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The July 2001 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

"Explain to me again why you cut off the votes for July at noon and let the January Awards run until midnight?"

What could I do besides sigh? I'd told my Muse my reasoning at least a dozen times (okay, three) and she still didn't see the point.

"I want to 'cast a streaming video of the awards presentation," I patiently explained, "and I want each presentation to be unique and special for the winners."

She looked at me strangely. "And you think a streaming video of you holding a little statuette of a naked silver woman and certificate varnished onto a grey piece of wood is going to make a lasting impression, or increase the thrill of victory?"

"It's called 'sharing the joy.' It was, like, Delta's last request. And shared joy is multiplied." Maybe I was spending too much time lurking at Alt.Callahans.

"Have you advertised this event on ASSD?"

Oops. "No, but the whole of ASSD is waiting eagerly for the awards presentation, and they'll see the post and the link and want to see the presentation." I heard a touch of defensiveness in my own voice.

"You just couldn't think of another place to hold the presentation as nice as the Conch Train," she accused. And whose fault was that, anyway. She is my Muse, after all.

"I heard that! I suggested the top of the 'Eiffel Tower' at King's Dominion."

I tend to forget that Muses read minds. So she'll also get that I'm thinking that freezing temperatures in a closed (for the season) amusement park don't make for a "rewarding" experience, either.

"It's a July award. I would have made the temperatures appropriate and the park open."

"You could do that?" She could do that. Muses are magical. She just smiled in response. Why hadn't I asked sooner?

She answered that one. "You were preoccupied with Fred," she said. I glanced at the carcass of my old computer. "You usually start writing these awards presentations, at least the background, as soon as you announce the finalists."

"You really don't like the idea of the streaming video?"

"No. And you're already way behind - you're not even dressed."

"So I should just announce the winner, apologise, and move on?"

She rolled her eyes. "You don't apologise. Your presentation isn't what makes the Silver Clitorides Award special to the recipient - it's the fact that their fans and other writers cared enough to vote for their stories. The Author shared the story, then the readers shared the story - and that's the joy."

"You mean I could just sit here in my bathrobe at the keyboard and type, 'The winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for July, 2001 is Why The Bride Was Late by Oosh' and she'd enjoy the award just as much as if I had gathered a crowd at the top of a 1/3 scale Eiffel Tower?"

"Well," she smiled tolerantly, "you might have left out the bathrobe and included a link to http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/oosh/www/whybride.html to let people know where to find it. And you might consider adding your congratulations."

"No streaming video?"

"No streaming video."

"Can I at least make jokes about how difficult it must be to walk with all those silver and gold clitties?"

"No."

"But..."

"NO." Fine!

So, here I am sitting without my bathrobe at the keyboard, typing:

It is my pleasure to announce that the winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the Best Story of the month of July, 2001 is "Why The Bride Was Late" by Oosh. Congratulations and Well Done!

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The August, September, October and November 2001 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep...

By general invitation to all the authors, their friends and family, and their fans, the campgrounds have filled up to near capacity. The facilities range from primitive to civilized. There are pup tents, family tents, pop-up campers, and recreational vehicles. There are even a customized bus and a charter bus (Oosh's fans, or so the rumor goes.)

In a central clearing, a bonfire blazes in the middle of a cleared area. Barrels of water are off to one side for firefighting if need be. The fire is at the hollow of a natural bowl, and logs are set on the slopes to form a sort of amphitheater. The logs are mostly occupied, although a steady stream of people wanders back and forth to the bathrooms and showers.

Authors and fans alike have been swapping ghost stories around the bonfire while waiting for the final tally of the Silver Clitoride voting. Some have been toasting marshmallows or making smores. A flash of skin at the edge of the woods indicates that not all of the revelers are around the fire. Indeed, one of the RVs is a-rockin' (no one's a-knockin, but that could change at any time with this group.)

Gary steps before the bonfire and yells for attention. In his left hand, he holds a small silver trophy; his right holds a certificate suitable for framing. It must be suitable - it's in a pine frame with a matte border. Before he can yell a second time, a trio of streakers bursts from the woods and passes between him and the assembled throng. It does nothing to quiet the hooting and hollering, but it does serve to bring attention to the front. He holds the trophy over his head and the cacaphony dies off until the sound of the flames and the crackle of the fire can be heard.

