The Sidney Prize contest results announced:
Winner: “Will You Staunch the Wound?” Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer
“Fall,” Mauro Altamura
“Warblers,” Katie Amatruda
“The Border,” Arjun Basu
“The Wild Dogs,” KC Trommer
“A Half-Saved Man,” AimeeVitrak
Congratulations to all the Finalists. Thanks to all who submitted.
Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer’s “Will You Staunch the Wound?” will be published in Storyville in April and she will receive the $1,000 prize. Her story was selected from an extraordinary range of stories submitted from Canada, the US, and the UK.
Contest judge Richard Nash said this about the winning story: “A mark of Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer’s empathic imagination is her ability to imagine without fuss both the minds and circumstances of other people. In a world grown increasingly strange, we can no longer rely on what we know since we know so little, so instead we rely on our humanity. Kuitenbrouwer does so with elegance, compassion, and as I realize as I write this, with more rage than first meets the eye. ”
Kuitenbrouwer’s fiction has been published or is forthcoming from Granta magazine, The Walrus, Fantagraphics, and others. She is the author of the novels Perfecting and The Nettle Spinner and the short fiction collection Way Up. She teaches creative writing through the University of Toronto and The University of Guelph’s MFA. She lives in Toronto.
Storyville is delighted to present Kuitenbrouwer’s work a long side the work of other writers it has published recently, including Pulitzer Prize winner Jennifer Egan, National Book Critics Circle winner Edith Pearlman, The Story Prize Winner Anthony Doerr, and others.
The Sidney is named for Sidney Story, the architect of New Orleans’ famed red light district that gives Storyville its name and will be awarded to the author of the best new American story.
Will You Staunch the Wound?
It used to be that you weren’t allowed to take the deadfall branches but either the rules have changed or else no one cares any more about the rules. There are dogs everywhere, too, and I can’t remember the last time I saw one on a leash. They just roam around, and you have to watch your back.
Some of the gleaners call themselves survivalists and I’ve heard the new euphemism is eco-activist but really we are poor. It’s that some of us are self-consciously poor and some of us are just poor. In a good day, Robbie and I can cart thirty dollars worth of firewood, gathered from High Park, the Lakeshore and up through the Humber. We started this enterprise first with returnable bottles, but with the economy in its last plummet, the middle class got miserly. And as I said to Robbie, I’m not scrapping with a middle manager over an empty bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape.
Robbie is eleven. I located him in a doorwell on Dundas West. A halo of filthy blonde hair, and just enough naivety in his clear eyes, and I was a goner. He wasn’t a replacement child, if that’s what you’re thinking.
Two viruses—one electronic, on medical—had culled the city’s population. And anyone with expertise in any field, excepting the very brave and the very altruistic, had fled. There were, quite simply, fewer people. And more dogs, more of them rabid—it was not uncommon to see frothing, staggering mongrels anywhere in the city. Darwinism at work, I supposed. [End of excerpt]