[	Current Mood	|	amused	]
[	Current Music	|	Mix	]

Just wanted to let everyone know that The Holocaust Opera has finally been published. It was a long and convoluted road, but it’s done. Anyone interested can go to Lulu.com and do a search, or go to my site: http://markedwardhall.com and click on The Holocaust Opera book cover and it will take you directly to an info page.

The Holocaust Opera is a collection of dark tales which includes two novellas; The haunting of Sam Cabot and The Holocaust Opera, plus seven short stories.

 
Below you will find a brief synopsis of some of the tales that make up the collection.

The Holocaust Opera: A Nazi war criminal returns from the dead in order to exact his unique brand of genocide upon an unsuspecting world.

The Haunting of Sam Cabot: A young family man spends his summer living with dead things as he slowly regresses into madness.

The Rain after a Dry Season: A drifter has been brutally murdered in the Landers’ barn, and when they begin to suspect their own little girl of the crime, they must come to grips with the true nature of the child and the extent of her influence over all their lives.

BugShot: A man who fears wasps buys a new brand of insect spray in an attempt to rid his overrun barn of them, but discovers that he likes the taste of the BugShot as much as the wasps do.

The Nest: Babies are disappearing from their cribs at night. Alden is convinced that the disappearances are connected to that eagle’s nest over on the island. His wife thinks he’s crazy, until their own child disappears.

The Comfort of a Stranger: Danielle is drawn to the ruins of an ancient cathedral where she meets a stranger who helps her to see the truth of her existence and offers a dark kind of deliverance from her sins.

These dark tales and others will keep you on the edge of your seat as you travel along the convoluted highways and byways of “one of the most vivid imaginations of our time.”

 
“Mark Edward Hall is an insightful author with the ability to craft a brilliant story.”
—Midwest Book review

 
“Mark Edward Hall is blessed with a vivid imagination and the ability to force the reader to use his noggin.”
—HorrorwoodBabbleon.com

 
"Of all the horror writers working today, Hall is one of the most promising.”
—The Dungeon

 
“Mark Edward Hall is a skilled writer with a brilliant imagination.”
—Magic City Morning Star

“With absolute attention to detail, setting, and ambience, you are along for an incredible ride.”  
—Dream Forge

Talk to you later

Mark

[	Current Mood	|	frustrated	]
[	Current Music	|	Floyed of course!	]

I know, it's been like four months since I updated my journal. I've been busy writing and trying to get published. I've nearly given up trying to get my collection, The Holocaust Opera, published. I can't even get anyone to read it. None of the publishers, major or independent are taking collections. Never mind that it contains two kick ass novellas, The Haunting of Sam Cabot and The Holocaust Opera. Oh well, their loss. And I refuse to self publish that sucker. I did that with The Lost Village and although it was gratifying to hold the book in my hand, never again. Self publishing is too expensive, the book prices are too high, and self published authors get no respect. Too bad, there are some good ones out there. I've decided to publish some of the stories from The Holocaust Opera independently, and have had success placing some of them with mags and anthologies. And this is pretty cool. I've had one of the stories from the collection, The Nest, as well as another story, The Swamp, accepted by a new UK company called Kwikee.com. They're looking for flash fiction that people can read on their cell phones. How cool is that? They’re a paying market, plus you get a royalty whenever someone downloads and reads your story. The nest will be published in two parts because it is too large for one download. The Swamp I wrote for a contest at Carnival of Wicked Writers and is exactly 666 words long. Kwikee.com took it immediately.

Anyway I’m still working on my novels, Soul Thief and Angel Island, trying to get them as good as possible before I send them out the door. They can never be too good but there comes a time when you’ve just got to let them go.

You’ll be hearing a lot more from me in the near future. I ain’t done yet.

Mark

[	Current Mood	|	hopeful	]
[	Current Music	|	Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Echo	]

Just received word that The Lost Village has been nominated by The Horror Writer's Network, and is on the final ballot, of an award known as, The Tombstone Awards. It has been nominated in—The Best First Novel—category. Quite cool. I had never heard of them before and was totally shocked when I received the notice of the nomination. The awards are given out by a group of 136 (last count) horror writers. It is a yahoo group and all members get a vote. Obviously you don't have to be a member to be nominated, because I didn't even know they existed. The awards are targeted toward excellence in small and independent press. Some of the other nominees are quite impressive, luminaries and legends such as Ramsey Campbell, Richard Matheson, Thomas Ligotti, Graham Masterton.

This year will be their first awards and they are planning on doing it annually. The winners will be announced on May, 1st and the voting is open until then. I'll add a link in case anyone is interested in checking them out.

Yahoo! Groups : THWN. 

