Cover Reveal and Excerpt from Grindhouse by Elle Chambers

This is it – Grindhouse, a short story collection of pulp and horror fiction by Elle Chambers, will be released December 31, 2014.


Here is an excerpt from the short story “Little Girl, I Want To Murder You:”

Marissa Pope was having a bad fucking week. Scratch that: she was having a bad fucking year.

It started in February when Danny broke up with her. The little shit waited until the week before Valentine’s Day to break off their three year engagement saying he “still needed to find himself” and he wasn’t one hundred percent sure marriage was for him. She’d been crushed. Then Marissa found out that for a year-and-a-half the asshole had “found himself” sleeping with some girl at his office-then she’d been pissed.

Come June, she’d lost her job at Johnson, Culpepper, and Kline due to budget cuts. She’d been a paralegal there for four years, but as she was the last one in the door, she was the first one out when the firm’s finances took a turn for the worse. Her boss told her he’d give her a glowing recommendation and assured her she had nothing to worry about: she was bright, a fast learner, and was great at her job. She’d find another opportunity in no time.

He was wrong. She’d done the query-go-round thing for months with very few bites, and the interviews she had managed to get resulted in someone else walking away with the position.

Her parents, trying to be supportive, encouraged her to go back to school for something else. She couldn’t. She’d already taken on as much debt as she could afford getting her Bachelors in Political Science and then a paralegal certificate. If she took on anything more, she’d find herself living in a cardboard box behind The Golden Dragon, sifting through the trash cans for leftover fish heads for dinner. Her parents told her she could always give up her swanky apartment in the city and come home to live with them, “Just until you get back on your feet,” they’d said. Again, Marissa couldn’t, no wouldn’t, do that. She was twenty-eight for Chrissakes and none of her peers were still living at home any longer-what would she look like if she came crawling back to Forest Park with her tail in between her legs?

A failure, that’s what. She’d look like a total and complete fucking loser. And, to be clear, that’s exactly what she felt like. She’d lost her fiance, lost her job, and now the little bit of savings she’d had had dwindled on student loan payments, food, and shelter to the point where she was almost in the negative numbers. She needed money fast. Then, to add on to the parade of pain she’d been marching in all year, Marissa came home in September to a nice letter from her landlord stating that if she failed to pay her rent on time one more time, she’d be asked to evacuate the premises and never come back. He was running a business, not a soup kitchen, and while he felt for her current predicament, there were other people interested in living in her apartment who could afford to be there so his charitable endeavor of letting her pay her rent whenever she was good for it was about to come to an end.

That’s when Marissa swallowed her pride and went down to the StaffRight Agency and begged for a job, any job. Her staffing coordinator, a girl fresh out of college with a metallic grill and acne scars around her forehead, enthusiastically took down her information, parsed over her resume and cover letter, then told her she’d call if she found anything she felt Marissa was suited for.

It was a blow to her ego, the fact that some early twenties kid was going to decide what jobs Marissa was good enough for, when this was probably the girl’s first adult job herself. How the fuck was she qualified to judge anything, least of all someone’s professional skills and abilities?

The agent, Christy, turned out to be halfway decent. She’d gotten Marissa a temp job in another firm making almost as much as she was making at Johnson, Culpepper, and Kline. When her contract was up, however, the firm declined to hire her on full-time, instead choosing to go back to StaffRight for another temp to fill the position.

Marissa was livid, but there was nothing she could do. Christy, like her former boss, told her to buck up: she’d find Marissa something else in the temp-to-hire market shortly and in the meantime, Marissa should reach out to her school’s alumni association for any leads on companies looking to hire.

She took Christy’s advice and got in touch with Kelvin Phillips, the director of her university’s alumni association, and asked him if he had any leads. Kelvin told her his office was hiring and he could get her a job, no problem – if she’d be willing to blow him for it.

