Words Work Wonders, Volume II: Idaho Writing Camps 2013 by The Cabin, a center for readers & writers

WORDS WORK WONDERS Idaho Writing Camps 2013

VOL. 2

WORDS WORK WONDERS Idaho Writing Camps 2013

VOL. 2

WORDS WORK WONDERS Idaho Writing Camps 2013

VOL. 2

This is a Log Cabin Book, an imprint of THE CABIN 801 South Capitol Boulevard, Boise, Idaho 83702 (208) 331-8000 www.thecabinidaho.org ÂŠ 2013 The Cabin All rights reserved. Book design by Jocelyn Robertson. Printed and bound in the USA in an edition of 120 copies. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher except in the context of reviews.

Idaho Writing Camps and publication of Words Work Wonders are made possible by generous support from: Agribeef Bistline Advised Fund in the Idaho Community Foundation Boise Cascade LLC Foundation Boise Inc. Boise Weekly The Caxton Printers, Ltd. City of Boise Charlotte Y. Martin Foundation Foothills Learning Center Greater Boise Rotary Foundation Idaho Commission on the Arts Idaho Community Foundation Idaho Power Company Nagel Foundation John William Jackson Fund Keybank Larry Miller Charities Laura Moore Cunningham Foundation Scentsy Family Foundation Steele-Reese Foundation Seagraves Foundation U.S. Bancorp Foundation Whittenberger Foundation

CONTENTS Introduction

• 1

URBAN INK

• 5

THE WORKSHOP

WRITING LIFE

• 53

• 77

WRITERS REVIEW

• 91

Teaching Writers’ Biographies About The Cabin

• 107

Acknowledgements

Index

• 111

• 109

• 105

INTRODUCTION Write what you know. This is one of those maxims every new writer hears from teachers, and it has some merit. I tell students, young or older, that creative writing – poems, short stories, plays, novels, etc. – often starts with a personal experience which the writer will build a world around. As The Cabin’s Writing Camps have expanded so much, the age groups attending and the personal experiences explored are diverse. This past summer we offered camps for ages ten through adult. For the second year in a row we have chosen to produce two anthologies, one featuring our younger writers, and this volume, featuring Urban Ink, The Workshop, Writers Review and Writing Life. What these more practiced writers know is hefty with life, love, introspection, and a reaching out into the world for connection with others. I had the pleasure of building worlds with these knowledgeable writers as we traveled the city, deconstructed literature, discussed complex themes and sophisticated language. The personal experiences and worlds included in their writing are truthful whether or not they really “happened.” — DANIEL STEWART Teaching Writer, The Cabin

WORDS WORK WONDERS

URBAN INK I vanquished my phobia of the robot apocalypse and got a job as a technician. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; ALEXA TANNER, Grade 7

ENTER PICTURES Dalton Withers Grade 8, Marsing

What if you could enter pictures You could visit the stick people Or see the dinosaurs Water flows much clearer here Gas is of no need Time comes to a stop in all these paintings Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re able to leap from world to world And the choice is all yours

ONE OF A KIND Sabine Englert Grade 7, Boise

Eye of the tiger Paint of the easel Purple walls and picture frames I am one of a kind Dimples laughing Feeding off books The sound of music Stirs the air, soft and luminous I am one of a kind Music of the blue green river Wind in the trees Sunlight glittering off the water Phoenix, Arizona I am one of a kind Old movies Train and Imagine Dragons Smiles and Montana The puzzles of my character I am one of a kind 7

NIGHTMARE HOME Finley Butler Grade 8, Boise

My cozy home was pulling itself from the ground as I watched a few hundred meters away. The pipes squeaked and blared, looking like the roots of a tree. The building seemed broken and beat, rough with damage. Two cracks suddenly split open, revealing a bright yellow light from inside. Through the doorway, I glimpsed the fallen chandelier, the stairs behind leading to a shanty bedroom. Paintings dewed, tables toppled. It’s hard to imagine that something so grand and welcoming could become a nightmare in minutes.

MY OWN KIND Ava Dahlin Greenwald Grade 9, Fruitland

I have changed my original self, turning into the “thing” I really am. A presence from the depths of Hell. Stuck in the deep dark forest wanting to leave but I won’t be accepted. Having blood splattered everywhere. Claw tears covering my walls. Having the floor soaked with my own tears. That is my kind. My eyes as dark as night. Hair flowing like seaweed in an ocean. My skin as pale as a ghost. Marks of self-harm all over. My lips stained a dark maroon. My “heart” filled with hate. The only thing keeping me “alive” are the souls of others. That is my kind. Having everyone around me hate me. I can’t change. My own family not accepting me as one of their own. They say it’s not me, but in reality, it’s the true me. For this is me, I am my own kind.

SPRAY PAINT ON THE WALL Megan Rice Grade 8, Meridian

What came of the bad luck you invited in? When you smashed those mirrors into sharp, glittering fragments? You should have realized it was a bad idea. Or maybe you did, but you just couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bring yourself to care anymore. They said water, fresh and clean, for everyone, right. Gas is too expensive. So I guess youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re sleeping here tonight in Freak Alley.

I LOVE Quinn McRoberts Grade 7, Boise

I love the fantastic smell of curry in the kitchen. I love the sound of mallets beating on marimbas. I love the texture of brown dog ears. I love the feeling of soft beads. I love the knowing of literature. I love the first part. I love the last. I love life. I love love.

WINGS Audrey Jacobia Grade 7, Twin Falls

54 pairs of wings, silky and soft. Shown off, proud, flying high like a dream held captive by four pins. Was it worth it? Think before you fly.

SUNRISE MOTEL Diane McGovern Grade 8, Boise

A dirty abandoned place. A ghost town bed and breakfast. What I’m wondering is why it stills exists. The Sunrise Motel disappeared like an innocent kitten. Where the business went is a mystery. Misunderstood for its appearance. Flushed pale, ratty pillow cases, half-chewed from the newborn caterpillars. The rusty refrigerators hold cockroaches in a range of colors. A fang-bearing, seven-legged spider. The waxy shower is disgusting. The nozzle spits out black, muggy evil after the sun falls. In the dead kitchen, you’re served a salad with iceberg chunks from 1973 and pus-like dressings. You’re served by the murdered lost souls. Now I know why the business left. 10

THINGS TO DO IN A RIVER Kaelyn Harms Grade 7, Eagle

Pretend you are sinking in the depths of a river, getting caught in its flow. Stare at the dazzling stars that look like steaming drops of gravy. From your covering of blue-brown waves watch dragonflies gliding on their wings of ice. Feel the slimy, scaly bodies of minnows slip past you, fighting the river. See willow trees that seem to hug the riverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s banks and drop cotton fluffs that feel like a silk dress. Make music with the gurgling water and the boom-boom of your life, but donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t worry, you do not have to breathe.

JAVOR AND SKYLER Sofi Serio Grade 7, Boise

The old grey gate slowly swung open, making an earpiercing creaking sound. Lightening cracked in the distance, and thunder boomed overhead. Javor and Skyler nervously walked to the sagging, rotting porch of the old musty-brown abandoned house. Javor saw black beady eyes from under the porch. He listened to the scurrying of tiny claws. Skyler grabbed Javor’s hand, tip-toeing up the steps to the door. “Well I’m not ringing it.” Skyler announced to her brother pushing him forward. Suddenly a light switch clicked on outside, and Javor and Skyler were in the spotlight. “Who’s there?” A gravelly voice yelled. “You those collectors again? I’m telling you, I ain’t gonna pay!” Javor studied his shoes, not knowing what to say. The shed door opened and a shriveled leather cane poked out. Skyler took her lucky stone, rubbed it hard, then glanced up and said, “Hello Mr. Gilbert.” An old leathery shriveled man, much like his cane, came out holding a chair over his head. He was so small that the chair was almost twice his size. That meant he couldn’t lift it either. He peered at the two children and set the chair down. His blue eyes warily studied them. “And who might you be?” He demanded impatiently. Javor didn’t know what to do, neither did Skyler. They stood there gaping for almost a minute. “Who are you?” Mr. Gilbert practically yelled. Javor stepped toward. He stuck out his hand despite what his mind was telling him. “I’m Javor Henderson and this is my twin sister Skyler Henderson.” Mr. Gilbert studied them like a Civil War general might have studied his soldiers. “Oh.” Mr. Gilbert’s face lit up as if a light bulb was being shone onto his face. He whispered, “Come on in my grandchildren. Welcome to your new home.”

POEM BY THE NUMBERS Grace Wilson Grade 7, Boise

Number 1 is like a stick a straight line that is very straight. Number 2 goes right around and makes a line straight across the ground. Around around just like a bee thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just how you make a 3. Down across and down again thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just how you make a 4. Go down around and then you stop. Finish the 5 with a line.

SWEATER WEATHER Jayne-Marie Linquist Grade 10, Meridian

Early December, everyone is holiday shopping. Maybe I should get outside today. I walk to the closet of my one room apartment. The cable knit sweater hangs on the end. I haven’t worn it since he left. Does it still have his smell? I put the sweater on and go outside. The frostbitten air reddens my face and I can feel myself become numb. Everywhere I walk I see him. He’s in the crowds, shops. Taxis, I cannot call. As I see him around me I realize that maybe, I’m not so lonely and he’s been here all along.

