A. Open Sightreading Event Prompts
Round 1 - 2:30
Speaker 1
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Bear Lake Monster
A Utah Ghost Story retold by S. E. Schlosser
If you travel to Bear Lake in Utah on a quiet day, you just might catch a glimpse of the Bear Lake Monster. The monster looks like a huge brown snake and is nearly 90 feet long. It has ears that stick out from the side of its skinny head and a mouth big enough to eat a man. According to some, it has small legs and it kind of scurries when it ventures out on land. But in the water - watch out! It can swim faster than a horse can gallop - makes a mile a minute on a good day. Sometimes the monster likes to sneak up on unwary swimmers and blow water at them. The ones it doesn't carry off to eat, that is.
A feller I heard about spotted the monster early one evening as he was walking along the lake. He tried to shoot it with his rifle. The man was a crack shot, but not one of his bullets touched that monster. It scared the heck out of him and he high tailed it home faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Left his rifle behind him and claimed the monster ate it.
Sometimes, when the monster has been quiet for a while, people start saying it is gone for good. Some folks even dredge up that old tale that says how Pecos Bill heard about the Bear Lake monster and bet some cowpokes that he could wrestle that monster until it said uncle. According to them folks, the fight lasted for days and created a hurricane around Bear Lake. Finally, Bill flung that there monster over his shoulder and it flew so far it went plumb around the world and landed in Loch Ness, where it lives to this day.
Course, we know better than that. The Bear Lake Monster is just hibernating-like. Keep your eyes open at dusk and maybe you'll see it come out to feed. Just be careful swimming in the lake, or you might be its next meal!
Speaker 2
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Bloody Knife
A Novia Scotia Ghost Story From the Micmac Tribe
Retold by S.E. Schlosse
Many and many a year ago, two Micmac warriors from rival villages got into a terrible argument. Harsh words were exchanged, and then knives were pulled. The warriors battled back and forth on the banks of a small creek. They fought with the ferocity of grizzlies, tearing at each other with their knives, ripping at each others clothes and hair.
Suddenly, one of the warriors slipped on the muddy bank and fell into the waters of the creek. His bloody knife slipped from his hand and sank down and down to the bottom, landing upon a rock just beyond his reach. The warrior strained his pain-wracked body towards the knife as his blood filled the waters of the creek, but it was just beyond his fingertips. He thrashed and clawed towards his knife, desperate to reach it before his rival killed him, but no matter how he stretched, it always slipped out of reach.
On the bank above, the victorious Micmac warrior saw his rival sink into the blood- stained waters and lay still, the knife just a hair-breadth beyond his fingertips. He did not rise again. The fallen man's people found him a few hours later and tenderly rescued his body from the rippling waters of the creek. But when they tried to retrieve his bloody knife from the rock beneath him, it always slipped beyond their reach, though the creek was not deep.
Many and many a year has passed since that bloody day by the creek, and still the blood-stained knife lies beneath the rippling waters of the creek. Whenever anyone tries to reach it, the knife slips out of reach. It is like trying to touch something on the bottom of the sea, although the creek itself is not deep. Even the rushing waters of the spring season do not move the mysterious knife or wash away the blood staining its blade.
Speaker 3
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Moll DeGrow
A New Jersey Spooky Story retold by S. E. Schlosser
Moll DeGrow was a wicked witch who once lived on Gully Road in what is now Newark, New Jersey. She took delight in the misery of others, and made things miserable for the folks living near her. If a neighbor slighted her, she would sour their milk. If anyone called her a witch, she made their dogs turn vicious. People were very cautious around Moll De Grow.
When a new family moved in, their grown-up son took offense with the witch's rude behavior toward his mother and told her off. That night, an evil black dog with glowing red eyes emerged from the woods in front of his horse. The horse bolted and the dog raced after it,leaping up to bite at his tail and sides. The young man was struck by a low-hanging branch and fell lifeless to the ground. The hound howled once in triumph and then disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke, leaving the terrified horse to walk trembling back to its dead master and stand guard until his body was found.
Folks put up with Moll DeGrow for many years. But then there came a rash of unexplained infant deaths. People soon realized that Moll DeGrow had a grudge against each of the families that had lost a child. When she was accused by a hysterical mother of causing the death of her baby girl, Moll DeGrow just laughed and didn't deny it. This was the last straw for the local residents. They formed a mob and went to Gully Road to burn the witch to death. But when they reached her house, Moll DeGrow was already dead, sitting bolt upright in her chair with a cruel smile on her lifeless face.
Speaker 4
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Piece By Piece
A New York Ghost Story retold by S. E. Schlosser
There once was a crazy ghost over Poughkeepsie way that got folks so plumb scared that nobody would stay more than one night in its house. It was a nice old place, or was, until the ghost began making its presence known. It got so no one would enter the house, not even kids on a dare, and you know what they are like!
Now when my friend Joe heard a fancy old house in Poughkeepsie was selling dirt cheap, he decided to go have a look. He asked me about it and I told him about the spook, but Joe just laughed. "I don't believe in ghosts," he said and went to visit the agent selling the house.
Well, the agent gave Joe a key, but refused to look at the old house with him, which should have told Joe something. But Joe's a stubborn man who won't listen to reason. He even waited until after dark to visit the house for the first time, just to prove his point.
Joe got to the house around nine p.m. and he entered the front hallway. It was a large entrance and well-proportioned, but neglected-looking, with creepy cobwebs and dust everywhere. As Joe paused near the door to get his bearings, he heard a thump from the top of the staircase facing him. A glowing leg appeared out of nowhere and rolled down the steps, landing right next to Joe's feet. Joe gasped out loud and stood frozen to the spot. An arm appeared and rolled down to meet the leg. Next came a foot, then another arm, then a hand. Glowing pieces of body kept popping into existence and plummeting down the steps towards Joe.
Joe held his ground a lot longer than anyone else ever had, but when a screaming head appeared at the top of the steps and started rolling towards him, Joe had had enough. With a shriek that could wake the dead - those that weren't already up and haunting the house that is - Joe ran for his life; out of the house, out of the street, and right out of town, leaving his car behind him.
He called me the next day and asked me to drive his car down to the hotel where he had spent the night. Joe was headed back to Manhattan and refused to come within fifty miles of Poughkeepsie ever again. The agent gave up trying to sell the house after that, and the house fell into ruin and was eventually torn down.
Speaker 5
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Sasquatch and the Bear
A Rogue River Tall Tale collected by S.E. Schlosser
Take a look over at this gravel bar on our left. It's called Bony Point, and we saw something here the other day that I thought was kind of interesting so I thought I’d mention it.
You see where the gravel bar meets the tree line up there and how it forms those shadows? Well, standing back there in those shadows was a big old Sasquatch. And, this isn’t unusual, because we have a lot of Sasquatches down here. But, we had some people on board who had never seen one, so we idled down to watch.
