t remember him much, but I can see it in his eyes when I look at pictures of him. He almost made it to the top. (Pause.) One day, I’m going to make it for him. I’ll do it when I’m still young. Before I have children. I’m going to take a rock from that mountain and bring it back here. Maybe then he can rest.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="DNA" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-247 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-248 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-248"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">DNA</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By: </strong>Eli J., Sarasota, Florida, USA, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Any<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A student offers a melancholy explanation for why he (or she) keeps falling asleep in class.</p> <p>I’m sorry Mrs. Trask. I’m trying. I just can’t stay awake in your class…yes, I think biology is interesting, especially DNA. Deoxyribonucleic acid. Kind of rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? I’ve been thinking a lot about the double helix and how it reminds me of sacred geometry. Do you know about sacred geometry? Well, that’s okay. But I imagine the shape and structure of our DNA is related to some kind of larger thing in the universe. I mean, look at it. It’s like art. A turning ladder made up of tiny intricate colors. And the fact that no two are the same says a lot. (Pause.) Well, for instance, it means that each person is unique. Even if you are born of certain parents, you don’t have to turn out like them because you are different. (Pause.) No, I don’t really want to be like my parents. Well, maybe my mom. My dad, he’s just stressed out is all. There are five of us, and Spencer, he takes a lot of work. At the hospital, they said he wouldn’t live, but he did, and now my mom has to stay home to take care of him. My dad works a lot and I think that’s why he’s mad all the time. I just wish he wouldn’t yell, and…well, other stuff. I can’t talk about it. Anyway, sometimes I don’t get a lot of sleep. That’s why I fall asleep in your class. I’ll try harder, I promise. I like learning. I like learning that deep in my bones is a code that belongs to me and only me. Gives you comfort, doesn’t it?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="ThePromotion" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-248 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-249 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-249"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Promotion</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By: </strong>Isabel Parent, Calgary Alberta, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Male<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Comedic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A nervous Walmart employee makes a video tape of himself asking for a promotion.</p> <p>Brock: Okay. I think I got it. Alrightie, (Mutters to self.) how do I start this? (Clears throat. Starts again in announcer voice.) Hi. I’m Brock Bruce, and I am here to tell you why I, Brock Bruce, your hardworking Walmart stock boy of 28 years deserves a promotion. (Exaggerated wink.) No! Aw heck. (Jumps off stool and moves off camera. Grabs weights and does a few exercises to calm down.) Okay. (Tries again. Adopts a more serious “sexy” tone.) Hi. My name is Brock Bruce. You may have seen me at your local Walmart. I have dedicated 28 years to that store, and the fine customers inside it. As a fellow, neighbor, worker, and citizen of this fair town I am here to tell you why I, Brock Bruce, deserves a promotion, and how together, we can make Walmart Great Again! Agh! Too Trump! Mama always said avoid the political talk. (Sit back down and smile.) Some of my skills include speed stacking, using candy to locating lost children, and peeling the smiley sticker off first try, no tear! Actually, in grade six I was voted most likely to end up working at Walmart, so who cares about skills when the people have spoken! (Pause.) My hobbies include fitness dancing, because you don’t get a (subtley does some body builder poses.) great body like this from just stocking the shelves. Well if you need any more reasons other than these that which I did just tell you, then I don’t think the Walmart smiley face could get this job! And not just because he’s just a head, I mean… (Talking to self.) Heck, I’ve worked here 28 years and I can’t get this darned promotion. (Speaking to camera.) And I really, need this. I mean, it’s not even for me. My mama needs a stair lift so she can get downstairs to the beer fridge; she hasn’t taken her pills dry since her twenties! Besides, I think I’m running out of time. But I swear, if I get this promotion I will be the hardest worker you’ve ever had. I’m Brock Bruce, and I will see you at work tomorrow. I’ll be there early. And stay late. Just in case you need to contact me. Brock Bruce. Any time. I’ll be there. Okie dokie. (Waits for a minute for camera to turn off.) Oh, I have to turn it off. (Attempts to turn camera off. Struggles and gets frustrated. Yells as he exits.) MAMA! HOW DO YOU TURN THE CAMERA OFF?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="MySister’sSong" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-249 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-250 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-250"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">My Sister’s Song</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By: </strong> Payton Doerksen, Carman, Manitoba, Canada, Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Female<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A young woman overhears her sister singing alone at night.</p> <p>Amanda sits on her sister Isabel’s bed.</p> <p>I don’t mean to eavesdrop on you, but the walls are so thin. I can’t help but listen. I hear you singing at night and it’s very calming, but also kind of sad. It reminds me of an angel ringing a bell in the moonlight. It’s both soft and light, Isabel. I know you hate me for listening and that I’m just an annoying little sister, but I love listening to you. I love you. Sometimes I wonder if something has happened to you. I wonder and I wonder, and I know that you say it’s just my imagination. But your voice sounds so sad sometimes that it frightens me. There are stories in your songs. I know you have a right to privacy and you don’t have to tell me anything. But you would, wouldn’t you? Just please don’t yell at me again. I hate it when you do that, or when you stop talking to me. The only thing worse than yelling is silence. We’re sisters. We’re blood. And with things are the way they are, we’re sometimes all each other has. I guess we don’t have to talk about it anymore, but please don’t stop. It helps me fall asleep…the sound of you singing your heart out.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="YoungerSelf" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-250 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-251 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-251"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Younger Self</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By: </strong> Rosa Miillan, Los Angeles, California, Age 11<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Any<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong>A character talks to a younger version of herself (or himself).</p> <p>This is me. (Shows the picture.) Sometimes I take out this picture and talk to her. I tell her about what’s going to happen in her future, and I tell her that I miss the past. I tell her that I miss the days when I didn’t have to go to school. The days where I would just eat and play all day. I tell her that I miss all the attention I used to get from people., the times when I didn’t even think to worry what other people thought of me. I didn’t judge myself and my imperfections then, I was happy. I think I was like four or five. That was before I realized there was so much sadness in the world. When I look at her picture, I can feel her telling me that it’s going to be okay, and I want to believe her. There were even times when I didn’t want to be on this earth anymore, but looking at her, I felt that things were going to get better…that I would come out stronger than ever. (Puts picture away.) I wonder what my future self will say to me one day. I hope I can give her strength when she needs it.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AtWhatCost?" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-251 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-252 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-252"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">At What Cost?</span></p> <p><strong>By: </strong> Olivia S., Calgary, Alberta, Canada, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Female<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong> A beauty pageant contestant questions whether or not to continue competing.