Into that relative silence, Gary announces, "I have the results of the voting. I know it's late and a lot of us are tired, so I'll just read them off, and the winners can come up afterward and pick up their trophies and certificates." He raises the trophy higher and lifts the framed certificate as well. Scattered clapping mixes with tired murmurs and slowly trails off.

He lowers the trophy and frame. Reading a note taped to the back of the frame, he says, "The Silver Clitoride for the Best Story of the Month of August, 2001, goes to 'Til Death Do Us Part' by Desdmona."

He waits patiently for the clapping and whistling to abate. It isn't reduced by the streakers transitting once again, their number swollen to five, but eventually it is low enough to continue.

"The Silver Clitty for the Best Story of the Month of September, 2001, goes to 'Business Class' by Wiseguy." Once again the noise level rises, encouraged by yet another passage of the eleven streakers.

When he can again be heard, Gary observes, "I suppose we have our own form of Dangling Chads" to much tittering and snickering. "The Silver Clit for October goes to..." he pauses to sip from a Diet Coke can held by his Muse's sockpuppet. "Where was I? Oh, yes. The Month of October, 2001, belongs to 'War Secret' by Oosh."

An entire section of the amphitheater erupts in cheering and squeels of delight. Oosh's fans are legion and vocal. In the firelight, someone (possibly Oosh herself) is being carried away. In all fairness, lots of people are getting carried away, especially the twenty or so naked runners now headed for the lake for a little midnight skinny-dipping.

When the crowd once again achieves a level of composure, Gary announces the final award. "In the most closely contested heat, the Best Story of the Month of November, 2001, goes to 'The Way to Pitsburgh' by Mat Twassel. A shift of a single vote could have created a four-way tie. As it is, Mat's story was judged the best of an excellent crop by his friends and fans."

Standing so close to the fire, Gary is giving serious thought to joining the streakers in the lake. But he has one last duty to perform. "Those of you who are leaving tonight, please drive safely. Those who are staying in camp tonight, please stick around in the morning long enough to police the area." He pauses for the boos and catcalls. "In either case, I want to thank you all for participating."

One month later:

A haze slowly coalesces into what appears to be a jeep with a locomotive body connected to a chain of carts with seats and a surry top. Painted on the "engine" are the words "Conch Train". A flag rising from the back of the jeep proudly proclaims the Conch Republic. All the seats on the "train" are filled with confused people.

"Hi, I'm Gary Jordan and I'd like to welcome you Ladies, Gentlemen, and Others, to the Conch Train, Key West, Florida's 90 minute tour of the sights of Key West, and for today only, host of the December Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation. Many of you already know the driver -er, engineer, Louis the Leprechaun, but for those who don't, I've provided links at the bottom of the presentation for your enjoyment.

"If you look to the passengers seated around you, you might be startled to recognize them from Father Ignatious' ASSDer's Mental Images Page. That's why I'm wearing this silly 'crackerjack' sailor suit, for example, and looking so much younger than my AARP Card would imply.

"If you don't recognize the person next to you, chances are you're surrounded by fans and readers. Be polite; one of them might be yours. And if you look very carefully at someone you have met or exchanged pictures with, you'll find them dissolving into the correct image, at short range."

Gary reaches into a briefcase and removes a trophy and a framed certificate. "Before we start the tour, I've a little old business to conduct. When I was receiving votes for the December Awards, there were so many that I decided to create subdirectories by storyname and save the e-mails voting for that story to that subdirectory. Then I could just count the e-mails instead of re-opening and re-reading each one."

The young sailor's cheeks gradually become more ruddy. "I decided to extend the scheme to the previous months as well. When I finished, I found that there was a teensy-weensy clerical error. Without further ado, the Co-winner of the November Silver Clitorides Award is Haunted by Jordan Shelbourne. Jordan, when we stop at Sloppy Joe's bar, let me buy you a beverage of your choice by way of apology."

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The December 2001 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

A haze slowly coalesces into what appears to be a jeep with a locomotive body connected to a chain of carts with seats and a surrey top. Painted on the "engine" are the words "Conch Train". A flag rising from the back of the jeep proudly proclaims the Conch Republic. All the seats on the "train" are filled with confused people.