Well, as we watched, after a little while, this old Sasquatch wanders across the gravel bar, wades out about hip deep in the water, grabs about a six foot sturgeon by the
tail. He drags it up on the gravel bar, thumps it in the head with a big old rock and kills it.Now, I don’t know why they do that. I’ve seen them do that before. Whether they actually eat the fish, or if it’s just for sport, I don’t know, because I’ve never really had a chance to follow up.
But, this is where it gets interesting, because while we’re watching this on the south, down out of the alders on the north side, comes a big old black bear, and I mean about as big a bear as we’ve seen yet this year.
Well, this old bear looks across the river, sees what’s going on, jumps in the river himself, swims right across the bow of our boat, gets out on the south side there, shakes like a big old dog, and jumps right on the back of that Sasquatch, and starts beating on him. I guess he wanted his fish.
Anyway, as you can imagine, that old Sasquatch beat a hasty retreat up into the hills and we thought that was the end of it –people quit taking pictures.
Well, moments later that old Sasquatch comes back down out of the hills, with a big old treehe’s pulled out by the roots and starts beating on the bear.
Well, Holy Cow, that put them into it. It was a terrible thing. They went at it tooth and nail. There was blood and fur flying. You could hear their teeth popping as they snarled, and growled, and lit into each other, and I mean I was afraid. I was scared they were going to killeach other – and I think they would have – if I hadn’t jumped in there and broke it up!
Yup, that was something...
Speaker 6
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Trapper's Ghost
A Labrador Ghost Story retold by S. E. Schlosser
There once was a trapper who roamed the wilds of Labrador on a sleigh pulled by eight pure white Huskies. He was a tall man, dressed in layer upon layer of animal skins, who drove his team with a terrible ferocity across the frozen tundra.
The trapper was a cruel man, and the people in the local towns did not like him, though they tolerated his company when he came to town because of the rich animal skins he brought with him. When he came to a town, the trapper would sell his skins and then drink away his money at the local tavern. He assaulted the local women and picked fights with the hard-working townsmen. After a few days of such behavior, the constable would toss the trapper out on his ear. Then the trapper would resume his roaming and trapping until he came to another town.
No one knows exactly how the trapper met his fate. Some folks say he lived to an old age and died out on the trail. But it swiftly became clear that death did not end the roaming of the cruel trapper.
Each winter, the trapper's ghost roams the wilds of Labrador on a sleigh pulled by eight white Huskies. They say that his spirit was refused entry into heaven and remains forever in Labrador, atoning for the many sins he committed during his lifetime by helping lost travelers find their way home. Many a weary soul has looked up from their frantic searching to see a large sleigh pulled by white dogs coming toward them. If they follow it, they are led to safety.
Once a lost trapper found himself caught in a terrible blizzard, far from the nearest town. As he sought in vain to find a place to shelter from the storm, the phantom trapper appeared with his sleigh. Animal skins flapping in the raging wind and blinding snow, the phantom tenderly lifted the nearly-frozen man, placed him among the rugs on his sleigh, and drove the dying trapper to the nearest town. The phantom carried the man right into the inn, placed him gently on a chair by the door, summoned the innkeeper to care for the man, and then vanished right before the astonished innkeeper's eyes.
Speaker 7
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
The Twist-Mouth Family
A Massachusetts Tall Tale retold by
S. E. SchlosserA while back there was a family I know of - a mother, a father, and several children. Four of them had mouths that were twisted into strange shapes. The mother's mouth twisted up while the father's mouth twisted down. The sister's mouth twisted left while the younger brother's mouth twisted right. The eldest son John's mouth was perfectly normal.
When John grew up, his parents sent him to college. He was the first person in his family to get a college education, and everyone was eager to hear what he had to say when he came home from his first vacation. Everyone sat up late talking. When it came time to go to bed, the Mother said: "Papa, I cannot find the candle snuffer. Will you blow out the candle in the sitting room?"
"Yes I will," said the Father. He blew as hard as he could. But his mouth was twisted down so that when he blew, the air tickled his chin.
"Well now, Mama, I think you should blow out the candle," said he.
"Yes I will," said she. She blew as hard as she could. But her mouth was twisted up so that when she blew, the air made her hair stand on end.
"You know, Mary," she said to her daughter, " I think perhaps you should blow out the candle."
"Yes I will," said Mary. She blew as hard as she could. But her mouth twisted to the left, so that when she blew all the air rushed over her cheek.
"Dick, I think tonight you should blow out the candle," said Mary to her younger brother.
"Yes I will," said Dick. He took a deep breath and blew as hard as he could. But his mouth was twisted to the right, so that when he blew all the air went into his right ear.
Then Dick said, "John, maybe you should blow out the candle."
"Yes I will," said John. He blew as hard as he could. And since his mouth was straight, the candle went right out.
They all cheered. Patting John on the shoulder, the father said to his two younger children: "Well now, I hope you both learned how important it is to get a college education."
Round 2 - 4:00
Speaker 1
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone by J.K. Rowling
Chapter 1 cutting
A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild -- long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle, “I've got him, sir. "
"No problems, were there?"
"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol. "
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
"He'll have that scar forever.” said Dumbledore.
"Couldn't you do something about it?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with."
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles--"
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid,"
Professor McGonagall whispered. Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
Speaker 2
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone by J.K. Rowling
Chapter 2 cutting
After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's car and crushed it -- but at the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.
Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass. "Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.
"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on. "This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.
Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake - no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long.
The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's. It winked. Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.
The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly: "I get that all the time. "
"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying. " The snake nodded vigorously.
"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked. The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it. Boa Constrictor, Brazil. "Was it nice there?"
The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see -- so you've never been to Brazil?"
As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump. "DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!" Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.
"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror.
Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits.
As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come. . . Thanksss, amigo. "
Speaker 3
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone by J.K. Rowling
Chapter 4 cutting
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY - Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
Questions exploded inside Harry's head like fireworks and he couldn't decide which to ask first. After a moment, he stammered, "What does it mean, they await my owl?"
"Gallopin' Gorgons, that reminds me," said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead. From yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl -- a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl -- a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down:
Dear Professor Dumbledore. Given Harry his letter. Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.
Weather's horrible. Hope you're well. Hagrid
Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone. "Where was I?" said Hagrid.
But at that moment, Uncle Vernon, looking very angry, "He's not going," he said.
Hagrid grunted. "I'd like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him," he said.
"A what?" said Harry, interested.
"A Muggle," said Hagrid, "it's what we call non-magic folk like them.”
"We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish!" said Uncle Vernon.
"You knew ?" said Harry. "You knew I'm a -- a wizard?"
"Knew!" shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. "Knew! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that -- that school -- and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was -- a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!"
She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on.
"Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as -- as -- abnormal -- and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"
Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said, "Blown up?"
Speaker 4
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone by J.K. Rowling
Chapter 6 cutting
Uncle Vernon dumped Harry's trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face. "Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine -- platform ten. Your platform, “nine and three quarters,” should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to have built it yet, do they?" He was quite right, of course.
"Have a good term," said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry's mouth went rather dry. What on earth was he going to do?