</p> <p>Dolly Ransun is a 13-year-old girl who lives in Georgia with her mom. Her dad left before she was born. Her exterior is very stuck up and arrogant but internally she is very down to earth. The only reason she does pageants anymore is in hopes that her dad will reach out to her. In this monologue, she is running through her chorography for her up-and-coming pageant and slowly unraveling. She is talking to herself about all the things on her mind.<br /> Walk, walk, walk and cupcake hands and left foot, two steps right foot, two steps and… (pauses) Shoot! What the heck comes after the right foot? Is it the turn or walking the other way? Ugh it’s turn, of course, it’s the turn Dolly. Get your act together! Okay, start again. It’s fine, it’s fine. You’re still gorgeous. “Ultimate Grand Supreme” is still yours. Okay. Smile, walk, walk, walk and cupcake hands and… left foot two steps and…right foot two steps and turn and back (rolls her ankle and collapses in pain.) Ah! My stupid ankle! I can’t afford for you to give out on me! You have one job, ankle, one job: Stay. Up. (Picks herself up.) Okay, let’s try again. Walk, walk, walk and cupcake hands and turn and heart face! (Stops. Realizing.) I can’t do this anymore. That’s it. I’m going to tell her I don’t want to do this anymore. The fake eyelashes, the hair, the nails, and starving myself. For what? A chance Dad might finally come back? No. If he didn’t want me before, he’s not going to want me now. I’m nothing to him. Nothing. But that’s okay. (Long pause.) I got mama and grandma and grandpa who love me and support me. No matter what. (Realizing.) What will they do when I tell them I’m done? I’m so tired. I’m tired of being someone that’s superficial. Tired of trying to get something that feels…. unachievable. My childhood has been taken away from me. I mean when was the last time I went to the park? Or went swimming my friends? Heck, when have I ever done something just for fun? Something just for me? This is not who I am. I have to tell her. I need to tell her. (Calling out.) Mom?</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheUnknownKnown" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-252 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-253 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-253"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">The Unknown Known</span></p> <p><strong>By: </strong> Annika G., Calgary, Alberta, Canada, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Male<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong> A character talks to a younger version of herself (or himself).</p> <p>Michael is a secret time traveler who owns a record store. In this monologue he’s talking to Jason, his best friend, about an important decision that lie ahead: Stay in the now and accept what you have, or leave this world behind for the unknown.Jason, I want to ask you something. We’ve known each other a long time and we’ve seen each other through life’s ups and downs. If you were to choose to go back, back to when we were young, back to when your hopes were still present and your whole future lay ahead, would you do it? Right now, if I told you that I knew how to time travel, would you go back to that night when you got drunk and ran naked into the pond behind my house? Would you make a different choice so that you didn’t go through high school with the nickname Streak? What about the time that you lied to Elizabeth about never having dated Joelle and she found out and broke up with you…breaking your heart, really. Would you go back and be at least honest with her? I think about this a lot. Mostly, I think about Thomas, and how if I would have been paying attention at the river, he would still…he would…be here. Would you do it all over again and have a chance to reverse doing everything you’ve regretted? Or… would you go forward and take the unknown future and be whisked away to a place where everything could be totally new… like a fresh start? Just stay here…and have that be enough.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="NoRegrets?" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-253 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-254 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-254"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">No Regrets?</span></p> <p><strong>By: </strong> Lindsey A., Calgary, Alberta, Canada, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender: </strong>Female<br /> <strong>Genre: </strong>Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description: </strong> A character defends her choices to her former classmates.</p> <p>Amber is a young woman living in Los Angeles. She dropped out of high school when she was 15. In this scene, she is attending her high school reunion and feels the need to defend her life choices.<br /> I don’t regret my choices. I don’t. Admit it, I’m prettier than every single one of you. I’m probably the prettiest woman on the whole planet. It’s okay honey, we can’t all be winners. Losers like you only exist to make girls like me shine even more. Oh, that’s right. Did you know I changed my name? That’s right. My name is Amber Bethany Elizabeth Mary-Sue Katherine Windslow. Windslow is my 80-year-old husband. Of course, I married him for his money! But I don’t mind. I don’t. Billionaires are attractive at any age. He buys me anything I want. I shop on Rodeo Drive. I have my own chauffer and personal stylist. I have a hair and make-up artist and a personal trainer. I can afford implants…see? And liposuction and face-lifts…anything. And yeah, surgery totally sucks, but beauty hurts, right? It’s so worth it. Some girls call me a sell-out, but they’re just totally jealous. They wish they could be me. Sure, I’ll never actually get married for love. I’ll never actually be in a meaningful relationship. But it’s not like I need one. I try not to have any real friends; they just judge me drag me down. I dropped out of college because who needs a degree, right? I mean look at what I have. I’m laughing just thinking about it! The same goes for voting and leadership. That’s a boy thing. Girls can just sit back and watch from the sidelines. The dog’s life, right? It’s so much easier than actually doing anything. We’re just objects, wallflowers, property. Some girls like to think that they can be special snowflakes, but they’re all idiots! If they would just accept their place in the world… If they would just embrace it… If they would just be what society wants them to be… They would be happy! (Begins experiencing an emotional shift.) That’s why… that’s why… I-I-I already told you. I don’t regret my choices.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheAssistant" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-254 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-255 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-255"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">The Assistant</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Lily P., Carman, Manitoba, Canada, Age 12<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A difficult boss rants about her assistant.</p> <p>I know you’re probably wondering why I’m drenched in coffee, so I’ll start from the beginning. It all started when I left for work, you know where I work right? Yes, Kimmel and Becket on 55th. The law office. Okay back to the story. So, I left around 8:00 and got to work at 8:30 and my new assistant wasn’t even there. At 8:30 she is supposed to be there. I’m not a mean or impatient person so I just sat at my desk, tapping my foot, waiting for her. After about two minutes I was so mad I wanted to fire her right when she walked in the door. It’s so hard to find good help these days. Last month, I had to fire four slackers right after another because they were not what I was looking for. I just want an assistant who listens to me and doesn’t put cream in my coffee. So, after about four whole minutes of me staring at the door just waiting for that rat to walk in, she came running in. She saw how angry I was and started in with this ridiculous story about being mugged on the way to work, I mean that happens all the time in New York, but it doesn’t mean you have to be late! So, then she held up my coffee and acted all apologetic like everything was gonna be fine. I looked at her and told her in the nicest way ever “Leave now, your fired.” Then she looked at me like nothing and threw that coffee right at my face. It splashed all over my Ann Taylor blouse and onto my Jimmy Choo’s. Then she slapped me and ran out. I’m going to sue her and then have her banished from this country! I am never gonna let someone treat me like nothing and I don’t even care if it was her first day!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="PaperCranes" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-255 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-256 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-256"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Paper Cranes</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Jefferson T., Cupertino, California, Age 16<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A young man reminisces about his friend Sadako, and the thousand paper cranes she folded during the Atomic age.