Dave Newell

If you took black and white movies away from me, I'd slowly die. It's true. I have seizures when Dorothy reaches Oz and technicolor takes over.

My strongest influences come from the noir genre - Dashiel Hammett's The Maltese Falcon being the cornerstone of that influence. I enjoy exploring the darker side of human relationships and contrast it against the honesty of nature.

I've written Red Lory, which is due out on November 2, 2012, and my second and third novels are in various stages of undress. I'm working quickly to make them presentable and irresistible. Sometimes they show a little leg.

When I'm not writing I'm watching my notifications for my next friend request.

*watches*

“Just this morning you didn't seem as though you had an aversion to me. You're here in your dying patient's house, eating dinner with his wife, drinking his whiskey and watching his wife play the piano in a dark room," she shook her head and pouted her lips. "You're already in bed with me.”

Dave Newell

“Crying on the kitchen floor, she looked up and gasped for breath, raking tears from her pale cheeks. “I need you,” she whispered. “Someone.”

Dave Newell

“He sighed. “I don’t remember it dying. It’s one of those things that just goes—like a storm—when does it stop raining?” Douglas flicked his hands and sniffed, staring back at Mrs. King. “I just realized I didn’t need an umbrella anymore.”

Dave Newell

“The cloth was wrinkled and twisted from the struggle. His forehead was damp, and he lay his forearm across it and stared across the room at the clock. Its pendulum rotated and gathered momentum only to slow and reverse its course. He watched it for a time and slid out of the bed to dress.”

Dave Newell

Dave Newell

“Just this morning you didn't seem as though you had an aversion to me. You're here in your dying patient's house, eating dinner with his wife, drinking his whiskey and watching his wife play the piano in a dark room," she shook her head and pouted her lips. "You're already in bed with me.”

“​Crying on the kitchen floor, she looked up and gasped for breath, raking tears from her pale cheeks. “I need you,” she whispered. “Someone.”

“​He sighed. “I don’t remember it dying. It’s one of those things that just goes—like a storm—when does it stop raining?” Douglas flicked his hands and sniffed, staring back at Mrs. King. “I just realized I didn’t need an umbrella anymore.”

“The cloth was wrinkled and twisted from the struggle. His forehead was damp, and he lay his forearm across it and stared across the room at the clock. Its pendulum rotated and gathered momentum only to slow and reverse its course. He watched it for a time and slid out of the bed to dress.”

“Crying on the kitchen floor, she looked up and gasped for breath, raking tears from her pale cheeks. “I need you,” she whispered. “Someone.”

“He sighed. “I don’t remember it dying. It’s one of those things that just goes—like a storm—when does it stop raining?” Douglas flicked his hands and sniffed, staring back at Mrs. King. “I just realized I didn’t need an umbrella anymore.”