He stopped a passing guard, but he had never heard of Hogwarts and Harry couldn't even tell him what part of the country it was in. Getting desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o'clock, but the guard said there wasn't one. Harry was now trying hard not to panic. He had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it.
At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a few words of what they were saying. "-- packed with Muggles, of course--"
Harry swung round. The woman was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry's -- and they had an owl.
"Now, what's the platform number?" said the boys' mother. "Nine and three-quarters!" piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was holding her hand.
“All right, Percy, you go first." The oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten. Harry watched, careful not to blink -- but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, he vanished!
"Fred, you next," "I'm not Fred, I'm George," said the boy. "Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you tell I'm George?"
"Sorry, George, dear. "
"Only joking, I am Fred," said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and a second later, they had gone -- but where?
"Excuse me," Harry said to the woman. "Hello, dear," she said. "First time at Hogwarts?
"Yes," said Harry. "The thing is -- the thing is, I don't know how to--"
"How to get onto the platform?" she said kindly, and Harry nodded.
"All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous."
"Er -- okay," said Harry.
He stared at the barrier. It looked very solid. He broke into a heavy run -- the barrier was coming nearer and nearer -- he wouldn't be able to stop -- he was a foot away -- he closed his eyes, ready for the crash -- It didn't come. . .
He opened his eyes. A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts' Express, eleven o'clock.
Speaker 5
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone by J.K. Rowling
Chapter 8 cutting
Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.
Snape started the class by taking the roll call, and he paused at Harry's name.
"Ah, Yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new -- celebrity. "
Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. They were cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word -- Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death -- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach. "
Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat and looked desperate to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead.
"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?
Hermione's hand had shot into the air.
"I don't know, sir." Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "Tut, tut -- fame clearly isn't everything. "
He ignored Hermione's hand. "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat, but Harry didn't have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. "I don't know, sir. "
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes. Snape was still ignoring Hermione's quivering hand.
"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?" At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling. "I don't know," said Harry quietly. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"
Snape, however, was not pleased. "Sit down," he snapped at Hermione. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant.
“Well? Why aren't you all copying that down!?”
Speaker 6
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone by J.K. Rowling
Chapter 9 cutting
"Look!" said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him." The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.
"Give that here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly. Everyone stopped talking to watch. Malfoy smiled nastily.
"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find -- how about -- up a tree?"
"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. He hadn't been lying, he could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, "Come and get it, Potter!" Harry grabbed his broom.
Blood was pounding in his ears. He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him -- and in a rush of fierce joy he realized he'd found something he could do without being taught -- this was easy, this was wonderful.
He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring whoop from Ron. He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. Malfoy looked stunned.
"Give it here," Harry called, "or I'll knock you off that broom!"
"Oh, yeah?" said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried.
Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping.
"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Harry called.
The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy.
"Catch it if you can, then!" he shouted, and he threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground.
Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air and then start to fall.
He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down -- next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball -- wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching.
He stretched out his hand -- a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.
Speaker 7
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone by J.K. Rowling
Chapter 11 cutting
His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a split second, he thought he was going to fall. He gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and knees. He'd never felt anything like that.
It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him off. But Nimbus Two Thousands did not suddenly decide to buck their riders of - and then he realized that his broom was completely out of his control. He couldn't turn it. He couldn't direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the air, and every now and then making violent swishing movements that almost unseated him.
The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have noticed that Harry's broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game, jerking and twitching as it went.
"Dunno what Harry thinks he's doing," Hagrid mumbled. He stared through his binoculars. "If I didn' know better, I'd say he'd lost control of his broom. . ."
Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over the stands. His broom had started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry's broom had given a wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand.
Hagrid, his voice shaking, said, "Can't nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic -- no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two Thousand. "
At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid's binoculars, but instead of looking up at Harry, she started looking frantically at the crowd. "I knew it! Snape – look!" Snape was in the middle of the stands - he had his eyes fixed on Harry and was muttering nonstop under his breath.
"He's doing something -- jinxing the broom," said Hermione.
Ron turned the binoculars back on Harry. His broom was vibrating so hard, it was almost impossible for him to hang on much longer. The whole crowd was on its feet, watching, terrified, as the Weasleys flew up to try and pull Harry safely, but it was no good. They dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously hoping to catch him if he fell.
Hermione had fought her way across to the stand where Snape stood, and was now racing along the row behind him. Reaching him, she crouched down, pulled out her wand, and whispered a few, well-chosen words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand onto the hem of Snape's robes. It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize that he was on fire. A sudden yelp told her she had done her job. Scooping the fire off him into a little jar in her pocket, she scrambled back along the row -- Snape would never know what had happened.
It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber back on to his broom. Harry was speeding toward the ground when the crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick -- he hit the field on all fours -- coughed -- and something gold fell into his hand.
Round 3 - 5:30
Speaker 1
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
SCENE ONE - TEA TIME
(context: do not read aloud: A short comedic scene for two actors. The idea is to have a woman talking from the 20th century and a man talking in modern times.)
H: Good day Mr. Strubel, fancy meeting you here.
W: Whattup, Ma?
H: Have you been tending to your flock?
W: Nah, dat crap be all crazy and some.
H: Whatever do you mean, Mr. Strubel?
W: Sold ‘em off. Looking to make some investments into some other shizz.
H: Wonderful. You’ve always had an eye for mindful investments.
W: I do ah-ight, I do ah-ight. What bout you though?
H: My son has gone abroad for his studies.
W: Where at?
H: He’s an English major but traveling is essential to expanding one’s imagination.
W: I feel you. He want to write novels n’at?
H: I believe so. He has grand ideals.
W: How so?
H: He’s deeply invested in discovering new forms.
W: Forms?
H: Pardon me…styles of writing. Frederick is looking for a new form of expression in literature but isn’t quite certain he can pull it off.
W: You his Momma, whutchoo think?
H: He’s a smart young man but genius - one never knows. Sometimes it can take generations before it gets detected. His writing is refined but one never knows if the work will truly stand on its own. I envy and pity him at times. Oh, look at me, I shouldn’t be airing out my laundry in this way Mr. Strubel.
W: It’s all good. I’m sure Freddy’s gonna do ah-ight.
H: One can only work hard and hope for the best.
W: I know some peeps in publishing so if he needs a leg up, give me a shout and we hook him up.
H: Really? You would do that for me?
W: You know how we do, Ma. We look out for our own.
H: That’s most kind of you, Mr. Strubel. Well, perhaps you can come over for some tea one evening. I’m sure my husband would enjoy your company. He is very fond of you.
W: Hell yeah. I’ll swing by the crib.
H: Wonderful. Good day to you, Mr. Strubel.
W: You know how we do. That’s what up.
Speaker 2
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
SCENE TWO - HAROLD’S EAR
(Context – do not read aloud: REBECCA helps her UNCLE HAROLD get a piece of cotton out from inside his ear. Comedic scene for two actors.)