</p> <p>I’m a liar… *huhm* Well I’m certainly something. It’s easy to get strange around here. So many grim faces, so many doctors, so many treatments. It all stops making sense after a while. “acute malignant leukemia of the lymph glands” sounds fancy, don’t it? ‘Atom Bomb Disease’ rolls off the tongue better. It was the course of governments that led to the most destructive weapon ever conceived, but it was the people who paid the price. No presidents no emperors, us kids. I wish I could sleep, I’m always tired in the morning, the nurses call me out for looking bleary. I think it’s funny, they know I don’t have anywhere to be. I’ve spent so many nights staring out this same window looking at this same street lamp. I blame the snores from the five other people in this room. I can never sleep when I want to. You think something so basic to living would come easier. Maybe if I fold some cranes, all my struggles would be solved (laughs). I shouldn’t joke about that. No, it’s wrong. It feels wrong to Sadako. Oh, Sadako. She’s in a better place now, outta this place at least. Only twelve in this hospital, this is no place for little girls, this is no place for anyone. Too sterile too gray too hopeless. I can’t stop thinking about Sadako, how she spent her last few week folding all those cranes. I had told her a while ago, jokingly of course, the legend that anyone who folded one thousand paper cranes would be granted a wish. Fold a thousand. Money? Done. Superpowers? Easy. Not dying? Easy. The poor thing spent her last months folding and folding and folding. Not taking in music or colors or flavors, but folding the same damn thing again and again. She only got up to six hundred something, before she (looks for word) went. It didn’t matter in the end, I knew it wouldn’t, paper cranes can’t cure cancer, I know that. I Shouldn’t have told her that. I’m a liar. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing, hope is hope right? And she found that, had it. I think she realized it wasn’t gonna save her, she must have, she wasn’t dumb. I know she saw the end coming, but she kept folding. I can’t understand why she would spend all those hours on something so pointless. I messed with her head with, I’m older I shoulda known better, I shoulda done better. It’s good she spent her time doing something she wanted to do, that is that. But its, it’s weird to think she’s becoming a hero for it isn’t it, the cranes I mean? I hear them talking about how inspirational her story is. Really? They saw how it ended, how it ends for all of us, what’s beautiful about that? I can hardly bear to think about it. It’s not ok, it’s not right. It’s so helpless can’t you see? Folding paper and legends, that’s not enough to build hope on, but it’s all we get. It’s cruel. Nothing inspirational about it. Nothing more to say about it. She’s no hero, none of us are, we’re all just dying in our own ways. I really need to get some sleep, it’s so late. Nothing stops the morning.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Fencing101" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-256 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-257 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-257"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Fencing 101</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Brooke E., Little Rock, Arkansas, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A snobby fencing instructor gets a comeuppance.</p> <p>Hello, and welcome to Fencing 101. I’m your instructor, Archibald Atticus Vanderbilt Carnegie Harvard Dartmouth Stephens Columbia Car-wait, I already said Carnegie, where was I? Oh, stop looking at me like that! I’m sure you aren’t as capable of keeping track of your first fifty middle names. Now, the art of the sword is an art dating back to the earliest ages of reason, perfected during the Renaissance age, when a true Renaissance man knew not only the sword, but—stop chatting amongst yourselves, you urchins! I did not master the sword by ignoring my elders! The children of my day were civil hand-raisers who knew how to address their masters. For foil’s sakes, children, raise your hands! Yes, you, in the out-of-season blouse. “When will we get to stab people,” you ask? Ha! Stabbing people is not what fencing is about. Hey?! Where are you going? Get back here! I didn’t go to Charleston Maxwell Private Academy to be disregarded! STOP SNICKERING! Alright. Alright. All of you, in line. I will be giving you your swords. No stabbing…. What did I just say? Yes, you, the victim of the stabbing? What’s that? “Can I go to the nurse’s office?” I don’t know, can you? It’s may I go to the nurse’s office, child, not can. Say it correctly…. thank you. Please staunch your profuse bleeding and proceed directly there. Now, put your feet at right angles and spread them, bending your legs into a comfortable en garde position. (Go into the correct on guard position.) Oh for the love of-I didn’t say sit down! What?! You can’t bend your leg?! And why on earth is-oh, it’s in a cast. My apologies, young man, I didn’t realize-wait, why are you even here if your leg is broken?! Just… just leave. My patience wears thin with you ruffians. Alright, now you’ll want to take a step forward, then dart out like a majestic scorpion of the Sahara! Much like this-(demonstrate). Now you try. DON’T FACE EACH OTHER! Face the wall and practice hitting it with the tips of your swords. Yes, like that. What is it, girl? You don’t have room on the wall? Just hit that infernal metal box over there! (mocking her in falsetto) “Oh, Mr. Archibald, that’s a circuit breaker! We could cause a power outage! Nyeh, nyeh, nyeh, do as you’re told! Stab the metal box, girl, or begone from this class! (Archibald nods, then shrieks, flailing his sword around). DEAR HEAVEN ABOVE, I’VE GONE BLIND! THE DARKNESS HAS COME TO CLAIM ME! THIS IS MY PUNISHMENT FOR SKIPPING THAT ONE LACROSSE PRACTICE-what?! It’s a… a blackout? But… oh. Erm… well, if you can find it in your hearts… respect your elders… follow the-class dismissed!</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/7VBEmJ5vkNY" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IHateDisco" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-257 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-258 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-258"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">I Hate Disco</span></p> <p><strong>Third Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Payton V.P., Green Bay, Wisconsin, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Teen rejected by her guy finds comfort where least expected–from her mom.</p> <p>I don’t like disco. I’m sure of that. But when I was messing around with Ricky, I told him I liked disco. It was that kinda, doe-eyed, sloppy lie you tell when you’ve got cherry marmalade in your heart about a guy. Ricky was the bee’s knees, even though he was a lil’ too old for us high school girls. Mom never liked that. She said he was gruff and that it probably wouldn’t last long. But, Ricky’s not as sand paper rough as he comes off. He told me that in elementary school all the kids poked at him for being short. He’d listen to disco and eat his maple ham sandwiches with the teacher, which made me sad. Couldn’t you see my little Ricky with his wide eyes and crazy raven hair as he munched on some dry bread next to a busty middle aged teacher? Ricky never really knew how to click with people quite like everyone else, I suppose. The part that made me ache was when Ricky told me ‘bout the day they served French toast sticks. The kids roughed him up, yanno, punches and kicks like little tykes do, and then poured syrup into the back of his sweater. Ricky got all teary-eyed just talking about it. Everyone called him Sticky Ricky. Still do. I only called him Sticky Ricky when I was angry with him. Ricky was irksome, but, boy, did he love disco. Not me. I didn’t mind some Donna Summers and some Bee Gee’s, now and then, but Ricky loved it. I told him I did too. I never really understood why girls do that for their dopey boys. It was just a tradition. It was a torch passed down on the back of the bus, along with dirty songs and the secrets to youth. My mom would nag at me for bending about disco. I used to always yap and moan about her Earth, Wind and Fire, but that’s just what girls do to their mothers. People tell me how much I’m like her, and it drives me crazy. “Lola! You’ve got your momma’s disco ball eyes!” I didn’t want her disco ball eyes! Or her disco ball hair, hands or songs. When I broke up with Ricky, he spit on my new Mary Janes and then I blurted out that I hated disco. My mom picked me up that night in the back lot of the drive in. We listened to Gloria Gaynor the whole ride home as I cried. I was mad ’cause she was right. Moms are always right. She rubbed my back and made me feel better. I still hated disco, but I didn’t mind it as much in that moment.