Most Mischievous Imp Winner
I stand back and admire the last few finishing touches on the cake I just finished decorating. Ahhh, perfect.
In real life, I’m not great at cake decorating, or any kind of visual art really. But here in the InterFictionVerse, I am brilliant at it. The imps are going to love it. And besides, who cares if they didn’t get the most votes when there’s amazing cake for everyone that is both delicious AND beautiful?
But if I don’t hurry I’m going to be late to my own hostessing gig, so I scoop up the cake and hurry outside to put the cake on the table.
As I exit my house, I pause, a little dismayed at the sight before me.
I know the imps have a hard time focusing, but I wasn’t expecting this…
From one end of the yard to the other, they have set up a sort of enormous pergola that covers the entirety of the yard. Someone has managed to grow an incredible set of vines to creep up and cover the entire thing. There are also about a dozen different styles and colors of twinkly lights wrapping around the thing, which is more than a little distracting.
I glance at the banner… it is absolutely lovel…. oh wait… “MISCHEIVIOUS”?!?!? Did they spell it that way on purpose? I sigh. Why me?
I set the cake on the dessert table and take a breath. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Nobody knows how to spell that word anyway. Only the authors will notice. Right?
The chairs are starting to fill up, and everyone is smiling. It’s all very pleasant.
I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
As the moment arrives, I stride up to the microphone. I’ve watched many of these ceremonies throughout the years, and I am ready for anything.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, my voice filling my back yard and causing the crowd to quiet down. “Thank you all so much for coming to this, the final award ceremony of the 2024 Silmaril Awards!”
Much Applause
“It has been a lovely set of ceremonies thus far, and I’d love to keep it that way.” I say these last words firmly and stare meaningfully down at the front rows full of all the various mischievous characters who have been my highly entertaining house guests for the past 3 weeks. They stare back at me with the most beatifically innocent expressions, but I know better. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, indeed!
I glance around, wondering where the previous winners have gotten off to. They don’t appear to be in the crowd, but I distinctly remember seeing the Norse god of mischief arriving, along with a pair of red-headed twins, and a young boy all dressed in green. That combination cannot bode well for my back yard’s survival.
“It is my great pleasure to introduce you to your true hosts tonight, the gold standard of impishness, the wonderful, lovable duo that are responsible for this award category existing, the two characters most likely to make trouble in any land… Merry and Pippin!”
The audience roars with applause and cheers, and half the crowd stands up as two slightly tousled hobbits come out from behind the curtain of ivy and stand on either side of me.
“Hullo there.” Pippin grins at me. “Thanks for hosting. We wanted to get one of those grand cathedrals or ancient castles in England, but they were all booked solid.”
“Not to say your backyard isn’t lovely,” Merry assures me, glaring at Pippin. “And the lads have done a fine job, er, decorating.”
“Yes, yes they have.” I nod and smile, and hope the ivy will magically disappear later. We worked really hard this summer getting rid of all the weeds trying to take over. “Well, you know what to do, I’ll just…” I back away to a safe distance.
“I don’t think she trusts us, Pip,” Merry says in a jovial voice.
“But we promised to be the souls of calm this year,” Pippin replies in injured tones. “We learned a lot from our travels with the Fellowship. We’ve grown! We helped conquer Isengard! We single-handedly saved both Rohan AND Gondor! We are heroes. Who says we can only be imps? Who says we can’t grow?”
“Nobody says, that’s who,” Merry says firmly. “And we have a job to do.”
“Right,” Pippin clears his throat. “In fifth place, with seven votes… Carswell Thorne from the Lunar Chronicles!”
A handsome young man strides up to the stage. “That’s Captain Thorne,” he corrects them, but then he grins out at the audience. “And I agree with what you said. We can definitely change and grow. After all, that’s why the readers love us so much, isn’t it?”
“Definitely.” Merry nods. “In fourth place, with 17 votes, we have Eugenides from the Queen’s Thief!”
A hush fills the room, but nobody stands. Then, quiet as a shadow, a form drops down from the pergola, bows expansively, and hands something to Pippin.
“My pipe!” Pippin gasps. “How did you… it was just in my…” He digs into his empty pocket and then grins. “You are as good as they say, sir.”
Gen gives a little nod and steps back.