HAROLD: Rebecca, you can’t keep playing your flute all day, each day. I’m liable to have cardiac arrest.
REBECCA: You said that I can play as often as I wish and I am choosing to play as often as I wish.
HAROLD: Is there something wrong in your brain? It was a figure of speech. It doesn’t mean I was actually encouraging you to play fiddle diddle all day long.
REBECCA: Well, you figured wrong.
HAROLD: I must have cotton wedged deep into my ear because my own voice sounds
muffled. (Harold begins jerking his head to the side, trying to get something out of his ear.)
REBECCA: What are you doing?
HAROLD: I like tilting my head to the side and jerking it for your amusement. (Harold continues to jerk his head.)
REBECCA: Wait! You’re going to do damage to yourself. Let me have a look. (She looks.)Yep. I see something white.
HAROLD: Are you serious?
REBECCA: You have what appears to be a piece of white cotton in your ear.
HAROLD: Can you get it out?
REBECCA: I’m not your Doctor.
HAROLD: Rebecca, please, I am your Uncle and as your Uncle I am asking you to help me. Do you have a pair of tweezers or something such?
REBECCA: …Hold on… (Rebecca fumbles through her make up bag and pulls out a pair of tweezers). I’ll try these.
HAROLD: How should we do this? Should I lay down on the floor flat and you slowly, gently and calmly, grab it and pull it out?
REBECCA: Okay. (Harold lays down flat.) Okay. Now, you need to remain calm because if you jiggle around, I’m afraid the cotton might go in further.
HAROLD: FURTHER?
REBECCA: So, don’t move!
HAROLD: Famous last words…
REBECCA: Uncle Harold, I’m serious.
HAROLD: I’m serious too, there is nothing funny about this, not one bit.
REBECCA: I’m going in.
HAROLD: Oh God.
REBECCA: No talking. I have to focus.
(Harold slowly begins to chuckle. His chuckling grows and grows until finally he laughs out-loud uncontrollably.)
HAROLD: I’m sorry, it’s too ticklish, it’s tooooo—
REBECA: Stop wiggling around.
HAROLD: HAHAHA. Hurry, Hurry, pull it out, pull it out, please!
REBECCA: Almost there!
HAROLD: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
REBECCA: GOT IT!!!
HAROLD: Did you? Did you get it–Oh, I can hear terrific! Unbelievable! All this time I thought I was losing my hearing, except for your flute playing but other than that I thought I was—wow, I have such a strong voice. I am so baritone.
THAT came out of my ear?! I am flabbergasted. Must have been stuck in my ear since you started playing the flute.
REBECCA: You’re welcome Uncle Harold.
Speaker 3
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
SCENE THREE - WAY OF THE WIFFLE BALL BAT
(Context – do not read aloud: JANE (mother) is doing paperwork on the living room table. BLAKE (son) enters carrying a wrapped sandwich and a coke.)
§ Jane: I’m not in the mood okay so don’t start.
Blake: I just walked in the room.
Jane: That’s all you need to do to get on my nerves.
Blake: I’ll go in the other room, forget it.
Jane: You can come in here but don’t aggravate me.
Blake: I won’t bother you.
(Blake sits on couch. He unwraps his sandwich and eats obnoxiously.
Jane looks over at Blake already annoyed.)
Jane: Are you kidding me?
Blake: (food in his mouth) What?
Jane: I told you not to bother me.
Blake: I’m just eating my food. Can’t I eat?
Jane: You chew like a camel. Eat silent or go in the other room.
Blake: Okay, okay, I’ll eat quiet…(sarcastically) not that hard.
(Jane gives Blake another annoyed look. Blake starts at his food again. Extremely careful not to make noise. He takes a sip from his can of coke, looks over at Jane and succeeds in getting no response from her.)
(Blake becomes confident and stands up while chewing his food. He quietly jumps on one foot and then the other, all the while Jane does not hear or notice.)
(He suddenly appears panicked. He looks at Jane and clasps his throat. He places his sandwich on the couch trying to breathe. Blake chokes and Jane notices.)
Jane: Oh my God! (Jane hurries over to Blake. She can’t get her arms around Blake.)
You’re too big to give the hiemlich maneuver–oh no!
(Jane darts around the living room and finds a plastic wiffle ball bat. She strikes Blake with it two or three times on his back, only causing him pain. Blake falls to his knees. Jane gets on the couch and jumps on his back toppling them both over to the floor. The impact miraculously dislodges the food stuck in Blake’s throat.)
Jane: Did I get it?! Did I get it?!
Blake: I can breathe, I can breathe, I’m—
Jane: You idiot! You almost killed me. You are gonna be the death of me yet! One of these days. Not today. But one, one of these days you are going to put me in an early grave.
Blake: I was choking!
Jane: I told you, you eat like a camel!
Blake: I was eating silently for you. I need to eat loud, so I don’t choke!
Jane: Do me favor. Get away from me. Go inside! Get away, as far away as possible and eat as loud as you want!
Blake: Yeah, well that’s what I’ll do.
(Blake grabs his sandwich and begins to leave the room.)
Jane: Make sure you clean up this mess.
Blake: No reason to hit me with the wiffle ball bat.
Jane: You took me off guard.
Blake: Yeah, well you make no sense.
Jane: That’s what you get for leaving your things around.
Speaker 4
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
SCENE 4 - TODAY IS THE DAY
(Context – do not read: BARB and MARLO, a married couple of some two thousand plus years and the trivial on-goings of their life together.)
§
Barb: Milk, bread, olives, eggs—
Marlo: Hold on, you goin’ too fast, can’t write that—
Barb: Well, hurry up. MILK, BREAD—
Marlo: Come on, I got that already. I’m up to the eggs—
Barb: Making me lose my train of thought now. Read it to me.
Marlo: (sighs) Milk, bread, olives and eggs so far—
Barb: Add toothpaste, ginger ale, butter, apples, pears, cucumbers—
Marlo: What came after apples?
Barb: PEARS!
Marlo: And then what?
Barb: Pears and and then cucumbers. Pay attention or you’re gonna screw the whole thing up at the store.
Marlo: Go slower, I said.
Barb: Tin foil, peanut butter, oranges, grapes, soap–
Marlo: Can’t you just give me the list in sections? I’m gonna to be running all over the store following this list you’re giving me.
Barb: What’s wrong with you? Figure it out yourself from what’s on the list.
Marlo: I don’t understand you. If you’re calling out grapes and oranges, why do you jump from that to soap and then back to apples and pears?
Barb: I call it as it comes to me. Why are you making this difficult? We’ve been doing this for years and YEARS!
Marlo: And that’s why it needs to stop! Today. Today it needs to stop.
Barb: And what’s so special may I ask about TODAY?
Marlo: Today is…
Barb: What?
Marlo: Today is the day that I don’t lose five pounds swinging around the store like a schmuck-o. Got it? Today is the day that I want things organized.
Barb: You waited this many years to get that off your chest honey?
Marlo: Don’t start!