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BlueEyes" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-258 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-259 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-259"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #cd3301;">Blue Eyes</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Lavender Payne, Cupertino, California, Age 16<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager survives the Columbine Shooting</p> <p>I always wished my life was more interesting. I always wished something exciting would happen, something so big it would change my life forever… I had only been attending Columbine for about a month before it happened. I really didn’t have any friends, being the new girl and all, so I spent most of my free time at school aimlessly roaming the halls, or finding a quiet place to sit and read. I remember that day, I decided I’d go the library and work on homework during lunch, since I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, but I had only in there for about ten minutes when I heard this loud noise coming from out in the halls. These two students ran in, a guy and a girl, and the girl was calling for the librarian saying that the boy that was with her had been shot. At first I just thought it was a sick senior prank or something, since it was pretty close to the end of the year, so I just disregarded all the commotion… but then I heard Ms. Neilson shouting for everyone to get under the tables. When we heard gunshots, and screaming ringing through the halls, we knew it was real.<br /> I panicked and looked for a place to go, and that’s when I saw a student I had never met before, crouched under one of the computer tables. I guess he noticed how lost and scared I looked, because he gestured for me to hide with him. It was so weird. In the midst of chaos, there was a moment where it felt like time had slowed down, and I got a chance to look at his eyes. They were this incredible shade of blue, so bright and full of life. He gave me a timid smile. There was a certain kindness in his expression that made me feel safe despite everything going on around us. That moment of silence was broken by the sound of more gunshots in the hall getting closer, and the boy I was sitting with grabbed my hand, and locked his ocean blue eyes with mine. “We’re going to be okay,” he said, “everything is going to be okay.” but then the doors burst open. Everything after that felt so surreal. Like it was all happening so slow, but all too fast at the same time. The voices of the two gunmen made my skin crawl. I shut my eyes tight and just kept hoping everything would just go away. Wake up Nicole. This isn’t real- no this can’t be real. Wake up… But it wasn’t long before the crack of several gunshots silenced my thoughts. I felt a sharp pain in my thigh, it took me a second before I had even fully realized what happened. I reached down to grip the source of the pain… blood…I looked to my left, and the boy with blue eyes had let go of my hand, and was instead gripping his stomach, he was bleeding too, and he was pleading with the shooter… begging for his life. I tried thinking of something to say, as if choosing the right words would save his life but. I could barely even form a complete thought when– no. no, no. I can still see it. there was just… so much blood. I remember grabbing his hand again, it was still warm. but his eyes- those gorgeous blue eyes of his- they were different now. Empty… The room was spinning and the pain from the bullet in my thigh was unbearable. I blacked out after that. I can’t handle the sight of blood. I remember waking up surrounded by paramedics and police. The sound of sirens echoed in the distance. They lifted me onto a gurney and this woman kept trying to ask me questions, but everything was just a big chaotic blur. So much pain from the bullet in my leg, and my head was just full of questions. Why did this have to happen? How did I survive this? Why didn’t he? He didn’t deserve this… he had a family, and friends, and a future, he had a life. Life…we take it for granted, don’t we? I always wished my life was more interesting. I always wished something exciting would happen, something so big it would change my life forever. Be careful what you wish for.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="WhenIwasYourAge" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-259 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-260 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-260"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #cd3301;">When I was Your Age</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Hanna Collins, Cupertino, California, USA, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A Chinese mother lectures her child about how easy her life is.</p> <p>How dare you disrespect me like that. After all I’ve done for you; raising you, teaching you, feeding you, clothing you- you dare to talk to me like this? If I had grown up with the things you have now; the opportunities and resources that you take for granted, I would be miles ahead! Sometimes I think you forget what growing up was like for me, and what a miracle it is that I am here, because if you remembered, you’d never complain. When I was your age, I wasn’t in a wealthy little suburb- I grew up in China during the Cultural Revolution. I didn’t have time to argue for a later curfew, if I wasn’t indoors before dark, I would have gotten carted off to the labor camps by the Red Guard. If I had spoken to my mother the way you just spoke to me, she should have whipped me with a leather belt until I bled. Every time I see you refuse to eat what I put on your plate, I just want to smack you! When I was little, I was hungry. When I spilled a cup of uncooked rice over the dirt floor of our house, my mother smacked me across the face and the whole family spent the next hour picking every grain of rice off the floor. When I hear you talking about how bored you are, I remember the hours I spent playing with the mercury from a shattered glass thermometer; rolling it around my bare hands and thinking to myself how lucky I was to have found such a fascinating toy. I can’t stand the sound of you complaining how hard school is for you, and how not getting an A is fine. When I was in school, if my name wasn’t at the very top of the exam board, I would cry for the next two days. Hell, by the time I was your age, I was already in college! I did well enough in that college to earn a Green Card and a scholarship to Wesleyan University. I got my bachelor’s, two master’s, my PhD, met your dad, and then … I had you. I remember my father looking in every nook and cranny of our straw roofed house for every single cent that he could spare to give me. And then I look at you, spending hundreds of dollars every time you go out to the mall, and I am disgusted. But most of all- most of all … I am sad. I am sad that you look at me, your mother, and see an enemy; someone always criticizing, heckling, and yelling at you. Because when I was your age, my mother was gone. Yes, those were the days when saying the wrong thing to a neighbor or too loudly at night could be the end of you. Just a couple of words criticizing Chairman Mao, the leader of the Cultural Revolution, and she was gone. I just want to do for you what I wish my mother could have done for me, to teach you the lessons that I was never taught. If you could just look up and see me for who I am: your staunchest supporter, your most faithful ally, your greatest resource. Not your enemy. I am your mother, and I deserve your respect.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="StruggleintheLandofOpportunity" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-260 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-261 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-261"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #cd3301;">Struggle in the Land of Opportunity</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Antonio Suarez, Cupertino, California USA, Age 16<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A boy describes the life of an immigrant worker.