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Showing posts with label Women in the Age of Trump. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Women in the Age of Trump. Show all posts

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Women in the Age of Trump: FASTER THAN BULLETS

FASTER THAN BULLETS by Daria Miyeko Marinelli is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

DARIA MIYEKO MARINELLI's s plays include 105, We Are Samurai, Untameable, and 893 | Ya-ku-za. In New York City, her work has been developed and performed at Ensemble Theatre Company, The Flea, Jimmy’s No 43, Access Theatre, WOW CafĂ© Theatre, Standard Toy Kraft, and The 133rd Street Art Center.  www.DariaMiyekoMarinelli.com.

Thanks to Daria Miyeko Marinelli for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from her play FASTER THAN BULLETS.

(The play begins in darkness. If there is sound prior to the show, it should be crickets, the white noise of night. The sound of a bus driving. And then we when begin, the silence, and the darkness. And then, a voice.)

   VOICE

You think because we are women we are weak And maybe we are
But only to a certain point

We can no longer remain quiet over these acts that fill us with rage And so, I am an instrument who will take vengeance.

Diana, Huntress of Bus Drivers
(And then the sound of a gunshot.)
   VOICE

Ustedes se crean muy chingones
   (And then the sound of another gunshot. Lights up. Two women stand side by side. They read newspapers, a single page each, held up. We cannot see their faces.)
   A

I am not saying I know anything about it Nor that I really have an opinion

But if I did have an opinion If I had an opinion of her
   B

It would not be bad 

   A

No
   (They both take the papers they have and fold them in half. (Fold 1.) Folds 1-4 the women will do together. Folds 5-7 only A does. After that, A&B stand side by side. They do a rote task, as if working in factories. Perhaps it is the same fold, over and over again for now.)
   A

And you saw the email she sent
   B

A poet as well as a hunter
   A

A hero

They look at us differently now


   B

Yes

But they still are looking at us
   A

But it is different It is a little better

She has changed this for us
   B

Same bus line twice same exact time of day Bam Bam They may have been innocent
   A

And they may have only not done it yet
   (A look.)
   B

Is it you

   A

Of course not Is it you


   B

Of course not


   A

One if asked can only say of course not

Women in the Age of Trump: SHE SAID

SHE SAID by Donna Latham is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

DONNA LATHAM's plays have been produced coast to coast and around the world; they are licensed with Chicago Dramaworks, YouthPLAYS, Brooklyn Publishers, and Heure. Donna is a resident playwright at Rising Sun Performance Company in NYC and a proud member of the Dramatist Guild. Get the scoop at donnalatham.com
Thanks to Donna Latham for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from her monologue SHE SAID.


Stop it. Just stop. Stop asking why I didn’t report my rape. I lived through the terror, the humiliation, the rage. I couldn’t face it again. Couldn’t hear them call me a slut. Claim I’m a nutjob. I couldn’t face more men. Evisceration in the dean’s office. At the police station. In court. In my boyfriend Paul’s arms... I couldn’t face Paul’s questions. Couldn’t bear the doubt in his eyes when I told him my rapist was his best buddy. That his frat brother screamed at me when I crossed onto his street. 
“Must be jelly, cuz jam don’t shake. You a fine-ass woman, shawty. I would so do you.” I walked faster and faster to get away from him. “Smile! Hey, don’t look away. Smile, you stuck-up bitch.” That he yanked my hair and dragged me into his filthy house and—and— So I kept quiet. I covered the teeth marks with makeup. I parted my hair on the other side to hide the missing clump. I tried not to flinch when Paul slung his arm over my shoulder. Tried not to clamp my jaw like a trap when he kissed me... A few days ago, my rapist visited our apartment.Paul welcomed him with bro’d-out bellows. I gagged. I convulsed when my rapist winked knowingly, intimately. I dashed to the toilet to hurl up scorching bile. Sprawled on the floor like a squashed bug, I rested against cold tiles as the vein in my forehead pounded against them….. What happens when you speak out? He said/she said. Everyone thinks it all comes down to he said/she said. Right? Wrong. It has nothing to do with he said/she said. It’s all about what he said. It’s he said, “What was she thinking? Strutting down the street on Saturday night?”