Barb: Are you done being an butthead? You want to take down the items that we need or not?
Marlo: Only if you compartmentalize it.
Barb: If I had the strength, I’d bop you a good one on the side of your head.
Marlo: (Sighs) Bread, milk, olives, eggs, toothpaste, ginger ale, butter, apples, pears, cucumbers, tin foil, peanut butter, oranges, grapes, soap and what else does the giant ass have to get?
Barb: The butthead has to get cranberries, liquid tide and peanuts.
Marlo: Peanuts.
Barb: Peanuts.
Marlo: Peanuts.
Barb: Peanuts! Peanuts! What’s wrong with you?
Marlo: You forgot I almost died eating peanuts last week?
Barb: Who?
Marlo: I choked in the kitchen, fell over on the table…nothing?
Barb: You didn’t tell me you choked last week.
Marlo: Of course I did, I almost died on those stupid peanuts you make me buy.
Barb: Well, get them because it extends your health. (pause) You go so fast I can’t remember. Read it all back to me.
Marlo: I rather eat this paper before reading it all back to you.
Barb: Go! You’ll be going back for whatever we left out.
Marlo: Fine!
Barb: Fine!
Speaker 5
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
SCENE 5 SHRIBBLE
(Context – do not read out loud: VALERIE and FRANK discuss how their switch to going vegan has been working out. Frank is destroyed by it and Valerie is in paradise.)
Valerie: Isn’t this incredible that we are both vegan? I can’t believe we have actually gone vegan.
Frank: Babe, please. I’m starving.
Valerie: Oh, come on. Just have some more salad - you need to eat more plant foods, vegetables and fruits.
Frank: I’m starving babe, alright? I feel like I’ve been eating leaves all day.
Valerie: Frances, stop it. It’s only been three days.
Frank: Hasn’t it been a week already? I feel like I’m breaking some sort of record.
Valerie: Well, I’m proud of you. You are going to live a longer life.
Frank: In misery. I gotta tell ya, I’m ready to grab my bow and arrow and shoot down birds in the backyard.
Valerie: That’s horrible. Tell me you’re joking.
Frank: I’m hungry! Been eating salad that doesn’t even look like salad. It’s leaves.
Valerie: It’s baby spinach!
Frank: Great. Baby spinach looks like baby tree leaves. What’s next? Going outside and eating dirt?
Valerie: You have no discipline.
Frank: I feel like I’m shribbling up.
Valerie: Shribbling? What’s a shribble?
Frank: Shribble. I feel like I’m shribbling…getting smaller.
Valerie: You mean shriveling?
Frank: Same thing.
Valerie: Well, I’m so happy we’re vegan. It’s the most amazing thing. I feel light and healthy and I’m already getting a glowing complexion. You too! You don’t feel it? Honestly, you don’t feel like you have more energy?
Frank: I need to eat protein to have strength. Let me get more chicken peas then.
Valerie: It’s called chick peas, not chicken peas. (beat) You know, I can’t believe how you go on. That’s because you’ve been given horrible food to eat your whole life. (beat) You don’t have to go vegan with me. I can do it by myself.
Frank: I just wish there was more options, Val. We go to the store and it’s not even an isle, it’s a shelf.
Valerie: Oh, stop.
Frank: Then you take coffee away from me and have me on this green tea and a man needs his coffee.
Valerie: It’s polluting your brain.
Frank: I love coffee and I won’t stop drinking it. And I need steak and pasta and meatballs and cheese and—
Valerie: Pasta, you can have gluten free pasta.
Frank: Never heard of it - I only know Ronzoni. (beat) Okay, look…coffee and pasta is all I want…I’ll stop eating meat, alright? I’ll climb trees and eat leaves but I need my pasta and I need my coffee. Otherwise, I’ll kill someone.
Valerie: Alright. Deal.
Speaker 6
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
SCENE SIX - EAT BERRIES AND DRINK WISKEY
(Context – do not read aloud: News reporter Jim Turner talks to a camera & viewers while entering a home where the oldest living woman resides. A nurse is also present and cameraman.)
Jim Turner: (to marvin the cameraman) Did you switch the freaking battery yet Marv?! Finally! Bravo! The world is yours. Let’s go! Turn her on and let’s get this crap over with. (beat) Are we running? We’re on?
(Jim becomes over the top enthusiastic.)
(to camera) We are about to visit the oldest living woman in the world named Wanda Grimes. According to our records she is just eight months shy of breaking the Guinness World Records for oldest living person currently held by Jeanne Louise Calment, who died at the age of 122.
Oh! There she is now! There she is!
(Jim Turner jogs over to an elderly woman in a wheelchair. This is Wanda Grimes. She looks absolutely exhausted.)
Jim Turner: Mrs. Grimes! Mrs. Grimes! How are you doing today?
(no response)
(kneeling beside her) Well, how does it feel to be the oldest living woman on planet Earth? Huh?
(waving profusely for Marvin the cameraman to crouch down with camera as well for the shot)
Isn’t that something?! Isn’t that absolutely something? Boy oh boy that must be something, eh? (beat)
(to cameraman)
Is she? Is she awake or slee—oh! She just moved! Mrs. Grimes! There you are! There you are! I’m Jim Turner from the WGAF Broadcast. We’re here today to discuss your age and see if you have any advice you can give us young people about how to live so darn long. So how about it? What advice do you have for us newbies?
(Wanda moves her lips but nothing comes out - Jim leans in to hear her)
Jim Turner: Hold on, I…let me position myself a bit closer to help you out Mrs. Grimes. There! Care to repeat that?
Wanda Grimes: (with difficulty) slllaugh-ter meee.
Jim Turner: Sounds like…(to cameraman) Did she say water? Does she need some water? She needs some water! Somebody give her some water. Give the woman her some dang FIJI – she looks parched.
(Jim Turner takes a bottle of water from a nurse. He tries to help Wanda drink from the bottle but suddenly her false teeth pop out - he screams)
Oh God! I’m okay. She…her—someone needs to grab her teeth and put those puppies back where they belong. Please.
(The nurse puts teeth back in Wanda’s mouth.)
Wanda Grimes: (with difficulty) Stu - pid butt - head sassafras.
Jim Turner: She spoke! I’m sorry, did you say in a glass? Would you like your water in a glass? (no response) So – so - so here we are with Mrs. Wanda Grimes, the oldest living person on Earth and we are all so very anxious to get her tips on how to prolong our lives. Mrs. Grimes, can you explain to our viewers just how you managed to live so long?
(Wanda faints. Jim notices this but pretends to mime Wanda’s voice from the side of his mouth without the camera noticing.)
Eat lot’s of berries and loads of whiskey. (to camera) Did you get that?
Ha! Ha! Berries and whiskey!!
(Wanda’s nurse speaks up.) Nurse: I think she needs rest now. You should really go.
Jim Turner: (ignoring nurse – to camera) There you have it folks! Load your children up on those berries and for all you legally aged drinkers, do a shot of whiskey from time to time to keep that blood flowing. You too can live a long boisterous life like good old Mrs. Wanda Grimes here…
(to cameraman) Okay Marv, CUT. That’s a wrap. Let’s roll.