</p> <p>No soy nada, but I want to be someone, someone better than what I am now. My familia came to California looking to better ourselves, but we always move from place to place to look for work on the farms. Every time we get to a new farm we set up a tent that we will live in. I know I`m young, I can’t talk a lot of English, Pero yo entiendo, but I can understand it. Over the years, I’ve started to realize that in life I need to work as hard as I can just to survive, even though we never get paid enough to even eat. Ever since we moved to this plantacion, I look at my reflection in the waters of the creek behind our little tent and I see the dirt on my face I look down at my worn clothes and think to myself, why are we so poor in the land of oportunidad? Por qué sufrimos tanto? Why can’t we just move into the city? When I think of the city I always wonder what better things could be in store for me, I smile at that, but then I realize there aren’t any better chances here in this country. Every day is the same. I get up in the morning feeling pain from yesterday’s strain. I get changed into the same old leather boots that my papá gave me. I slip on a pair of jeans, toss on a shirt and head off to work. Nothing changes but I try the best I can to put on a straight face and stay happy, never showing my true emotion. Today my family and I are packed up and are ready to move somewhere else again. The sun is as hot as ever during these summer days. Before we left I looked back to the place I called home, and looked at the creek and the fields across from it, I turned back to our carrito and looked at the dirt road. Here we go again. My papá told us that he heard of a nice farm in Fresno that is offering workers a place to live in a house on the farm. My mind rushes with thoughts as I picture a nice warm home with bedrooms, a kitchen, Baños, todo. I want things to change once we get our own house. For the first time, I feel like there is going to be a good change in our lives. I always make friends on the farms, but once I get to know them, the harvest is over and my family needs to move to find more work. I keep telling myself that I will never say goodbye ever again, it is hard for me to say adiós. Over time I have just stopped paying attention to the other kids and focused on my family, but maybe this time, maybe this time…it will be different.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="IKnowI’maFreak" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-261 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-262 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-262"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #cd3301;">I Know I’m a Freak</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Nadine D., Green Bay, Wisconsin, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen, whose looks have been damaged in a car accident, begs others to overlook her “looks.”</p> <p>I know that I’m a freak. I know that. Do you think that I could forget with people telling me every day? They call me freak. Frankenstein. Monster. I’m sorry that the car hit me. I’m sorry that the doctors weren’t concerned with beauty when they saved my life. I am a monster, but I’m not one of the dangerous variety. There are plenty who are, though. I’m talking about the monsters who hide in sheep’s clothing and then rip out with snapping teeth. The monsters who hide curled up in a beautiful skin. People pass monsters every day. They eat with them, laugh with them, sit in their laps and let their teeth near their throats. They smile and laugh and pull people in with dancing green eyes. They’re wolves, they’re sharks, and make no mistake, there’s blood in the water. Most people don’t see what they are under their porcelain masks and red lips. They just see innocent brown eyes and a slim figure. They don’t see the scales and claws that they show me. They call me the monster, but monsters like me only look the part, and I prefer that to the false facades and double-edged words. I’m an honest monster. I bare my scars and my breaks and let people see what I am. No lies, no false fronts. I am what I appear to be. Others hide their pain and insecurities behind masks and barbs. They hide their scars by making others bleed. And for that, I pity them.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Apologies" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-262 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-263 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-263"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #cd3301;">Apologies</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Danielle Lippert, Green Bay, Wisconsin, USA, Age 18<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen, because of her life experiences, is tired of hearing apologies.</p> <p>I’ve heard you say sorry a million times. You say it when you bump into me, when you don’t hold the door open, when you don’t realize I’ve been standing right next to you. You say it all the time. I’ve never heard someone say sorry more than you have. It’s almost like you’re always doing something that needs apologizing for. My dad used to apologize a lot. He’d come home from work late with an apology. He’d leave early with an apology. He’d miss my game and apologize later. My dad was always apologizing. Until one day he left and didn’t come back. I never got an apology for that. Apologies have meant nothing to me ever since he left. You could be deeply, sincerely, insanely sorry for the smallest thing, and I wouldn’t believe you.<br /> My mom told me one day this would all go away, and that one day I’ll be able to look at everyone with a smile again. That was ten years ago, and I still can’t accept anyone’s apology. My mom has apologized for my dad leaving hundreds of times. I’ll never accept my mother’s apologies or my friends or strangers who just bump into me on the street. I’ll never believe them because of what my father did. My mom and I are doing great, just me and her, and a part of me is glad my father left. I’m happy he left us. He could come back with the grandest apology anyone has ever heard, and I still wouldn’t believe him. You remind me a lot of my father. And it’s been in the back of my mind since you first apologized to me. I can’t have another person like my father in my life. So, no, I don’t accept your apology, and I never will.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="TheTest" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-263 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-264 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-264"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #cd3301;">The Test</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Molly McKenna., Green Bay, Wisconsin, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A student panics while taking a test.</p> <p>The white clock on the wall is mocking me. Counting down the minutes until I fail this test. It makes no sense. Hey, why aren’t there any posters hung up in Ms. Daniel’s room? I’ve never noticed that before. I need something to take my mind off this paper in front of me. This paper that will destroy my GPA. I’m grinding my teeth. I never grind my teeth. Wow. Look how interesting this pencil looks when I twirl it. Why is the second hand on that clock moving so slowly? And how is everyone else still working on this test? I can’t make sense of it. I read the novel, but this question doesn’t make any sense. Look at Hanna. Furiously scribbling. I hate her. She knows the answers to everything. Ms. Daniels is reading a book. Really? At a time like this, she is just sitting there reading? She’s mean. Whoa. There’s the bell. My paper is still blank. I think I’m going to have a heart attack. Great. Everyone’s getting ready to go. I’d better turn in my paper. But really, what’s the point? It’s blank. I guess I’ll just turn it in. Wait, what? Ms. Daniels is going to grade our papers right now? How can she do that? I think I’m going to turn to stone. She’s making everyone sit back down. Why is she shuffling through the papers so fast? Wait, she stopped on one. I think it’s mine. Here we go. My heart’s pounding through my chest. She’s going to announce to everyone that I’ve failed. Wait, what? I am the only one who passed? It was a test to see if we could read directions, and it said not to write anything down? Ha! Take that, clock! Take that, Hannah!</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="AShortMonologue" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-264 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-265 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-265"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #cd3301;">A Short Monologue</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Lauren H., Indianapolis, Indiana, USA, Age 16<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen expresses the frustrations of being vertically challenged.</p> <p>Last night my world was shattered. I realized that my younger brother, Colin, is taller than me. He was like “Ha, ha. I’m taller than you, little hobbit.” Shut Up Colin! No one understands the daily struggles of being short. People use your head as an armrest, like ALL the time. I’m not an armrest, I’M A HUMAN BEING! People also assume you’re like 5 or 6 years younger than you are. When I went to the Ferris wheel, they asked if I wanted the twelve and under ticket. TWELVE AND UNDER!!!! I’M SIXTEEN. People always feel the need to point out how short you are. Like “Wow, you’re like three feet tall.” NO I’M 5 FOOT ONE QUARTER, idiot. Then they’re like “Oh, you can just wear high heels” which is great advice because I love wearing shoes that make my feet feel like they’re on fire. People also taunt you by holding things above your head or putting them on a high shelf. I really want to strangle each and every tall person but to do so I would NEED A STEPLADDER!!!!!!