Chris Roy was raised in South Mississippi, in the midst of ugly Gulf Coast beaches and spectacular muddy bayous.
Chris lived comfortably with the criminal ventures of his youth until a fistfight in 1999 ended tragically. Since January, 2000, he’s been serving a life sentence in the Mississippi Department of Corrections.
Nowadays he lives his life crime vicariously, through the edgy, fast-paced stories he pens, hoping to entertain readers. When he isn’t writing, he’s reading, drawing or looking for prospects to train in boxing.
Please welcome Chris Roy to Roadie Notes………..
1. How old were you when you first wrote your first story?
I was 26 when I wrote the first Razor and Blondie stories, in 2007. In 2012 I self published my first book, a collection titled By Hook or Crook: the Criminal Ventures of Razor and Blondie.
2. How many books have you written?
The short story collection above, 2 crime thriller trilogies, and a novella I hope to get published with some dark fiction shorts soon.
3. Anything you won’t write about?
4. Tell me about you. Age (if you don’t mind answering), married, kids, do you have another job etc…
I turned 36 in June. Happily married. No kids, which, at this point, is a very good thing; I’ve seen the hardest of men rendered to weeping messes, by the thought of never seeing/holding their children again.
Whenever I can, I teach boxing, train guys in general fitness, and make a little change doing tattoos… that I usually blow on Nutty Bars or something else that contradicts the nutrition plans I advise others to do.
5. What’s your favorite book you have written?
Shocking Circumstances Book III
6. Who or what inspired you to write?
Some guys I live around read the original Razor and Blondie stories and said they were good. I’m on High Risk for two escapes, housed with Death Row. Most convicts here read a lot, and are not known for biting their tongue. Figured they really liked them. I have been feeling it ever since.
7. What do you like to do for fun?
Make hiding places.
8. Any traditions you do when you finish a book?
Not anymore. Think I have permanent heart damage from too much celebrating. I just tell my wife, mom and aunts. My aunts congratulate me. I get yawns from my wife and mom.
9. Where do you write? Quiet or music?
I sit on my bed with a book on top of folded blankets, paper and pen scratching out the first draft or two. Or I sit at the tiny desk in my cell.
Quiet. Though sometimes have music playing. I usually end up turning it off to think. Or turning it up to block out noise on the zone; there’s always some knucklehead setting a fire, flooding or screaming about insignificant BS to extort others for drugs or tobacco.
10. Anything you would change about your writing?
I had a problem with adverbs for awhile. Nasty habit. When I wrote Marsh Madness, I waged war on LYs. My style changed. For the better, I think. I want to write a piece of literature, because, for me, it’s so fucking hard.
11. What is your dream? Famous writer?
Just famous enough to get out of prison and make my family proud.
12. Where do you live?
Unit 29 in Parchman, Mississippi. Maximum Security hell.
The occasional mouse. They’re cool until they get into my canteen.
14. What’s your favorite thing about writing?
Putting the characters in impossible situations. Making it worse, then creating a way out for them. I design crimes that require a partnership or team. Elaborate scams. Bombs.
15. What is coming next for you?
Near to the Knuckle and Pulp Metal Magazine are teaming up to publish a mag in the Giallo genre soon. They invited me to write a series. Would you like to read the opening of Waste Management? Here you are. Please leave a comment. Your feedback is appreciated!
Part 1: Mother & the Memory
His grip relaxed then clamped, snatched, pushing with the other hand. A leg torqued from an uncooked chicken crackled an image in his mind, the woman’s face replaced by hair in a blink.
Shoulders rolled up in soiled coveralls lingered a tense moment, heavy breathing mixed with a deep moan steaming to a sigh out of the corpse. His gloves moved, squeezed. The weight of the woman, alive, the change to a lifeless load – the speed of it – was a pleasantry internalized.
Lips drawn in, his thick tongue passed over them, nostrils puffing.
Mold permeated the concrete wall where it joined the pavement, service drive flooded with continuous drainage from the restaurant. The woman’s body splashed onto the pavement. Butt, then hands. Legs splayed. Back to the wall. Hair where her face should be. The man watched the spot between her legs. The water darkened, spread toward his boots. His nose puffed faster.
Dishes rang from just inside the doorway. Loose rocks popped, boots coated in sludge rotated him, hard leather stretching. Solid-still as a wide cliff, bolder shifting atop, his large frame froze, head turned toward the restaurant’s kitchen. He watched the light on the floor.
More dishes, tap shutting off. His nostrils ceased puffing.
Scissors tall as the building shot into motion, arms and legs swinging inky shades on the building, black to gray. Heavy steel toes tread out of the dank alley, fists encased in an unknown animal hide pumped forward. Unchanging pace resounding the mass of the man that stopped in front of the truck, opened the door, stepped, swung into the driver’s seat in one fluid move. Shut it.
Detonation shook the pavement, diesel engine knock-roaring to a steady thrum. The man’s head appeared in the side mirror, block of pitch black with a slash of orange Illuminating his narrowed stare. The truck reversed, rumbled past the open kitchen exit, tires throwing water.
The concrete wall amplified a halting, sharp screech. The corpse at its base vanished beneath a cloud, pink exhaust thrusting through the red flash of brakes.
Setting the brake, he climbed out and grabbed the woman, strain absent from the lift. Trying not to focus on her cooling vitality, he held to the moment, the sudden charge of her life’s heat, death sensed… then snuffed. An exotic battery sucked dry in a wink of plasma.
Her pants waist stretched, ass soft on knuckles, uniform collar tearing, as he hefted, tossed her into the back. The refuse compressed, enveloping her with a welcome, soft hiss.
The big diesel revved. Clutch engaged. The truck freight trained back down the alley. Waste Management caught the lights towering in the plaza, the service truck accelerating into the turn. His nose puffed above the steering wheel. Gloves gripped wide. The engine cycled pings that deafened pedestrians, cab bumbling with a pulse unstoppable.
The grime on the windshield absorbed yellow-white glares cascading down at precise intervals, failed attempts to penetrate the interior. Slits of amber sitting high in the darkness inside studied the road. The direction of the next job was the man’s only thought.
Book I: Last Shine
Sharp as a Razor
Book I: A Dying Wish
For more info on the author, visit: