Whiting Award Winners
Since 1985, the Foundation has supported creative writing through the Whiting Awards, which are given annually to ten emerging writers in fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and drama.
If anything is endangered in America it is our experience of wild nature—gross contact. There is knowledge only the wild can give us, knowledge specific to the experience of it. These are its gifts to us. In this, wilderness is no different from music, painting, poetry, or love: you concede the abundance and try to respond with grace.
I found a white stone on the beach
inlaid with a blue-green road I could not follow.
All night I’d slept in fits and starts,
my only memory the in-out, in-out, of the tide.
And then morning. And then a walk,
the white stone beckoning, glinting in the sun.
I felt its calm power as I held it
and wished a wish I cannot tell.
It fit in my hand like a hand gently
holding my hand through a sleepless night.
A stone so like, so unlike,
all the others it could only be mine.
The worldess white stone of my life!
After some time my husband reached over to hold my hand, which reminded me that at least there was this, at least we still had hands that remembered how to love each other, two bone-and-flesh flaps that hadn't complicated their simple love by speaking or thinking or being disappointed or having memories. They just held and were held and that is all. Oh, to be a hand.
I’m good enough to get the once-over in the bar at The Restaurant, I see them thinking my
smallness is appealing, my ass and face are cute enough, I see them thinking that short haircut
might be sexy. I’m always in a backless cocktail dress and heels, I’m flat chested and a tad
muscular so they ask me if I’m a dancer and say Call me sometime, let’s have a drink. It took
me a while to understand you’re supposed to work that for your money but you can let the
willingness fall right off your face when you turn around. It took me a while to understand that of
course men fling their entreaties out in swarms, like schools of sperm, hoping one will stick.
THERESA
I’m worried she’ll be a fish out of water.
ROBERTA
When do we meet her? When’re they movin’?
THERESA
Not now. Soon. We’ll see. They’re waiting to see if Mingjing can transfer jobs.
ROBERTA puts down her cookie.
ROBERTA
What’s her name?
THERESA
Minjung.
ROBERTA
Theresa.
THERESA sips tea.
THERESA
She’s in architecture, works for a big firm out there
ROBERTA
(indicating the under-eye skin) Those dark circles, no wonder.
THERESA
But she might give it up and teach.
ROBERTA
You seen her only once?
THERESA
Tim never said any—why would I think
ROBERTA
Such a rush.
THERESA
My brain’s exploded.
ROBERTA
I knew it: how far gone is she?
Note: A male actor plays the roles of both THERESA and her son TIM. A second male actor plays the roles of both ROBERTA and her son ROBBIE.
Panther. Painter. Puma. Cougar. Mountain lion. Whatever you want to call it, by the end of October, half a dozen more people claim they have caught a glimpse of it: a pale sliver in the distance, a flash of fur through the trees. In the woods, hunters linger in their tree stands, hoping they might be the next. In the houses, the big cat creeps nightly, making the rounds of dinner tables and dreams.
If anything is endangered in America it is our experience of wild nature—gross contact. There is knowledge only the wild can give us, knowledge specific to the experience of it. These are its gifts to us. In this, wilderness is no different from music, painting, poetry, or love: you concede the abundance and try to respond with grace.
I found a white stone on the beach
inlaid with a blue-green road I could not follow.
All night I’d slept in fits and starts,
my only memory the in-out, in-out, of the tide.
And then morning. And then a walk,
the white stone beckoning, glinting in the sun.
I felt its calm power as I held it
and wished a wish I cannot tell.
It fit in my hand like a hand gently
holding my hand through a sleepless night.
A stone so like, so unlike,
all the others it could only be mine.
The worldess white stone of my life!
After some time my husband reached over to hold my hand, which reminded me that at least there was this, at least we still had hands that remembered how to love each other, two bone-and-flesh flaps that hadn't complicated their simple love by speaking or thinking or being disappointed or having memories. They just held and were held and that is all. Oh, to be a hand.
I’m good enough to get the once-over in the bar at The Restaurant, I see them thinking my
smallness is appealing, my ass and face are cute enough, I see them thinking that short haircut
might be sexy. I’m always in a backless cocktail dress and heels, I’m flat chested and a tad
muscular so they ask me if I’m a dancer and say Call me sometime, let’s have a drink. It took
me a while to understand you’re supposed to work that for your money but you can let the
willingness fall right off your face when you turn around. It took me a while to understand that of
course men fling their entreaties out in swarms, like schools of sperm, hoping one will stick.
THERESA
I’m worried she’ll be a fish out of water.
ROBERTA
When do we meet her? When’re they movin’?
THERESA
Not now. Soon. We’ll see. They’re waiting to see if Mingjing can transfer jobs.
ROBERTA puts down her cookie.
ROBERTA
What’s her name?
THERESA
Minjung.
ROBERTA
Theresa.
THERESA sips tea.
THERESA
She’s in architecture, works for a big firm out there
ROBERTA
(indicating the under-eye skin) Those dark circles, no wonder.
THERESA
But she might give it up and teach.
ROBERTA
You seen her only once?
THERESA
Tim never said any—why would I think
ROBERTA
Such a rush.
THERESA
My brain’s exploded.
ROBERTA
I knew it: how far gone is she?
Note: A male actor plays the roles of both THERESA and her son TIM. A second male actor plays the roles of both ROBERTA and her son ROBBIE.
Panther. Painter. Puma. Cougar. Mountain lion. Whatever you want to call it, by the end of October, half a dozen more people claim they have caught a glimpse of it: a pale sliver in the distance, a flash of fur through the trees. In the woods, hunters linger in their tree stands, hoping they might be the next. In the houses, the big cat creeps nightly, making the rounds of dinner tables and dreams.