She passed on that opportunity. She was desperate, but not enough to resort to prostitution. At least not yet. She’d started watching reruns of Secret Diary of a Call Girl on Showtime and seeing the extravagant shopping excursions the title character frequently went on, not to mention her nicely decorated digs, made hooking seem slightly more appealing to Marissa. She’d keep the option in her back pocket in case shit got really dire.

Christy called her early in the week and told Marissa she had a couple of prospects lined up for her-was she ready to do the rounds again? Of course she was. Her empty bank account didn’t give her much of a choice. She got her best interview attire together and began pounding the pavement at Christy’s direction.

The first interview that week was a disaster. She’d missed the early train and had to take a later one, making her a half-hour late to her interview. Then, when she got in to speak to the HR rep handling the initial interviews, she’d stumbled over her words, called the woman by the wrong name, and even managed to forget the position for which she was applying. The HR rep had given her a tight smile and ushered her out the door with the dreaded words, “We’ll be in touch”-the kiss of death. The words that meant, “You’re so not getting this job, you incompetent little twit. Don’t contact us again.”

Two more Christy-sanctioned interviews ended up quite similarly, with Marissa looking and feeling like a fool.

She was having the week from hell.

Then, yesterday afternoon Christy called. She told Marissa she’d set up an interview for her with Goldman, Anderson, and Associates, a mid-size, but well-respected family law practice for the next afternoon. The firm paid well from everything Christy’d heard about it, they had none of the financial problems the previous firms Marissa’d worked for had, and they were interested in a long term temp-to-hire arrangement, which the firm usually made good on its promise to hire anyone who worked hard and maintained a positive attitude.

When Marissa got up in the morning to start her day, she told herself she’d forget about the bad week she’d had and stay positive. Goldman wanted to see a smiling, happy employee and that’s what she was going to give them. It didn’t matter that when she went into her kitchen to make a pot of coffee (her brain food), she’d spilled the bag of ground beans on the floor and had to sweep them up by hand (her vacuum broke weeks ago and she couldn’t afford a new one)or that she’d sloshed Listerine on her silk blouse and couldn’t get the spot to go away even after hand washing the shirt and blasting it with her hairdryer, causing her to have to change into a totally different outfit, one she’d already worn that week to one of her trainwreck interviews-she told herself she’d ignore all of this and keep the fake, Barbie-esque smile on her face during the day so by the time she got to her interview, it would seem less forced and more natural.

She was scared shitless. There was a lot of pressure on her. If she didn’t get this job, she’d have no choice but to give up her apartment and move back in with her folks and younger brothers. She had no desire to have to go back to checking in with her parents before she went out at night or trying to sneak men into her bedroom through the window like she did the boys in high school. She wasn’t a child and having to go back to being one, even if only for a few months, made her want to cry. She was supposed to be further along than this in her life. She couldn’t go to her ten year high school reunion with no job, no place of her own, and no diamond on her finger. She wouldn’t be able to look all the girls she’d been friends with in the face knowing how wonderful their lives had turned out while hers had skidded off the rails. They’d pity her, and she wasn’t ready for that.

Marissa checked her Tiffany watch and cursed-she was ten minutes behind schedule. She couldn’t risk waiting for a bus or a train to take her ten miles out of the city to the Goldman offices so she’d have to go find a cab. Living in the city had its drawbacks, and not having space for parking was one of them. If she had her own car, she wouldn’t have to worry about things like this, but she didn’t so she’d have to get a move on if she didn’t want to be too late to her interview. She grabbed her purse and keys, threw on her smart red peacoat, and hauled ass out the door.

She spotted a lone cab sitting across the street from her building and sighed. Marissa thanked the lord for this fortuitous happening and hurried over to the yellow taxi before someone else snatched it up.

“Where you going?” the man in the front seat asked as she slid in the backseat. His accent was thick with the Middle East and this gave Marissa pause.

She forced a smile anyway and told herself it was just pre-interview jitters causing the unease.

“358 Burlington Road. Do you know where that is, ‘cause I have the MapQuest directions in my bag if you need them.”

The man glanced up at her in the rearview mirror. His chocolate brown eyes were lidded and a glint of something Marissa couldn’t quite read flitted across his face.

