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.

Mourning Doves
Stories

Annalee is sorting through a box of seed packets. She has a swollen lip; her boyfriend punched her this morning because she had run out of bacon. She walks over to Wynn’s truck and inspects her lips in the sideview mirror. “It’s really strange to have somebody hit you,” she says. “When I was in high school, a boy hit me once and I remember thinking, If he hits me again I’m going to kill him. Then he hit me again and I didn’t do anything.”

Fauna and Flora, Earth and Sky
Brushes with Nature's Wisdom

In the shed the cow lies upside down mooing weakly. The men hang droplights from the ridgepole, and keeping her on her back, they spread her front and hind legs in opposite directions, tying them to opposite walls so she can’t kick. Kneeling over her swollen belly holding something that looks like a miniature fire extinguisher, the vet sprays her with antiseptic. The cow’s eyes roll, the whites showing, and she lets out faint moans, ever dwindling protests of pain and fear.

 

Used courtesy of the University of Iowa Press

Inheritance: Poems

If there is a ground, then there are bodies beneath it.

 

If the bodies know my name, then I am said to be protected.

 

If I am spoken for, then I could've died a number of times.

 

If I am still here, then I am speaking for the dirt.

 

If there is dirt, then there is my mouth wet and ripe with questions.

I'm Always So Serious: Poems

        The husband joins his wife near the olive
shaded lamp and quails


        as his raving lover seizes the neck of
the fixture. I shudder in the passenger seat of


        this city, far enough to not be heard but a light shines
bright and I am seen, sleuthing and serious. I know


        close violences still form in the absence of want.
I keep walking as the husband shuts the blinds.

Rainbow Remnants in Rock Bottom Ghetto Sky
Poems

Long ago a fish forgot what fins were good for

And flew out of the stream

It was not dreaming

It had no ambition but confusion

 

In Nova Scotia it lies on ice in the sun

and its eye turns white and pops out like a pearl

when it’s broiled

 

The Titanic is the one that got away.

The Sorrows of Others: Stories

Prancing down the building’s stairs, Hui concentrated again on the boy who had stopped returning her calls. Acknowledging another’s pain obscured one’s own. Hui wasn’t ready yet to accept that. From the window, Meng watched her granddaughter walk up the tree-lined street. The old woman’s longing was like that of a child, featuring prominently in her eyes, which captured that spirit from her youth. It would have been easy for anyone to picture what she had looked like back then, if anyone had been there.

Mourning Doves
Stories

Annalee is sorting through a box of seed packets. She has a swollen lip; her boyfriend punched her this morning because she had run out of bacon. She walks over to Wynn’s truck and inspects her lips in the sideview mirror. “It’s really strange to have somebody hit you,” she says. “When I was in high school, a boy hit me once and I remember thinking, If he hits me again I’m going to kill him. Then he hit me again and I didn’t do anything.”

Fauna and Flora, Earth and Sky
Brushes with Nature's Wisdom

In the shed the cow lies upside down mooing weakly. The men hang droplights from the ridgepole, and keeping her on her back, they spread her front and hind legs in opposite directions, tying them to opposite walls so she can’t kick. Kneeling over her swollen belly holding something that looks like a miniature fire extinguisher, the vet sprays her with antiseptic. The cow’s eyes roll, the whites showing, and she lets out faint moans, ever dwindling protests of pain and fear.

 

Used courtesy of the University of Iowa Press

Inheritance: Poems

If there is a ground, then there are bodies beneath it.

 

If the bodies know my name, then I am said to be protected.

 

If I am spoken for, then I could've died a number of times.

 

If I am still here, then I am speaking for the dirt.

 

If there is dirt, then there is my mouth wet and ripe with questions.

I'm Always So Serious: Poems

        The husband joins his wife near the olive
shaded lamp and quails


        as his raving lover seizes the neck of
the fixture. I shudder in the passenger seat of


        this city, far enough to not be heard but a light shines
bright and I am seen, sleuthing and serious. I know


        close violences still form in the absence of want.
I keep walking as the husband shuts the blinds.

Rainbow Remnants in Rock Bottom Ghetto Sky
Poems

Long ago a fish forgot what fins were good for

And flew out of the stream

It was not dreaming

It had no ambition but confusion

 

In Nova Scotia it lies on ice in the sun

and its eye turns white and pops out like a pearl

when it’s broiled

 

The Titanic is the one that got away.

The Sorrows of Others: Stories

Prancing down the building’s stairs, Hui concentrated again on the boy who had stopped returning her calls. Acknowledging another’s pain obscured one’s own. Hui wasn’t ready yet to accept that. From the window, Meng watched her granddaughter walk up the tree-lined street. The old woman’s longing was like that of a child, featuring prominently in her eyes, which captured that spirit from her youth. It would have been easy for anyone to picture what she had looked like back then, if anyone had been there.