NOT CRYING OVER IT Madison Carter Grade 8, Boise

As I spill the milk the sky goes dark nothing but a motionless bird in the sky. Someone calls my name but I can’t picture who. My mom comes over taps me on the shoulder and says, “Are you ok?” I nod but still can’t picture who’s saying my name. I’m thinking Is the milk still on the floor? Where am I? I slowly start to wake up.

WINDOWS Natalie Talcott Grade 7, Boise

Dust-covered boxes, a rusty unused swing, a brown, lifeless garden, a forgotten memory. What’s joy? Is it the untouched box of photos and old memories or people smiling or the laughter that haunts the halls? The yellowed windows once for looking out of, now just waiting, longing for a toddler’s hands to once again leave smudged fingerprints.

ROMEO IN 1975 Kate Kulchak Grade 7, Kuna

I live in the wrong place a rough contrast to those around me. I don’t belong here. I feel as if I am a piece of glass on a soft blanket. I free myself with material things but I still feel the urge to go. I live as the black sheep the one who was wrong for the scene like Romeo in 1975. I need to go if only.

OWN Rachel Roberts Grade 9, Yuma, AZ

He awoke in his friend’s apartment, which he was housesitting, before his friend’s alarm went off at 6:05 am. He looked out his friend’s window. It is a sin for the sun to come up so early, he thought. Closing his eyes and not sleeping, he dreaded getting up for his job, but he had to earn his living. He dreaded going with his mother to visit his mindless father, but that was family. He hoped for a lucid day, dreading the frequent tantrum ones. Maybe he would borrow his grandmother’s wedding ring to finger in his pocket while he took Cathy, his girlfriend, to dinner. He had more or less stolen her from a friend he hadn’t seen since. Fingering his friend’s cotton sheets, he thought about looking for a place of his own – probably best before offering the wedding ring. But there wasn’t much he could do now except wait for his friend’s alarm to force him out of bed.

THE ALLEY Angus Baird Grade 7, Boise

The tiny birds sing as I write. The mailman drops a package off. The small streets are filled with pedestrians and bikers. I hear children playing in the corner of an unused building. The soft sound of rustling leaves in a tree. I hear the horn of the crane, and I can almost taste pizza like it’s at my table. I hear this drum song through the air like a bird pecking at seeds.

ECHOES Levi Welch Grade 8, Burley

are all I have. Symphonies that left to symphonize somewhere else. I used to still be able to feel the fingertips dancing along my slick ivory. I can’t feel that anymore. A piece of garbage thrown out for the new, I was once new. But I became what I had replaced. And nothing I think or say will prepare me for the end, when I’m ripped apart to make a piece of furniture, a stool for rotten children to whine on— is this what all art becomes?

VANQUISHING WAYS Alexa Tanner Grade 7, Boise

I vanquish many things. I am not crazy. It is simply just a natural gift of mine. I vanquished my phobia of the robot apocalypse and got a job as a technician. I vanquished my ceramic piggy bank and used the money to buy a flamethrower on Amazon. Just then I had an anxiety attack and vanquished my computer with flames. My phobia got the best of me and I lost my job. I go outside and take out my stress by vanquishing the anthill with flames. Just then my arm has a muscle spasm and I vanquish my house to a burnt marshmallow. I decide to use the last of my money to use my neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s computer to buy a thick box, mammoth in size. Once it arrives, I use my teeth to chew a door in it. I chew like a mouse chewing through a wall and vanquish all my expensive dental work. As you can see I vanquish many things. I place the box on the side of the street and sell my expensive teeth, hopefully earning enough money someday to buy another flame thrower and continue my vanquishing ways.

LIFE Mackenzie Gass Grade 8, Meridian

People in the yogurt shop, eating and drinking, listening to music, hearing peoplesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; voices. People laughing inside and outside, tasting cupcakes and lemons. More people entering not just the store, but the world too. How will the air feel against their skin? Hot or cold? Many cars driving and buildings being built. People talking and laughing and yelling and whispering. The honking of horns, and feeling the wind, Smells of fresh-baked pizza and smells of the sewer. People smiling, people frowning, music in the shop playing, also playing outside in the world. Happy music, sad music. The sad music plays when people pass away.

WHAT YOU ARE Samaria Schroeder Grade 8, Kimberly

Whether you think so or not, you are a killer. The spider you stepped on last week â&#x20AC;&#x201C; you killed it. The tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, and carrots YOU picked for YOUR lunch were all living and you just walked up and took their lives for your own. The hamburgers for dinner last night once breathed. Your place is on the farm. There, you have animals

to kill, vegetables and fruit to kill, bugs to kill. Open your eyes. You’re killing me.

THE WIND Hadrian De Vera Grade 7, Meridian

No one is there; it is calm and peaceful. Then the storm begins. My face begins to turn to a sad depressed blue. I hear the steps. Her feet sound like thunder, echoing in the street. She approaches and speaks, sounding like a seagull. I try to block out the noise. I hear only the painful words. I walk away, but she follows me like a wolf snarling and threatening me. But I ignore the words and walk away. She cackles like a baboon, laughing at me. I am so infuriated that I’m ready to take my shoes off and throw them at her. I wish she was gone; she wishes I were dead. Before I know it, she hisses like a cat and walks away. Like a lazy loafing leaf, I drift away. I go to the park. It’s green but smells like a gutter. So I walk away. I feel like the wind, always going away. I finally realize who I am. I, the wind, walk away.

ENDLESS DARKNESS Mia Trebbi Grade 7, Boise

I ate my feelings. I thought they would taste like smoky s’mores, or feel like the sun just breaking through the dense clouds of a chilly January morning. They’re thick as the endless darkness, so black that they’re like a brick wall, yet this brick wall is an illusion, sour as a fermented lemon. They make my stomach drop, like I had done something terrible and knew I would face dire consequences. They smell like garbage, dying things, blood, perspiration, and fear. These things all hit me at the same time, over and over, beat my skin, my body from the inside, make me curl into a ball and hide. These things, brutal or not, are my feelings. How they could be I don’t know. They’re like a stranger coming out of the darkness. I’m not intense, but they are.

FLOWER OF WAR Evan Robertson Grade 7, Boise

People hate me, But do I deny it? A storm is coming. I smell of sulphur And have thorns down My spine. A storm is here. I am a field commander For both sides. I do not care who Wins. I leave a trail of death. A storm is leaving. Eventually I must die. Until we meet again, I am the flower of war, And the storm is gone.

PEACE Abby Elsethagen Grade 8, Eagle

Peace comes like a shadow A whisper Helping Guiding Our hearts So small Yet powerful Granting our smallest of wishes Ones We never would have told her Giving us happiness Love Joy So wonderful Making sure We arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t driven crazy From loud obnoxious People So well-meaning So wonderful The one thing So hard to find Yet so easy to get to Peace comes on a prayer Hopeful Rejoicing Helping Through hard times Guiding Through confusing ones Loving When needed most It can be found In loud places

Where it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to be Expected Whispering Words of hope And making sure The world always Has a little bit Of peace

THE SEA PEARL, GROWING Arianna Carlson Grade 7, Sun Valley

I am a small rose bush living in the Julia Davis Rose Garden. I was planted here almost four years ago. From the day I was planted, to this very day, I have seen many roses come and go, grow and die. My bush is one of the only bushes (that I can see) that has been here for almost four years without being replanted. I am The Sea Pearl rose bush. I was planted here in the year 2009. A young girl named June planted me. I started out small at first. My roots grew down into the ground, my stems and leaves grew out. As I started to spread out, small rose buds formed flowers. My flowers were cut soon enough, before I was covered with snow. My cycle goes on and on each year.

HATRED Sarah Combs Grade 9, Nampa

The skies are gray here. The grass isn’t greener on this side. Here, the sun doesn’t shine. In this place of mine, love doesn’t exist. I’m ugly and dark. My name is full of regrets. My name means evil. I sadden lives. I’m dreadful, but unpredictable. In the space you choose not to live I will come in and cover the sun, The skies are gray here

A PATH DIVIDED: POVERTY OR WEALTH Abby Cheng Grade 8, Nampa

Poverty is a label. Wealth is humble men. Poverty is unwillingness to work for success. Wealth is hard work and sacrifice. Poverty is sadness, letting bad things get to you. Wealth is happiness, focusing on the positive aspects in life. Poverty is pity, relying on the compassion of others. Wealth is determination, owning up to what you did and fixing it. Poverty is dwelling in the past. Wealth is hope for the future. Poverty is self-indulgence, or living in your own little world. Wealth is helping others. 26

SUMMER Savana Everett Grade 8, Garden City

A flutter of a heartbeat. Words that are bittersweet in the mouth. A silent night where the moon shines and the world doesn’t make a sound for a second of truth. Or the days where nothing makes sense except the passing days of golden light. The times when you look out the window and see nothing except the heat that swarms around the world, suffocating it, or a dead tree still standing, trying to reach out toward the sun before its last breath. The time when you sleep in ‘til noon and your mouth feels like it’s full of dust. The city lights evaporate the stars from the dark sky and all that’s left is darkness and the moon. Summer. The time of daydreams and truth and secrets of heat and love. Summer is the aftertaste stuck in your mouth or the dusty pages of an old book. Summer is a piece of paper waiting to be filled with the ink from your pen and the words from your heart. When one word means the world to a person Summer is everything all together, and nothing at all. Summer is the time when you forget that you can still fall.