"Hi, I'm Gary Jordan and I'd like to welcome you Ladies, Gentlemen, and Others, to the Conch Train, Key West, Florida's 90 minute tour of the sights of Key West, and for today only, host of the December Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation. Many of you already know the driver -er, engineer, Louis the Leprechaun, but for those who don't, I've provided links at the bottom of the presentation for your enjoyment.

"If you look to the passengers seated around you, you might be startled to recognize them from Father Ignatius' ASSDer's Mental Images Page. That's why I'm wearing this silly 'crackerjack' sailor suit, for example, and looking so much younger than my AARP Card would imply.

"If you don't recognize the person next to you, chances are you're surrounded by fans and readers. Be polite; one of them might be yours. And if you look very carefully at someone you have met or exchanged pictures with, you'll find them dissolving into the correct image, at short range."

Gary reaches into a briefcase and removes a trophy and a framed certificate. "Before we start the tour, I've a little old business to conduct. When I was receiving votes for the December Awards, there were so many that I decided to create subdirectories by story name and save the e-mails voting for that story to that subdirectory. Then I could just count the e-mails instead of re-opening and re-reading each one."

The young sailor's cheeks gradually become more ruddy. "I decided to extend the scheme to the previous months as well. When I finished, I found that there was a teensy-weensy clerical error. Without further ado, the Co-winner of the November Silver Clitorides Award is Haunted by Jordan Shelbourne. Jordan, when we stop at Sloppy Joe's bar, let me buy you a beverage of your choice by way of apology."

Muttering something about "hands on Volkswagons," the Leprechaun jams the transmission of the Conch Train's "engine" into gear, causing a lurch to travel to each successive car in the "train" in turn, and Gary hastily continues, "We're starting the tour now, so please keep your arms and legs and other protuberances inside the cars at all times.

"Since this is a magical train, we don't need to follow the normal tour path. We can skip some of the lesser sights and go straight to some of the more popular points. So let's see a show of hands. Who wants to see the Key West Aquarium?" A couple of hands. "The Turtle Kraals?" One extremely enthusiastic leg is raised and waving. "Sorry, Kenny, maybe later. The Hemingway House?" A definite majority of hands, wings, and other things rises. "Louis, if you please?"

The Conch Train lurches forward somewhat less than smoothly as a fog envelopes the coaches. "Since this is a magical train, we aren't constrained by matters of time or space; when we arrive, Papa will be inside working on one of his stories." Gary observes a number of eyes lighting up, some lips being licked, and at least one pair of panties being discarded. He rolls his eyes and reconsiders mentioning the old Cuban Bordello.

After 85 minutes of what is supposed to be a 90 minute tour, Gary rounds up the last of the wayward writers and instructs Louis to get them to Sloppy Joe's. The bar was prominently displayed in an old movie, "Beneath the 12-mile Reef". The conch train arrives after filming those scenes, but before the actors have left the island. Inside, Robert Wagner, Terry Moore, Gilbert Roland, Richard Boone, Peter Graves and J. Carrol Naish are rubbing elbows with some of the local wreckers and shrimpers.

"Before everyone gets too drunk to remember, I'd like to announce the winners of the December Silver Clitorides Awards," Gary hollers. The plural starts a general murmur, broken by Richard Boone yelling, "Silver Clit-rides? What kind of pussy award is that?"

Two trophies and two framed certificates in hand, Gary announces, "And the winners are... "Monsters by Alexis Siefert and Twelve Nights by Wiseguy!"

Gary shakes Wiseguy's hand and kisses Alexis' cheek as they take their awards. The authors are swept away in a crowd of congratulatory handshakes, kisses, pinches, backslaps and buttslaps. Gary searches out Jordan Shelbourne for that conciliatory drink, as the bar fades into haze...

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/MariaGonzales/www/ fantasy/passengers.html

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/MariaGonzales/www/ fantasy/intro.html

http://www.conchtourtrain.com/FrontPage.htm

http://www.conchtourtrain.com/Images/ map%20(Large).jpg

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Images.html

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