“I don’t need directions,” the man said, dropping his gaze back to the street before him. “I’ve been all over this city. I know it like I know myself.”

“Well, it’s not in the city. It’s outside of—”

“I said I know where it is,” he interrupted. His voice was hard and Marissa felt bad for causing him offense.

“Okay. Thank you.”

There was an awkward silence as he started the cab and pulled away from the curb. Marissa’s stomach fluttered and her hands shook in her lap. She hoped the man would drive fast so she wouldn’t start this interview on the wrong foot by showing up late. You could overcome a lot during an interview, but rudeness wasn’t something most hiring managers were willing to overlook when vetting potential job candidates.

Marissa felt strange, as if someone was watching her, and she looked up. The cabbie was staring in the rearview mirror. His gaze was fixed and intense; he looked as if he was trying to piece together a puzzle of some sort.

“Are you from around here?” she asked, trying to make conversation. The silence was stifling and the man’s fixation on her was kind of unsettling.

He turned his eyes back to the road, swerving into another lane. “No.”

She waited for him to elaborate, to tell her where he was from as most cabbies were wont to do when you asked them about themselves, but nothing further was said. She cleared her throat.

“I’m not from here either. My family’s from outside of town. We’re originally from Seattle though.”

She always did this-talked too much, overshared-when she was nervous. She wrung her hands together and smiled.

“How long have you been driving cabs?”

The man eased into another lane to avoid traffic in the heart of the city and stopped at a red light. “A few years.”

“Oh, okay. And do you like it?”

He shrugged and adjusted the rearview mirror so as to better see her. “It’s okay. I meet some interesting people.”

She could imagine. She’d watched enough Taxi Cab Confessions on HBO to know that people said some crazy shit in the backs of these cabs, as if the drivers were their personal therapists or a priest they could tell their dirty little secrets to and be absolved with a few Hail Marys at the end of the night. She wasn’t about to get all confessional herself, but she had to admit that talking to this perfect stranger was at least keeping her mind off the fear she felt about this upcoming interview, so it couldn’t be all that bad.

She just wished he wouldn’t look at her the way he did. Marissa bristled slightly under the man’s penetrating gaze. He was staring at her again from time to time, his face blank and unreadable. She wondered what he was thinking-was her hair bad? Did she have something on her face? Why did he appear to be fascinated by her? She couldn’t be the first blonde white woman he’d ever seen. Women like her were a dime a dozen in this city, or any city really. His attention was a tad unnerving.

Marissa tried to make more polite conversation, but the cab driver only gave short, noncommittal responses so she dropped it. He obviously wasn’t one of those gregarious types who wanted to know every detail about his passenger’s life-she supposed she should be grateful for that. He’d wind up asking where she was headed and she’d tell him about the job interview, then probably spill about her entire wreck of a year and that would make her more anxious about the interview. It was a vicious cycle she didn’t want to engage in so she remained quiet.

Instead, she turned her attention to the scene outside her window. She watched as they sped along the city streets, passing by cold, steel skyscrapers and street vendors selling everything from hot dogs to boosted designer handbags. She saw the women in tailored dresses walking to work in worn sneakers that didn’t quite match their outfits, carrying their briefcases in one hand and a pair of heels in the other, and desperately wanted to be one of them again. She eyed the men strolling along in power suits toting large travel mugs while chatting to nameless strangers on their cell phones and wondered if any of them worked for a company that was hiring, just in case things didn’t work out with Goldman, Anderson, and Associates.

Then they were on the highway, sandwiched between two lanes of cars all headed out of the congested city and into the neighboring suburbs. Marissa wondered where they were going. She leaned her head against the glass window and closed her eyes for a moment, imagining herself making this commute every morning to Goldman’s offices-the power of positive thoughts and all. It was a nice picture, though she told herself that at some point, it would get crazy expensive to take cabs to and from work every day-eventually she’d have to give up her fabulous city apartment and move someplace she could keep a car. She’d planned to do that anyway once she was married, she didn’t want to raise babies in the city, but then that jackass Danny had broken their engagement and ruined her Ten Year Plan so she’d scratched that dream off the list.

