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r. p. singletary

writer across genres, rural america native, dabbler in other media

: some voices put to paper (screen) but for a moment.

NEW VARIOUS, some forthcoming

 

"Then there is the work of R.P. Singletary, which I consider one of the most unique contributions to the issue. Singletary is interested in the rituals in the U.S. that create societal consent for war. He tackles this by imagining a ceremony in remembrance of WW1. It was astonishing that when we translated it into russian, it could so easily be re-read as a critique of the russian military."  

- Ukraine-based editors of EBBzine.com, 2025. RE "Ode Of Old Men: Their Sweet Voices Shouting Like Guns" @ https://ebbzine.com/odeofoldmen

 

excerpt: "Lift left ajar in operational mode. Gardien or concierge? (so far ago at this point, my words and memory both fail me any more) gone to bed. Long past midnight, and Paris unlike New York beautied in her sleep. Softly closed the metal gate. No go there. Stepped out elevator, ladies, first, and back onto the landing of the block-length Hausmannien apartments. Quiet, she tickled me. No, no. The gate clicked. I followed her up the circular stairs and my hand trailed hers along the grated enclosure, dry hollowed shaft of cold airs rising around its sole, oiled bullet below, aching for aid, a motor finally stopped grinding against itself, some release at the center of the elevator's world, risen to fall, failing to reset a sole self-need of existence, move and convey in explanation, but broken and stuck, not all the way up or wholly grounded down, tonight not even that type of rest for some." -FROM my longer short story "Ancien Régime (Or, you know the oldest)" in 100subtexts (U.K.): link to 174-page issue, purchasable for 99p! (U.K.), with my story and 54 other works

excerpt: "(A calendar gathered pages from its, un poubelle.) ... SLAPPED any hell or heaven, come piss and shit, life out of the man-boy whos-whispered-whose? Collapsed and somehow exploded (somehow??), his head hitting loud and fluids of every shade of biologicals s.t.r.e.a.m.e.d across the shipyard-emptied stones. The centuries-old courtyard, its lichened areas offering neither actual cushion or pretend comfort for churchly crowd akin. Frozen last words. Last touch a presumpt, while right enough for passing normal, the sass and horror of all past. "Not-Right, Not-Right," neighbor kids openly nickname him, no-shame to-shout the-words his-vassal-visage, up/down Church St. lost lost lost and searchin' for temple, church, or ruin; A PHANTASM, wraith! You see? he didn't perceive, appear to deceive? anything long long, long. Loner a meaning." -FROM my longer short story "VISITS: eliza's house, or she knew the only reason (they visited)" in Blood+Honey: direct link to story

excerpt: "'You finish?' A dump truck blew past them, a concrete mixer pulling, Buckhead long out of sight want and wonder. I didn't bother to answer. He didn't care. He was due to see his dealer. They dealt in electronic narcotics. Something having to do with illicit gaming activities. Translated into Portuguese. I didn't know the Europeans were so savvy. It's the Brazilians he said you know they speak--," from my story "The Meanings of Cheshire" in PULP: direct link to issue with story

*In homage to Charleston Renaissance author Josephine Pinckney and her Sea-drinking Cities, first published 1927. 

 

 

DRAMA

SENATOR

Child, if you don't know this stuff-- say, where'd this brick come from?

INTERN

Senator, that's what I knocked to tell you before you started with your history lesson--

SENATOR

Civics! For the civilized! A civics lesson is what.

INTERN

Yes Senator, civics lesson for the civilized, I remember, I do now. I mean, the brick, the people gathering outside--

SENATOR

Oh, never mind them, that, these, and those. Love them new pronouns, l-o-v-e.

(to self)

The stuff I get paid to say, half-believin'--

(to Intern)

Pronouns, back when a pronoun was a pronoun, all the good ol' boys-- They been at it, child, for years, I say, did...I tell you about the subway in Rome....

  • My short play MAN'S KIND was showcased as part of an Essential Theatre event in Atlanta on Jan. 6, 2024. It has since been developed into a full-length, retitled as MAN'S KIND (Or, the day is Wise). Script avail. EXCERPT:

 

BETTY
 (to self or audience or both)
Legal or illegal. Crossing a border again, are we? Only to be met with frumpy action in the infirmative, to biden our trump card's trampled bidding, calling, calling, biding--
 (coughs twice)
but no cough could infect. This time. This promised land. Youth promised! And, age witnessed, wisened. Or is that wizened? Humanity's middle peopled and prospered kindly, until the ol' early birds sang, once more teasing of gold, frankincense, and myrrh for still-another sad season, in the chilly coming known as warm January's winter, what is a Day?-- Here, in the Deep South, America, God bless, and not far from that Lafayette's swamp, that which once, us, like a scooter-riding zookeeper after a restless-sleepless T-Rex, some broken-record of a dream on four-year replay, gifting us all still, with what more of the same, potential for pros-per peace, proper pros-perity? Progress for all. Life, liberty, all costly, both cold and coasting at home: I. Wished. A warmer wish, kind is not a four-letter word.
 (posing)
Miss California, o my heart, I miss the state of....

SCENE: When Everything Felt A Little Closer.
(And No One Stopped to Realize How)

SETTING: A large mattress, a mountain excursion, camping.
AT RISE: Laughter, head of girlish Sonnie emerges. Phoning.

SONNIE
 Well nigh, A.I., A.I., you gonna what, automate me like the, rest of all your life, out here, in the country, what's that, honey? Kissin' cuz'ns, us eh? Push a button and put a person in their pla--person over place? What's that, choosin'? It's Sonnie, I'm right here, fool. Tech can't put us any closer. My final answer, your eternal question. What about mine: Couldn't you live like this forever?

 

FICTION

  • "The Risk of Man" in BULL
  • "Dolphins of the Ganges" in JONAH magazine
  • In the midst of the warm winter sun,
  • we ate
  • and slept
  • along the waters
  • of the Ganges,
  • dreaming of
  • the river's
  • famed,
  • elusive
  • inhabitants.
  • "Pop!" in House of Arcanum - this story was nominated for Best of the Net 20024!
  • "South to Oz, and Onward East" in The Collidescope
  • Old friend Ian slept, drooling in the other room cooling, a stentorious whimsy of....
  • "Two more years of 24 months of feelin' like this" in LITRO - a StorySunday feature and an Editor's Pick!
  • "CAMOU counts (OR, parental expectations embodied)" in en*gendered
  • She lifted her heavy, pretty arm and pointed out into the high-highest heavens, their darkest corner's dark, the constant direction of old Charleston down river far, where they all knew it to always be from (even the newest, quick-study arrivals to a nation, them who'd joined up on the team already knowing hard work, machinery skill, and decent English just not hers, her old guys' particular accent, accident of lazy tongue, but they'd learn fast to make do or more, why hired her team): one, the baddest of rains forever and still rose up from a southeast; two, the worst of winds wept up from that ever-swirling Cooper River; three, its flow keen for new blood but four, more salty-sea tea-tannic than cold-copper's tonic elemental.
  • "A literary inconvenience, for you / in the libertine spirit of the European Union (EU)" in Wicked Gay Ways

 

POETRY

  • "Ban this (an early* Hallowe'en trick-or-treat not-so-goodie, ooooops)" and "We had no sidewalks, April" in coalitionworks

 

SOCIALS

@rpsingletary

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A RURAL NATIVE OF THE southeastern United States, R. P. Singletary writes across the genres of fiction, drama, poetry, and hybrid forms. Affiliations include Dramatists Guild and Authors Guild. Dabbler in other forms: video and visual art. 

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