Recommended by Doug DeVita

This unrelentingly dark work from Dave Osmundsen levels a harsh blow at all the things that can chip away at someone's self-esteem, and does it with a justifiable anger that tears your heart out. He absolutely nails the superficiality and hypocrisy fueling a society that prizes an abstract notion of physical beauty over the true worth of a person, and how soul destroying that can be. Hard to take but necessary, "Stupid, Fat, Ugly" has an astringent, bitter beauty that can't, and shouldn't, be ignored.

When the unthinkable happens, even something as normal as a slice of pizza takes on a meaning all it's own. Intense and riveting, "The Last Bus" is a sort of "Grand Hotel" of clashing personalities, all brought together by grim circumstances which are becoming far too prevalent these days, and rendered here with heartbreaking specificity, emotion, and truth.

What an unabashed delight! All of the hallmarks of a classic Sherlock Holmes tale are in place, tongue firmly in cheek, and the result is a clever, funny, hugely entertaining piece that, like all of the best TYA, works on several levels at once and will amuse the children in the audience as well as the adults with its intrigue, jokes, and infectious high-spirits. Delicious fun.

"Truth is..." ... ultimately politicians, even if they talk a good game and/or have genuine self-doubt, when push comes to shove they're all in it for themselves. Siering's short play portrays a waffling, Susan Collins-type senator and her coldly self-assured, by-the-numbers handler with a microscopic thoroughness that's uncompromisingly lethal, and reveals a truth we know but don't want to admit: we're fucked. Truth is: truth hurts.

Oh, the not so innocent innocence of childhood. Two boys playing "War," one is "killed," the other " wins," and they proceed to play baseball. What makes this short play so chilling is Hansen's perfect rendering of the casual cruelty and aggression of childhood games played without a thought to the real-life repercussions. Thought provoking and sobering stuff here.

There’s a fine line between love and lust, a line that is often blurred in the beginning of a relationship. Sometimes that passion does deepen into love; more often it fizzles. Osmundsen walks that fine line here with grace, capturing the moment right before a fizzle with a savage honesty which cuts, but doesn’t hurt so much as it heals with its blunt charm. A rocket may not have exploded, but we’re left with the hope of an even more dazzling fireworks display for both of these mismatched lovers in their futures. A touching, truthful gem.

Alexander is “a boy who can’t say “yes.” Can’t seem to say it at all.” Alexander, another in Osmundsen’s gallery of prickly but captivating characters, and the contrastingly happy-go-lucky John share an on-again, off-again friendship spanning more than 15 years, a relationship which is often sorely tried by their polar opposite personalities. Deeply felt, but written with a deftly light touch and wry sense of humor, “The Yes Lives” is heartbreaking, funny, and fascinating in its dissection of Alexander’s inability to commit and the durability of this friendship of opposites. Say YES to “The Yes Lives.”

This is a comedic work of genius. Sick, twisted, and hilarious genius. I loved and laughed at every line, and gleefully contemplated all the wonderful opportunities for costuming and performance gifted designers and actors can sink their teeth into as they bring this to zombified life.

This short comedy is like a dream one would have after watching a "Big Bang Theory" marathon: every conceivable sci-fi movie, TV show, character, etc... is beautifully mashed together in what might constitute a nightmare for Sheldon Cooper, but acts as a delightfully fizzy tonic for the rest of us. Hilarious, wonderful, and sure to entertain even the non-sci-fi nerds. May it live long and prosper.

This play is truly magical; that doesn't mean it's light and fluffy – it's not. It's quite serious in its depiction of teen angst and the desire to live a different life than the one given by whatever higher powers there may be. But Abigail IS different, and her longing to return to her sense of normal is palpable and drives the play forward with a touching depth of emotion. And the magic comes in Martin's ability to enchant readers (and inevitably, audiences) with a suspension of disbelief that also keeps one questioning from beginning to end. Wondrous.