Niamh Writes

United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

Published Work

Playwriting Competition 2016

The Psychiatrist

                                                   THE PSYCHIATRIST

The curtain rises, revealing an almost empty stage. A single spotlight hits a shrink’s sofa that’s covered in plush red leather, giving the impression that our characters are in a psychiatrist’s office.
Upon the sofa is a well-dressed WOMAN, her hair fastened into a tight chignon. She appears calm and collected and sits almost a little too still. Next to the sofa is a plain wooden chair, its back towards the audience. On the chair sits a tall, solid looking MAN in a tweed suit. We can’t see his face. We can only hear his voice. He appears clinical and professional with his arms resting lightly in his lap. Neither of the characters looks at the other.
 
MAN:      Ok, it’s 2:30; we have 20 minutes starting from now. (He presses the button on a timer. The numbers of a digital timer are projected in red over the psychiatrist’s office.)  
So, take me...

Friendship Narrative Competition 2016

Bright Things


    It was a black and white photo, the sort that you’d get from one of those old fashioned, hipster photo booths. Our eyes, bright with the boundless energy of youth, seemed to convey a thousand thoughts, each as carefree and naïve as the next. Your lips were parted in the most innocent of smiles, not yet tainted by the abrupt cruelty of life. It was the sort of smile that showed your teeth, recently freed from their wire confinement. Do you remember how much you hated that retainer? And how I would always make you wear it anyway? What bright things we were.

     An air of hopefulness, ambition and freedom seemed to surround us within the photo’s frame, pressing against the glass. I will it to reach us again. We were held by no restraints then, except perhaps the curfew set by our parents. We had this mutual contentedness, of who we were, and who we were going to be....

Friendship Narrative Competition 2016

Bright Things


    It was a black and white photo, the sort that you’d get from one of those old fashioned, hipster photo booths. Our eyes, bright with the boundless energy of youth, seemed to convey a thousand thoughts, each as carefree and naïve as the next. Your lips were parted in the most innocent of smiles, not yet tainted by the abrupt cruelty of life. It was the sort of smile that showed your teeth, recently freed from their wire confinement. Do you remember how much you hated that retainer? And how I would always make you wear it anyway? What bright things we were.

     An air of hopefulness, ambition and freedom seemed to surround us within the photo’s frame, pressing against the glass. I will it to reach us again. We were held by no restraints then, except perhaps the curfew set by our parents. We had this mutual contentedness, of who we were, and who we were going to be....