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Women in the Age of Trump: SAYING THE NAMES

SAYING THE NAMES by Andrea Fleck Clardy is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

ANDREA FLECK CLARDY came to playwriting after writing in other forms and working in small press publishing. A member of the Dramatists Guild and the National Writers’ Union, she lives in Boston. She believes with Toni Morrison that “this is precisely the time when artists go to work.”

Thanks to Andrea Fleck Clardy for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from her monologue SAYING THE NAMES.

After the first few months of vigils, I found a bookstore in St Louis that started selling Black Lives Matter lawn signs after Michael Brown was killed in Ferguson. I bought
twenty and offered them to my neighbors. Soon the signs kept their own vigil up and down our street.
 
A soft-spoken Black mailman named James knocked on my door early in the fall. He wanted to know where he could get maybe fifteen signs for his neighbors. I offered to
order twenty and have them sent to him. He was very grateful. Weeks later, he stopped by. “Just wondering about the signs,” he said. I told him they should have arrived long ago. “Listen”, he said, “It was nice you got this started but we can raise the money in my neighborhood.” I heard in his voice a polite expectation of betrayal. People like you mean well, he seemed to be thinking, but they fade in the stretch.
 
Then I got a call from someone named Brenda. She said she had a lot of stuff on her back porch and just noticed this big box with my phone number on it. So she was calling to let me know. I told her the box was full of Black Lives Matter signs I’d ordered for a friend to give out to his neighbors. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she said, “I’m blue-eyed Irish and my husband is from Haiti. We have five kids. My brother’s wife, Normal, is Pakistani. Family gets big enough, we’re all in this together.” She said she’d like signs for her neighborhood, too. So I took ten over when I picked up James’s box and told her to call me if she needed more. We hugged each other. When we gathered for our December vigil on the first Thursday,

Women in the Age of Trump: STAMINA

STAMINA by Donna Kaz is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

DONNA KAZ is the author of UN/MASKED, Memoirs of a Guerrilla Girl On Tour, which follows her surprising 25 year journey as a survivor of domestic violence and subsequent member of the feminist activist group, Guerrilla Girls. 
Donnakaz.com, Ggontour.com, @donnakaz.


Thanks to Donna Kaz for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from her monologue STAMINA.

   CLARA
 
What if you don’t want to be inspired? What if you just want to lay down and die? 
   SIMONE 
Help me get my foot out, Clara. 
   CLARA 
I can’t. I’m in the process of freezing to death. 
   SIMONE 
You are not. 
   CLARA 
Wiggle your foot back and forth. Back and forth and up and down and side to side. 
   SIMONE 
What a pair we are. 
   CLARA 
Feeble, octogenarian twins who miscalculated the final assent on Everest. 
   SIMONE 
Or two, women who are stronger because we’re together. I know that I got this far because
you urged me on back there when I was falling behind. I am here because you believe in me. I cannot do this without you.
 
 CLARA 
Hey. What’s that? 
   SIMONE 
What’s what? 
   CLARA 
Down there. Those lights. 
   SIMONE 
Head lamps. Those assholes from Altitude Expeditions are coming up now. This place is going to be a bottle neck in about ten minutes. 
   CLARA 
The same ones who nicknamed us the old hags of the Himalayas? 
   SIMONE 
The very ones. 
   CLARA 
I hate those guys. 
   SIMONE 
Forget them. We will beat them to the top. Then who will be old hags? 
   CLARA 
Unfortunately, we still will. We could still die on the descent, Simone. 
   SIMONE 
Who cares. The summit will still count! 
   CLARA
Someday, I hope women won’t have to prove anything. Every time one of us does something remarkable it will be, “Oh look, she just did that. Again!” 
   SIMONE 
Yes. But not before we pave the way. 
   CLARA 
We are so far from home, Simone. And so close to heaven. 
   SIMONE 
The view is spectacular up here. 
   CLARA 
Breathtaking. 
   SIMONE 
I’m sorry if I pushed you into this, Clara. 
   CLARA 
Oh no. I came this far of my own free will. 
   SIMONE 
So why not just a little further, Clara? 
   CLARA 
What about your foot? 
   SIMONE 
My foot is free.

