David Halliday: 48 books

Children have nightmares. They wake up in a sweat and cry out for their mothers. A village can have nightmares too. The villagers wake up and cry out for each other. These stories are about that nightmare. Mackenzie Phillips sat up in his bed. He needed to stay awake. All the news about the...

Greg and Bower were such jerks. Twice they’d been questioned about break-ins at the school. Turning over desks, drawing obscene pictures on the blackboards, spilling the contents of the teacher’s desks around the room. All kinds of moronic shit. But no one could ever prove anything. On the way...

Unravelling. Breaking down. The end of the world. Looking over the edge. Women gone mad.Again.

Unravelling. Breaking down. The end of the world. Looking over the edge. Women gone mad.

They began their careers in small clubs. And cat houses. In choirs. And minstrel shows. They were applauded. Made famous. At times they were loved. They made a lot of money and spent it. On booze. On drugs. On men. And became famous. Some died in small rooms without family. Some in the arms of their children. They were all different. They were the Saints of Jazz. And they loved to sing.

A young painter finds passion, pain, love, and despair in gesso and canvas.

The Black Bird concerns itself not with the baring of a soul but with the stripping down of a life. It begins with the most remote extension of the human soul, one's public image. It begins with the mythic image of Humphrey Bogart. Bogart as a celebrity. Skin after skin is stripped away. Bogart...

We measure our lives in years, months, days, seconds. Time does not move. All measurement is a memory. Some memories are true. April made up her own story. I was there. I know she's telling the truth.

In 2016 I buried my mother. I buried a world that had been reduced to a whisper. Two world wars, the roaring twenties, the great depression, the fifties, elvis presley. All a whisper. And I heard my mother in her death throes, crying like a drowning woman, crying my name. Like her mother had cried....

Shot like a man out of a cannon. My mother almost died giving me birth. Head was too big. Doctors' thought I might need braces on my neck. Crawled through the first centuries of life. When I was twenty my hair was down my back. Orange and dusty. I felt like a god. Beautiful and outrageously vain....

Edwin Drood dies. But why? His girlfriend never understood him. Though she feared for her life at times. His enemies were numerous. But would they kill one of their best dealers. Did he cheat someone in a drug deal? Or was it something else. About the world. About himself.

The Trailer is a novelette, Part of a multi series of books under the banner THE INVISIBLE MAN. This story concerns a retired cop who now works as a crossing guard and has become the object of two students' school assignment. They want to make a movie about him. He is not enthusiastic but his...

I can never sleep. Soon as my head hits the pillow, my brain turns on. Ideas. Things that you can never imagine yourself thinking. For months I used to worry about my airplane. There’s a small airport near the trailer where people land small aircraft. And as soon as my head was horizontal I started...

I wanted to believe in something. I prayed. But all I could hear was the echoed clang of a clapper against a bell. The bell ringer was dead. The universe was empty… I was the miserable beggar on the street, my palms slashed red with the cuts from freshly minted coins… I was the bitch, the poor...