THE FLYING SQUIDS Sara Murphy Grade 9, Boise

Flying squids float through the city, the city of skyscrapers, the noise of eight million lives, busy rushing about their day. Squids float here, they float there floating, floating everywhere. People out of terror pretend they are not there, afraid of their monstrous tentacles. The people bow their heads to avoid the squidsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; mysterious glare. These squids glide, harming no one, attempting to clear the air, feeding on fear, nom, nom, nomming calamari.

MY QUESTIONS AND THEIRS Hannah Webster Grade 9, Caldwell

The mind has many questions, but does the body too? Does each skin follicle, each neuron, each muscle cell ponder existence? Red blood cells flow through veins. Do they question too? Do they wonder when theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll get there? Do they wonder if there is something more? Another living thing? A stronger force? A universe beyond their imaginations? 28

FREAK ALLEY Katie Webster Grade 7, Caldwell

The words tell me the world is odd. The colors and sometimes the lack of them somehow show all aspects of life. It shows the ups and the downs the everyday and the hardly ever. Lobster girls with gravy heads and Coach Pete tearing through Bob Marleyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face. Rainbow giraffes and flying pigs, everything is represented here.

MY NAME IS MEERIE Megan Rodgers Grade 7, Boise

My name is Meerie. I am the shimmery pink bicycle that Meril Wells rode around Boise, Idaho when he was alive. He rode me to work here at the Historical Museum almost every single day. He was a hard-working man, a steady and kind man, and I enjoyed rolling him to work Monday through Friday. Then, one day he didn’t come to me for a ride at all. That one day turned into a week, and that one week turned into a month. The forty-first day I took matters into my own hands and rolled myself into the house, something I had never, ever done. It was such a weird place. There were chairs and couches to sit on, and there was old food that was once good to eat. It was quiet and hollow. It was a little unsettling to be in that place Meril had lived all his days. Suddenly, there were two men rushing up behind me, taking me away from Meril’s home and my beloved garage. I was confused and lonely, wishing they would tell me what was going on. But I was only a pink bicycle to them, nothing more. Not too much later, I found out Meril had died. Now I live in the Idaho History Museum next to a nun. The nun tries to comfort my reverberating losses, but I have to say that it doesn’t help as much as I wish it did. I miss Meril. I miss giving him part of what he needed every day. Meril, if you’re reading this, just know that I miss you very much. I hope you enjoyed me telling this little story to everyone. My name is Meerie, and I am still and will always be your friend, Meril.

THE MERMAID Olivia Seidl Grade 7, Boise

Waves crashing on pure white sand, gulls crying above, sea foam cakes pressed into my hand, a siren’s song lures me compellingly into the watery home. I hold onto the rocks, slightly clinging, so as not to fall into the foam, but I cannot reason with the workings of my mind, and I dive in, all reason left behind, only knowing that I am a land-locked mermaid separated from the sea, lost forever from my home.

RUNNING AWAY Mae Davis Grade 7, Boise

Mother wakes me up in the middle of the night. I start to ask why she woke me up, but I already know. She thinks the KKK knows where we are. We will have to move again. My mother and I have been running from the Ku Klux Klan because we are Jewish. The KKK will hurt, or even kill, anyone or anything they deem “Un-American.” With their long robes and silly pointy hats, they don’t seem threatening or violent, but they are. I wake without question and pack my bags. Normally I would resist, but I don’t want to die. My grandparents came to America for freedom. I do not believe running from robewearing killers counts as freedom. I ask Mother, “Where now?” Mother has taken on many of Father’s roles since the KKK killed him last year. She says, “Honey, we’re going to McCall for now.” McCall is not very far, but it is far enough to throw the KKK off our trail. I’m scared but not terribly. This is the eighth time we’ve had to move. “Let’s just go,” is all I say.

ONE DAY, EVERYTHING NEARLY CHANGED Katherine Nicholes Grade 7, Meridian

In 1915, a typical kitchen had a table, door, cupboards, and a sink. I certainly know ours did, and I remember that dark little room well. I will never forget one day in my kitchen. That day we were having waffles and eggs, when Papa said there was something important he needed to tell all of us. My family included six – Papa, Mama, Clarissa, Bobby, Victoria, Livy and me. “We are going to move,” Papa said. At that point, we were all terrified and too shocked to say anything. Then, Bobby spoke for all of us, saying, “Why? And where?” I didn’t have much feeling about it, but all my siblings spoke for me. Papa said, “We are moving because I got a job engineering automobiles in Post Falls.” Both my sisters got up and left to walk around outside. I went in my room along with Bobby. When Clarissa and Livy got back, we talked some more about it. The next day when I was playing with my friends, after all of my chores were done, I told them the bad news. “You’re moving!?” Allison was furious. “Why would you want to leave?” Kaylie added, a sad lost look on her face. “I don’t want to, but Papa got a better job in Post Falls,” I explained. We put our house up for sale, and three days later, we got a big offer. However, it turned out that earlier that day Papa got a telegram saying he would be able to engineer automobiles here in our own city! When Papa got home from work, he told us the good news. “We’re not moving!” Clarissa happily exclaimed. All of us felt the same. Five minutes after, Mama got a telegram saying somebody wanted to buy our house, but she said no, and we all cheered. The rest of my childhood I stayed in that very house, with that very kitchen, where I had once gotten that strange, bad news. The day I thought everything was going to change. 32

THERE IS INSPIRATION Ruby Berliner Grade 7, Boise

There is a tree, a tree that will never have leaves. There is a mother, a mother who will never have pet peeves. There is a biker, a biker who can’t pedal. There is a pencil, a pencil without lead or metal. There is a star, a star who doesn’t have a shining glare. There are two fish, two fish that cannot swim. There is a man, a man who falls but won’t hit ground. There are paintings, paintings that have been lost and won’t be found. Because, you see…they are on a stone wall and what is on a stone wall will never be lost and never be found.

SUMMERTIME IN THE CITY Catherine Waddell Grade 7, Boise

Summer feels like freedom. No school, no homework, you can do whatever you want. Summer feels like an icy water balloon exploding when you catch it. The smell of summer is heat and flowers and chlorine. The taste of summer is ice cream on a hot day or fresh juicy watermelon on the 4th of July. Summer sounds like waves on the Oregon coast, crashing to shore. Three cups of love, two teaspoons of rules, 90 degrees of heat, two new swimsuits, and four tubs of piled-high ice cream is summer.

GRIT Grant Breidenbach Grade 9, Boise

Shoe heels clicking bicycle wheels whirring cars roar. Bricks roads sidewalks they all wear down. Dry dust burnt cigarette butts all this falls down all this coats the street. See the filth rich poor everyone else they all leave something. Skin follicles fall to earth rubber ground in by shoes. Time here is a cycle adding a little in the morning adding more through the day adding grime rains down in the evening adding feel the gunk on your fingers layers days. VROOM the street sweeper sucks the grit up.

THE DRINKERS OF MUSIC Grace Atkins Grade 7, Boise

The music birds or drinkers of music, notes from a soft melody are the nectar they sip with long curved beaks. As the soft morning tune plays it charges their wings to beat blue like a melancholy tune or green and yellow like a happy tune. The record player is the flower. The records are the roots. Feet dancing upon the wooden floor are like the music birds soaring through the sky. The music birds drink one last drop of the little song before they go and fly.

QUESTIONS Tori Billings Grade 8, Idaho City

Why is the sky so blue? When will it rain? When will the wind blow? Why canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the weather always be bright? Why does it have to storm? Will this dark cloud overhead ever cease? Can the lightning strike so fast that no one sees it? Will the thunder roll so loud it shakes the ground? Or is the lightning so dull and thunder so weak that we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even notice them? Will I ever see such a blue sky again? When the clouds disappear with the setting sun, where do they go? Do they follow the sun? What would happen if one morning the sun did not rise? Would we be left in the dark, stumbling? Will the moon and stars be the only light given? Or will all the light disappear from the world leaving us in darkness? Will everyone sit on their porch and wait for the great ball of fire to once more light up the sky? 35

THE BOOKCASE Emily Olson Grade 9, Boise

Pot roast and cooked carrots heavy wooden chairs grandpa’s booming laugh warms up the kitchen along with the fireplace, but now I’m back at home atop a rocking chair in the corner. All the old photo albums make me sad. I never got to be there and as I flip through tears salt my cheeks. “Everyone was happier then before the divorces,” my dad said. I had to ask, what was it like? In Norway? In Poland? Was the grass as green as our garden is now? I’m floating down the stairs out onto the cement. All the houses alike mom calls, time for amends. Lastly, the old wedding I seem to see it a lot in photographs, in the painting above the bed, on the wall. A creamy dress hovers around the ankles of the bride whose timeless face is puzzled. I wish I could have been there in the past being an heir.