   CLARA
 
You are strong. 
   SIMONE 
Thank you, Clara. Now, belay on. Climb ready. Clara? 
   CLARA 
Belay on. 
   SIMONE 
Climb ready? 
   CLARA 
Climb ready. 
   SIMONE 
Climb on, Clara. 
   CLARA 
Climb on, Simone.

   (CLARA and SIMONE put their oxygen masks back on)

Women in the Age of Trump: 2M2H

2M2H by Eoin Carney is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

Originally from Ireland, EOIN CARNEY has had his short plays produced throughout the USA, and in the UK, South Korea, and Malaysia. He is also the author of www.BreakingBurgh.com, a satirical blog serving Southwestern Pennsylvania and beyond.

Thanks to Eoin Carney for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from his play 2M2H.

   EMMA
 
You’ve been in a coma since you were involved in a car accident in October of 2016. 
   JEN 
How long have I been out? 
   EMMA 
Almost two years now. 
   JEN 
Am I okay? 
    (Jen tries to inspect herself. Emma can’t bring herself to speak.) 
   JEN
I don’t care how bad it is, Emm – just tell me. 
   EMMA 
Your spine was damaged. You may never walk again. 
   JEN 
But there’s a chance I could recover? 
   EMMA 
With hard work, maybe. 
   JEN 
Then I’m just going to focus on that and stay positive. Anything else I should know? Don’t hold back. I can take it. 
   EMMA 
Your cat died.

   JEN
 
Poor Fluffles. But he was quite old and on the bright side this means another cat will find a new home as soon as I’m up and running again. Has Eric been in yet today? 
   EMMA 
Eric left you. 
   JEN 
Well, two years is a long time to stay engaged to someone who may never wake up. 
   EMMA 
And he married your best friend. 
   JEN 
Losing that best friend means I now have an even better best friend in you. 
   EMMA 
You’ve also lost your job. 
   JEN 
They couldn’t hold it indefinitely, could they? They’d go out of business! I’m sure I’ll find something else. Maybe an even better job. 
   EMMA 
Your house burned down. 
    JEN 
It was too drafty anyway. 
   EMMA 
And your medical bills are enormous. 
   JEN 
That will give me the drive to become really rich to pay them off. Maybe I’ll write a bestseller or something. 
EMMA 
   I can’t believe how well you’re taking this!

   JEN
 
I’m alive, Emm, that’s the important thing. When you survive a terrible accident and a long term coma you’d be amazed at the resilience you find within yourself. You can literally stomach anything. So how’s President Clinton doing? I know – she’s probably been far too hawkish on foreign policy for my taste but at least she’s right on all the other issues.
   EMMA 
I don’t know how to tell you this. There is no President Clinton. 
   JEN 
I knew this would happen. There’s always one crazy person who can’t deal with the thought of a woman president. But we can’t let the actions of one crazy assassin sap our spirit. 
   (Jen looks up to the ceiling and salutes.) 
   JEN 
We will never forget you, sister. 
   EMMA 
She’s not- 
   JEN 
I bet the state funeral was lovely and Tim Kaine is a good man. Tell me he’s carrying
on Hillary’s legacy just like Lyndon Johnson did for JFK.
 
   EMMA 
Hillary’s not dead. She’s fine - probably hiking in the woods somewhere as we speak.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Women in the Age of Trump: AMY

AMY by Amy Oestreicher is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

AMY OESTREICHER is a PTSD peer-to-peer specialist, artist, author, writer for Huffington Post, speaker for TEDx and RAINN, health advocate, survivor, award-winning actress, and playwright, sharing the lessons learned from trauma through her writing, mixed media art, performance and inspirational speaking. As the creator of "Gutless & Grateful," her BroadwayWorld-nominated one-woman autobiographical musical, she's toured theatres nationwide, along with a program combining mental health advocacy, sexual assault awareness and Broadway Theatre for college campuses and international conferences. Learn more: amyoes.com.

