Death to critics

Over the past few weeks, the Ontario-based publisher Biblioasis has been running a contest called Revenge Lit, in which authors were invited to submit 250-word tales about the murder of a literary critic. (The contest was created to promote Terry Griggs’ new mystery novel Thought You Were Dead, which kicks off with a freelance critic meeting an untimely demise.) The winner hasn’t been chosen as of yet, but all of the submissions have been posted online.

Some of the stories are essentially just venting, but others display moments of solid inspiration. Virginia Winters’ untitled piece wins the prize for best opening line: “The [chalk] outline looked like his ego: bloated, empty, one accusing hand outstretched.” We also liked the basic idea behind Charles Schaeffer’s “Leaping to Conclusions,” which posits that John Wilkes Booth wasn’t actually aiming to shoot Lincoln, but a New York Times critic one box over.

Two of the strongest entries, however, belong to RW Morgan and Ken Duffin. From Morgan’s “Little Guys Don’t Count”:

“Why are you so upset with me?”

Was he dense? “You wouldn’t review the book! We can’t get into the stores now. She’s the best author we ever published – we put everything we had into it. I know we’re a small company, but you could have at least looked at it. We’re ruined!”

“It’s not just me. All reviewers do the same thing. A book needs to fit our standards [...] We look at the size of the publisher, the amount of money spent on promotions, the number of booked interviews, the scope of the campaign. We try to weigh the potential impact on the media. It’s a calculated strategy.”

I pulled out my tape measure. I was ready. Woody sounded concerned for the first time. I think he finally got it. “What are you measuring?”

“Your coffin.”

And from Duffin’s “The Tell-Tale Parts”:

“Byron Lunquist,” he called out. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Julius Pinkle.” Lunquist, clad only in pajama bottoms and tanning ointment, asked the sergeant what had given it away.

“Pinkle was sporting radioactive dye in his nether bits. He’d had a scan the day before. Your dog’s wearing the evidence,” he said. “Plus,” he noted, pointing to the nicely decorated spruce, “you’ve used Pinkle’s head as a tree topper.”

It was safe to say that the Sergeant could appreciate symbolism and irony as much as the next guy.