</p> <p><strong>Watch a video performance of this monologue <a href="https://youtu.be/8PDR8x5_7pM" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>!</strong></p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="BestFriends" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-265 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-266 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-266"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #cd3301;">Best Friends</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Rebecca S., Indianapolis, Indiana, USA, Age 17<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teen expresses her feelings about her best friend.</p> <p>Best friend? Well, I’ve never been much for friends. My intense competitive spirit, social anxiety, fear of the cafeteria and awkward sense of humor tend to work against me. But strangely, the one friend I have come to entrust this weird title was once my arch nemesis. Of course, she had no clue. In fourth and fifth grade Angela had a cubby right next to mine. She had lots of friends and took the ‘Nicest Student’ award away from me in the fifth grade, and I was so angry that I squeezed glue in her cubby, which showed how nice I really was. Yeah, Angela deserved the award. She’s someone who has my back when I say, “back me up.” She laughs at my hilarious jokes when everyone else randomly forgets how to laugh. She takes me to a world where awkward moments don’t exist and jealousy is something to joke about and fights never happen (and if they do I don’t remember them). Best Friend? Nah. Angela and I are more like sisters.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Emergency" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-266 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-267 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-267"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #fd31ff;">Emergency</span></p> <p><strong>First Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Melanie T., Westminster, CA USA, Age 15<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> SMITHIE, 26, was hired last week as a 911 operator and is just getting the hang of her job. (Spoiler Alert: she isn’t very good at it.)</p> <p>The police are on their way, stay calm and breathe sweetie you are going to be fine. I’ll stay on the line with you until the police get to your house. Are you okay? Hello? Hel-. Oh. They just hung up. What do I do when they just hang up? OH! 911, what is your emergency? Can you- Could you repeat that slower, sir? Do you have any idea of where you are located? Cerritos Mall… No, sir crocs are not a 911 emergency, however I do appreciate your concern because they truly are a real FASHION CRIME. AAAAH FABIO is that you?? Honey! I thought told you not to call me at work! Alright already, let the woman wear what she wants okay? Let it go. Okay. Okay, bye. 911 what is your emergency? Mom!? Stop it, MOM, you can’t call me at work anymore. Yes, the breakup was fine. I told you already. He said he still loved me, he just didn’t want to be tied down anymore and mom, I respect that and we’re still friends. I know. Yes, mom I know, I was there and you weren’t. He just called me. On my work phone. Look, I’m going to get in trouble. Let me call you back when I get home. I love you too. Buh-bye. 911, what is your emergency? FABIO?! Again? This woman with crocs thing is getting old and I have to work tonight! Wait, Fabio? Oh my god you’re not Fabio… I am so sorry, ma’am I thought you were my ex, um… I guess I could tell you if you want me to… No. No never mind it’s a long story. Please continue describing. You said someone stole your crocs? Where are you? Hmm okay, that’s funny. The mall. Crocs. Really? Do you REALLY want those back? Those crocs? Like THE ugliest shoes on the planet. That doesn’t concern me! Why don’t you just call the police then? (Realizes what she said.) Oh.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Funeral" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-267 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-268 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-268"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #960093;">Emergency</span></p> <p><strong>Second Place Winner</strong><br /> <strong>By:</strong> Abby S., Alberta, Canada, Age 14<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Male or Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> 30-year-old Sam is sharing a eulogy for their cat’s funeral.</p> <p>I gather you all here today, to celebrate and remember the life of our dearest friend. I’ve gone through a lot this past week… I’ve lost my best friend, my soul mate. And it’s hard, it really is. I felt like I knew her for my entire life. (Pause, inner realization.) But she’s gone. Sometimes she would know when I had a bad day and would always make me feel better. It seemed like she took care of me more than I did her. I will truly miss the mornings waking up beside her. Sharing our time together, watching me in the shower, sitting with me on the toilette. Climbing the big birch tree was her favorite past time. (Holding back tears.) I would like to share one of my favorite memories of her and I, when I first met her and found the love of my life, I instantly knew that we were meant to be together, and I told that other man that was looking at you “Back off she’s mine.” And it was true. She helped me through everything and I can’t express my gratitude for our relationship. I will, and already do miss her so much. (Talking to box/coffin). Oh my Honey Boo Bear… I loved you so much. But it was your time. You were old. You were ready to go. It was me – I was the one who wasn’t ready. Those thirteen years together have blessed my life. Rest in peace little Missy, my pretty kitty, I’ll never forget you.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="EveryFlavoroftheRainbow" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-268 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-269 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-269"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #009999;">Every Flavor of the Rainbow</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Georgia E. Alberta, Canada, Age 13<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> An ice cream flavor is having an identity crisis.</p> <p>Hi, I’m Neapolitan. (Smirks at audience, winking flirtatiously.) I come from a mixed family, my mom’s like half cherry, dad’s rocky road. Its makes me a whole lot of chunky, with a side of smooth. (Looks around, pause.) What was I talking about… Oh yeah, people ask what my biggest flaw is… I guess I’m just too strong. They just can’t take all this flavor, you know? (Gestures to entire body. Pauses.) It’s hard for me, you know? (Tone switches, slightly hesitant.) I have no idea who I am. My one aunt is certain I’m Vanilla, my uncle thinks I’m chocolate. But I’m strawberry too right? In the freezer section, the flavors pretty much stick to their own kind. Vanilla with Vanilla and Chocolate with Chocolate. They never accept me the way I am. That’s okay, though. I’m going to be myself even if they don’t accept me. I’ll scoop out my own sorta life. Maybe I’ll travel the kitchen, see the counter… visit the tower of pizza. We all need to accept who we are, like that Miss Strawberry chic. She’s natural, and I respect that. Even if she stalks me day and night. It’s kinda’ creepy… I can’t even re-freeze without being sure she’s not looking. But hey, at least she’s not one of those dairy-free flavors. I don’t buy that for a second.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Confession" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-269 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-270 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-270"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #995dd7;">Confession</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Micaela E., Los Alamitos, CA, Age 16<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Elena confides in a friend about a crime she committed.</p> <p>Can I tell you something? It’s kind of a big thing, so I’m gonna need you to keep it quiet. You know Alex, right? Of course you do. Anyway, we kind of, uh I don’t know um robbed a bank last week. God, I know! I know it’s terrible, but I really needed to get that off my chest. To be honest I don’t know what drove me to say yes, but if I’m gonna be REALLY honest, it’s cuz Alex is REALLY HOT. I mean what else are you supposed to do when the most attractive guy you know finally gives you the time of day? Sure, it was only to rob a bank, but I guess I thought there would have been more benefits to doing something like that. Aside from the money. Anyway, last week, Alex just saunters up to me and is like “Hey Elena, I think you’re pretty cool, so uhh, wanna rob a bank tomorrow?” and NATURALLY I said, “SUREEEEE ALEX! That seems like a completely acceptable and not at all illegal thing to do!” But who just asks that? I mean take me to dinner first. So, the next morning it’s like four AM, we’re getting ready to do the thing. I’m pretty nervous. The most illegal thing I’d done up until that point was J-walked. Alex looks at me and is all, “what ya scared?? This is gonna be a piece of cake.” I tried to be brave and said “You’re right! It’s not like uh… cheating at tetherball!!” (beat) It’s WAY worse. So, we manage to get in without setting off any alarms. We were in and out SO quick and we got some good cash out of it. Like I said though, I thought there’d be more benefits to robbing a bank with a guy than cash. Turns out someone wanting to rob a bank with you does NOT coincide with getting married and having kids. So, so much for committing a felony in hopes of getting a date.