The ride became bumpy and Marissa opened her eyes. She stared out the window and frowned. Trees were zipping by the window and the long stretch of cars she’d seen beside her on the highway were gone. They were traveling a dirt road and there were no signs along the street. She sat up.

“Did we take the right exit?” she asked, glancing out of the other window. She’d never been to the area where Goldman, Anderson, and Associates were located, but she had put the address in MapQuest and she didn’t recall seeing anything about dirt roads or woods nearby.

The cab driver glanced up at her and met her eyes in the rearview mirror. His face was impassive as he nodded.

“We did.”

Marissa frowned. She reached into her purse and pulled out the sheet of directions. “I don’t know. From this, it seems like we should still be on the highway. It says we have to pass the Vine Street off-ramp that goes into that tunnel thing and I don’t remember seeing a tunnel.”

The man didn’t look back at her. “Your eyes were closed. We passed it.”

His voice was calm, unemotional. Marissa’s brow furrowed as she looked around her surroundings.

“Are you sure? Because this says—”

“Ma’am,” the man interrupted, his accent now thick with annoyance and impatience, “please be quiet. I took the exit that’s gonna get us to our destination quicker. I’m saving you time and money.”

Marissa balked. Did this guy really just tell her to be quiet? And who told him to take another exit, and why had he lied when she asked him if he took the right one?

“Excuse me, but that was incredibly rude,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “You don’t talk to me that way. I asked you a simple question and all you had to say was that you knew a faster route, that’s all. The attitude isn’t necessary.”

The cab driver peered at her through the mirror and she thought she saw a small smile pull at the edges of his lips. “Apologies. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

Marissa slumped back against her seat and calmed her breathing. She was angry, but the guy had apologized for his tone so what else was she going to do? She couldn’t go to her interview in a snit-she’d have to stop acting like a butt-hurt baby and get over it.

They drove in silence. Marissa felt his eyes probing her from time to time, but when she glanced in his direction, all she saw was her own gaze in the mirror. He’d focused back on the long stretch of road before them and softly hummed to himself.

Melissa glanced at her watch. The MapQuest directions said the ride should only take about thirty minutes from her apartment to the Goldman office, but they were now coming up on forty-five. She leaned forward and tapped the driver on his shoulder.

“Sir, how much longer is this ride going to be? You said this way was faster, but it seems to be taking much longer than the highway and I’m running late.”

The cab driver met her eyes in the mirror. This time she was sure she saw a smile crease his mouth.

“What’s your name?”

She paused. What did that have to do with anything? “Marissa, why?”

“Don’t worry, Marissa,” the cab driver said, smirking back at her. “We’re almost there.”

She glanced around the landscape and saw not a single building in sight. Her pulse quickened and a sinking feeling formed in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong.

“Where are we?” she asked, gripping her purse strap at her shoulder. “There’s nothing out here. What road is this?”

“Do you like to fuck, Marissa?”

Her mouth fell open. She wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. She asked him to repeat himself.

The cab driver glanced at her with dark, lidded eyes, no sign of merriment or joking in his face. “I said, ‘Do you like to fuck, Marissa?’ Do you?”

Marissa’s cheeks burned with anger and her heart pounded in her ears. “What the hell is your problem? Who asks someone something like this?”

He ignored her biting questions and tilted his head to the side, his eyes fixed on the dirt road ahead.

“I think you do. You look like you enjoy all the positions, but doggy style’s your favorite, right?”

He didn’t give her time to answer; instead, he nodded to himself and smiled. “Yeah. You look like you like to be fucked like an animal. Like a little bitch in heat. What does your pussy smell like when it’s wet?”

“Jesus Christ, you fucking pervert!”

“I bet it smells like salt and whore musk.” The cab driver locked eyes with her and grinned a conspiratorial grin. “Are you a whore, Marissa?”

