David Spell from The Scary Reviews invited Chris over to write about dark fiction. Here he tells how he prepares and feels during the creation of horror and death scenes. There’s also a sneak peek into his upcoming dark fiction series Waste Management. You can read his guest post here! We have also included it below in case his entry is ever removed.
A car wreck. Spats of red on the shattered windshield, hair stuck to the roof liner.
Drowning. Sucked into the depths of a rip tide, eyes bulging below the surface. Mouth stretched with a bubbling scream, filling with water.
Falling. Legs kicking out, hands reaching up for the balcony that gravity pulls them away from with such speed… Their flesh smacking the pavement, sound of it tracing the nerves of your spine, bursting out of your lungs with anguish that reverberates into the clouds.
And you’ve thought about them being killed. Butchered. Or have you? Do it now… Feel it.
Who did you murder? How did it happen? Now make it worse. Extend the pain. A brutality incomprehensible to anyone lacking a psychology degree.
I like people. I believe in the general good of humanity and enjoy helping others – even people who don’t like me. Thinking about a random person being murdered makes me very uncomfortable. Thinking about a loved one losing their life in the most heinous of ways is indescribably discomforting.
I could tell you the feeling and would fail to describe it clearly. So I write it, showing it, in scenes where those fears really happen.
When I write a death scene, the words go faster. I have to force myself to breathe slower. Veins swell in my arms, and my fingers clench the pen so tight I feel my pulse travel down its tip, rolling onto the paper in my terrible handwriting.
Writing dark fiction is new to me. I wrote 7 crime thrillers before trying a horror tale about a year ago. When I wrote Marsh Madness, I didn’t want to parody the popular themes. What do readers of dark fiction want? I asked myself. Something that sickens. Something that grips and sticks, scares the shrieks out of you. I want people to read my work and become paranoid insomniacs. Or smile and share it with their friends.
I intend to keep writing in this genre. Near to the Knuckle and Pulp Metal Magazine are teaming up to publish a magazine later this year that will feature Waste Management, my latest dark fiction. The magazine will have authors from both publishers write a Giallo series. Part I of Waste Management has been submitted. Would you like to take a peek? Check out the excerpt below.
I want to improve as the series progresses. I would be in your debt – and bound to improve – if you give me some feedback. Please read Marsh Madness and leave a comment.
New Story Excerpt:
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.
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 of 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.
Book I: Last Shine
Sharp as a Razor
Book I: A Dying Wish
For more info on the author, visit:
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