Talk to you soon,

[	Current Mood	|	creative	]
[	Current Music	|	Concrete Blonde, Bloodletting	]

Hello, Everyone,

It’s a beautiful day outside my study window. The sun is up and the Kennebec River is carrying its last chunks of broken ice downstream toward the Atlantic Ocean after a particularly brutal winter. We didn’t get much snow here in mid-coast Maine, but enough cold to make up for it.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve updated my journal. I have decided to pull my collection, The Holocaust Opera, out of my present publisher’s inept hands and seek publication elsewhere. It wasn’t an easy decision, but I’ve done it and I feel better. I have several prospects that I’m cultivating and I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.

The Ruby Necklace, the chapbook that I co-wrote with my good buddy T.M. Gray, has been recommended for a Bram Stoker award. How cool is that? Also, T.M.—whose name is Theresa—informed me that the Maine State Library has bought several copies of The Ruby Necklace. Cool also. In case you’re wondering, The Ruby Necklace is a ghost story that concerns one of Maine’s most famous ghosts, the legend of The White Lady. If you’re interested in purchasing a copy, let me or T.M. know, and we’ll get it out to you. But you’d better hurry, for it was issued in a signed and strictly limited edition, and the copies are almost gone.  

In my last entry I published one of the stories in my upcoming collection entitled The Nest. For those who read it and sent me positive feedback, I thank you. The only other more satisfying pleasure for a writer, besides the act of creating entire worlds with the written word, is when he or she receives confirmation that someone was actually moved by the words on the page.

Well, if I’m going to continue to put those words on paper, then I’d better get at it. Time waits for no one.

I’ll be talking to you again as soon as I can. In the meantime, keep your chin up, don’t take any crap from anyone, and may your dreams always be vivid.

                                                                        Love,

[	Current Mood	|	mellow	]
[	Current Music	|	None	]

THE NEST

By Mark Edward Hall

The day: cold.

November gray.

Vagrant spears of melancholy light piercing heavy overcast.

The house: bright white, an impressionist’s painting.

Skeletal swamp willows.

The river: wide, smooth, reflective, below island’s eternal evergreens.

Obsidian eyes, watching.

A man: hunched, lurking, binoculars trained.

Patient, waiting, moving forward a careful step at time.

Watching.

“Do you see them, Alden?”

A contemptuous flap of a hand. “Shush, Rachael! You’ll scare them.”

“It’s not as if they can hear us from this distance, you know.”

The binoculars fall askew. He shakes his head, sighs. “I’m not taking any chances.” His whisper is shrill, impatient. “Do you understand? Not until I have a chance to identify them.”

“Why did you drag me out here then?”

“To observe, not to flap your gums.”

“I can observe perfectly well from the house, thank you very much! And at least in there I can talk if I want to.”

“I just don’t understand it,” he says, more to himself than to her. “I’ve gone through that book a hundred times and I’m completely baffled. There isn’t a species that even resembles them. And I don’t know of one single example in the northern part of the United States that mate this time of year. Most birds migrate in the fall and the ones that don’t have all they can do to survive. They don’t mate in November. It’s insanity.”

“What makes you think they’re mating?”

“You have to see for yourself.”

Obsidian eyes, watching.

“I swear, Alden, you’re becoming a fanatic about this. They’re just birds.”

“No, they’re not just birds, Rachael! There’s something . . . different about them. Something . . . totally weird. Look for yourself.” He thrusts the binoculars at her. She takes them, albeit reluctantly, giving a small exasperated shake of the head. Stoically resigned, she puts them to her eyes and focuses.

“Another baby disappeared last night,” he says conversationally. Rachael stiffens. “This one on the south end. A little girl. She wasn’t in her crib this morning when her mother went in to get her.”

The glasses fall from Rachael’s eyes. “I’m having dreams,” she says. “That I’m alone. That you and Billy are gone. Jesus, Alden, what’s happening to us?”

“I don’t know, but I’m worried about Billy.”

“I don’t think I can take much more of this.” Her hands are shaking. She is having trouble holding the glasses. She tries to give them back but sees that he is busy forming thoughts. 

“The FBI’s been called in and there’s a manhunt going on. They say if something doesn’t turn up soon they’ll do a house-to-house canvas.”

“Yeah, well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

He looks pensively back toward the island, staring at the huge nest atop the dead white pine.

“You are scaring the shit out of me, Alden.”

“I can’t believe you’re not concerned. Rachael, babies are disappearing from their cribs.”

“I know! Jesus, I am concerned! Just as much as you. But I will not buy into your obtuse theory.”

“It’s not obtuse. The problem is, you just don’t take me seriously. About anything!”