Speaker 7
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
SCENE SEVEN - UNDERDOG (AKA FIGHT ME) by D. M. Larson
(A scene for two guys in an office. GEORGE stops TINY who is carrying files.)
GEORGE: Fight me.
TINY: I don't want to... (GEORGE punches TINY) Ow! What did you do that for?
GEORGE: (clearly performing for an audience) Plenty more where that came from... (GEORGE tries several more air punches in TINY’s face.)
TINY: Cut it out!
GEORGE: Bet you're not so tough without your shield, Captain America.
TINY: Have you gone crazy?
GEORGE: (Elated) Something like that.
TINY: I won't fight you.
GEORGE: Then I win.
TINY: Huh?
GEORGE: I win.
TINY: I guess so.
GEORGE: (urgently) Tell me I win.
TINY: Fine, you win. (GEORGE punches him)
GEORGE: Louder.
TINY: You win!
GEORGE: (on top of the world) That's right. I am the alpha dog, baby!
(GEORGE does a chest pump against TINY who stumbles back)
TINY: What is with you, man?
(GEORGE grabs TINY in a headlock)
GEORGE: See her over there?
TINY: Yolanda?
GEORGE: That her name? Yeah the new one. Yolanda...
TINY: She's why you're acting like an idiot?
GEORGE: Yup... I want to impress her.
(GEORGE lets TINY out of headlock)
TINY: Great... Glad I could help.
GEORGE: She saw the whole thing. They're laughing. They think I am awesome. Now for the kill. Gonna’ seal the deal.
(GEORGE exits – a beat - GEORGE returns and holds out a piece of paper)
TINY: What's this?
GEORGE: Her number. She wants me to give it to you. She thought you were cute. Everyone roots for underdog.
(TINY looks at number happily and does a cute little wave.)
Final Round - 7:30
Speaker 1
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
The Cat and The Baboon by David Sedaris
The cat had a party to attend, and went to the baboon to get herself groomed.
"What kind of party?" the baboon asked, and she massaged the cat's neck in order to relax her, the way she did with all her customers. "Hope it's not that harvest dance down on the riverbank.
"No," she said. This is just a little get-together, just a few friends type-of-thing."
"Will there be food?" the baboon asked. "Something," the cat sighed.
“'Course it's hard," the baboon said. "Everybody eating different things. You got one who likes leaves and another who can't stand the sight of them. Folks have gotten so picky nowadays, I just lay out some peanuts and figure they either eat them or they don't."
"Now, I wouldn't like a peanut. Not at all."
"Well, I guess you'd just have drinks, then. The trick is knowing when to stop.”
"That's never been a problem for me," the cat boasted.
"Well, then you've got sense, then. Not like some of around here. Take this wedding I went to last Saturday. Couple of marsh rabbits got married. Now, I like a church service, but this was one of those write-your-own-vows sort of things. Neither of them had ever picked up a pen in their life, but all of a sudden they're poets, right?"
"My husband and I wrote our own vows,” the cat said defensively.
“I’m sure you did, but you probably had something to say, not like these marsh rabbits, carrying on that their love was like a tender sapling or some darn thing. And all the while they had this squirrel off to the side, plucking at a harp."
"I had a harp player at my wedding," the cat said, "and it was lovely."
But you probably hired a professional, someone who could really play. This squirrel, I don't think she'd taken a lesson in her life. Just clawed at those strings, almost like she was mad at them."
"Well, I'm sure she tried her best," the cat said.
The baboon nodded and smiled, the way one must in the service industry. Whatever she said, the cat disagreed with, and unless she found a patch of common ground she was sure lose her tip. "You know, I hate dogs. I simply cannot stand them."
"What makes you bring that up?"
“Just thinking, the baboon said. "Some kind of spaniel mix walked in yesterday, asking for a shampoo, and I said, 'I don't care how much money you have, I'm not making conversation with anyone who licks his own behind.” And the moment she said it, she realized her mistake.
"Now, what's wrong with that?" the cat protested. "I lick mine at least five times a day."
"And I admire you for it,” the baboon said, "On a cat it's . . . classy. There's a grace to it.”
There was a slight pause before she quickly continued. “Dogs slobber and drool all over everything, and what they don’t get wet, they chew to pieces.”
"That they do!" The cat chuckled, and the baboon relaxed and searched her memory for a slanderous dog story. The collie, the German shepherd, the spaniel mix she claimed to have turned away even though they were all good friends of hers, and faithful clients.
What would it hurt to pretend otherwise?
Speaker 2
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
The Mouse and the Snake by David Sedaris
Plenty of animals had pets, but few were more de-voted than the mouse, who owned a baby corn snake. "I saw him hatching from his little egg and knew right then that I had to save him," she was fond of saying. "I mean, look at that face! He's saying, 'Hello, new friend. Nice to meet you!'
But the friends weren't so sure.
"You're not afraid of my snake - you're afraid of the idea of him. Why, this little fellow wouldn't strike if his life depended on it.” She'd then describe how he slept at the foot of her bed and woke her each morning with a kiss. "He says, 'Get up, Mommy. It's time to start the day!'
"He thinks he's one of us,' the mouse told her friends, who responded with increasingly forced smiles. In time she stopped using the word "pet," as it seemed demeaning. The term "to own" was banished as well, as it made it sound as though she were keeping him against his will.
It was almost spooky how like-minded they were. Their opinions differed only when it came to food. "Won't you at least try a bit of grain?" but he wouldn't, preferring instead a live baby toad. How he could eat these things was beyond her, but you couldn't expect a youngster, especially such a vulnerable one, to hunt his own food, and so the mouse did it for him. Aside from baby toads, she'd fetched him young moles, which, he ate whole. "My goodness," she said. "Slow down. Taste!"
One afternoon when someone knocked on the door. It was a toad and anyone could have guessed why she was here: it was that ‘long-suffering mother’ look so common to amphibians, who had children by the thousands and then fell apart when a handful went missing.
"A few of my babies have taken off and I'm just about at my wit's end.”
"Well," the mouse said, "if you were that concerned for the safety of your children, you probably should have kept an eye on them."
"But I did," wept the toad. "They were just outside, playing in the yard, like youngsters do."
So really, wasn't this the toad's fault? And, where was her pity when flies came to the door, asking about their missing babies? Was an insect's mother love any less worthy than an amphibian's? And wasn't the snake a baby as well, as cute and innocent and deserving of protection as any other living creature?
"I'll tell you what," said the mouse. "How about I keep my eyes open, and you check back with me in two weeks or so."
A few days later there came another knock, this time from a mole. "I'm wondering if you've by any chance seen my daughter?"
"It's a shame when things you love go missing," the mouse said. "Take these grubs, for instance. I had a whole colony living in my backyard, darlings, every one. One minute they were there, and the next thing I knew they were gone.”
