I'll go with thee to the lane's end... I am a kind of burr, I shall stick. Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

I write not to teach but to learn. Rebecca West

drew's writing:

  • "Always Forever Now," Ideomancer volume 13, issue 2
  • "Black Sun," Black Static # 32
  • "Bread or Cake" and "Pride/Shame,"2nd Annual Philadelphia One-Minute Play Festival
  • "Copper Heart," Polluto Magazine issue 5, A Steampunk Orange
  • "The Accomplished Birder's Guide to Overcoming Rejection," Last Drink Bird Head, edited by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer
  • "Another Night With the Henriksens," Player's Theater Halloween One-Act Festival NYC 2008
  • "Hating the Lovers," and "Pipe Down!" Geez Magazine: Thirty Sermons You Would Never Hear in Church
  • "Beth/slash/Nathan," Paper Fruit Blogiversary Contest

Tuesday, June 04, 2013

visiting my godson's school


I was invited to Special Person's Day at my godson's school, and, wanting to look appropriately special, I bought the purple leather jumpsuit Eddie Murphy wore in Delirious; one of my better e-Bay finds. When I tried it on I saw it had to be taken in at the waist and let out at the shoulders, so, maybe next year.

My godson is a juggernaut. At his school, we arranged dowels in order of size, painted a picture, and arranged pegs in their proper slots on a peg board (see above). At home, we played with trains, and read a Richard Scarry book about occupations in which most of the jobs seemed to be done by men. The Bob the Builder episodes we watched had better gender parity, but really obvious foreshadowing. My godson adores earth-moving machinery, so we stood at his window and watched the wheelchair ramp being installed at his building. A silver-haired guy in the earth-mover smiled and waved, the younger guy with the shovel glowered. This got monotonous, but I didn't want to leave my godson standing on the windowsill. His dad slid a beanbag chair under the windowsill, and I was free to read the Darth Vader and Son book I had brought as a gift (for my friend, the godson got Sendak).

My godson and his dad and I were out for a walk when I realized I only had an hour to see the pre-Raphaelite show at the National Gallery, so I excused myself and got a cab.When I rejoined my friend and godson, the latter was really curious if I had successfully landed the cab, like I'd been big game hunting. I read him the Richard Scarry book again. His mom came home and asked if reading the Richard Scarry book twice made me want to shoot myself. I thought about it, and said no. We played with the trains again till it was time for me to catch my real train. 

On the rainy ride home I read the Rossetti book I picked up at the National Gallery. I'd been wanting to read Rossetti's translation of Dante's New Life for a while, but shouldn't have read it all in one sitting, on a rainy night, late, when I was so tired; the later sonnets about loss and dwindling time seemed very real; Dante can be a more potent downer than Richard Scarry. Still, the New Life was beautiful, and I like becoming better acquainted with both Dantes, Alighieri and Rossetti--the latter a much loved, lifelong friend.

When I'm old, my godson can visit me on Special Persons Day at the senior home, and maybe, while I conserve my mellow by gazing at the brawny workmen install the new wheelchair ramp, he'll read to me from the New Life.

Once will be sufficient for both of us.

two nice reviews of my Black Static story


From  Dread Central:

"Drew Rhys White gives us Black Sun next, whereby an unidentified narrator guides the reader in eulogy of the last days of a murdered young boy. Building a tone of reverence, White gradually unfurls a sequence of events that see the bookish young Roman chased, harangued and attacked by schoolmates who live in another wing of the housing scheme he and his father occupy. In a masterful turn, however, the author orchestrates a devastating rug-pull that reveals the more twisted minds at play here are not those that were expected -- forging a moral challenge and skewing of perspective that twists a tight knot in the stomach."

From SFRevu Review:

"Black Sun" by Drew Rhys White -*- Our unnamed narrator seems to be a police detective investigating the murder of a boy named Roman, murdered by three youths named Gus, Tony, and Joanie. He is speaking to Roman, talking about the bullying that had preceded the murder, but also about Roman’s drawings that he has seen. They are profoundly disturbing but very talented. Is this the end of the story, our narrator says no and that provides is with the unease that this effective little story evokes."

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