Posts Tagged crime
New Story in THUGLIT
Posted by chrisstrange1 in Books on January 8, 2014
For all you sick puppies out there, my crime-writing pen name Harry St. John has a nasty little story in the latest issue of THUGLIT. No fantasy or sci-fi here, just bad people doing bad things.
And it’s not just my story. You’ll find seven other depraved stories in there, and all you’ll pay is one measly buck to get the Kindle version or $5.99 for the paperback. Go get it at Amazon!
Leave Her Hanging is now available!
Posted by chrisstrange1 in Books on September 24, 2013
New release time! Leave Her Hanging, a noir mystery written under my Harry St. John pen name, is now available.
Ella Lewis is dead. Someone must pay.
“I loved Ella. Now she’s a corpse, cooling off in the morgue with a noose-shaped bruise around her neck. The cops say it’s suicide. It wasn’t suicide. I don’t know who killed her, and I don’t know why. But I’m going to find out, no matter what it takes. And when I’m face-to-face with the man who broke my world, I’m going to break him.”
In this tough-as-nails noir crime novel set in Auckland’s dark underbelly, 17-year-old Jack “Spade” Miller must traverse a web of violence, love, and illicit sex in his search for justice.
Only one thing is guaranteed: no one is walking away unscathed.
Grab the paperback from Amazon or pick up the ebook at Amazon US, Amazon UK, Barnes & Noble, or Smashwords (coming soon to other ebook retailers).
Keep reading for a sneak peek at the first chapter. Stay classy, everyone.
Ella Lewis choked to death in the early hours of a lonely Monday morning. I didn’t find out until Wednesday.
It was humid, the kind of day where you sweat and sweat and it never makes a damn bit of difference. In the school quad I could hear the thud of a badly aimed football smacking into the side of the science block, and Mrs Trussel shouting for Jeremy MacKenzie to come over here right now, and students laughing and gathering to watch Mrs Trussel’s arm fat wobble as she waved her hands around. But none of that had anything to do with me. Not anymore.
I slipped inside the empty classroom and closed the door behind me. Mr Harvey was out getting his coffee. Ten minutes until the bell went. More than enough time.
My gut told me I should feel guilty for taking advantage of Mr Harvey’s trusting nature—he was the only teacher who still didn’t look at me like I was a stray Rottweiler—but my heart had more important things to worry about. I’d seen the way his face deflated when he read the yellow memo the admin lady had brought into class, the way his gaze lingered on me when he raised his eyes and told us fourth period was ending twenty minutes early so we could attend a special assembly. I knew it was about Ella. And I couldn’t wait another two hours to find out what’d happened to her.
It was only a few weeks into the new school year, but Mr Harvey’s desk already resembled a mountain range of paper and textbooks. I shoved aside a class roll and found a corner of yellow paper peeking out from underneath a calculus textbook. My heart hammered as I pulled it free, but my hands were steady. They’d never been this steady. I unfolded the paper.
My heart crumbled as I read. Each word scrawled on the yellow paper was another kick in the gut. My mind couldn’t take it. So it sought escape the only way it could.
Memory flooded me.
Dave jimmies open the boarding over the back door and we slip in one by one, ignoring the trespassing warnings and breathing in the musk. It’s Ella’s idea to break into the old abandoned Carlile house on Richmond Road, because we’re bored and a little bit drunk and what the hell else are you going to do in Auckland on a Sunday night when you’re sixteen, right? This isn’t really my scene and the others aren’t really my friends, but like hell I’m going to turn down a chance to hang out with Ella Lewis. Megan, Ella’s best friend, looks as nervous as I feel. She keeps saying we should leave. But Ella just grins that grin of hers, slips her arm through Megan’s, and drags her up the groaning stairs.
Once my heart rate comes down, I see what a beautiful old place it is. Something about it seems lonely, mournful. The furniture’s mostly gone, but there are still scratch marks in the floor where it used to sit. We split up and go room to room, exploring, hiding, jumping out at each other and making ghost noises to try to scare the others. Jeremy’s got a bottle of tequila, so after a while we settle down in a bedroom and pass that around, swigging away, the others loud and talking, and me just sitting there quiet and trying to sneak glances at the way Ella’s almost-black hair catches the moonlight through the gaps in the boarding on the window.
And then comes the shouting from downstairs, the voices telling us they’ve called the police and we’re going to be in all kinds of hell for trespassing.
Everyone bolts. Jeremy and Megan and the others go for the stairs. The house creaks and groans. But me, I don’t know what to do. My feet are nailed to the floor, my heart’s pounding loud enough to start an avalanche three hundred kilometres away. I stand at the bedroom door, wondering if it’d be best to just hide somewhere and wait for everyone to go.
But a hand wraps itself around mine and tugs. I’m face-to-face with Ella, and there’s something burning in her eyes that’s never been more than an ember before. She grins at me and tugs again. My legs come to life. We race to the bedroom window and push at the boarding until the nails come loose and the night air spills in. Ella hoists herself up and slips through, her jeans catching on a loose nail for a moment, and then she’s free again, standing on the roof of the bottom floor, beckoning to me. “Hurry,” she whispers, cheeks flushed.
She holds the board out for me while I wriggle through. I avoid the nail that got her but catch two more in the process. And then I’m outside with her, looking over the lights of Auckland.