Thanks to Amy Oestreicher for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from her monologue AMY.
   AMY

Before I was sexually abused, I was an innocent beauty and truth-seeker like Little Red Riding Hood, who strayed from the Path because a seemingly-friendly wolf tricked her into it – the flowers off the side of the road were just too pretty. So I became numb to the innocent things in life. Not even the flowers were my friend. I remember lying next to Wolf in the dark, tortured inside, but I thought at least I could confide in him. I had no one else.
 
“I really wish we could go back to being student and teacher. I don’t know, I’ve just felt really not like myself since everything happened.” 
He looked at me, and very logically responded, 
“Our connection was so deep that you know neither of us would have been satisfied had we just remained student and teacher. The pull was too intense – neither of us could help it. It would have happened sooner or later – that’s just the nature of soul-mates.” 
Of my lost innocence? 
“Well, I think it’s time you grow up. Your house has this enchanted air of never-never land, like the boys who never grow up.” 
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to think. Bit my lip to not feel anything

No point. There was no one I could tell who would understand so why bother. I turned off my feelers, my emotional radar, to save myself from the wolf. Little Red grew up, with one there to grieve with over my lost innocence.

Women in the Age of Trump: DEATH BY DOLLY

DEATH BY DOLLY by Vicki Vodrey is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

VICKI VODREY  has had her plays chosen/produced by the New York International Theatre Festival, Detention #37 by ESPA, the Midtown International Theatre Festival, the Fresh Grind Festival, the William Inge Play Lab, the Unicorn Theatre, MeltingPot KC, Phoenix Theater, Egads Theater and Script2Stage2Screen to name a few. For further info, go to vickivodrey.com

Thanks to Vicki Vodrey for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from her play DEATH BY DOLLY.

 (He walks towards her and begins to run his hands cautiously over her body.)

   MEGAN

I…do…have the weapon.

   MEL

It’s not on you.

   MEGAN

It’s in my bag.

   (Steve walks over quickly and kicks the purse away from her.)

   MEGAN

Yes, it’s in there! Be careful! I didn’t intend to kill anyone!

   MEL

Sit. I need to handcuff you.

   (She sits and Mel quickly cuffs her to the chair.)

Steve, carefully search that bag.

   (Steve takes the purse carefully to the desk. He begins to life items out – a wallet, a school ID, and a hairbrush. He then jumps, pulling his hand out quickly.)


   STEVE

Ouch!

   (He sticks the end of his finger in his in his mouth, then looks at it.)

Damn! What’s sharp in there?!

   MEGAN

The…weapon. Please be careful!

   (He reaches in slowly, feeling for something sharp. He slowly pulls something out, hesitantly. We finally see it is some sort of handcrafted doll. It is made of wire but is covered with some cotton, with silk stocking over it to make it look flesh colored. It has a dried up carved apple for a head. It has a pin in its genitals, one in its stomach and one skimming the top of his head.)

   STEVE

What the hell?

   MEL

What the fuck is that?

   MEGAN

My grandma’s doll.

   (Steve takes a quick glance in the purse.)

   STEVE

That’s all that’s in there, Mel.

   MEL

Where’s the goddamn weapon, girly?

   MEGAN

That’s it!!!

   MEL

That – DOLL?!

Women in the Age of Trump: IT'S GOING TO BE A GREAT DAY

IT'S GOING TO BE A GREAT DAY by Paul Bowman is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

PAUL BOWMAN, a retired maintenance man, writes plays and stories. He has had six of his one-acts produced; five of his short fictions have been published.

Thanks to Paul Bowman for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from his play IT'S GOING TO BE A GREAT DAY


   PRESCOTT

The management team thinks Jay will be a perfect fit.

   (HALEY steps backward.)

   HALEY

Are you serious?

   (ROBERT raises a conciliatory hand to console her.)

   ROBERT

I know you must be---

   HALEY

  (interrupting)

Are you serious?? Him??