“Fuck you,” she spat, digging around in her purse. She glanced up at his dashboard, her eyes roaming the dark surface for his identifying information. “I’m reporting you to whoever the fuck overseas your cab company. Now pull the fuck over and let me out.”

The cab driver’s face returned to its impassive position. He continued driving, staring straight ahead at the road.

“Did you hear me, you dumb fuck?” Marissa grabbed hold of her phone and pulled it out of her bag. “I said pull the fuck over and let me out.”

His low humming resumed and Marissa sat stunned and unmoving for a moment. She hadn’t hallucinated the conversation-this man really had said what he said to her. But it seemed like something out of a dream, so unreal and unbelievable that she couldn’t really wrap her head around it. She’d never been so insulted in her life. Furthermore, he was acting as if he’d only asked her what the weather was like. He made no apologies for his crass inquiries, and he didn’t pull the car over at her request.

She would call the police. That’s what she’d do. She couldn’t find his cab information-not his name, not his car number, nothing-but if he heard her talking to the cops, Marissa was sure an apology would be forthcoming and she’d be let out like she asked. Sure, she was in the middle of nowhere and had no clue how she’d get back to the city, but she wasn’t going to spend another minute in this cab with this asshole.

Marissa punched in the number for emergencies and listened to the ring.

“Put the phone away.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. She almost hadn’t heard it.

Marissa glanced up to the rearview mirror and the driver stared back at her. His eyes appeared bottomless and his face was twisted up into something close to a snarl.

“I said, put the fucking phone away.”

Marissa’s hand tightened around the ringing phone. Before she knew what happened, she felt the cab swerve beneath her. Something hard cracked her across the face as her phone tumbled from her fingers onto the floor. He’d reached behind him and punched her. She realized it when she felt warm liquid spurt from her throbbing nose and gush down her lips.

“What the fuck?!”

The cab driver glowered at her and tightened his hands around the steering wheel. She noticed specks of red on his knuckles and wondered whether it was hers or his.

“I told you to put the phone away,” the man said, turning his attention back to the road. “We’re almost there.”

Buyer Beware

I was going to get on here today and write something warm and fuzzy about my writing process for NaNo or the wonderful discoveries I’ve made in the premade cover world of indie publishing, but this morning has turned into an utter nightmare and has really brought my mood way down.

One of the cover designers I’ve recently worked with has been skating on thin ice with me for a while and has just fallen right through it into the murky abyss below. I first contacted this person a few weeks back on a Thursday after stumbling upon this person’s site the day before. I liked a lot of this person’s covers, even recommended this person’s business to other indie writers on Lousy Book Covers, so I read this person’s FAQ section that says they answer all email inquiries they receive in a timely fashion and their turnaround time for premade covers is 24 hours.

Perfect, right? I thought so, so I ordered one for an ebook I had coming out. I did this on Thursday. When I didn’t hear from this person on Friday, not even to say, “Hey, I got your email – I’ll get to your order when your payment goes all the way through” or “Hey, got your email – I’m swamped so I’ll get to it within X amount of days,” I emailed again Saturday night asking to be contacted immediately since I paid for a product on Thursday and had heard nothing from the seller about it. For all I knew, I was sending money to a dummy account and talking to thin air.

Finally, this person gets back to me Sunday and states they received my order, but that the site states they don’t work weekends and it’s obviously a weekend. Never mind the fact that my order was sent on a Thursday, not the weekend. Anyway, this person did give me my cover, along with a snide comment, but I let it slide because this person also claimed to have been ill all week and couldn’t get to a computer. Okay, fine.

Letting this person’s attitude slide was the first mistake. The second mistake was ordering from this person again.

I went back, foolishly, thinking that that experience was probably just a blip – two people who have never interacted before just having different styles of communication. I think that when one is running a business where people are paying you for goods, if you’re going to be out of the office or away from your desk, then putting an out of office message up to let your customers know what’s going on is good service. I do it all the time both at my day job and when writing. But maybe that’s just me.