Her visitor looked at the ground for a moment, and the mouse thought: Exactly!
"To answer your question, I did meet a little mole who’d run away from home and asked if she could come live with me. I told her she should think it over and see how she felt a month.
So why don't you do the same? If your daughter comes back, I'll keep her for you."
The mouse stepped back into her house. "Idiot," she whispered.
The snake lifted its flat head off the carpet, and she explained that from now on, his meals would deliver themselves. "You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Out slid the snake's forked tongue, and she thought again that she had never seen such a beautiful, smart, loyal creature.
A month later the mole stood at the door again, knocking politely, and just as she began pounding, the toad hopped by. "If you're looking for that mouse, I think you can probably forget it. I came by two weeks ago and did just what you're doing. Knocked on that door till I just about busted it, but nobody answered.
The mole, distressed, spilled out the story of her missing child. The toad did the same. But had they not wept and commiserated, had they instead put their ears to the door, they might have heard the snake, his belly full of unconditional love, banging to be let out.
Speaker 3
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
The Migrating Warblers by David Sedaris
The yellow warbler would say that her family's been wintering in Guatemala for as long as she could remember. “Every year, like clockwork, here we come by the tens of thousands but do you think any of those Spanish-speaking birds have bothered learning English? Not on your life!"
"It's really horrible,' her husband would say.
"Well, funny too," his wife would insist. "Horrible and funny. Like one time I asked this little
Guatemalan bird, Don-day est-tass las gran-days mose-cass de cab-eyza?"
Here her listeners were more than a little impressed. "Wait a second, you speak that stuff??
"Oh, I've picked some up, the warbler would say in that offhand way of hers.
"She's terrific with languages,' her husband would boast, and his wife would raise a wing in
protest: "Well, not always.”
“In this particular case, for instance, I thought I'd asked where all the big horseflies were. A reasonable question, only instead of ‘cob ayo,’ which is ‘horse,’ I said ‘cab eyza.’ So what I really asked was 'Where are all the big head flies? So the Guatemalan bird makes a motion for me to follow him through the thicket. I do, and there in this field are, like, three hundred heads rotting in the afternoon sun. Each one with about fifty flies on it. And I mean huge, the size of bumblebees, every one of them."
"Oh my God," the listeners would say.
"Oh, they weren't bird heads," the warbler would reassure them. "These belonged to humans,
or used to anyway. I don't know what they'd done with the bodies, but they used the heads to make a wall! And then I mean to say, ‘this place stinks like the devil,' but what I actually say is...’ and here, snorting with laughter, she would pass to her husband.
"What she actually says is ‘The devil smells me in my place!' Can you believe it? My mate, Ladies and Gentlemen, or, as we like to call her south of the border, 'Satan's lovely stinkpot!'
The listeners would crack up, and the warblers, husband and wife, would enjoy the sensation of having an audience right where they wanted them. This was the reward for spending three months a year in an inferior country. Back in their element, the two warblers were a well-oiled machine...
"You want funny, try getting work done down there," the husband would say, opening the door to their hilarious tales of lazy natives, of how bumbling they were, how backward and superstitious. This begged the question "Why go in the first place? Why not winter in Florida like everyone else?"
The warblers would then explain that despite everything, Central America was, in its own way, beautiful. "And cheap," they would add. "Cheap, cheap, cheap."
Speaker 4
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
THE CROW AND THE LAMB by David Sedaris
The crow was out one morning, looking for some-thing to eat, when she spotted a newborn lamb suckling in the field below. Sheep, she thought. What I wouldn't give for a life like that. The mother has a baby and then she just lies there doing nothing. No nest to build, no spending every rotten moment searching for food, and even then, it's never enough.
God, these grazing animals were stupid, which was not altogether a bad thing. After circling a few times, the crow landed in the pasture and pretended to pick at something in the grass. The old ewe looked her over for a moment, then returned her attention to the new-born.
"Cute kid," the crow called out. "Is it a boy or a girl?" The ewe sighed in the way of all parents who expect their baby's sex to be obvious. "He's a boy. My second." Normally she was more sociable, but something about birds put her off, their uselessness, I suppose.
Well, he an absolute lamb if you don’t mind my saying so," the crow said, and she hopped a bit closer. "Tell me, was it a natural childbirth?"
The ewe had wanted to remain aloof, with the subject matter she found it impossible to hold out for more than a few seconds. "Oh yes," she said. "A hundred percent natural, but then again, that's just my way. It makes it more 'real,' if you know what mean.”
"Definitely," the crow agreed, and she lowered her head to scowl into the grass. Nothing irritated her more than these high-and-mighty vegetarian mothers and their “more real” and “all-natural” this and that. She knew the type.
"I consider myself to be a very ‘spiritual being,'” the cow offered.
"That, I think, is much better than being quote unquote 'religious,’ the crow said, and she took another step closer. "Rather than joining the blind followers, the sheep, if you'll forgive the expression, you've figured out what's right for you.”
The crow, another step closer, “I have recently thrown some Eastern meditation into the mix. Every morning shut my eyes for ten minutes or so and just sort of block it all out. The noise, the hubbub, everything, gone."
The ewe turned her head toward the far end of the field, squinting at the brook and the row of poplars that shifted lazily behind it. "I'm afraid we don't have much hubbub around here,' she said. "It's a pretty quiet place compared to most."
"You've just gotten used to it is all," the crow told her. "It might not seem like much, but taken as a whole, this farm racket can really jangle the nerves. And that's what meditation is all about. It's a way of saying, 'Back off, world. It's time for me to be good to me.''
“I like the sound of that," the ewe said, and she looked at her baby, who was sitting upright with his legs folded beneath him. "Tell me, though, is it hard, this . . . what did you call it?"
"Meditation," the crow said. "And to answer your question, it couldn't be easier. The first step is to close your eyes, good and hard, mind you, as peeking lets in bad energy that can seriously mess with your digestion."
The ewe did as she was told. "Now, there's no set rule, but what the most like to do is repeat what they call a mantra," the crow explained. "The same line over and over, until it really sinks into your spirit. It sounds boring, know, but it's actually very effective."
"My own mantra is more of an affirmation, I guess you could call it. It's sort of personal, but you're more than welcome to use it if you like, at least until you come up with something of your own.
The crow looked from the lamb to its mother, marveling that something so cute could grow to be so shapeless and ugly.
"I guess I'll let you use my mantra, but just until you come up with your own," she said, and she leaned forward to whisper it into the
ewe's ear. "Now I want you to put your head down and repeat that line twenty times."
The ewe did as she was instructed, and as she mumbled into the damp grass, the crow moved beside her and plucked out the eyes of the newborn lamb. One she ate right away, for it was delicious, and the other she set into her beak and carried back to her ungrateful children.
As for the ewe, she was still deep in meditation, her eyes clamped shut, repeating the code of thieves and charlatans and those who
Are good to themselves the world over. "I have to do what I have to do,” she said. “I have to do what I have to do.”