HOW TO LIVE LIFE Isabella Cronin Grade 7, Hailey

Go to Disney World, see an exotic island, always be honest, try to never lie. Try new foods, dance, swim with dolphins, believe in yourself. Take responsibility for your actions. Have a best friend you can always count on. Plant a garden, do something you’ve always dreamed of doing. Travel somewhere with your best friends. Love yourself for who you are. Stand up for what you believe in. Bake cupcakes. Always listen to your parents. Love animals. Stay healthy. Live life to the fullest.

IN THE COURTYARD Rose Thompson Grade 7, Boise

It is a lovely time, when morning snow still spots the ground, and middays are laced with alternating feelings of warm and cool. The time at the end of the cold season when your mother begins, once again, to nag you about walking the dog and putting on a jacket because “It’s not that warm out, young lady!” The time when you finally step out into the air, hatched from your cocoon, feeling exposed and refreshed, and you’re glad you put down that book, slipped on your jacket, coaxed your dog out of slumber and dragged her outside. It’s then when you notice the tiny sprig of green poking up from between a pair of grime-spotted snowdrifts in the courtyard like it had been there all along, waiting. But you know it hadn’t and that it was probably a fluke seed left over from your mother’s last gardening spree. You know it probably sprang up last night, and you realize the magic of it all, the shifts, from light to dark, warm to cool, winter to spring, on the ever-turning Earth and you simply step out of the courtyard and continue on. 37

UP IN FLAMES: An Excerpt of Historical Fiction Based on The Big Burn of 1910 Chloe Kerr Grade 9, Garden City

In Private Christian Will’s opinion, this new assignment Taft had them working on was demeaning. They were soldiers, not fire boys. Couldn’t Idaho handle their own problems? Sulking, he sat in the rear of the car, back turned to the driver while his feet hung off the edge. “Come on, Will,” laughed his best friend, Alaric Grey. “Cheer up. This fire business will be done, and we’ll go back to dealing with the other issues of our modern war soon enough.” His voice was thick with sarcasm, handing the tousled-haired man a cigar that had been in his breast pocket for what seemed like forever. Nonetheless, Christian plucked it from Alaric’s fingers. “Got a match?” he murmured, as he examined the stick of tobacco. Christian remembered his mother’s words, Those smokes’ll kill you far before any man gets a chance to…as Alaric produced a flame, lighting Christian’s cigar. “Thanks,” he said, sucking on the end as he held it between his middle and index fingers. A moment later, he retracted the cigar, angled his head to the sky, and blew out a cool ring of smoke, smirking in delight at the relief it offered. The car came to a stop directly outside the cluster of tents assigned to the first patrol of soldiers who arrived. “You best stomp that out, Private. We already got enough fires to deal with without you settin’ our camp on fire,” Private Daniel Skins commanded. Private Skins was an uptight man, very short and stocky with a small puckered mouth and wide eyes. Christian didn’t like the man because he kissed the ground Lieutenant Grave walked on, plus he was too self-righteous for Christian’s taste. Christian threw the cigar butt down and stomped it thoroughly out. “Why don’t you keep your mouth shut, and I’ll try to chuck my cigar the other way,” Christian scoffed, grabbing his dark green duffle and making his way toward the largest of the tents near the center of camp. 38

FREAK ALLEY Hannah Belveal Grade 8, Meridian

The night, warm and full of colors from the sun, I sit in the grass, letting the wind blow my hair as I smile. The sunset orange with red, trees whisper to me through their needles. The grass green, new and soft, comforts my skin. The night is settling in, making the day calm with nature. The sunset so vibrant red, so glowing it looks akin to fire from this distance. I smile trying to hold this picture, make it last forever in my mind â&#x20AC;&#x201C; trees sway, dance in the wind, calming and relaxing my body on this hot, hot day.

THE COLORS OF SUN VALLEY Laine Whittier Grade 7, Ketchum

Sun Valley is magical. Even in the winter, everything glistens, but in the summer, flowers bloom all over town, making the place a little brighter. The gardeners work hard every day to impress the guests and the people who live here everyday. Take a quick stroll to see the swans, or a quick-paced run to admire the flowers. I guarantee youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be amazed at Sun Valley colors.

ALONGSIDE THE RIVER Alex Ruxton Grade 9, Meridian

The glass rippled, reflecting lightness, revealing darkness. Worlds collided, flashes of glimmering scales, and echoes of branches floating beside us. An ever-moving realm, was full of glistening magic â&#x20AC;&#x201C; things and the harshness of the world hidden in waves. The rough scars of cottonwood spoke of days and years underneath their velvet fingertips, catching my skin, begging to be held, in the smooth ripple of water about my feet, over the slimy engulfment of summer moss. A symphony of birds held concert high up in the wings of a tree. A march of fall rang through the oaks as leaves crunched and crackled underfoot. The playful burble of a summer stream trickled past the sighs of unfurled leaves bowing to passersby.

Fall glided through the air on wings of summer. Cotton tickled underneath my nose, the sweet smell of the river floating in invisible eddies – in here, was the secret world of autumn.

DEGREES OF THE RAINBOW IN HAILEY Emma Lago Grade 7, Hailey

You might pass here when heading to Sun Valley. This is where people are mostly medium. This is the town of education, where everyone knows everyone, and there are no secrets. It’s where the landmarks are parks and cracks in the sidewalk. Where the river is the town’s cool-down spot. Where kids ride bikes everywhere, and men ride snowmobiles. It’s where everyone has an opinion. It’s where Subway remembers your order when they hear the door ring.

LIVING IN PAINT Madeline Ryan Grade 7, Boise

The Mayan Man His headdress a symphony of colors For the night Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s living in paint Trapped within time And has a while To wonder why. The Mayan Man Skin bringing in the glow Of the unseen moon As silent stars scream For stars are souls And they have so many stories Yet to be told. The Mayan Man Covered complexion â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Does his visage Hold secrets like the sky? Is there a tear on his cheek, A smile on his lips, Or a twinkle in his eye? And is the breeze That teases his hair and sighs As warm as the rough brick wall? Does he have enough air To just whisper Goodbye? If any air?

HOW TO BE A CLOUD Emily Thayer Grade 8, Sun Valley

To be a cloud, you must not be afraid of heights. You have to make friends with the stars. Learn to make the best out of a rainy day. Do not be offended when a plane flies through you; they do not mean to intrude into your personal space. Storms will come. Your white, fluffy self will turn dark and start to cry. The day will turn to night. You will light up the sky with flashes of lightning. You must watch over the people below you, as they will watch you. Young children will lie on the grass, staring up at you and letting their imagination tell them what you are: a pirate ship, flower, snowman, or maybe a frog. To be a cloud, you must be strong. You must learn to fly with the wind, not against it. At all?

DEGREES OF NEON IN SUN VALLEY Naia Drougas Grade 7, Hailey

People dance and skate around. Life in Sun Valley is like a jeweled crown. Smells of ice cream drift from A La Mode, making you want to go inside and buy a Cookies and Cream Milkshake. In Sun Valley, it’s never a bore. There’s plenty to do, like go to the candy store. Lots of sweets fill the shelf, from chocolate to caramel to gummy bears. After that, you can stop by The Ram and get some fondue. Then you can frolic and play, feed the swans, and watch them waddle. Go to the toy store and look at all the colorful gadgets and gizmos. After you’ve had a long day and are ready for bed, remember to swing by the gift shop. Buy a book for your Mom to read to you as you fall asleep in your bed. And don’t worry about a thing, because there’ll still be plenty to do tomorrow.

THE BIRD LIVING IN MY LUNGS Madeline Krause Grade 9, Boise

As usual, the doctors fly into a state of confusion and mild panic. They are not used to seeing someone in my condition. My mouth stretches in a yawn, and bright feathers tumble out. His name is Hugo. He is the bird that settled in my lungs when I was small. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I’ve gotten used to it, mostly. I had been a perfectly healthy baby. Nothing had been abnormal about me, and I hardly ever got ill. As a kid though, I soon found out that other children could be very cruel. I was alone with the birds that perched in nearby trees most of the time. They were my best friends. The other kids just stared. None of those kids realized the harm a passing comment, such as “The birdbrain girl loves birds so much she has a bird living inside her,” can have. People use the old adage, “Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me,” but I have to say, what they said, it hurt, and all those comments made me feel that I deserved to be made fun of. I spoke less and less. I was sad often. Eventually even the birds left me. All but Hugo. He couldn’t leave me, not forever, not at all, and he’s still around. He says, I remind him of Clementine, an old bird girlfriend of his. And this makes me feel happy. Thankfully, Hugo is a respectively small bird, so he can enter and exit my lungs as he pleases. I convince myself I don’t mind him being here. He’s my only friend, after all. Today I drink warm, fruity tea as he perches on my shoulder. He digs little talons into the thick fabric, pecking into the tea, splashing it all over the place. My scarf billows in the wind, and hair flies into my face. “Do you ever get lonely?” he warbles. “Yes,” I say, “I do.” The scent of coffee and pastries wafts out of the building as the door swings open behind us. The sounds of the city wash over the two of us – wheels screech, chains jangle, strangers murmur to themselves as the walk signal blinks on 44

and off and on again. “Sometimes, I miss Clementine,” he says. “So badly.” The air is crisp, cold, and even biting, but the warm clothing and the steaming tea make it feel more bearable. My orange high-tops tap the concrete. Hugo’s feathers rustle. “But you have me,” I say. “That’s something.” “I know, we have each other,” he says, “and that really is something wonderful.”