“Listen to me, you stupid man. I take you seriously when you make sense. You’re not making sense now. There’s some kind of nut on the loose and he’s the one taking those poor children. Not some . . . figment of your idiotic imagination. Don’t you think I’m scared for Billy? Just as scared as you are?"

He nods but she can tell he’s hurt by her words.

He turns back to the nest. “How is this nut getting into these peoples’ locked houses, pray tell?”

“You’re taking about birds, Alden. Listen to yourself. How do you think they’re doing it? Down the chimney, like Santa Clause?”

He gives his head a rueful shake. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

Rachael shivers. “In any case, Billy’s sleeping with us again tonight.”

“You bet he is.”

She feels suddenly all weepy and weak, puts the binoculars back to her eyes and scans, picking up the nest and holding for a long moment, trying to steady them. “It looks like a nest of ordinary eagles to me,” she says finally.

Alden grabs the binoculars away from her. “They’re not eagles! Jesus Christ, Rachael, don’t you think I know what eagles look like?”

“Ospreys then.”

He shakes his head, finding no words to convey his exasperation.

“You really are scaring me, Alden.”

“I know what I’m seeing, Rachael. For Christ’s sake, eagles don’t nest this time of year, and neither do ospreys. As a matter of fact, ospreys migrate. The nest is full of young birds. Didn’t you see their little bald heads in the binoculars?”

“No, I didn’t see! I didn’t see anything except a big empty nest at the top of that dead pine tree. I swear, mister, you are losing it, and you are scaring me.”

“I don’t believe you can’t see what I’m seeing.”

“You and I look at the world differently, Alden. We always have. You see flying saucers and I see weather balloons, you see ghosts, I see smoke, you see a pony, I see a stall full of horse shit! You’re a dreamer—”

“I’m a romantic.”

“Whatever. You should have been a writer, you know, with that imagination.”

“Say what you want, the disappearances didn’t start until that nest appeared.”

“Oh, Alden, grow up. I’m not going to listen to this garbage a moment longer.” Rachael turns and stomps toward the house.

Obsidian eyes, watching.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” he says later, trying to make amends. “It’s just odd, that’s all, don’t you think?”

She looks pensively at him. “What’s odd is that you’re making some kind of twisted connection between the disappearing children and that stupid nest.”

“There are five now, Rachael. Count them!” He thrusts his hand out, emphasizing his five fingers. “All from this town. No one else is losing children. I’m just looking for a logical explanation.”

“Logical?”

“I’m going over there, tonight.”

“You’re what?”

“I want to see for myself.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe, but at least we’ll know, won’t we?”

“You’re going to climb that tree at night.”

“It has to be done.”

“No it doesn’t, Alden!”

“Yes it does!”

Rachael runs an exasperated hand through her hair. “If you ever breathe a word of what you’re about to do to anyone, I swear, I’ll deny any knowledge of it. Do you know why? Because they’ll lock you up and throw away the key. And I never want Billie to know what a screwball his father is.”

“So, what do you believe, Rachael?”

“I told you. I believe a sick, perverted human being is taking those children, period!”

The night: scudding clouds.

Moon.

Canoe on river; paddle rippling calm water.

He climbs the familiar branches of the familiar tree, the mewing bundle strapped to his side.

The nest: tiny bleached skulls; bones.

The new offering.

“I was trying to tell you, Rachael,” he whispers, as he places the child in the nest. “But you wouldn’t listen. Now it’s too late. He twists his body, falling forward, arms outstretched; a perfect swan dive toward the dark forest floor.

Eagles pounce, shrieking.

Rachael exits the house running, screams echoing across calm water: “BILLY! Dear God, somebody help me! BILLLLLY . . . !”

The Nest, copyright 2003 by Mark Edward Hall. All rights reserved. 

[	Current Mood	|	creative	]
[	Current Music	|	Neil Young, After the Goldrush	]

Heard from the boys the other day and it looks like I'll be doing a bunch of upcoming gigs with my band, The Maniacs. I haven't played much this winter and to tell you the truth I really miss it. My writing has taken precedent. Still don't have a publishing date on The Holocaust Opera, but soon, I promise.  I'm going to try shopping Soul Thief to a bunch of publishers and see if I can get some sort of advance. That would be nice.

I’ve been spending most of my time glued to my office chair with my bloodshot eyes drilled into the computer screen. Don’t know much about what’s going on around me. The writing life is certainly a solitary one. No wonder writers become alcoholics.

As sort of a teaser, I’ve decided to publish one of the stories from my upcoming collection in my Blog. It will be the very next entry, so be looking for it. It’s the shortest story in the collection and its title is, The Nest. It’s a creepy little thing that makes my skin crawl. Hope it does the same for you. Nothing would make me happier,

Okay, gotta go. Not much else exciting around here to talk about. Be glad when winter’s over.

