Mr White, in the Dining Room, with the Pistol
June 27
It’s true that you never know what you’re going to find online. This week there’s been a lot of death, a lot of oozing blood, a lot of chalk outlines and a lot of smooth-talking neo-noir.
Canadian publisher Biblioasis has just wrapped up a 250-word flash fiction competition under the theme of ‘Revenge Lit’. The contest, which was created to promote Terry Griggs’ new novel Thought You Were Dead, awards $100 to the best story on the murder of a literary critic. Biblioasis have certainly cut into a good vein here, lots of angry, ranting writers equals lots of publicity for Griggs the new paperback. And, trust me, there is a lot of murderous intent out there. Critics get assassinated, crushed against brick walls, run over, stabbed in the neck with scissors, pushed off balconies and poisoned via 40 bunches of celery and a low-calorie vinaigrette.
Most of these are what you’d expect, bad imitations of James Ellroy or else coming across like fictionalised renditions of the game Cluedo. But there is funniness to be had from the cheesiness, and some amusing moments of tongue-in-cheek creativity (at least I hope it’s tongue-in-cheek).
Take for example this part of an untitled story by Virginia Winters: ‘The outline looked like his ego: bloated, empty, one accusing hand outstretched. I stood towards the back of the crowd in the tiny parking lot attached to my bookstore. Henry Adams Cuthbert lay dead. It sounded like the title of a detective novel, the kind he destroyed with his reviews. I turned away and walked back inside’.
Or this from No Parking by Gail Farrelly: ‘Her corpse has been wheeled out to the mortuary van, but the chalk outline of the literary critic’s tortured body remains on the blue rug as a creepy reminder for the ten members of my writing club… She would have liked today’s story. Except for the ending’.
And another entertaining yarn is Little Guys Don’t Count, by RW Morgan, extracted below:
Woody shifted and winced. He didn’t yell. For some reason, he decided to talk to me. “How did you get into publishing?”
What a strange conversation. He obviously handled stress better than I did. I was sure my blood pressure was rising. My voice cracked. “I—I—took out two loans on my house and even borrowed from our retirement fund. That company is my life.
Amazingly, he kept talking. “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!”
Woody ignored me. “We use a different yardstick now.”
“What do you measure?”
“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.”
All of the submissions have been published on the Revenge Lit blog. The winner is yet to be announced.
JA
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