Search All Winners

Name Sort descending Genre Year
Michael Cunningham Fiction 1995
Charles D'Ambrosio Fiction 2006
Michael Dahlie Fiction 2010
J. D. Daniels Nonfiction 2016
Lydia Davis Fiction 1988
Nathan Alan Davis Drama 2018
Tyree Daye Poetry 2019
Connie Deanovich Poetry 1997
Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams Fiction 2013
Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams Nonfiction 2013
Jaquira Díaz Nonfiction 2020
Hernan Diaz Fiction 2019
LaTasha N. Nevada Diggs Poetry 2016
Trudy Dittmar Nonfiction 2003
Matt Donovan Poetry 2010
Mark Doty Poetry 1994
Marcia Douglas Fiction 2023
Jennifer duBois Fiction 2013
Bruce Duffy Fiction 1988
Steven Dunn Fiction 2021
Anaïs Duplan Nonfiction 2022
Pam Durban Fiction 1987
Stuart Dybek Fiction 1985
Gerald Early Nonfiction 1988
Russell Edson Poetry 1989
Louis Edwards Fiction 1994
Kim Edwards Fiction 2002
Erik Ehn Drama 1997
Gretel Ehrlich Nonfiction 1987
Nancy Eimers Poetry 1998
Deborah Eisenberg Fiction 1987
Thomas Sayers Ellis Poetry 2005
Jeffrey Eugenides Fiction 1993
Roger Fanning Poetry 1992
Anderson Ferrell Fiction 1996

Selected winners

Layli Long Soldier
2016
WHEREAS
Poems

I don't trust nobody

 

             but the land I said

 

I don't mean

 

present company

 

of course

 

you understand the grasses

 

hear me too always

 

present the grasses

 

confident grasses polite

 

command to shhhhh

 

shhh listen

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Denis Johnson
1986
Angels
A Novel

In the Oakland Greyhound all the people were dwarfs, and they pushed and shoved to get on the bus, even cutting in ahead of the two nuns, who were there first. The two nuns smiled sweetly at Miranda and Baby Ellen and played I-see-you behind their fingers when they’d taken their seats. But Jamie could sense that they found her make-up too thick, her pants too tight. They knew she was leaving her husband, and figured she’d turn for a living to whoring. She wanted to tell them what was what, but you can’t talk to a Catholic. The shorter nun carried a bright cut rose wrapped in her two hands.

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Lysley Tenorio
2008
Monstress
Stories

“Three words,” Gaz said. “Motion. Picture. History.” He got up, circled the table as he explained his movie: en route to Earth from a distant solar system, the crew of the Valedictorian crash-lands on a hostile planet inhabited by bat-winged pygmies, lobster-clawed cannibals, two-headed vampires. “That’s where your stuff comes in. I’m going to splice up your movies with mine.” He went on about the mixing-up of genres, chop-suey cinema, bringing together East and West. “We’d be the ambassadors of international film!”

 

“What’s your thinking on this?” Checkers asked me in Tagalog. “Is this man serious? Is he just an American fool?”

 

“Ask how much he’ll pay,” I said, “get twenty percent more, give him the movies, and show him to the door.”

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Scott Blackwood
2011
We Agreed to Meet Just Here
A Novel

He tried to swerve around her but, instead, went into a slide. The reds and yellows in the road stretched out. Cottonwood leaves roared in his head. His bowels shuddered. Even before he struck the girl and hurled her into the creek bed, he felt all the familiar habits of the world begin to recede.

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Tope Folarin
2021
A Particular Kind of Black Man
A Novel

   We had dozens of books. My father never bought us toys, and he always claimed that he was too broke to buy us new clothes, but somehow we each received at least three new books each month. Most of our books were nonfiction - short biographies, children’s encyclopedias, textbooks - because Dad was convinced that novels were for entertainment purposes only, and he always told us that we would have time for entertainment when we were old enough to make our own decisions. So Tayo and I would huddle in a single bed, his or mine, with a biography about George Washington, or a book about the invention of the telephone, and each of us would read a page and hand the flashlight over. 
  We eventually grew tired of these books, though, so we began to make up our own stories. Actually, Tayo made them up. Even though Tayo was younger than me, even though he looked up to me and followed me in every other part of our lives, he was a much better storyteller than I was. He was almost as good as Mom. 
     He always began: 
     “Once upon a time . . .”
 

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Marcia Douglas
2023
The Marvellous Equations of the Dread
A Novel in Bass Riddim

A prophet is never recognized in his own country, especially when that country has fallen into the mouths of dragons. Bob waves to a woman in a BMW across the street. It’s his lawyer, Christine. “Is me, Bob!” She closes the tinted windows and weaves through traffic. There was a time when BMW stood for Bob Marley and the Wailers. He thinks of the foolishness of that now.

            He returns to the park, searching for the boy from the night before. He wants to shine his shoes again, to see the light in his eyes from Africa reflected there. In the daylight, the park is different from how he remembered it, but the boy’s tree still leans, and there’s a man selling peanuts and asham.

            “You see the little youth that sleep inna the park?"

            "Which one?"

            “The one with the play-play guitar."

            “Oh, me remember him. Him in juvenile detention! Is a bad youth.”

            “No. Me see him last night.”

            “Him kill a Chinie man in August town. Man-slaughter."

            It doesn’t make sense. Bob has a feeling that he has stepped into the middle of someone’s dream. The fall-down skin itches and there is a dull pain behind his eyes. An idea comes to him.

            “You know Bob Marley?”

            “Yeah?”

            “What if me tell you him come back?”

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