Remember to look for The Nest. It’ll be up in a couple of days.

Stay warm and be happy,

                                                                       Love

                                                                       Mark               

The house is dark and I am alone. The power went out nearly two hours ago and I sit at my desk in the oily-yellow glow of lantern-light writing dark passages in longhand. If not for the eternal and hypnotic push of the sea against the headland to remind me of my mortality, I might very well be dead. It is that quiet here; that dark. Trust me. I am that far removed from the trappings of civilization. Sometimes it’s okay, and sometimes the isolation . . . disturbs me.

In any case, it is the perfect setting in which to talk about what I came here to talk about: horror. That’s right. I would like to talk about horror. Not the kind of horror you’re thinking of. Oh no. I want to talk about real horror. The rim-of-the-universe kind of horror that can unravel swiftly into fear, before nose-diving into the dark abyss of terror. It is a place where there is no going back into the light, where there is no hope of redemption from the madness. Ever!

When the jetliner hits a sudden downdraft and starts slipping toward Earth, you feel it then, don’t you? The instantaneous heartbeat acceleration, the sudden cold sweat, the rise in respiration. You have never felt more alive than you do at that moment. It is a place where the doors open both ways, you’re standing on the rim, and on either side there is nothing but darkness. It is an area of our most primitive emotions, our most primal fears, where the lights are suddenly extinguished, and as you grope blindly, the touch of a cold and clammy hand wrenches a scream from your throat.

I know it’s easier to live in the light and pretend the darkness doesn’t exist. But it’s there, just beyond the door. Trust me, I wouldn’t lie. It is why I am here tonight talking about it. Because you need to know.

This place I speak of, this rim; it lives in all our hearts because we are mortal, because we find it so difficult to articulate the meaning of our lives. That is my belief anyway.

I’m not the first writer who has expounded on the subject. Stephen King talks about, “the shape under the sheet,” the innate human curiosity that forces us to slow down on the busy highway so that we might catch a glimpse of the horror that lies beneath the red-stained blanket. The horror is death, of course, and we believe that by viewing it, we might better understand it. It is the same curiosity that causes us to read the books and watch the movies. It’s because we need to know.

When people ask me why I write the things I write—and inevitably the question arises—I take it as a fair-enough inquiry, because perhaps the one asking has become curious enough to venture a little closer to the rim. I usually answer with a couple of my own questions. First: what makes you think that I have a choice? And second: why do you read the things you read? Are you really that much different than me?

The literary establishment has always looked with disdain upon the horror genre in general even though some of its purveyors have been responsible for elevating literature to its greatest heights. Lovecraft and Poe both died broke. And what about Robert Lewis Stevenson? Was he a horror writer? Was Hawthorne a horror writer? How about Henry James or J.D. Salinger? Why did all of these great literary icons dabble in tales of the macabre? At the risk of ridicule they all went against convention simply because they had no choice. They risked everything because they knew the rim existed and they wanted to test its boundaries. As a writer of dark tales I have to believe that this is so.

Horror fiction, for the most part, is a visceral literary form, which is to say, it is about emotion. It forces us to confront the reflection in the mirror, to examine our deepest and most profound fears, and as Stephen King said: “it forces us to touch the shape under the sheet.” That shape of course, is the inevitability of our own mortality. Will death be enlightening? Will it be terrifying? Will it be painful? Will we be transported to paradise or perdition? Why does the end of our story remain such a daunting mystery? The question has plagued man since he first discovered he had the capacity to pose questions, and, it is the essence of all horror fiction. Lacking an end to our story we put our imaginations to work and grasp for clues, hoping that along the way we might accidentally discover its secrets. Long ago ancient man decided to make up his own stories in an attempt to understand God’s plan and perhaps finish his tale. From those stories great myths and important religions were born. And from that beginning the horror story first made its appearance.

Wait! Something’s happening!

The lights just flickered briefly on. My head jerked around because I thought I saw something move in that brief moment of clarity. I can feel my pulse quickening, my respiration accelerating. But the room is once again dark and I do not see anything now. Ah well, I am weary with this writing and perhaps a little too spooked by its subject matter. I’m going now. I shall carry the lantern and pad my way through this cold and echoing stone house to the stairs and my bedroom beyond.

Up there, shrouded in darkness and cloaked in mystery, the rim awaits. It is a place where the doors open both ways. Follow me if you dare. It’s really not that far from here. Shall we? 

     Mark Edward Hall

  January 5, 2004

Richmond, Maine