The February 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

Gary looks around him at the milling writers and fans. Everyone seems to be having a good time, although there are lots of knots of people gathering in cliques, whether by acquaintence or genre. He rolls the hot dogs on the grill and flips a few burgers, careful not to let the animal fat contaminate the vegetarian burgers on their side of the grill.

Several of the crowd are standing with varying degrees of impatience, concealed with equal variance, buns in hand. Breadrolls, that is, although there are plenty of hands on buns tonight. Urfe and spin are having another heated discussion, punctuated by feinting hot dogs and riposted by bear bottles. Had they gone the turkey dog route? The vegetarian franks? Who could keep track?

He stayed busy a while longer, dishing out the meat (or meat substitute) until no one was left in line. He checks the condiments one last time, noting that the pretzels are all but gone from the snack trays. The piles of double-fudge chocolate brownies have been a memory for half the cookout.

Although liquid refreshments were BYOB, he retrieves a Diet Pepsi from a 55-gallon drum of ice to slake his own thirst. (Good word, slake; it just seems more fitting than "quench" or "satisfy.") Looking around, he notes a nude woman with a swan-like neck on a spread blanket with some of the other writers by the duck pond.

Another contingent is sparring with shiny swords around the horshshoe pits, chainmail jingling and armor clanking. "It's joust about time for the presentation," he calls to them. A shower of peanuts answers.

Nevertheless, the crowds gather round, as he stands on a chair and rips the end off the sealed envelope. There are groans as he steps down to retrieve the statuette and framed certificate. Once again on the chair, he clears his throat, and the crowd's murmur softens again.

"The Silver Clitoride Award for the Best Story of the month of February, 2002, goes to..." He pauses for another sip of soda. More peanuts indicate that the dramatic pause is NOT appreciated. "... 'The Eve of Victory' by Oosh. Congratulations again, Oosh!"

A sizeable contingent attempts to lift Oosh to their shoulders to accept the award, but have difficulty, since Oosh is one of those in full plate armor for the event. Instead, Gary makes his way to her, shaking her mailed glove and passing the trophy and placque to one of her squires.

He returns to the grills, where he spends the time until the last of the revellers has sla... er, satisfied their hunger. Nothing like a good dejeuner sur l'herbe to make an event successful.