Ella grabs me by the hand again—this time I notice how soft her skin is—and she pulls me to the edge of the roof. She lowers herself over the edge and drops to the grass, rolling as she hits the ground. Gut churning, I follow her, the shock going through my shins. The shouting’s muffled now, further away. Ella takes my hand for the third time and leads me back to the road, and we run and run until we’re both panting and even the night air isn’t enough to keep the sweat off our foreheads.
We collapse next to each other on the grass in Grey Lynn Park and catch our breath. Even through all the city lights, there are stars out, but I’ve only got eyes for her. Her small breasts rise and fall with each breath she draws. Her mouth is split wide in a delirious smile, her hair acting as a pillow on the grass. I become aware of her hip bone pressed against my side, her hand lying half a centimetre away from mine. Her skin’s a couple of shades darker than mine—a gift from a Maori relative a few generations back.
I think about taking her hand again. Ball up my courage. And then I do it. She doesn’t resist. Her head rolls to the side and she looks into my eyes, smiles, squeezes my hand. I want to say something funny or cool to impress her, but the tequila and the adrenaline and Ella’s smell are going to work on me. So I stay silent and do the only thing that seems right.
I kiss her.
And even after everything to come in the following months—the pain, the anger, the screaming—I’ll always remember the way Ella’s lips taste in the moonlight.
And then I was back in Mr Harvey’s classroom, slumped on the floor with my back against the wall, reading the yellow sheet of paper for the third time. They didn’t use words like “beautiful” and “exciting” and “soft” to describe Ella. They used ones like “tragedy” and “suicide”. And I sat there, trying to process what the words meant, because there was no way in hell they could apply. Even after the last few months when everything went to shit, she wasn’t that kind of girl. She wouldn’t know how to be a corpse. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t shown up to class since the principal had finally let me back into school. She was probably just sick, or she’d decided to drop out and do her acting like she’d talked about. There was no way she was cooling off in a morgue or a hospital or wherever they took dead bodies. There was no fucking way.
It was nearly eleven by the time I got my legs working again. The bell would be going any second now. I had to get gone. I had to get to a bathroom and spew my guts out. And I had to work out what had happened to Ella Lewis.
I pocketed the yellow paper and closed the classroom door behind me on my way out.
Meet Harry St. John, crime writer
Posted by chrisstrange1 in Books, news on July 29, 2013
In my last post, I hinted about a new pen name and an upcoming release of mine. I guess I should let you know what the hell I’m talking about.
Towards the end of last year I finished the draft of a little novel that came to be titled Leave Her Hanging. This one’s a bit different from my other work. There are no superheroes or reality-twisting magic powers here, but what it does have in common with my other books is the influence of classic hard-boiled and noir fiction.
Leave Her Hanging is the story of an obsessive seventeen-year-old boy investigating the apparent suicide of his ex-girlfriend and his descent into darkness. Set in Auckland’s dark underbelly, the novel follows our protagonist as he traverses a web of violence, love, and illicit sex in his search for justice.
While I’m here, I’m going to think out loud about some of the challenges I think I’m going to face with this book. For better or worse, I think this is the book that has the most of “me” in it. But the nature of the book has left me conflicted about the best way to get it out there. Categorizing this book has been a challenge. Make no mistake, this book is dark. It leans more toward noir than hard-boiled. Noir fiction has traditionally been part of the wider adult crime fiction genre. But the protagonist and several of the main characters are teens. I feel like the voice of the main character belongs in a young adult novel. So that begs the question: is there a market for noir young adult fiction?
Modern YA books can be dark, but how dark? Bad things happen to the characters in this story, but the mark of noir fiction is not just that bad things happen, it’s that the protagonists end up doing bad things themselves. In noir fiction, even if the protagonist wins, it usually comes at such a cost that the reader may question whether anyone really won at all. Even dark YA books tend to have a spark of hope in them. But noir fiction ties cement blocks to hope’s ankles and tosses it in the river.
I love this book, but I know it won’t be for everyone. People may find it nihilistic or just plain nasty. Some may think it’s inappropriate for teens. Then again, what the hell do I care? The thing is, I do care. This is the sort of book that I would have loved when I was sixteen and developing my cynical, curmudgeonly personality. I think there are people out there who this book would speak to. But how do I reach them? This is always a challenge for any book, but I think the nature of this book makes it even more difficult this time around. The market for dark crime fiction for teens seems to be relatively small. On the other hand, adults who enjoy noir fiction may be put off by the YA voice. The question of how to get this book to the right audience is something I’m still struggling with as we get closer to its release.
I’ve also been debating with myself about what name to publish this novel under. Most of you are probably aware that Chris Strange is a pen name. But I don’t think that the sort of readers who enjoy, say, Don’t Be a Hero, are necessarily the same readers who would enjoy Leave Her Hanging. Then again, I didn’t want to hide the fact that I’ve written this book and deny those of you who would be interested in it from finding it. So in the end I’ve decided to publish Leave Her Hanging under another open pen name, Harry St. John. In time, Harry will publish other dark crime novels and short stories as well. That way, people who buy a Harry St. John book will know they’re getting a dark, perhaps even grim, crime novel, while those who buy a Chris Strange book will know they’re getting some sort of fantastical urban story, perhaps with some geek flavoring. Harry will have his own website and Facebook, but they will both funnel back here, so this blog will soon expand to include books from both Strange and St. John. I think that’s an appropriate compromise that will keep my split personalities under control while also helping readers decide whether or not one of my books is right for them.
So that’s a new book and a new name, both coming soon. I’ll have more information on Leave Her Hanging, including a release date, as we get closer to the time. Until then, you guys stay awesome.