The April 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

I felt my Muse's hand on my shoulder as she looked at the words I was typing on the screen:

"'Twas sautig and the erogists did wribble covingly on their worps."

She picked up the wine bottle on my computer desk and examined the label. "Chathouse Portmanteau '01?" she asked the air. Cautiously, she sniffed the bottle, setting it suspiciously aside.

She shuddered. "Please, please tell me I did not inspire this... this..."

"It's poetry," I supplied.

"Then your licence is revoked!" she returned.

"Ah HA!" I exclaimed. "I told Denny that spelling for license came from somewhere logical. Um, what license?"

Muse just rolled her eyes. Oh. That license.

"Look, you can't revoke my license... er, licence right now - I'm doing this to honor the winner of the April Silver Clitty!"

"I thought you had arranged guest presenters for this month. Willy something and that bartender woman."

"Mr. Crystal and Ms. Goldberg withdrew because of the death threats."

"Death Threats?!"

"Yeah. When they found out what kind of writing we honored, they wanted to quit. I kept threatening to kill myself if they did. They said it was a deal, and left."

"And you think that jabber you were typing will honor the honoree?" She shook her head. "I guess I'll have to save your bacon again," she sighed. She snapped her fingers.

I looked around. Under a single spot, the winner of this month's award was reading his work aloud, accompanied by a bongo drum. At tiny tables all around, authors and fans gazed on behind cheap sunglasses, sipping espresso. Although I saw only a few lit, the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke.

Through that haze, it was difficult to pick out any particular writer. The "Maynard G. Krebs" look was popular with men; ratty grey sweatshirts, chinos, sandals. A "Mary Tyler Moore" look was more popular with the women; black leotards, turtlenecks and sandals.

Just then, the featured artist completed his reading, to the sound of fingers snapping everywhere. Based on past experience, I kept expecting to disappear, and reapprear elsewhere, but the muses were restraining themselves.

I went to the front, holding the statuette of Argent Tina aloft. I handed that and the usual framed certificate to Alexander Renault for "Shannon's Shadow". I may have said, "Way to go, daddy-o," or some similar '50's expression of congratulation. Dig?

There were finger snaps in abundance, but one particular set returned me to my computer keyboard, still wearing a sweatshirt reeking of stale tobacco and espresso. I turned to my Muse.

She made a turtleneck and leotards look damned good, and the twinkle in her eye was visible even through the dark glasses. She pointed at the keyboard. "One thing left to do."

Right. Wrap it up. "Congratulations to Alexander Renault's "Shannon's Shadow", voted best story of the month of April, 2002. And congratulations to all the nominees and finalists, as well. We experienced the highest total vote count of this year - you can all be proud, and prouder still of the comment that accompanied so many votes: 'It was close between X and Y, but I decided to go with X.' Another great crop of stories all around."