LOVE LIKE WATER Avery Clark Grade 7, Boise

I lie in silence waiting, listening Ocean waves swallowing the rocks Bright yellow sun, one cloud A single red boat bobbing up and down Waves sweep along the pearly beach Wrapping around little sand castles To lie in silence once again

HOW TO BE A CLOUD OF SMOKE Leah Thayer Grade 8, Hailey

To be a cloud of smoke you must not let the fighters win. Be strong give in to nothing have no sympathy for you are only doing what smoke must do. Spread everywhere spread to the horizon or further. Have little pride for pride only leads to arrogance with arrogance comes weakness, and you will lose. Keep yourself strong let the people wonder if you will finally give in. Do not struggle under all the hatred you are a hateful thing you are meant for that they are waiting for you to crack. How long you can stand is how long you will be remembered.

GALAXY IN THE FOREST Vera Gaddi Grade 9, Boise

The specks on the giraffe are a sunset-colored galaxy. Its gentle mouth kissing the ruffled feathers of a wide-eyed owl’s head, as if whispering,“Don’t worry.” The spooked owl tightly clenching to a twisted branch that crawls up to a flamingopink tree, leaves round as gumballs, overlooking the bloodred forest as the aroma of the oak trees fills the air and the pitch black nothingness of the night takes over.

BETWEEN THE LINES Sha Sha Kingston Grade 6, Boise

Parallel lines never cross, never meet, and never connect. They just sit there across from each other wondering what is in the world. Parallel lines are two people whose destinies will never connect. As night turns to day, as raccoons go into hiding, the parallel lines zip along in their regular lives, not knowing they will never meet their opposite.

URBAN FOREST Max Cole Grade 6, Boise

As you walk through the forest noticing all the wonders in sight you see all the buds ready to bloom or the sun leaking through the cracks in the leaves. You hear the bird songs all over the forest. The lilacs smell like honey. As you keep adventuring into the forest you notice you’re just sitting in a crowd of flower pots.

SKY Avalon Taylor Grade 7, Boise

I sat down exhausted Wind rushing through my hair, My feet ached from walking from Dawn to dusk. I watched the Sunset’s bright colors stretching across A red, pink and orange sky. I laid down, Shut my eyes and fell into a deep Sleep.

LETTING GO Grace Gaddis Grade 7, Boise

Relax, and close your curious eyes; just because you’re falling doesn’t mean you’re lost. Let go, and remember it’s only in your mind. Who cares what they think. You see the world differently. Forget all the long work days, the money, and the paper. Don’t try so hard to remember. Don’t think of the stress, just wishfully float like life could be meaningless.

ALL THE ABOVE Rachel Wiley Grade 6, Boise

The owl scours the night, roams through the open space, with threatening yellow-green eyes as it glides under the moonlight. The freakish light of the dark moon, the moon, a searchlight. Pinecones fall off a tree. The search light falls upon the owl. The owl stares straight at the moon, waiting for its approval. The moon approves of the owl. The owl glides into the air once approval has been given, looks once, and then leaves. The owl gliding in the moonlight, ready for anything.

I AM NOT Mira Torf Grade 7, Boise

I am not the growing trees with new blossoms of rainbow-colored flowers, the silver elephants bounding across the field. Nor am I with the sky and clouds and birds soaring across the sky. Nor am I the forest with bubbles for leaves. I am the rain pouring from the sky in miniscule drops shining with the light from a disappearing sun.

SILENCE Linnea Boice Grade 9, Boise

Silence is a stone Thrown in the lake of chatter Sending ripples out from the center Shockwaves radiating toward the far shore, A girl embraced by the sun With eyes the shifting color Of the trees behind her. The almost waves lap at her feet Tickling her toes playfully Begging her into the chaos. Who is she to deny the water? Up to ankles, shin, knees, then waist She makes her own ripples now. Maybe they shall tease another Into the yelling pool. An arrow, she shoots into the sound. A net of bubbles follows her to remind her of the air, But deeper and farther she dives Darker, colder, noisier. She fears drowning soon. Then in the cold darkness She discovers the stone Glowing golden silence. The bubbles murmur goodbye. She doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need them anymore. The silence lets her breathe. With its soft light She explores the dark. And nothing seems so scary With her golden little silence In a world that wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop talking.

THE WORKSHOP My mouth is not for kissing but rather for the articulate frenzy of revolution, for lunchroom picket lines, for the soft devastation of water. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; SAMANTHA MOONEY, Grade 11

THINGS TO DO BACKSTAGE India Mae Roper-Moyes Grade 10, Burley

Run. Run for your life and all it’s given you. Run everywhere, behind the curtains, through the dressing rooms, on the stage when the lights are off. Then run down the aisles of soft-cushioned chairs where people will soon be sitting, and then jump onto the stage and slide. Run if you’re tired. Run because you’re tired. Run because you’ve been there since eight in the morning. Run because in three short hours, people will be watching. Then have a dance party with an authentic mosh pit. Raid your friends’ iPods. Try for a triple pirouette. Remember how young you are. Remember how young you feel. Make fun of the college dude in peacock harem pants. Keep dancing when your teacher says, “You’re crazy, save your energy!” And then laugh because she’s laughing and because she probably did the same thing to get rid of annoying nerves. Look at your best friend. Assure her, tell her she will do fine. Tell her you will be with her the whole way through. Help friends apply fake eyelashes, redder lipstick, darker eyebrows. Stage makeup makes you look terrible, trust me. More blush! Sit at the prop table and rant about how worried you are that you might mess up. Realize you’re all Freshmen. Smile because that’s an amazing coincidence. Sing the worst pop songs at the top of our lungs; you won’t need them onstage anyway. Apply more mascara. Look at the clock. People are in their seats. Take a peek from behind the curtain. It won’t hurt. Feel the excitement and pure electricity running through your bloodstream and to everywhere. Smile because this is happening. Smile because you’re doing what you love. Smile because the music’s starting.

IN DEFENSE OF MY FORGIVENESS Rachel Fichtman Grade 10, Boise

They tell me that my forgiveness will get me hurt, that someone will take advantage of it, but people are a never-ending change of seasons. So why not forgive while they are in another season of life? Everyone deserves a second chance and a third. I’m not saying I would trust them, just forgive and forget. I don’t like breaking bonds with people. It feels like a thousand rubber bands snapping across my arms. I forgive others like I want to be forgiven. It is not like we are all perfect. Even roses have thorns. So I will get hurt if I don’t forgive. But most importantly I must forget.

SYMMETRY Alyssa Jones Grade 10, Boise

I like twins, identical ones to be exact. If they walk on either side of me, it would be perfectly symmetrical. I have three pairs of twin friends,blondes, redheads, and blackhaired. One blonde insists on taking her umbrella with her everywhere. This won’t do and then the other blonde was just there. I have two pairs of twin friends, a redhead broke his leg, he wears a cast. His brother wouldn’t break his leg for me. I broke them. I have one pair of twin friends. They walked slightly out of line. Useless and dumb. I have no friends now. I’m perfectly symmetrical. There’s a long scratch on my leg.

YELLOW ROAD AUTUMNS Emily Anderson Grade 10, Boise

The town emerges, practically built out of quaking aspens that are bright yellow and quiver in the breeze. You feel as though all those aspens are the yellow road leading to Oz. You drive by fields of blonde grass, and horses peer their heads over white fences, watching people ascend up the trail into the forest. The mountains have started getting some white dusty snow on their peaks that kiss the bright sky. A deep blue river winds through downtown, neighborhoods of auburn cabins and rusty leaves that flicker in the breeze. The forest is scattered with fiery orange, arrogant red, and golden yellow leaves leading up to the dark evergreen trees. Moss grows on cool grey rocks, and you feel like you could stay there forever. Downtown has cozy coffeehouses, good smelling bookstores, organic groceries, and sandwich shops that are impossible to resist. At night, it is alive with people, light and the moon. Light brown deer shed their velvety antlers, and orangey white-tipped foxes scamper through neighborhoods. Osprey perch on the tops of trees, barn owls glide silently and unnoticed, and sometimes you can even hear wolves howling at night. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s like being in a Wes Anderson movie. People walk their dogs in puffy blue coats in the morning, their lips bright with cold, and their breath warm with coffee. At the end of autumn, you know winter is coming soon, and skiing is coming soon, because the snow on the peaks grows closer and closer, until one night, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s falling on your doorstep. Your breath spills out in grey puffs, like chimneys full of smoke. At night, the darkness is a thick velvet, and you can easily see the white holes in the sky, and the warm yellow light of cabins burning out the windows. These are the autumns in Sun Valley.

A SHORT TALK ON BOYS India Mae Roper-Moyes Grade 10, Burley

Don’t be frightened. Don’t ever be frightened. They can literally smell fear as if it is oozing from your pores. Most of the ones you meet in your lifetime won’t be so bad. Yeah, they might smell funny or wear traffic cones on their heads or go on and on about a game that doesn’t exist in the real world. But let’s face it, those boys who might smell funny or talk funny or act funny wont judge you on your clothes or your knowledge of Kim Kardashian or whether or not you shave your legs. They have this super power that gives them the ability to realize we’re human.

