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.
The dining room was empty. There were dragons – dragon ashtrays, dragon statues, dragons carved into posts. In a remarkably misguided attempt at décor, there was also a profusion of mirrors. The result was upsetting.
What could put an end to the worst of the internet? Social and economic collapse would do it, or perhaps a series of antitrust cases followed by a package of hard regulatory legislation that would somehow also dismantle the internet’s fundamental profit model. At this point it’s clear that collapse will almost definitely come first. Barring that, we’ve got nothing except our small attempts to retain our humanity.
ANGEL: Here’s your big chance, baby. What would you like to ask the Angel of the Lord?
MARISOL (Energized): Are you real? Are you true? Are you gonna make the Bronx safe for me? Is it true angels’ favorite food is Thousand Island dressing? Is it true your shit smells like mangoes and when you’re drunk you speak Portuguese?
ANGEL: Honey, last time I was drunk…
(Marisol gets a sudden, horrifying realization.)
MARISOL: Wait a minute – am I dead?
“Now, because it’s his birthday and he wasn’t supposed to make it this far, he asked that we throw him a bash, like the old Augusta blowouts, and he asked that at midnight we shoot him dead.”
I stared at him. He didn’t waver.
“We figure you’re the best guy to do it,” he said, slapping a hand on my shoulder.
“I’ve never even shot a gun,” I said.
He pulled up my shirt and took the gun from the back of my pants. “It’s pretty basic. Point and pull. You’ve seen the movies.” He aimed the pistol at the portrait of the old man, said “Bang” and faked the recoil, then blew imaginary smoke from the barrel.
I
What a lucky beast I am,
when he cleans up nice
and nicks his perfect face.
I get to lick that face,
when he lets me.
In the cut’s opening
I get a taste of him
from the inside
out, which is all I have
ever wanted,
to be cell-close
to him. Praise the razor’s
overzealous arm;
the ease
with which it finds tenderness
in this man.
ANTHONY
I’m sorry, sir.
I don’t think I understand.
MATT
She took her kid and left in the middle of the night.
To go where?
She’s in the middle of the desert.
ANTHONY
Sir, if I may.
MATT
You may.
ANTHONY
Her leaving
What does any of that have to do with us?
MATT
What does that have to do with us?
We did that, Anthony.
We broke that family up.
A moment.
MATT
Do you not understand that?
ANTHONY
It doesn’t matter what I understand, sir.
The dining room was empty. There were dragons – dragon ashtrays, dragon statues, dragons carved into posts. In a remarkably misguided attempt at décor, there was also a profusion of mirrors. The result was upsetting.
What could put an end to the worst of the internet? Social and economic collapse would do it, or perhaps a series of antitrust cases followed by a package of hard regulatory legislation that would somehow also dismantle the internet’s fundamental profit model. At this point it’s clear that collapse will almost definitely come first. Barring that, we’ve got nothing except our small attempts to retain our humanity.
ANGEL: Here’s your big chance, baby. What would you like to ask the Angel of the Lord?
MARISOL (Energized): Are you real? Are you true? Are you gonna make the Bronx safe for me? Is it true angels’ favorite food is Thousand Island dressing? Is it true your shit smells like mangoes and when you’re drunk you speak Portuguese?
ANGEL: Honey, last time I was drunk…
(Marisol gets a sudden, horrifying realization.)
MARISOL: Wait a minute – am I dead?
“Now, because it’s his birthday and he wasn’t supposed to make it this far, he asked that we throw him a bash, like the old Augusta blowouts, and he asked that at midnight we shoot him dead.”
I stared at him. He didn’t waver.
“We figure you’re the best guy to do it,” he said, slapping a hand on my shoulder.
“I’ve never even shot a gun,” I said.
He pulled up my shirt and took the gun from the back of my pants. “It’s pretty basic. Point and pull. You’ve seen the movies.” He aimed the pistol at the portrait of the old man, said “Bang” and faked the recoil, then blew imaginary smoke from the barrel.
I
What a lucky beast I am,
when he cleans up nice
and nicks his perfect face.
I get to lick that face,
when he lets me.
In the cut’s opening
I get a taste of him
from the inside
out, which is all I have
ever wanted,
to be cell-close
to him. Praise the razor’s
overzealous arm;
the ease
with which it finds tenderness
in this man.
ANTHONY
I’m sorry, sir.
I don’t think I understand.
MATT
She took her kid and left in the middle of the night.
To go where?
She’s in the middle of the desert.
ANTHONY
Sir, if I may.
MATT
You may.
ANTHONY
Her leaving
What does any of that have to do with us?
MATT
What does that have to do with us?
We did that, Anthony.
We broke that family up.
A moment.
MATT
Do you not understand that?
ANTHONY
It doesn’t matter what I understand, sir.