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="RenouncingGod" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-270 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-271 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-271"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #f73e0b;">Renouncing God</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Macy B., Los Alamitos, California, USA, Age 16<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Any<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Dramatic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> Camille is a young girl who is praying to God about her troubled family life.</p> <p>(Gets on her knees and starts praying.) Dear Lord. Please, please make them stop fighting. I’m so sick of it. It’s every day, every night. From the moment I come home ‘til the second I fall asleep. I just want things how they used to be: when my parents were happy, when we were all happy. I remember we would all l hold hands around the dinner table and pray. We would thank God for the food on our table, the roof over our heads and our wonderful family. We would pray to YOU. But what did you give us in return? Nothing. Eventually, Dad stopped coming to dinner. He would come home late at night, drunk, if he even came home at all. He just wasn’t the same person anymore. He would lash out over petty things, like when mom forgot to wash the dishes. He would smash them on the counter and curse at her. And I was always the one to clean up the mess. I would go to my mom and ask what was wrong she would say it was “Nothing sweetie, don’t worry about it.” But of course that wasn’t true. So, one day, when my parents were fighting, I didn’t think it was anything unusual because my parents were always fighting. But this time it was different. Mom had hidden dad’s whiskey and he couldn’t find it. He screamed “Where is it? What the hell Suzanne!?” She tried to tell him to calm down, to think about what he was doing before he did something rash. He didn’t listen. He pushed her into the mantel, and I watched it all happen. I watched my own mother fall to the ground. (Getting angry.) Why do you do this to our family Lord? What have we ever done? What did I ever do to deserve this kind of pain and hurt? I keep thinking “Everything is in God’s hands. He will fix this. He will fix us.” but you never do. I’m scared to come home. I’m scared one day I’ll walk through that door and my mom will be hurt so badly that I can’t help her. I’m scared one day I’ll be the one that gets hit. (Softly.) I just want a quiet life, a peaceful, happy life. One thing is for sure, when I grow up, I’m not going to be like them. I’m not going to give my daughter false hopes about a God who does nothing. I’m going to be happy.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div id="Crushed" class="fusion-container-anchor"><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-271 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-margin-top:20px;--awb-margin-bottom:80px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-272 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-padding-top:25px;--awb-padding-right:25px;--awb-padding-bottom:25px;--awb-padding-left:25px;--awb-bg-size:cover;--awb-border-color:#f4f4f4;--awb-border-top:1px;--awb-border-right:1px;--awb-border-bottom:1px;--awb-border-left:1px;--awb-border-style:solid;--awb-margin-top:20px;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-272"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: SF Grunge Sans; font-size: 36pt; color: #ff9900;">Crushed</span></p> <p><strong>By:</strong> Dajai T., Modesto, California, USA<br /> <strong>Gender:</strong> Female<br /> <strong>Genre:</strong> Comedic<br /> <strong>Description:</strong> A teenager accidentally sends a very personal text to the school gossip.</p> <p>Oh-My-God, OH MY GOD! I did not just accidentally send a text to Sky about the fact that I have a crush on Gaston. Oh no, this is bad, this is really bad. I’m going to die! Gaston is semi-popular and he is definitely going to find out. Why does Sky have to be such a gossiper with her amazing looks and gorgeous hair, although she is still a “four eyes”, but I guess I can’t say anything (points to glasses). Ugh, I am literally going to die. (Looks at phone) Oh, she hasn’t read the text message. Okay, Plan B, cover story, come on think of a cover story. Ummmm… I can text her that I meant “I like shakes but not protein ones. Those are bad for me. Instead of “I like Gaston, he’s so cute. But it is bad for me to as him out?” I will tell her it was auto correct. (Texting.) Please believe me. “Oh okay I believe you.” Yes, SHE BELIEVED ME!! …. Great, now I’m hungry.</p> </div><div class="fusion-clearfix"></div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box fusion-builder-row-272 nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling" style="--awb-border-radius-top-left:0px;--awb-border-radius-top-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-right:0px;--awb-border-radius-bottom-left:0px;--awb-flex-wrap:wrap;" ><div class="fusion-builder-row fusion-row"><div class="fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion-builder-column-273 fusion_builder_column_1_1 1_1 fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last" style="--awb-bg-size:cover;"><div class="fusion-column-wrapper fusion-column-has-shadow fusion-flex-column-wrapper-legacy"><div class="fusion-text fusion-text-273"><p><script type="text/javascript" src="https://berqwp-cdn.sfo3.cdn.digitaloceanspaces.com/cache/www.dramanotebook.com//view_webform_v2.js?hash=d41d8cd98f00b204e9800998ecf8427e" data-webform-id="SlLsi"></script></p> 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var berqwpJsCode = scriptTag.getAttribute('data-berqwp-js'); berqwpJsCode = atob(berqwpJsCode); var parser = new DOMParser(); var parsedHTML = parser.parseFromString(berqwpJsCode, 'text/html'); var scriptContent = parsedHTML.querySelector('script'); if (scriptContent) { if (scriptContent.src) { // External script, append to the body var newScript = document.createElement('script'); newScript.onload = function () { // Execute the next script in the sequence executeScriptsSequentially(scripts, index + 1); loaded_berq_scripts++; }; newScript.src = scriptContent.src; // console.log(newScript.src) // document.body.appendChild(newScript); scriptTag.parentNode.insertBefore(newScript, scriptTag.nextSibling); } else { var newScript = document.createElement('script'); newScript.innerHTML = scriptContent.innerHTML; // console.log(newScript); // document.body.appendChild(newScript); scriptTag.parentNode.insertBefore(newScript, scriptTag.nextSibling); // Inline script, execute immediately // eval(scriptContent.innerHTML); // Execute the next script in the sequence executeScriptsSequentially(scripts, index + 1); } } } } // Start executing scripts sequentially executeScriptsSequentially(scriptTags, 0); berq_content = true; })(); } else if (js_execution_mode == 1) { // (function () { // const scriptTags = Array.from(document.querySelectorAll('script[type="text/bwp-script"]')); // triggerReadyStateChange('interactive'); // let berqwp_lcp_event = new CustomEvent('berqwpLCPLoaded'); // window.dispatchEvent(berqwp_lcp_event); // // Step 2: Prepare an array of promises for external and inline scripts // const scriptPromises = scriptTags.map(script => { // if (script.src) { // // Fetch external script content // return fetch(script.src) // .then(response => { // if (!response.ok) { // throw new Error(`Failed to load script: ${script.src}`); // } // return response.text(); // Return the script content // }) // .catch(error => { // console.error(`Error fetching script: ${script.src}`, error); // return null; // Return null if fetching fails // }); // } else { // // Inline script, resolve with its content // return Promise.resolve(script.textContent); // } // }); // // Step 3: Execute scripts sequentially after fetching // Promise.all(scriptPromises) // .then(scriptContents => { // scriptContents.forEach((content, index) => { // const originalScript = scriptTags[index]; // if (!content) { // console.warn(`Skipping script at index ${index} due to fetch error.