EDWARD Madison Binegar Grade 12, Boise

Edward, aged 85 years, is not funny or even amusing. He told me he can’t look out the window of his apartment on the top floor because he’s afraid of heights. He is also afraid that his rat, named Sally, will die soon of some kind of rat cancer. He told me he had a dream last night. In it, his mother was alive, but Sally died. He said he isn’t sure how to feel yet about waking up. Edward, finally, confessed to me how his walls, adorned with fake Monet artwork, become companions if he’s not careful. Because no voice is there to tell him that their flesh is hard and cold and how they echo when he speaks and how they resonate when he strikes them 58

THE WORLD Rachel Fichtman Grade 10, Boise

Looking at the world through my window, glancing around at the wild and rambunctious world that can kill and draw you in like a python. The fiery pit of life, we are the coal to its vicious flame. Like someone has drawn out our lives and decides to re-draw them with ambidextrous hands. As if we are someone’s dolls being lifted and controlled, being one of the many plucked feathers of mankind, having no protection, no jacket of protection to keep us intact. Like with ocean breezes being blown, the morning dawn forcing us to wake up, and with a screaming seagull as our alarm clock. Like feeling someone is waiting for you to crack, Go into your mind and get lost into the forest of your head, tree after tree, memory after memory. Like falling into dark holes that never want you to escape, keep trying to be content, to calm down and find happiness, being plucked like guitar strings doesn’t help, having sadness visit you. But I guess that’s how the world functions.

THE BUBBLE BATH Henry Price Grade 10, Boise

So there I was, about to take a luxurious bubble bath. I had just began running the water when my eye was drawn to a black monstrosity with eight legs and eyes sitting in the tub. I scurried frantically, grabbing a plastic cup off the counter and slamming it drinking side down on top of the spider. This crisis was temporarily avoided. Temporarily. I flung open the medicine cabinet searching in vain for a way to kill the spider when an old magnifying glass caught my eye. Perfect. I knelt by the tub and used the sunlight coming in from the skylight above me. The bright light reflected through the lens, heated the inside of the cup to oven-like temperatures, and the spider died a slow incendiary death. 59

YOU WAKE UP Sarah Wilson Grade 10, Nampa

You wake up to see a small dog resting at your feet. You lie sideways on a couch so small your legs stick awkwardly over the armrests. You look back at the dog to see that it’s garbed in a uniform you might find on the student at an English boarding school. A bit strange. You think of the eccentric dog-owners on reality TV. You hear a very posh sounding woman’s voice coming from the other room. “Percy, hurry up and come in here! You wouldn’t want to miss the train!” The dog hops off the couch. “Just a minute, Mum!” My God! You’ve entered another reality in which the roles of dogs and humans have been reversed! Or maybe you just got confused while watching 101 Dalmatians. You then noticed a sudden tightness around your neck. You look down and see a dog tag, or a human tag, rather. It’s in the shape of a man’s face. Written on it is your name. A rush of embarrassment overtakes you as you realize that’s the only thing you’re wearing. You franticly search the room for a blanket. You find one next to a TV shaped like a dog kennel, and wrap it around your body. You scamper up a short flight of stairs exiting what you assume was the basement, and enter into a cleanly kept kitchen. A beagle, in a pretty spring dress, stands upright cooking pancakes. Seated at a counter is the puppy from earlier. In his hand is a candy bar, and he is waving it at you. “Over here! Want some of my Mars Bar?” You nod with your tongue hanging out, and run up to take a big bite. Right as you begin to open your mouth, the mother dog snatches away the candy. “Come now, Percy. You know humans are horribly allergic to chocolate.” You look at the mother and whine. “Oh, bugger.” “Language!” “Sorry, Mum...” By this point, you’re more confused about how you got to 60

England then the whole dogs becoming the dominant species thing. “You better be off now, darling.” The mother dog leads her son to the door, kisses his cheek and waves goodbye. She walks back to you, and scratches your back, “How about we go walkies then?” You bark excitedly, and run off to fetch your leash. On your way back you cross paths with a mirror. Look at yourself. Look at what you’ve become. Are you really going to sit idly by as your whole world burns up like an ex-boyfriend’s image in the fireplace? No. You are a [man/woman]. You are strong! You dart back to your owner and allow her to leash you up. It was a gorgeous day, for English standards. Along the way you even got to see Big Ben, although it was a little uncomfortable looking at it on all fours. Your owner walks into Tesco, leaving you with a friend of hers. The friend just so happens to also own a human. You decide to talk to her. “Excuse me, do you happen to know why dogs have suddenly taken over the world?” The other human looks at you confused, but then cocks her head to the side with a big dumb smile on her face, “I dunno. HEY! Hey, hey! Hey…Guess what!...I saw a squirrel the other day!” She starts to bounce around, “Have you ever, have you ever seen a squirrel! I bet you have! I love to chase squirrels! How about you? You’re my best friend!” The dog woman comes out of the store and hands you a big juicy bone which you gnaw on delightedly. It could have tasted a bit better, but what can you expect from Tesco? After you finished your walkies, you curled back up on the couch in the basement. The day was very strange, but not particularly bad. Although you hope for it all to be a dream, you wouldn’t be too disappointed spending the rest of your life this way.

BRASS GIRL Jesse Remeis Grade 10, Boise

The peering brass girl smiles, studying the delicacies of the cosmic accident built up around her. She watches as the undulating stream of people wander through the tribute to her memory, oblivious to her concerned eyes. The brass girl sees the ones everyone else ignores: the tired service man, eyes like stones, smooth with endless drowning, as he reaches to capture his spark in neon yellow t-shirts. She feels the joy of the man in his battered tennis shoes while he uses the messenger bag as a pillow and basks in the simple pleasure of a dancing sun. The brass girl studies the teenage writers, reveling in the power of words and scribbling in journals. The brass girl counts their writing as important as her own. She glances at the sentinel coffee cup and its corrugated sides; its worth measured only by the quality of its contents and the brass girl wonders if that counts as discrimination. She watches and empathizes but as the countless river of humanity rushes past, the brass girl yearns to clamber from her window-prison and join the ones made of flesh and blood.

I AM LIKE MY FATHER Kira Hoffman Grade 10, Nampa

He died with the radio on, Playing cheerfully in the background Of a sad house, a house that loss built. It was the house of a man who lacked control. It was the house of a man who loved deeply. And in years passing, I feel nostalgic. A longing for my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strange manner And a need for understanding. Apologetic letters gathering dust in the glove box. Index cards that provide sentimental value. In a sense, I am like my father With a desire for self expression. I have painted signs and left confusion in place of myself And wanted to be forgiven by the ones I have loved.

REMAINS Emily Anderson Grade 10, Boise

I tried to save you Tried to open your eyes Tried to show you that you are worth so much more than what they’ve made you become. They made you a mask with a fake smile on it. They painted it bright red So everyone could see how happy you were. But I knew What everyone else chose to look past. I chose to see Because your mask had holes in it For your eyes. Your eyes turned dark and lifeless As who you are began to fade And I knew. And I tried to help, but when they came back, you put your mask back on, because you didn’t want them to hurt you like they hurt the other kids who wouldn’t listen. Cornering them Kicking them Even when they screamed for it to stop, blood pulsing out their veins and running down their body like their salty tears, they wouldn’t stop. So you wore your mask. Every day was a masquerade And each night was a sneak around as every fiber in your body burned for escape. But you couldn’t do it And I know now that everything I do will never be enough And your mask remains. 63

THESE BOOTS WERE MADE FOR WALKING Courtney Nicholes Grade 11, Meridian

Nick stared out into the distance from the driver’s seat and tried to keep his car between the white lines. Signs kept passing him telling him where he was in the world, something that made him uneasy. In only a matter of a few hours he would be face-to-face with his in-laws. He could hear his wife, Cassandra, mumbling in the passenger seat, but his thoughts were too distracting to pay attention to her words. All he could think about was Maggie and how beautiful she was in that black cocktail dress she wore to dinner last night. The way the fabric snuggled against her Puerto Rican hips. The sexy way she breathed out each word made her so desirable to Nick. Cassandra never wore handkerchief dresses or breathed her words. She always complained to her husband that her calves were wrinkly so she could only wear maxi dresses. Not to mention her razor burns. Nick had no idea that any other part of the body besides a face could achieve wrinkles. Nick blushed as he remembered kissing Maggie’s lips for the first time. It was at the hotel where he went for what Cassandra referred to as “his weekend business trips.” “Detective work never ends,” he told Cassandra after he kissed her goodbye on Friday mornings. He thought he would feel guilty lying to his wife and spending time with Maggie instead, but it was just the opposite. Brushing her painted ruby lips against his was a pleasurable sin. So enjoyable that he kissed her again the next time he saw her. The thought occurred to him that he might be doing something wrong long before the third meeting and before he kissed her. “The devil couldn’t be bringing me closer to an angel,” he tried to convince himself. Cassandra’s nasal voice interrupted his thoughts. Nick found her throaty voice so sensual when they first met. He craved her precious lips as well, along with her honey hair touching his skin. But after a while seeing the same view and feeling the same skin gets monotonous, like staring at the same family pictures at a neighbor’s house. The sparkling stone on her left ring finger caught the sunlight and glinted accusingly in his eye. “Nick,” she asked with her voice barely above a whimper. “Do you really love me?”

