Her Name Is Mercie
“Roy delivers on the edge of your seat storytelling with rough edges, crooked cops and a tiny light at the end of the tunnel that is never quite extinguished.”
– Tom Vater, journalist, co-founder of Crime Wave Press
Mercie Hillbrook lives a simple, quiet life working as a gas station attendant. Then her parents are killed. Her home is taken. The people responsible are excused for just doing their job. When an attempt to get justice her way lands her in trouble with the law, Mercie realizes she still has something to lose: her own life.
Then she finds reason to believe her parents were murdered… and she doesn’t care anymore.
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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.
Book I: Last Shine
Book 2: Resurrection
Sharp as a Razor
Book I: A Dying Wish
For more info on the author, visit:
Writing In Chaos
My floor is cold. The gray-blue paint on the concrete is cheap, missing in places where I exercise and pace for hours every day. Thick dark gray lines stretch out from the bars, shadows that sneak across the eight feet to my bed, a rack of black steel anchored to a molding foundation as old as I am. The window above it is obscured with layers of steel screens choked with decaying insects.
My back to the window, the intense light from the zone weakens on its way to the back of my cell, shadows from the bars wide and fading over my face. To my right is a small shelf, shoulder high, painted the same strange white as the walls. The hybrid sink/toilet is in the far right corner, bolted to a sheet of metal with cuts for twin fluorescent lights that, when turned on, show my space in all it’s ugliness, luminescent overkill use to spot hidden contraband.
I also have a desk.
To my left, a square of metal is mounted to the brick wall about three feet off the floor. A smaller square, below and to the side, is the seat. It’s at this desk that I write this.
I have written tens of thousands of words, at this desk. At other, similar desks in other cells, I have written hundreds of thousands of words.
I just looked up, through my bars across the zone. A man stands at his door talking to others, worried about how he will get his next fix; his drug connection was recently transferred. By this evening he and others will be beating on their doors, screaming at officers, attempting to intimidate them into finding them something to get high on.
Countless times I have looked up from my work and seen fires blazing, water from intentionally blocked toilets spreading over the zone. I grab my ear plugs – wads of toilet tissue wrapped in Saran wrap salvaged from diet trays – to block out the fire alarm destroying ear drums, or block the water from entering my cell with a towel rolled up lengthwise and wrapped with a trash bag.
I sit down and write again.
The K-9 team is often called to secure disruptive inmates, guys having a bad day, a medical issue that isn’t getting the proper attention, or just have a serious romance going on with their inner dumbass.
Officers scream commands, hose down noncomplying offenders with enormous cans of pepper spray that atomizes in the dank, poorly circulated air. It chokes everyone. Sometimes, they shoot them, the .12 gauge shotgun bang of rubber pellets a deafening pulse that rips into your head.
I look up from my desk. Then continue writing.
A group of cadets just walked through. Recruited to mitigate the life endangering security issues from a shortage of staff. The captain guided them around the zone. They passed my cell, nods and respectful hellos from most. Nice looking bunch in crisp new CO uniforms.
I walked to my bars and called out to a fellow convict across the zone, a guy I’m training in fitness and boxing named Psycho.
“Hey.” He’s well over six feet, clown makeup tattooed over one eye, peering at me over the top horizontal bar.
I pointed at the group of cadets. “It’s the perfect BET show: a group of super cool young black folks, one white guy, one Asian.”
We laughed, others joined in the banter. Someone yelled, “Jihad!” The captain introduced Psycho to the cadets.
I sit down at my desk. And continue writing.
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