   PRESCOTT

Haley---

   HALEY

   (interrupting; louder)

He’s a salesman! What does he know?

   ROBERT

Jay is very knowledgeable.

   HALEY

He doesn’t know the difference between a volt and a watt!

(HALEY looks at the floor, trying to make sense of it. She looks at them.)

He makes promises that production department can’t begin to keep! They complain about him all the time.

   PRESCOTT

Haley, he got us the Regal Bio-Tech Industry contract. That’s---

   HALEY

   (interrupting)

Which were going to lose money on!

   ROBERT

Haley. We have to think of the future.

   HALEY

He misses----he takes Friday afternoons off to play golf. Did you know that? He made a fool of himself at the Christmas party! He got drunk and grabbed Melissa’s boobs!

   ROBERT

That was just hearsay.

   HALEY

I was there! I saw it! And should I mention the affair he’s having with Stephanie?

   (HALEY starts to pace.)

   ROBERT

His personal life is not germane.

(HALEY stops.)

   HALEY

Then what is? Huh? His work record? I was the one who dealt with the press when that spill polluted the North River. I smoothed things over for us! Me! Not him! And if you had listened to me and followed my recommendation in the first place that spill could have been prevented. Which would have saved the company a boatload of money. Jay knows nothing of the manufacturing process! NOTHING!

Monday, January 9, 2017

Women in the Age of Trump: BARBED WIRE MINUTE

BARBED WIRE MINUTE by Krista Knight is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

KRISTA KNIGHT is currently attending The Juilliard School Lila Acheson Wallace American Playwrights Program.
Her work includes PRIMAL PLAY (New Georges, Playwrights Center of MN), SALAMANDER LEVIATHAN (Joe's Pub at the Public Theater, Ars Nova, Fingerlakes Musical Theatre Festival, Inkwell, KCACTF Musical Theatre Award from the Kennedy Center), CLEMENTINE AND THE CYBER DUCKS (The Assembly, Hangar Theatre, Inkwell), PHANTOM BAND (The Claque, Walden Theatre, Voice and Vision, Dixon Place), ANAEROBIC RESPIRATION (Playwrights Center of SF, NYC Fringe Festival), and UN-HINGED (Wily West, Playhouse Creatures, WordBRIDGE), among others. 

Web site: www.KristaKnight.com.

Thanks to Krista Knight for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from her play BARBED WIRE MINUTE.
(A half submerged store room near the border between Arizona and Sonora, Mexico. Dusk. Shadows and sporadic light. Voices in the darkness.) 
   HAILEY 
Who do you love more? Me or Jesus? 
   GEORGIA 
Jesus. 
(Lights up. HAILEY and her mother GEORGIA kneel on the grass beside the store room, each holding a pump-action shotgun.) 
   HAILEY 
Why? 
   GEORGIA 
He gave me you. 
   HAILEY 
That’s not an answer. Love me more! 
   GEORGIA 
OK. 
   HAILEY 
You’re not. 
   GEORGIA 
That’s right. 
   HAILEY 
What’s he done? 
   GEORGIA 
He gave me you. 
   HAILEY 
Stop saying that! 
   GEORGIA 
OK. 
   HAILEY 
What about dad? 
   GEORGIA 
Jesus tests me too. 
   HAILEY 
He punished you. 
   GEORGIA 
He didn’t punish me. He tested me. 
   HAILEY 
If you love Jesus, he shouldn’t have made Dad lose his job. You shouldn’t hurt people who love you. The Bible must say that somewhere. 
   GEORGIA 
It’s OK if you don’t believe in him. 
   HAILEY 
I believe in him, I just don’t agree with him. Teachers test you. The DMV tests you! 
   GEORGIA 
And so does Jesus. 
   HAILEY 
I thought you prayed. 
   GEORGIA 
I did. 
   HAILEY 
He’s not listening. 
   GEORGIA 
I think he is. 
    HAILEY
Then he’s cruel. And I’ll shoot him if he comes around again.