A STATUS UPDATE Kira Hoffman Grade 10, Nampa

She is a pretty face frozen in an awkward smile, the best photo she could find. Across from that smile is a name, her name and below it is a vacant box. A place for storage of thoughts, storage of ideas. A place where she tells you what she did that day. Somewhere that she can fill with the irrelevant details of her life to build her wall of self worth. She paints a false portrait of her daily life, a gallery in which others make assumptions and see her for what they choose to see. A digital timeline of resentments and things she no longer loves, things she wishes to forget. She is filling in blanks and adding her memories to albums, memories of faces and sunsets and distant relatives, but it’s not who she is, it’s who she’d like to be.

MUDDIN’ Riley Jones Grade 11, Boise

Country girls driving trucks Mud flying, tires spinning Sweet tea and gum chewing Flag flying, Frayed cut-off jeans and cowgirl boots rollin’ in the mud. Lights in the barn shine and shimmer The smell of hay fills the air Black smoke from diesels covers the sun-setting sky John Deere tractors churning the ground These are the good times of them redneck girls and country boys

IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE ABOUT MY FEELERS Samantha Mooney Grade 11, Boise

In my rearview mirror is a tiny sliver of your lemon-suck face behind the wheel. We are crashing into trees, into houses, smashing mailboxes on our first date after the world ended, going at such terrible speeds that we ruin our webs of bed veins, our soapy mouths, our burst knuckles. I want a tiny man to occupy Little Palestine for my brother who took my ringlet talisman but now is only dust in a land without gods. My mother never held me in her arms, cradled me, but I preferred my brother’s love anyway because of that day in kindergarten when he cowered under his desk and never came out again. You are the pomegranate muscle I work my weary jaw around; I do not devour you whole but rather chew each sour seed that sullies your sweetness. My mouth is not for kissing but rather for the articulate frenzy of revolution, for lunchroom picket lines, for the soft devastation of water. My hands cannot gather themselves into an effective fist, or pull the gaping parts of me together with a row of sealed buttons. Some girls are colts on uncertain legs, looking into the wild eyes of men and wondering why they don’t stay. Each dark-haired lover is a pen-marked place that I could not find him. Now, I am ravaged, the dark tips of wing fluttering on eyelid, reminding me of cranes I once shot with my brother. We hold our desperate bodies in their soulish laps and assure them that blame is not one of our starving children. I am an orphan, I say, I am an orphan. A wish blooms in the darkness of me but without the presence of light, it dies. The worst thing is that I hate my uncle — he is a fat lump of lard drowning under his own gravity.

THE ORANGE Riley Jones Grade 11, Boise

After a long day of jogging, you come home to find that your foot has turned into an orange. You think maybe it will be good for hydration, but the orange is unpeelable and inedible. Though the orange seems to be indestructible, you can’t really run anymore, so you figure you don’t really need to hydrate anyway. Worse, your friends keep trying to peel your foot. You begin to stay inside your house more. All you can smell is orange.

LIVE TOGETHER DIE ALONE Henry Price Grade 10, Boise

Louise breaks things. The plane split apart like a twig snapped on a leg. Way to keep it together, Desmond. I admire the people who do what they think is right, even though society says otherwise. The feminist bookstore is my favorite. Yet, so are the musical numbers. The elephant in the room is the raw biscuit dough which Bob wants as buns, but Linda says no. 4, 8, 15, 26, 23, 42: These numbers saved the world. That way, you can find Serenity. I tried a Schrute beet, but I like Bob’s Burgers better. Sacajawea! Sacajawea! Tina groans and she wipes Art off of her, wishing she could change the past but whatever happened, happened. River keeps the Olympics out of Portland. I can’t decide if I like Jam or Kaymon better but Denny made me cry. The man of faith has the most tragic life. Tina groans again. 67

THE SEVENTH HILL Larson Holt Grade 11, San Francisco

Gliding, sleeplessly, up the dead asphalt of the street, where shops are replaced by dark building fronts, outdoor cafés with a myriad of dew-collecting shadows, networks of gutters which make the air taste like moldy lettuce washed away, and the parked cars keep collect dust and water from the moist air. There’s one thing that’s sure to stay. In the twilight, the side street turns into an alley of fear, where you can see a car’s tail-lights have been left on and the trash has been taken out, and you can tell there are plenty of people here who just don’t understand us, don’t know who we are and could care less because “Honey, there are bigger fish to fry,” so I chuckle thinking of how much of a paradox it would be if a vegetarian uttered those words, and in doing so I’ve unwittingly made for myself a desolately happy moment. What the hell am I doing here? I’ll spill the beans, but the beans which you know all too well because you collected them and put them in a plastic bag and left them on my doorstep. Tonight I couldn’t fall asleep – you were on my mind. I went for a walk, bundled warm in several hundred layers of cotton, but with the inside still cold. I’m in front of your house now, where you sleep, where you will wake up exactly in the same position as when you started. I wonder if by waving into the darkness I can make you realize I’m here, or if I can help myself by blocking the cars parked in your driveway as a symbol of some kind that even with my emotional head and motionless body, I can’t understand, because I don’t want to understand anything anymore. You’re in the world of dreams. Me, I’m in the world where when I close my eyes all there is to see is darkness and if I’m facing the right direction, the faint glow of a nightlight reminds me that I’m still young and implores me to return to innocence where I won’t have to answer your hard questions or ask myself them for you. 68

I reached the top of the seventh hill soon afterwards, the only place from where you can see the other six, but this time instead of watching tankers sink away on the horizon, I look and I see everything, and I see nothing, and I see that all of it is bathed in the molasses of dimmed streetlights, since all the brightness has faded away.

SHORT TALKS ON FIGHTING Cassidy Richey Grade 11, Boise

I always thought the screaming and yelling would be worse, but I never would have imagined this empty silence.

EXCERPTS FROM THE KIND OF STORY YOU CAN’T TELL IN THE THIRD PERSON Baylee Gerfen Grade 12, Eagle

The birds pick up and fly off, and the next thing I know, everything is blue. It’s a bit like looking at the world through the lens of a camera – one minute sepia, the next, cyan. Warmer than that though. Deeper. Darker. I am sitting on a train. I have never been on a train before. I don’t what know the occasion is, where I am going, or where I am coming from. I’m sitting, turning a cup in my hands on the table. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same one. I shake my head and stand up to walk away, but I bump into someone that I perceive as only a mess of dark grey. Words have me entirely. I find myself making a small and nervous tcch sound with my tongue but find no words and try to just shuffle past. Whoever it is stops me, grabs my wrist, gently but with an authority I can’t place. The hand is rough, well-worn, but warm. I look down and then up. A change of scenery, again. Not a boy but not a man either. Converse with the laces pulled out. Blue jeans. Grey sweatshirt. Blue eyes. Blond hair. Questionable expression. I expect him to say something, but words must have left him, too. We pause for a moment and then he lets go; I look down, and move on down the aisle. I do not hear his footsteps in one direction or the other but I don’t dare turn around. For a pair of strangers, the tension is stifling.

HERE LIES THE REMAINS OF THE RIVER KIDS Baylee Gerfen Grade 12, Eagle

My father is pouring his grandfather into the river after having sat in a whiskey bottle in his closet for ten years, and I never knew the guy, my great-grandfather, right, so all I could think was that’s a lot of ashes for one body but I guess living for so long you’d have a lot of dust, a lot of ghosts, and suddenly or slowly, you are only what you can’t take with you A few generations down: my father, his sister, her husband, and me. My aunt, who is from California and wears too much makeup but listens to country, tells us how she’ll videotape it and send it to my grandmother and my great-aunt Sue, because by the time they both get here together, we might be fighting an overflow. She takes staged pictures with her $200 Smartphone, adds color filters, uploads them to Instagram. And like I said, he was a stranger: a logger, a hunter, a fisherman, and a lush for Old Crow; your propriety & sobriety is wrong and somewhere, his shadow smashed that bottle over the rocks, lit a cigar, and dumped out the coke they used to chase their symbolic, half-filled shots.