I ordered two covers from this designer Sunday night, got them Monday morning, and Monday afternoon I sent this person an email asking for a correction to one of the covers. Now, I sent this email because I thought I’d sent one earlier that morning asking for the correction, but checking my sent folder later that day, it hadn’t gone through. So I sent an apologetic email that afternoon saying I was sorry to be spammy (I wasn’t sure if this person had gotten the first message), but could this correction be made. I heard nothing from this person all week. Then, I get an email Friday morning, this person’s newsletter to be exact, and I was stunned. I’d heard nothing but radio silence from this person all week, but you’ve been in your email to send out your newsletter?

I couldn’t believe the rudeness. I’d checked my sent folder again, just to make sure my message hadn’t been swallowed by the iPhone Yahoo mail monster again – it was in my sent box. The message had gone through.

So what am I meant to take away from this? To me, it reeks of unprofessionalism and looks as if I’m being ignored. So I send another email asking where this person is and then ask about future covers, you know, trying to keep the conversation cordial and businesslike. Hours pass and I’m up early into the morning doing research on cover designers and find a few that are cost effective and good. I decide then that I no longer want to be bothered with this other designer any longer so I email asking to be taken off the mailing list.

Well, this morning I wake up to a page-long rant from this person that I stopped reading the minute this person referred to me as “missy.” First of all, no one is going to come out of their face and condescend to me that way. Period. I don’t care who you are and what you do – when I approach you courteously, you approach me in the same manner or don’t approach me at all. It’s that simple.

But in the beginning of this epic rant, this person went on to say they never received the email I “claimed” to send so I forwarded the exact message back and pointed out if the message hadn’t gone through, and this person genuinely didn’t get it, that’s all they needed to say. The nasty and belligerent tone wasn’t necessary. I would have apologized for my mistake and moved on, but I let this person know that their response to me was all the confirmation I needed that I made the right choice in cutting ties with this person.

So the designer sends me another email minutes later with my corrections – and another 50,000 word rant that I didn’t even bother to read. I thanked this person for the corrections and said that once again, they proved how completely unprofessional they were by their response. All this person needed to do was either a) move on (as I did – I wasn’t even expecting to get the correction at this point and figured I’d hire someone else to fix the cover) or b) send me my corrections with no message attached.

This person chose to act like a butthurt three-year-old because I asked to be removed from a mailing list. Now, I could have avoided this entire situation if I had done my homework before interacting with this person. This designer posts on a board I frequent and is constantly getting into Internet skirmishes with people who post things this person doesn’t agree with. I was actually very appalled by this behavior when I discovered it yesterday because if you’re trying to promote your business to indie writers, fighting with them over nonsense isn’t the way to go about it. Again, it smacks of an unprofessional person. If I had seen these posts prior to yesterday, I would have taken my business elsewhere.

The real capper came a couple of hours ago. I’d told this person to stop contacting me, that our business was through. This person sends me yet another email (although, this one wasn’t the length of War and Peace so I guess I should be thankful for small favors) telling me that they are apart of a mailing list of other cover designers and this designer has told them about me, calling me “Rude, unprofessional, and not worth the time,” or some other such nonsense, and then basically threatens me by saying none of the designers in the business will ever work with me. This person then signs off, “Good luck.”

I was livid. I was shaking, I was so pissed, but you know what my response was? “Wow! Very classy.” And that’s it. I couldn’t say anything else or stoop down to this person’s immature level and I’m not going to let someone bring me to that point. It’s not worth it.

Moral of this story? Vet the people you do business with before any money changes hands. Seriously. Save yourself the headache.

Now I’m off to go ogle the beautifully weird cover I just received from another, highly respected indie cover artist this afternoon. It’s awesome and the designer was fast, courteous, and professional. Love it.

UPDATE: The person she was talking about has emailed her once again. The email has been deleted with no response and was not read. We’re looking into blocking the email address from coming to Indie Spirit Press’s account and if we receive anymore unwelcome correspondence after asking said person not to contact this company’s email box again, we will look into filing harassment charges. Internet stalking is NOT okay, folks.