Women in the Age of Trump: STACY'S COOKIES

STACY'S COOKIES by William Ivor Fowkes is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

WILLIAM IVOR FOWKES is a playwright based in New York City. His plays include SUNSHINE QUEST (Fresh Fruit Festival), ALL IN THE FACULTY (Dramatists Play Service), AN ACCIDENT IN THE PARK (Gallery Players, Brooklyn), THE BEST PLACE WE’VE EVER LIVED (Love Creek Productions), THE DAKOTA (Best Short Play, Downtown Urban Theater Festival), THE BRAZILIAN DILEMMA (First Prize, McLean Drama Company), THE NEXT MOVE (Best New One-Act Play, Brevard Theater), and others. For more information: www.williamivorfowkes.com.

Thanks to William Ivor Fowkes for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from his play STACY'S COOKIES.

   STACY 
Okay—what’s your favorite nut? 
   KEVIN 
YOU’RE my favorite nut. 
   (KEVIN snuggles up to STACY.) 
   KEVIN 
My favorite widdle nut! 
   (KEVIN kisses STACY.) 
   STACY 
Serious! 
   KEVIN 
Uh . . . Pistachios? 
   STACY 
Bingo! 
   KEVIN 
Chocolate chips and pistachios in the same cookie? You’re a genius! 
   STACY 
And a teaspoon of that Amaretto liqueur, like always. 
   KEVIN 
You are too much! 
(KEVIN kisses STACY again. )
   STACY 
(joking)
You mean I should go on a diet?
 
   KEVIN  
No! What? 
   (realizing it’s a joke) 
Oh—ha! Ha! You know I think you’re perfect just the way you are. 
   STACY 
Watcha watching? Where’s Dancing with the Stars? 
   KEVIN 
The News . . . Another woman came forward. Says Donald Trump accosted her in the parking lot of a Seven Eleven in Florida ten years ago. Lured her into his limo and then did stuff. 
   STACY 
That’s ridiculous—Donald would never go to a Seven Eleven! 
   KEVIN 
I know. She’s makin’ it all up. 
   STACY 
Probably just wants some attention. 
   KEVIN 
That’s what they all want. Or money. Or something. 
   STACY 
And look at her! Why would Donald waste his time with someone ugly like that? He was around all those models all the time back then. 
   KEVIN 
They’ll do anything to drag him down. 
   (shouting at the TV) 
Don’t let them stop you! We believe you, Donald! 
   STACY 
And if it really happened, why’d she wait ten years to say anything? 
   KEVIN 
Cuz someone put her up to it. Paid her off or something. She’s got nothing to lose. 
   STACY 
Shameful. Shameful. 
   (They watch for a few more moments.) 
   STACY 
Look at those tears . . . 
   (softening) 
Almost seem real, though. 
   KEVIN 
She’s probably an actress. 
   (They watch for a few more moments.) 
   STACY 
   (a little more sternly) 
You know, if anything really did happen, I’m sure she was just asking for it. You know how some of these women carry on. Especially down in Florida.

Women in the Age of Trump: ALAYA

ALAYA by Paula Zimmerman-Taylor is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

PAULA ZIMMERMAN-TAYLOR  is a playwright, lyricist, and video producer, whose work has been published in “The Comic Bible”, “American Anthology of Poetry”, and in “Beyond Film School.” Her plays have been produced at the Pulse Theater, La Mama La Galleria, and The Triad Theater, all in NYC. She wrote the book and lyrics for the musical SISTERS OF THE FLAMING SPIRIT.

Thanks to Paula Zimmerman-Taylor for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from her monologue ALAYA.

