The Pensieve

By Ashlin Awerkamp (Based on a true story) Olivia shifted back and forth on her bike, rocking from one foot to the other. She ran her fingers over the gear shifts as she watched the other contestants line up around her, most of them juniors and seniors. One looked over at her and sneered. She gulped and clicked through the gears again.      Mountain biking was still new to her. She had started practicing with the high school team just two weeks ago. It was hard work to pedal her bike up and down the steep, bumpy hills. On the first day, she crashed into a tree. While she was sitting and sniffling, Coach Whitney had personally walked over, helped her up, and encouraged her to keep trying. Then, at the last practice before the race, Coach Whitney had explained one of the racing rules. “Sometimes people get a flat tire. If you need someone to help you change your tire,” she said, “you get a five-minute penalty.”      The odds of getting a flat tire seemed low. She hadn’t seen anyone get a

By Merilee Mackay    Tacos are a gift to humanity from the maize god Hun Hunahpu and the genius who first folded the tortilla around the bits of meat and beans and vegetables and handed them off. Probably that cook became the hot foodie of the ancient neighborhood and gave cooking demos around the fire pit. The argument can be made that I have no claim, and perhaps not even a right to put myself forward by writing about tacos. My heritage lacks the genetic markers found in the ancient Mexican chefs. My nationality could be described as neighborly, though sometimes not on the best terms, to the place of taco creation.  So why then should anyone read my opinion concerning the greatness of tacos?    Perhaps you shouldn’t. I might be overly biased towards the perfection of the taco as a culinary form. I might be entirely off base in my recognition of the importance of components and their preparation. However, I think you should listen. I think you should  listen because sometimes an outsi

By Kelly McDonald As I walk down the trail from Mount Timpanogos Park, I can see the water of the Provo River, now at its low point before the spring runoff begins. In a month, perhaps less if the weather quickly warms up, this quiet stream will become a raging rush of angry water. For many years, I’ve lived within easy driving distance to the Provo River. For most of my life, I have observed at a distance its many moods throughout the year. But this year I want a closer look. I slip off of the trail, through the brush to the water’s edge. I can see a fly-fisherman standing knee-deep in the cold water, about 50 yards upstream from me. My mind instinctively searches the river banks for slow patches of running water. Almost unconsciously, I’m looking for good fishing holes that might harbor a large trout. I imagine the fish, nervously swimming beneath the surface, waiting for its next meal to appear on the calm water. Yet I am not now a fisherman. I haven’t cast a fly line or angled a wo

By Elizabeth Smith joy noun \ ‘jȯi \ Definition of joy 1 a : I finally rest my head on a cool pillow b: a yellow sunbeam peeks above a mountaintop as I sit by the kitchen window 2 a : my daughter somersaulted in the womb b : now nine-months-old, she giggles and slaps her thighs c : her tiny fingers clasp the basket of toys 3 a : my husband and I eat doughnuts after planting our garden b : my husband and I eat home-grown peas after retiring our garden 4 a : I sing while driving with the windows down b : I inhale crisp fall air 5 a : aroma rises from a pot of chili c : the back door croaks at 5pm, and I greet my husband with a kiss