James A. Newman
JAMES A. NEWMAN, born in London 1977. He studied Media Arts, Advanced Skateboard Technology and Fretboard Logisics. Newman has sold Pulp Fiction stories and novels to publications in Arizona, Mumbai, Johannesburg, London, Ontario and Bangkok. Newman has worked as a litigation insurance broker, a copy-writer, an English teacher, a movie extra in Bollywood, a rare book dealer, a rainforest tour guide, and an importer of cheese and wine. He lives in Bangkok, Thailand with his family, is kind to certain animals and is very much involved with the local art scene, writing books, reviewing plays, hosting literary events and supporting writers and artists. His novel the White Flamingo has been optioned for adaptation into a motion picture. Newman is busy writing the screenplay and working with authors as content editor of Spanking Pulp Press.
Visit the author at www.jamesnewmanfiction.blogspot.com
SHORT STORIES
MEAT– September 2009- 69 Flavors of Paranoia
CARMEN– March 13th 2010– Freedom Fiction Anthology Vol: 1
KIM– April 2010– Scalped Magazine
RAVANA– February 2011 – Freedom fiction journal
CLEAR– March 2011– Freedom fiction Anthology Vol: 2
THAILAND AFTER DARK– Bangkok Book House– August 2011
TWO LUMPS AND A PAIR OF GLASSES- Big Pulp Magazine- March 2013
THE COLD SUN- March 2014- Twisted Tales
PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY- Exiles Anthology-2014- Blackwitch Press
THE FAST RATS- 2014- Strange Story Saturday
GHOST HIT - 2014 -Freedom Fiction
UNDEAD CARGO - 2014 - Spanking Pulp Press.
NOVELS
BANGKOK EXPRESS– August 2010- Bangkok Book House
THE BOY THAT PLAYED CHEQUERS- August 2011- Fried Fiction. Serial.
BANGKOK EXPRESS- Revised 2012 edition. Books Mango.
RED NIGHT ZONE- BANGKOK CITY- 2012 - Books Mango.
LIZARD CITY- 2012- Books Mango / Spanking Pulp
THE WHITE FLAMINGO- Spanking Pulp Press 2013
THE BLACK ROSE- Spanking Pulp 2014
ITCHY PARK- 2014- Double Dragon. Blood Moon Publishing.
THE PENNY BLACK HOTEL - WIP.
NON FICTION
Thai Meditations (As James Alexander) – September 2010– Bangkok Book House
FROM SUB TO SCRIBE- AUG 2014- Spanking Pulp Press
FILM SCREENPLAYS
The White Flamingo
STAGE PLAYS
The Natives
“Like raindrops, beautiful women were every-where. Like raindrops, only a few ever landed on you. They would either soak into your constitution or drip away into that puddle of other former love disasters drying out; dying in the Bangkok sun.Red Night Zone - Bangkok City”
“The only thing I know about books, is that they should be like a woman's dress: long enough to cover the subject and short enough to be interesting. I read people.”
“The alcohol danced down his throat like a contented snake on the way to a magic ball... The lights seemed suddenly brighter... He felt an immediate sense of danger... Electricity... Fear... Excitement... The glass left his lips he needed another. He needed ten, twenty, thirty more...He needed rivers, seas, oceans... He swore under his breath. Somewhere a woman laughed and a man shouted... He looked at the stage. Temptresses dancing... Strange Northern music.... Whores... laws... violence...”
“Hale looked at the dead man. His baseball cap had fallen from what remained of his head. A head that was once bald beneath that baseball cap. That didn’t matter now. All that remained was meat. Hale guessed that’s all they ever were. Meat. Selfish and stupid animals. The trick was to be the one standing. Hale stepped over the dead man. Walked through the beaded curtain. Through the restaurant out the door and into the China Town circus.”
“JAMES HALE sat at a side-street noodle-stall. The stall was set-up underneath the shade of a row of fruit trees. He watched a pair of pigeons courting beneath a fig tree. The male’s tail feathers were pushed up in self-promotion and his plumage was arrogantly puffed up. He danced his elaborate dance of love. The female didn’t look impressed. She turned her back to him. Birds were like gangster rappers, Hale thought. They sang songs about how tough they were and how many other birds they’d nested. They were egomaniacs with inferiority complexes. Posers in a leafy street. The bastards flew at the first sign of danger. They couldn’t make it on the ground. Hale hated birds with their merry chirps and their flimsy nests. Tweet. Tweet. Fucking. Tweet. The only thing Hale admired about them was the fact that they could fly. That would be cool. Right now, flying would be good.”