Speaker 5
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
THE SICK RAT AND THE HEALTHY RAT by David Sedaris
The white rat had been sick for as long as he could remember. If it wasn't a headache, it was an upset stomach, a sore throat, an eye infection. His ears rang, and what little he ate went right through him. Now came the news that he had cancer, which was actually something of a relief. "Finally I can die," he moaned to his new roommate.
She was a female, also white, and had arrived only that morning. "Well," she sighed, wincing at the state of her new home, "I'm sorry to say it, but if you have a terminal illness it's nobody's fault but your own.
"I beg your pardon?" said the white rat.
The female approached the water bottle, stuck her paws into the spigot, and began to wash them. "It's nice to believe that these sicknesses just 'befall' us," she said. We blame them on our environment and insist that they could happen to anyone, but in truth we bring them on ourselves with hatefulness and negativity.'
The white rat coughed up some phlegm. "So this is my fault?”
"Oh, I think that's been proven,' the female said. "You might not have realized how negative you were being - maybe you were passive-aggressive. Maybe no one cared enough to point it out, but I have to call things like I see them.”
“Just as everyone does to me, only in the opposite direction. 'How come you're always so sunny?' they ask, and 'Doesn't your mouth hurt from all that smiling?' Some interpret it as overexuberance, but to me it's a kind of vaccine: as long as I'm happy and I love everybody, I can't get sick.'
'Never?" asked the white rat.
"Oh, I had a flu once, but it was completely my own fault. Someone I mistook for a friend took to criticizing me behind my back saying things regarding my weight so when I got wind of it, I wished her ill. I was just starting to visualize it when I sneezed, which was my body's way of saying, 'Whoa, that's not cool.' Then my nose stopped up and I came down with a fever.”
"And what about your supposed friend, what happened to her?" asked the white rat.
"Well, nothing yet, the female said. "But sometimes the body bides its time." Her pink eyes narrowed just slightly. "I can bet that when something does happen, though, it'll be a lot worse than a flu. Diabetes, maybe.'
The white rat slumped against the wall and put a hand to his forehead. "I can't think of anybody I dislike. Then too, I've been alone since my last roommate died."
"That's another cause of cancer, the female told him. "You need to get out, socialize. I heard somewhere that limericks can cure both heart disease and certain types of cancer. Limericks!"
The white rat knitted his brow. "They're poems, the female explained. "You know, like, 'There once was a mouse da da da - who da da da da da da da.'"
"And what about haiku - good for curing shorter diseases?” He chuckled.
"I know when I'm being mocked," the female said, "but that's okay. You're sick and are going to die”
She'd just cracked open that smile of hers when the mesh ceiling parted and a human hand appeared. At first it seemed to be made of wax, but as it neared and pinned her to the floor, the female understood that it was encased in a glove. Then came a second hand, this one bearing a hypodermic needle, and the tip sank into her stomach, releasing its mad punch of viruse
The white rat settled against the wood chips and was silent for a moment. And he came up with the following:
A she-rat I had as a roomie
said illness just strikes if you're gloomy.
Since she was injected
with SARS, I've detected
an outlook a lot less perfum-y.
Funny, he thought, but it actually did make him feel better.
Speaker 6
Please copy + paste the following prompt into the chat window in the virtual room. Competitors have one minute to review the literature before their performance must begin.
THE PARROT AND THE POT BELLIED PIG by David Sedaris
The paper Parrot worked at was called The Eagle, and the she wrote for the Living Section. Most of her stories were little more than puff pieces and she wanted an opportunity to show her journalism chops. She got her break when a potbellied pig took over as director of the local art museum.
The Eagle wanted something simple three hundred words, tops but the parrot thought differently and scheduled a long lunch.
"So," the parrot began, "it's a long way from Ho Chi Minh City to the much-coveted director's chair of a noted museum. I'd like you to reminisce about the journey a little."
"I'm sorry, the pig said, "but I've never been to Ho Chi Minh City.”
"But you are from that region, are you not?"
"No," the pig told her. "Not at all."
"I don't mean to contradict you," she said, "but I've done a little leg-work, and it seems that you're officially registered as a Vietnamese potbellied pig. So let's turn our thoughts eastward, shall we?
"Technically, yes, am a Vietnamese potbellied pig," the museum director said. "But the fact is that I was born in this country, as were my parents, and their parents before them..'
"I see. So how will your ethnicity reflect itself in regard to our museum?”
"Nothing's planned,' the pig said.
"But you wouldn't rule it out?"
"Well, no, not completely, but...”
"That's all I wanted to know," the parrot said.
It was she who had made the reservation, and in a flash of inspiration, she'd decided they'd go to Old Saigon. The fact that it was her idea would not be mentioned in the article. Nor would she add that the pig had never in his life used a pair of chopsticks and that he gripped them, one in each hoof, as if they were screwdrivers.
When their lunch was over, the parrot headed down to the VFW Hall, where she hoped to round out her article. There she spoke to a red-shouldered hawk who hadn't actually fought in Vietnam but who might have. "I could have practically been killed over there, and now one of them is coming to my museum, trying to tell me what art I should look at?"
She stayed up all night to finish the article and her editor said, "Good work, you" and "Maybe we should send this over to the city desk." The headline was "Potbellied Museum Director Stirs Controversy."
As for the pig, he wasn't nearly as upset as she'd thought he would be. Rather than threatening a lawsuit or demanding a retraction, he phoned to say that he was disappointed. "Deeply disappointed" were his exact words.
The pig would not have admitted it, but what really bothered him was the "potbellied" business. He had been plump all through his youth, and the years of name-calling had not just shaped his adult life but deformed it. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten without thinking or finished an entire potato chip without calculating the damage.
His waist size was twenty-eight. His body-fat index was 2 percent. He did not have potbelly. He would never again have a potbelly. Now here was this article, essentially comparing him to the Buddha. “Dang that parrot from The Eagle!"
By the time he next ran into the parrot, the pig had lost close to ten pounds. They met at a museum benefit, a costume ball that he hosted. She'd assumed that the pig would be in disguise and was surprised to see him in the same dark suit he'd worn at the restaurant. He was nursing a glass of water, and she came from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. "Let me guess, she said. "You're Henry Bacon, right?"
"Who's he?” the pig asked.
The parrot rolled her eyes. "American architect? Designed a little something called the Lincoln Memorial?"
"Oh," the pig said, "that Henry Bacon."
She examined him again, "I've got it," she said. "You're Luther Hamm. Took the silver medal for the four-hundred-meter freestyle, Helsinki, nineteen fifty-two. Little wisp of a thing but, boy, did he have shoulders."
"So, hey," she added, "I'm sorry about the article.
"That's all right," the pig told her.
“Is it my imagination or have you lost some weight?”
“Yes, I did. It’s not your imagination.” How kind of her to notice he thought.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing called out for a fox trot, and, as if a switch had been thrown, the party came to life. The parrot turned to the pig and held out her claw. He accepted it awkwardly in his hoof, and so began what the reporter would later refer to as her days of swine and roses.