Mary Clyde’s short story collection, Survival Rates, won the Flannery O’Conner award for short fiction last year. Two other Mormon story writers in the past six years have achieved the same honor: Paul Rawlins, whose…
The old man walked out from under the line of high, heavy trees bordering the cemetery. He stopped. He looked up, blinking his eyes. He held his hands palms up to the fading April sunlight.…
It came then that Sara dreamed of the flood. It had been the news for weeks, cities all along the Front sandbagging streets, sidewalks, driveways, window wells, a mudslide that made a lake over a…
Past
Through iron gates shine
Bronze doors never opened—Holiness to the Lord.
Sun, moon, and stars live in granite,
Carved by dead ancestors
The following chapter is excerpted from One More River to Cross, the title of the first novel of a trilogy to be called Standing on the Promises being published by Deseret Book beginning in August…
In 1957, a year and a half before she married the man who would leave her, Kören Dixon was almost the Carnival Queen of Conjuring Creek. There were only three nominations for the job, and…
When I was in my early teens—it seems like I was no older than fourteen—I received a special gift from my grandparents. They knew I liked to read. In fact, they knew that I read a lot. I was a regular patron of the local library, often rushing through two or three books on a long summer day.
The Oquirrh Mountains form a finger of land
which rests its tip in the Great Salt Lake. Slopes
behind alfalfa gently rise until they stop
where the motion of ancient waves left benches of sand.
In his novella, A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean describes a conversation with his father, who knows of Norman’s desire to write. “You like to tell true stories, don’t you?” the father asks. “Yes,”…
Out of Sunday morning dark
My grandma came for me.
Stripped bare to dreaming I saw
Her occupy the fat black leather rocker