Pippin, still grinning broadly, says, “And in third place, with 23 votes, we have Gonff of Redwall!”
“Hear hear!” A plump little mouse bounds up onto the stage with an excess of energy. He twirls a flute in his little paws and plays a quick reel that soon has everyone tapping their feet. Then he bows with a flourish and stands quietly next to Thorne.
“In second place, with 27 votes,” Merry shouts, “Keefe Sencen from the Keeper of the Lost Cities!”
A tall young man bounds onto the stage and tosses his head. His blond hair is artfully messy, giving him a sort of innocent bad boy look, if such a thing is possible. He is wearing a school uniform, with the sleeves sloppily rolled up and the shirt untucked. He gives a lazy sort of grin that makes a row of girls off to one side give a collective sigh.
“Oh brother,” I mutter to myself.
“And finally, the winner of the 2024 Silmaril Award for the Most Mischievous Imp is….” Merry pauses dramatically.
“With 42 votes!” Pippin shouts.
“The Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland!” they call out together.
An enormous cat of somewhat indeterminate color strolls lazily onto the stage. He comes to stand next to Merry and Pippin and he grins out at the crowd. “An honor,” he whispers. “And not something I take for granted. For I know that you all, given one, you had either five or none.”
The hobbits exchange a confused glance for a minute, then Merry bursts out laughing.
“A choice, Pip, he’s talking about the vote!”
“Ah,” Pippin beams. “Yes, the ballots with five characters on them! Very good, Chesh. We like it. Do you have any more?”
“I might.” The cat licks his paw and then the crowd gasps as part of his body vanishes from sight, leaving only his smile and his twitching tail. “It belongs to me, but everyone else uses it.”
Silence reigns for a minute or two, then Pippin jumps up and down. “Your name!”
The cat’s body slowly rematerializes.
“And we might not know what’s in a name,” Merry says before Pippin can ask for any more riddles, “but we know yours. The Cheshire Cat, and Cheshire Cat means you. And you are the winner of this year’s Silmaril Award!” He pulls the Silmaril out of its mahogany box and drapes the ribbon over Cat’s head.
The audience stares, for truly, in the realm of men, never has such a wondrous sight been seen. The shining turquoise gem—but can such a brilliant stone truly be encompassed in so small a word?—sparkles with the light of a billion stars, like an entire galaxy lights it from within. The whole crowd is dazzled by it. The Cat becomes completely visible and solid for the first time, and even though he is a cat, he stares down at the Silmaril, momentarily transfixed by its light and beauty.
That’s my cue.
I hit a button, and the entire night sky above us fills with the most incredible fireworks show anyone has ever seen. The kind of fireworks you only see in fantasy movies, but never in real life. Fireworks that arrange themselves into pictures, and dance like living creatures. Music plays in time with the show, which can’t quite compare to the glory of the Silmaril, but is still a pretty spectacular end to another spectacular Silmaril Awards season. It is gorgeous, and not at all impish.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief.
My dear imps, they behaved themselves so wel—
The pergola erupts in a veritable volcano of brilliant fire that suddenly starts shooting out ivy-shaped green bursts of goo. A boy-shaped shadow swoops over the crowd, crowing like a rooster. The air fills with glittering gold dust. Most of the guests begin floating out of their seats, tumbling end over end as they flail to gain control of their newfound ability to fly.
I am clearly not having any happy thoughts, but this is only because I have just realized that my hair is on fire! However, once I realize that the fire isn’t hot, but merely terrifying, despite alternating between various pretty colors every couple of seconds. That’s when I notice Fred and George pointing and snickering and realize that this is just another one of their joke shop concoctions. I calm down a little bit, and my feet leave the ground. Ooh, flying! This is a happy thought indeed. Perhaps if I just fly away, someone else will clean up the mess below…
Everyone is starting to laugh and shout. Actually, as pranks go, this one isn’t so ba—
Something goes flying through the air and I gasp in dismay.
“My cake!”
I hope you’ve enjoyed this year’s Silmaril Awards! If you missed any of the ceremonies, you can go peruse through them at your leisure HERE.
Thanks for your nominations, votes, and all the support and enthusiasm you bring to this event every year. We couldn’t do it without you, dear Reader!
See you next year!