Get your Nevermore kick

Sadly, Partners & Crime — aka my bookselling alma mater — won’t be doing the full-scale version of their annual Nevermore Awards (which usually take place the night before the Edgars) because of the MWA’s 60th Anniversary Special. Instead, the store is going for something a little smaller, with drinks and snacks and light schmoozing. But for those faithful who were hoping to make their own voices heard in the “Better Dead than Read” contest, have no fear, for that’s still happening.

The deadline to submit is Monday, April 25, and the winners will be announced two days later. Details on what to submit and where appear after the jump.

BETTER DEAD THAN READ

CAN YOU DO WORSE?

Can You Write REALLY BAD PROSE?
Can You Combine CLICHÉ, BANALITY, and THE GRACE OF A MACK TRUCK in one
TRULY TERRIBLE PARAGRAPH?
Then you, yes, YOU could win a coveted, prestigious
NEVERMORE AWARD
(not to mention fame and notoriety)
We all know it was a dark and stormy night — and now we want to know
more…

The Challenge: CAN YOU DO WORSE?

The Rules: Enter as many times as you like, in as many categories as you
like. All entries must include your name, your phone number, your email
address (if available), and the name of the entry’s category: COZY,
HISTORICAL, or HARD-BOILED

The Deadline: All entries are due by 2:00 pm on Monday, April 25.
Entries may be emailed to Partners & Crime (partners@crimepays.com{.moz-txt-link-abbreviated}) or
delivered to the store at 44 Greenwich Avenue, New York, NY 10011.

The Winners: Winning entries will be announced and read on NEVERMORE
NIGHT, Wednesday, April 27, at 7:30 pm. Winners not present at the
ceremony will be contacted, but we hope you will join us.

How to Enter: Write ONE opening paragraph for the world’s worst
hard-boiled mystery, the planet’s most tedious cozy mystery, or the most
tiresome historical mystery of the entire space-time continuum. We
welcome multiple entries — but only one paragraph per! Samples are
below, and we give extra credit for dreadful titles.

THE AWFUL COZY

Muffin McDade was sipping her first cup of pumpkin-vanilla-nut coffee
when the call came in. “Have you seen the damn paper?” shrieked Eleanor
Kinwhistle in her unmistakable drawl. Muffin sighed and thought, not for
the first time, that her cousin’s two-year stint at Ole Miss had a lot
to answer for. “That headline is the most insulting thing I have ever
seen,” Eleanor continued, still in operatic mode. “Fine Dining,’ it
says. ‘Fine Dining Comes to Little Clump Falls.’ Well, I’m sorry, but
the Hav-a-Snak has been providing extremely fine dining to the Little
Clump population for six and one half years now. Last week a couple came
all the way from Muhlenville for my lemon bars.” Eleanor sniffled
audibly, and then took a reviving – and noisy — bite of breakfast
pastry. “You’re the sheriff, and I shouldn’t be saying this,” she went
on, “but I swear, if that paper doesn’t print a retraction tomorrow,
blood is going to be shed. I mean what I say, Muffin, and I won’t be
held responsible. Blood is going to be shed.”

THE AWFUL HARD-BOILED

Twilight oozed through the city. It shadowed a million small betrayals.
It blanketed a billion silent acts of corruption. From his office in the
meatpacking district, Delray could have watched the sunset flaring
greasily across the Jersey sky. He could have but he didn’t. His eyes
were fixed on the bottle on his desk. One good slug’s worth beckoned at
the bottom. It glinted in the fading light. Another man’s hand might
have reached for the bottle. Another man’s fingers might at least have
twitched in its direction. But two tours in Nam had taught Delray the
value of control. His hands were still on his desk. After a minute, the
demon of his cravings was still as well. Yet again, Delray had conquered
the whiskey. Then Judith Steingarten knocked on the door.

THE AWFUL HISTORICAL

The clock in the church tower was striking eleven, and Fiona McCandless
still not abed. Mr. Labbring, the butler, would have her guts for
garters if he could see her at this moment – he had oft made it clear
that he didn’t approve of servants reading. Lor’, but he hadn’t half
made a face like a lemon when the trunk had arrived, scratched and
bulging with books. Fiona giggled at the memory, muffling the sound with
a handful of her own thick chestnut hair. But her giggles soon turned to
sobs. By rights, the trunk should be sitting in her brother Jamie’s
rooms, and she beside him as he read aloud from his prized volumes. But
Jamie had been lost at sea these sixteen months, and this shabby trunk,
these battered books, were all Fiona had left. With a pale, slender
finger she traced the cover of his favorite, The Poems of Mr. William
Shakespeare, and allowed herself to weep. Jamie gone, herself a scullery
maid…life was as bleak as the Yorkshire moors outside her attic
window. Sighing sadly, Fiona returned the book to the trunk, among its
beloved companions. So lost in sadness was she that she failed to note
the sheet of robin’s-egg-blue paper that floated free of its hiding
place behind the book’s loose binding, and drifted silently beneath
Fiona’s bed.

Remember: A NEVERMORE IS FOREVER!!!