   ALAYA 
You don’t want a b.j.? You just want to talk? Psssh, that’s a new one. I see you staring… Yeah, I’m not body perfect OK, but you friggin’ paid for me anyway. You want to hear how I got here? Well guess what, only a year ago I was studying computer coding and eyeing some big suit job like you probably have. 
Living in Trenton, digging the single life. One night I hooked up with a junior from my Psych. class and we were both pretty drunk, didn’t use birth control and ended up three weeks later with a positive pregnancy test. No big deal, I have insurance, I just figured I would abort the baby; I hadn’t been following the news, so when I went to Planned Parenthood in Columbus, they told me that abortion had been outlawed in Ohio! By some law that had quickly passed through Congress allowing the states to decide if abortions were illegal; apparently Ohio was a lot less liberal than I thought. Then, my rent went up, and I couldn’t afford to travel to another state to have it done.  
My family was pressuring me to have the baby, said they would help me with care. I really didn’t want to, but I gave in. A year later, I haven’t re-enrolled in school, I can’t get any kind of welfare benefits, and I’m working for $7.00 an hour at the local MacDonald’s just to keep food on the table. My parents’ taxes increased so much (more Trump legislation) that they couldn’t provide financial help, and I really wanted to go back to school, but with the baby and working unpredictable shifts, having to hire a sitter, and every month my rent being late, the pressure got too much. 
A friend of mine who quit her job because the boss was hitting on her and couldn’t get unemployment since that program has also been defunded told me about doing this. At first I balked at the idea, but when she said I could walk away with $500 a night, hell, I gave in. 

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Women in the Age of Trump: TRUMPETTES ANONYMOUS

TRUMPETTES ANONYMOUS  by Rex McGregor is a semi-finalist for NYCPlaywrights project "Women in the Age of Trump."

REX MCGREGOR is a New Zealand writer specializing in comedy theatre and satirical humor. His short plays have been produced on four continents from New York and London to Sydney and Kuala Lumpur. Web site: rexmcgregor.com

Thanks to Rex McGregor for allowing NYCPlaywrights to publish this excerpt from his play TRUMPETTES ANONYMOUS. Parody of Mom (TV series).

   JEL 
Can we get started? I got a new man waitin’ at home.

   WINDY

Not another father figure, I hope.

   JEL

This one’s super young. My pool guy. Miguel. Body like a Greek god.

   WINDY

Not Cupid, I hope.

   JEL

Don’t worry. I asked him if he’s legal. He said he is.

   BONY

Probably referring to his immigration status.

   JEL

Omigod! What if he’s…?

   CRUSTY

Underage?

   JEL

Mexican! Trump might deport him!

   BONY

Before you’ve finished using him? I hate it when that happens.

   WINDY

Let’s begin the session. So Jel can get home and check her young man’s status.

   JEL

Shoot, I don’t care if he’s married. If I was that fussy I’d never fill my monthly quota.

   (They all sit down.)

   WINDY

Who’d like to start?

   CRUSTY

Shouldn’t we wait for Margarine?

   WINDY

She said to go ahead without her.

   BONY

First time she’s missed a meeting.

   WINDY

She said she had something to do. All very mysterious.

   JEL

Maybe she’s got a pool guy.

   CRUSTY

She’s got a husband.

   JEL

That never stopped me.

   BONY

We know, Jel. You even had Margarine’s husband, didn’t you?   
   JEL

Before they got hitched. I don’t hookup with a friend’s current squeeze.

   BONY

I’m relieved to hear it.

   JEL

Keep an eye on your fella, Bony. You and me ain’t that close.

   WINDY

I’ll start. My name’s Windy. And I voted for Donald Trump.

   BONY, CRUSTY & JEL

Hi, Windy.

   WINDY

I have no excuse. I wasn’t happy with some aspects of Obamacare. I thought a small protest vote would stop Hillary from getting too cocky when she became President. She was miles ahead in the polls. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!

(Windy whimpers.)

   BONY, CRUSTY & JEL

Thanks, Windy.

   CRUSTY

Hi, I’m Crusty. I voted for the asshole too.

   JEL

Hi, Crusty.

   BONY

Shouldn’t that be “cavity of the glutinous maxi-whatever?”

   CRUSTY

Mom! No crosstalk!

   BONY

Maternal instincts override meeting rules.

   CRUSTY

I’ve been clean for [nine] weeks, four days and one and a half hours. My addiction is totally under control. I haven’t touched a single erotic novel. Or had a single masochistic fantasy. I’ve successfully managed a tough regime of strict self-denial.

   BONY

She always was a glutton for punishment.

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