Mark Newell
Bio
Mark Newell is a writer in Lexington, South Carolina. He writes historical action adventure, science fiction and horror. These include one published novel, two about to be published (one gaining a Wilbur Smith award),and two screenplays.
Stories (31/0)
A Portrait of Elga
A Portrait of Elga by Mark Newell Look into my eyes...and I will own you. The dry wizened branches of an ancient Wych Elm tapped on the window much like bony fingers picking at the leaded glass panes to gain entrance for something wicked in the darkness beyond. The full moon glimmered through the clouds, bursts of silver light casting shadows from the elm across the beam and plaster walls of the bedroom within.
By Mark Newell2 years ago in Fiction
The Dream Book
Larry Page, University of Michigan Commencement Address, 2009: "You know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night with a vivid dream? And you know that if you don't have a pencil and pad by the bed, it will be completely gone by the next morning. Sometimes it's important to wake up and stop dreaming. When a really great dream shows up, grab it."
By Mark Newell2 years ago in Humans
The Last Of The Riverboat Gamblers
"...Jack of Diamonds, Jack of Diamonds, You robbin' my pocket, of silver and Gold.." 19th Century Alabama work song. Steven Davis grew up on the Savannah River. He was born at a time when the river was still important - the turn of the century when it was a major highway for just about anything headed for the port of Savannah, Georgia or back up to Augusta and beyond.
By Mark Newell2 years ago in Fiction
THE GODS OF GILGAMESH
There was a time when Russia's coastal Mirnyy Station supplied the Vostok camp by tractor-pulled sledges once a year. Those were the impoverished years when Russia struggled to maintain Vostok on its own. Global climate change, and the ever more critical need to understand it, altered all that. The long buried lake was thought to hold possible clues to long-term change. If its maybe million year pristine record could be studied, it might reveal that the changes that now threatened the earth were nothing more than vast cyclical events which mankind would eventually survive. Then again, the lake might prove that survival was no longer a sure thing.
By Mark Newell2 years ago in Fiction
Writer's Life
Writer's Life 02 Plotting The Historical Novel. I am not a best selling author (yet - like all of us!). I have published two novels and one has received some recognition and some great reviews. So, rightfully or not, I thought I would share one the most useful plotting tools I have developed for historical novels. As a "creative fiction writer" I recognize that I am basically a liar. I lie for a living. Now, as every successful liar knows, the best lies of all are those that contain a large element of truth. When your creation (lie) is buried in a spoonful of real honey it is so much easier to swallow. It is the same with the historical novel. The one thing all historical novels have in common is a certain character's place in our known history. Nothing destroys your believability quicker than a howling error of timing in a story that is set in a specific period of history. Imagine: "Captain Nemo stood at the helm of the Nautilus and checked the time on his Apple Watch..."
By Mark Newell2 years ago in Journal
THE GODS OF GILGAMESH
There was a time when Russia's coastal Mirnyy Station supplied the Vostok camp by tractor-pulled sledges once a year. Those were the impoverished years when Russia struggled to maintain Vostok on its own. Global climate change, and the ever more critical need to understand it, altered all that. The long buried lake was thought to hold possible clues to long-term change. If its maybe million year pristine record could be studied, it might reveal that the changes that now threatened the earth were nothing more than vast cyclical events which mankind would eventually survive. Then again, the lake might prove that survival was no longer a sure thing.
By Mark Newell2 years ago in Fiction
The Watch
2: Year & Place Unknown, Palestine: Anvil of the Gods. Only the shadows on the chill sandy soil were black. Above, the vault of heaven was alive with energy from the blazing stars and the lambent glow of the Milky Way. Phineas crouched closer to the meager warmth and dim glow of the dried camel dung fire, his eyes not moving from the spot above. It was there, on the shoulder of the Great Hunter, the Spear Holder, the Light of Heaven, where the Oracle had first appeared. As usual, months before, he had consulted the auguries, the numbers, the signs and it was written clear. Something was coming. The Elders had convened when he first prophesied that Yahweh had tossed a pebble into the great cosmic void. Its ripples would eventually reach them from the spot where God had touched their universe, there on the shoulder of Orion. At first there was nothing, no sign at all, and the Elders were on the verge of ridiculing him, even banishing him as a false prophet. But then the star appeared. The bright light turned into a comet, an omen of great portent. Of good or evil Phineas knew not. Indeed, he felt that the comet was the sign of some great gift from God…that would eventually become a great curse. He pondered long and hard over this mystery.
By Mark Newell2 years ago in Fiction
Secret City of the Sun
Chapter 2: Charleston and Belle Boyd My introduction to Charleston, South Carolina, came in the form of a dramatic incident, as our steamer approached the harbour mouth from the northeast. It was mid-morning, as Dane and I were gathered with several other passengers in a small lounge near the galley, where a steward was serving tea. The regular rhythm of the steam engines, and that of the side wheels in the water, were suddenly punctured by a sharp, metallic bang, and a shuddering through the hull of the ship that almost tossed the tea samovar off its table.
By Mark Newell2 years ago in Fiction
Blindman's Breakfast
Part One: Blind Man’s Breakfast Chapter 1: The Patio Giles De La Ronde was born blind, but since a man cannot rue the loss of something he never had, he asked for sympathy from none. In fact, he reveled in a very special superiority over his sighted neighbors in the Vieux Carré.
By Mark Newell2 years ago in Fiction