`); // return; // Skip null/failed scripts // } // try { // const script = document.createElement("script"); // // if (originalScript.src) { // // // script.src = originalScript.src; // // script.textContent = content; // // } else { // script.textContent = content; // Add the script content // // } // document.head.appendChild(script); // Execute the script // } catch (error) { // console.error(`Error executing script at index ${index}:`, error); // } // }); // }) // .then(()=>{ // let event = new Event('DOMContentLoaded', { // bubbles: true, // cancelable: true // }); // window.dispatchEvent(event); // document.dispatchEvent(event); // triggerReadyStateChange('complete'); // window.dispatchEvent(new Event('load')); // document.dispatchEvent(new Event('load')); // // Create a new resize event // var resizeEvent = new Event('resize'); // // Dispatch the resize event // window.dispatchEvent(resizeEvent); // document.dispatchEvent(resizeEvent); // console.log('scripts loaded.') // window.dispatchEvent(new Event('berqwp_after_delay_js_loaded')); // }) // .catch(error => { // console.error("Error processing scripts:", error); // }); // })(); var scripts = document.querySelectorAll('script[type="text/bwp-script"]'); // Function to dynamically load scripts async function loadScript(index) { if (index >= scripts.length) { // setTimeout(function() { // After all scripts are loaded, dispatch events let event = new Event('DOMContentLoaded', { bubbles: true, cancelable: true }); window.dispatchEvent(event); document.dispatchEvent(event); triggerReadyStateChange('complete'); window.dispatchEvent(new Event('load')); document.dispatchEvent(new Event('load')); // Create a new resize event var resizeEvent = new Event('resize'); // Dispatch the resize event window.dispatchEvent(resizeEvent); document.dispatchEvent(resizeEvent); console.log('scripts loaded.') window.dispatchEvent(new Event('berqwp_after_delay_js_loaded')); // }, 1000) return; } // Create a new script element var script = scripts[index]; var newScript = document.createElement('script'); // newScript.type = 'text/javascript'; newScript.type = script.getAttribute('data-type'); // Copy the content or src of the original script if (script.src) { newScript.src = script.src; if (script.hasAttribute('data-berqwpskiponload')) { loadScript(index + 1); } else { // Set a timeout to proceed even if onload doesn't fire var scriptTimeout = setTimeout(function() { console.warn('Script load timeout:', script.src); loadScript(index + 1); }, 5000); // 5 seconds timeout newScript.onload = function() { clearTimeout(scriptTimeout); // Clear timeout if script loads successfully loadScript(index + 1); }; newScript.onerror = function() { clearTimeout(scriptTimeout); // Clear timeout if there's an error loading the script console.warn('Error loading script:', script.src); loadScript(index + 1); // Proceed to the next script }; } } else { newScript.text = script.textContent; setTimeout(function() { loadScript(index + 1); }, 0); // Delay to simulate async load } // Copy other attributes if necessary Array.from(script.attributes).forEach(function(attr) { if (attr.name !== 'type') { newScript.setAttribute(attr.name, attr.value); } }); // Replace the old script with the new script script.parentNode.replaceChild(newScript, script); } (async () => { // await berqwp_add_assets_browser_cache(assets_to_cache); triggerReadyStateChange('interactive'); let berqwp_lcp_event = new CustomEvent('berqwpLCPLoaded'); window.dispatchEvent(berqwp_lcp_event); // Start loading scripts from the first one loadScript(0); })(); } else if (js_execution_mode == 3) { (function(){ // Select all inline script tags with type="text/bwp-script" const inlineScripts = document.querySelectorAll('script[type="text/bwp-script"]'); inlineScripts.forEach((script) => { // Get the content of the inline script const scriptContent = script.innerHTML; if (!scriptContent) { return; } // Create a Blob from the script content const blob = new Blob([scriptContent], { type: 'application/javascript' }); // Create a URL for the Blob const scriptURL = URL.createObjectURL(blob); // Create a new external script tag const newScript = document.createElement('script'); newScript.src = scriptURL; newScript.type = 'text/bwp-script'; // Or 'text/bwp-script', but 'application/javascript' is more typical for JS // Replace the original inline script with the new external script tag script.parentNode.replaceChild(newScript, script); }); })(); (function () { const scriptQueue = []; let b = 0; console.log('Starting script processing...'); triggerReadyStateChange('interactive'); const berqwp_lcp_event = new CustomEvent('berqwpLCPLoaded'); window.dispatchEvent(berqwp_lcp_event); const scripts = Array.from(document.querySelectorAll('script[type="text/bwp-script"], script[type="application/javascript"]')); if (scripts.length === 0) { console.warn('No scripts found. Exiting...'); return; } const preloadScript = (src, id) => { console.log(`Preloading script: ${src}`); return new Promise((resolve) => { fetch(src) .then(response => { if (!response.ok) { throw new Error(`Failed to preload script ${id}: ${response.status}`); } return response.text(); }) .then(code => { console.log(`Script ${id} preloaded successfully.`); resolve({ id, src, code }); }) .catch(error => { console.warn(`Error preloading script ${id}:`, error); resolve(null); // Resolve with null to skip this script and continue execution }); }); }; const preloadInlineScript = (code, id) => { console.log(`Preloading inline script: ${id}`); return Promise.resolve({ id, code }); }; const executeScriptsSequentially = async (scriptsToExecute) => { console.log('Starting sequential script execution...'); for (let i = 0; i < scriptsToExecute.length; i++) { const scriptData = scriptsToExecute[i]; if (!scriptData) { continue; // Skip this script if it was skipped during preloading } try { console.log(`Executing script: ${scriptData.id}`); const scriptElement = document.createElement('script'); scriptElement.id = scriptData.id; if (scriptData.src) { scriptElement.src = scriptData.src; } else { scriptElement.textContent = scriptData.code; } // Adding a 1ms delay before executing each script setTimeout(() => { document.head.appendChild(scriptElement); console.log(`Script ${scriptData.id} executed.`); // Dispatch lifecycle events only after the very last script if (i === scriptsToExecute.length - 1) { // Dispatching lifecycle events const event = new Event('DOMContentLoaded', { bubbles: true, cancelable: true }); window.dispatchEvent(event); document.dispatchEvent(event); triggerReadyStateChange('complete'); window.dispatchEvent(new Event('load')); document.dispatchEvent(new Event('load')); const resizeEvent = new Event('resize'); window.dispatchEvent(resizeEvent); document.dispatchEvent(resizeEvent); console.log('Scripts fully loaded.'); window.dispatchEvent(new Event('berqwp_after_delay_js_loaded')); } }, 1); // 1ms delay } catch (error) { console.error(`Error executing script ${scriptData.id}:`, error); } } console.log('All scripts executed.'); }; // Step 1: Preload all scripts for (let i = 0; i < scripts.length; i++) { const script = scripts[i]; const id = script.id || `script-${b++}`; if (script.src) { scriptQueue.push(preloadScript(script.src, id)); } else { const code = script.textContent || script.innerText; scriptQueue.push(preloadInlineScript(code, id)); } } // Step 2: Execute scripts as soon as they're preloaded Promise.all(scriptQueue) .then(preloadedScripts => executeScriptsSequentially(preloadedScripts)) .catch(error => { console.error('Error during script processing:', error); }); })(); } // After running the function, remove all event listeners to ensure it runs only once for (let eventType of berqwp_js_interactionEventTypes) { window.removeEventListener(eventType, berqwp_js_handleUserInteraction); } } let berqwp_js_interactionEventTypes = ['click', 'mousemove', 'keydown', 'touchstart', 'scroll', 'berqwpLoadJS', 'berqwp_interaction_event']; if (js_loading == 'preload') { // berqwp_js_interactionEventTypes = ['berqwpStylesLoaded']; berqwp_js_interactionEventTypes.push('berqwpStylesLoaded'); } for (let eventType of berqwp_js_interactionEventTypes) { window.addEventListener(eventType, berqwp_js_handleUserInteraction, { passive: false }); } if (js_loading == 'preload' && !document.getElementById('preload-styles')) { // Trigger event to load JavaScript let berqwp_load_js_event = new CustomEvent('berqwpLoadJS'); // Dispatch the custom event window.dispatchEvent(berqwp_load_js_event); } window.addEventListener('berqwp_after_delay_js_loaded', function() { if (berq_content == true) { berq_content = false; let event = new Event('DOMContentLoaded', { bubbles: true, cancelable: true }); document.dispatchEvent(event); window.dispatchEvent(new Event('load')); // Create a new resize event var resizeEvent = new Event('resize'); // Dispatch the resize event window.dispatchEvent(resizeEvent); } if (berq_click) { setTimeout(function() { console.log(berq_click); const clickEvent = new MouseEvent('click', { bubbles: true, cancelable: true, view: window }); berq_click.dispatchEvent(clickEvent); berq_click = null; }, 500) } }); var berq_timeo; if (window.screen.width <= 999) { berq_timeo = 3000; } else { berq_timeo = 4000; } </script> </body> </html>