A FRANK EVALUATION Larson Holt Grade 11, San Francisco, CA

Anne Frank looks happy. Maybe it’s all the attention she gets from the huge memorial that surrounds her, with plaques engraved into marble pillars describing her struggle against Nazism, and she must like it – wouldn’t you if you were a teenage girl? Her humble grin graces her bronze face, while her leaning stance looks down on those who approach her revered figure. Approaching her now, from opposite sides of the path, are two women who don’t realize they’re acquaintances – friends, even – until they see one another’s faces a few apart. The classic hi, how are you, how have you been follows. They’re high school friends separated by a grade and by the path of their lives. One lady: Asian, short, greying hair, has been “well” and teaching yoga to moms from cul-de-sacs in Meridian after living adult life on the Japanese island of Hokkaido. The other: stouter, much less fit, white, with her husband Andrew in tow, long brunette-ish hair and no children. She recites as if prepared, a list of accountants, banks and financial consultancies she’s floated between in the last few years – and the two women both continue their conversation as they walk towards the old railroad bridge which is now a bikingwalking path across the river. Her husband remains behind them looking aimlessly at the battery-saving dim screen of his iPhone. Within seconds, all three are at the opening of the bridge where they are forced to round a car parked in their normal lane of travel by crossing the double yellow line, much to the discontentment of the bicyclist behind them who was looking to pass. The car is really one of those golf-cart sized tin cans that park people poodle around in if they have to trim a bush or pull a weed. Whoever left it here left two cones around it, as if it needed any more attention called to its mud-splattered but still bright red skin. Curiously, only one of the cones has shiny silver tape in two equidistant rings covering its surface

– the other is the nondescript international orange of traffic cones. The husband, unable to find distraction in the 64 useless apps of the iPhone, looks now towards the cone and gives it a poke with his sneaker – out comes a faint squish. The faint squish is loud enough to attract the attention of the man on the concrete slab. He reacts by sipping his coffee slightly more slowly, enough to make the bitter beverage bubble and slide back down the oversized orange straw. He didn’t want to look up because he knows, but the squish was abnormal, and his knee-jerk curiosity was piqued. Now, he will remember their faces hellishly like the back of his greasestained hands because he’s seen them yet there is no turning back. The man on the concrete slab listens closely – closely enough to hear the anticipated pop of the first rivet going, another, louder as the second follows; the two animated women are oblivious to the noise; Andrew could care less. The man on the concrete slab now unlatches the pandemonium inside his Pandora’s box as a sudden jolt knocks all three off their feet and they grab onto the truss as the bridge shakes wildly, eventually breaking free from the north anchorage and swinging around, straining the southern anchorage – the direction in which the bridge’s three occupants are now headed, playing a futile game of Chutes and Ladders with fate as the bridge drops even further towards the shallow waters. Eventually, the Chutes prevail and the three are thrown into the river. Luckily, they drown quickly with little struggle. Anne Frank still looks happy.

THE LONELY JOURNEY Cassidy Richey Grade 11, Boise

There are many things wrong with this world. We are all walking a lonely journey and this path can’t be any more hopeless. Its constant battle of trial and error can make any grown man weary with age. The dangers and consequences are like the whipping winds in the air; you may not see it, but it’s definitely there. There are many things wrong with this world, but with you, this lonely journey doesn’t seem so hopeless.

WRITING LIFE He gets so tired of all these lights that bedazzle and invite and disappoint then fade into morning. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; ARTHUR PELLEY

STONE TRASFORMED Kit Knox Boise

Borne from the depths I am shaped by water and sand â&#x20AC;&#x201C; made smooth by time. Chosen, washed, and drilled I am changed. Assembled by hands that cherish me, held firm by steel, I become structure and shadow â&#x20AC;&#x201C; wonder and fancy.

MORE THAN ONE LIFE (after More than One Life by Matthew Dickman) Kathy Jo Lynne Meridian

My younger brother is standing on the porch, coffee in hand. He is gazing at the wheelbarrow, mounded with rocks and dirt and weeds. In this dream, he is forty and the tulips have just emerged from the cold, hard, wintered earth, and his son tosses him a baseball. He catches it and gazes at its roundness and the smoothness of the leather skin. In this Life, nothing makes him want to calculate the height of a jump to ensure his death. In this Life, he has a day off and he is going to garden, to dig and hoe and plant, and sit in the sun.

BEFORE COMPUTERS Janine Watkins Boise

dim light hovers over the workbench hunched back and striped overalls pause as before an altar calculations composed like prayer scattered tools weave their own pattern of praise slim fingers flip a switch and the lathe leaps, yields hot dancing metal. A cooling breath of anticipation newly mastered parts placed with precision wires attached one by one with care slim fingers flip another switch this motor leaps as an exultant hymn completes a liturgy of creation.

THE SAME RIVER Dan Morrow Boise

This is the cool, rushing flow of the river, but that river just slipped around the bend. These swirling ripples just dropped by. Last winter’s snows brought those vanishing waves. This is the glowing warmth of summer, but today’s glow is fleeing into the sunset. The evening’s cool darkness came earlier tonight. Last spring’s winds brought those fading hours. This is the beating pulse of compassion, but that moment’s care is touching others now. Today’s warm word came from a friend’s understanding nod. Nature’s nurturing eons brought that thoughtful voice. The snows of time feed the rippling, shifting, caring rivers. That they change, is forever. We can never drink from the same river twice.

HER KITCHEN Darlene Phillips Boise

Summer mornings her doors were left open for the cool. Bacon grease, a hint of coffee and half-smoked Camels carried by the breeze. Lard and flour coming together as ranch-worn hands pushed and shoved the dough to the boardâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge. Thump, twist echoing itself as the wooden roller sculpted the dough. Sifted flour rained down on rebellious edges as they gently surrendered to the circle, waiting to become a fluted crisp of berries and heaven.

PICTURES PASSED (after The World is a Mirror and Other Tales of Drinking by Nora Hickey) Ashley Derkacs Garden City

1. These are the days of freckles: taut dry skin, limp on a blanket, eyes open to universes of sapphire. 2. Lids closed: drinking in the birds, metronomic waves, popping needles. 3. The lake is a mirror until my sunburnt skin enters: every muscle contracts and involuntary inhalation. 4. Boots cracking and rubber, a slave to miles of travel, switchbacks, unearthed roots, beads drip down, salt on my lips. 5. Around the bend, climb, stretch to the final turn, squinting at the white orb, focus. Before me the world is my picture frame.

IN THE KITCHEN Mara Hargroder Boise

Buddha-man stands calm Smiling in my kitchen One day, long ago, he said, “You’re Home.” Quaking in my history, still I nestled, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, whiskered cheek against my forehead, warm breath smelling of morning coffee, swimming in the sea of his embrace, bloody shark-infested ocean of past floating away – swimming toward safety. Cool salve, calming, smelling like coffee. His green eyes looked steadily into my green eyes…mine leaked…his glowed.

UNRAVELING Sheila Robertson Boise

The whir of sewing at two in the morning, stitching straight lines, seaming shreds of a life. I call to her softly through a clutter of cloth. There is no recognition, an unraveling confusion on the face of my mother. And she, replaced by a stranger, sews tiny baby quilts into the night.

SOFTBALL SEASON Carol Ploussard Teton

Sitting on the high school’s bleachers sucking and spitting dill flavored sunflower seeds, long hot lazy days talking shit about the other team, laughing out loud singing Hot Chocolate’s “I Believe in Miracles,” praying that your sister’s friend gets a hit to tie the game, no boyfriend but describing him anyway mom of the sister’s friend said there is plenty of time for that, mom’s friend agrees, still more talk about him, who knew that years later you would bury his child.

NIGHTS Arthur Pelley Garden City

He gets so tired of all these lights that bedazzle and invite and disappoint then fade into morning. So tired of lonely office workers and empty-headed salesmen spewing their cosmic insights into what’s left of his work-infused brain with alcohol-induced omnipotence; so tired of winsome lasses who long for “The One”, but ofttimes settle for anyone but him. He gets so tired of walking these streets alone, waiting for the night to be over and every night seems everlasting – but then it is morning. His friends of the night are gone, their names forgotten words, their faces lost in the blurring vision of smoke and light, their memory faded into obscurity. What’s left is the numbing, sleep deprived, head-pounding anguish of getting through the day just to make it to the night.

WRITERS REVIEW I crawled on my belly with binocular eyes — GENEVIEVE RIVERO

MOTH TO A FLAME: An Excerpt Gayle Detweiler Boise

Emma didn’t tell them the real reason she was calling. Didn’t tell them she realized she’d been a brat, maybe even an ass to them, for years. And definitely didn’t tell them she almost drowned because of a seizure. She did tell them about swimming with the big sea turtles. Which was pretty much a lie, because she didn’t swim so much as float on her plastic raft, her snorkel gear barely getting wet. She knew they hardly believed her about the sea turtles in a pond, but she would show them one day. “They get stranded in the pond when the tide goes out,” she explained to her mother. Although she felt certain they chose to stay in the pond, an observation borne out by the fact that there were many regulars there. “Yes, it really is called Champagne Pond. No Mom, I don’t know why.” She’d had a good swim that day she almost drowned. Spotted three turtles, one holding still enough to let her pet him. It went that way then. Every few weeks she’d call and relay to them tidbits of her daily life that they would devour and then revel in until her next call. They were careful not to ask too many questions and definitely never asked about her seizures. That was an agreed upon thing. The cat was so close they didn’t want to scare it. She was working as a volcano guide. Details were sketchy. “The company?” “Home Base?” They were already Googling it. “Yes, a silly name,” they agreed. “Okay, favorite memory.” Kyle asked when they were in sleeping bags in the tent. They would play this game sometimes. A way to get to know each other and disabuse themselves of the fact that, even after six months, sex was still the mainstay of their relationship. “Last night.”

“Okay, favorite memory before you turned into a nymphomaniac.” Emma shut her eyes. “Okay, this one night, it snowed really hard, like two feet. We got off early from school. I was, like, nine or ten. Snow was piling up on the roof where it is was sorta flat. And my dad was like Time to shovel! The snow was coming down thick, like a whiteout, so we had to put on these headlamps like miners. We get outside, and my dad just sorta throws me up there, and my dog is up there too, running around in circles and barking. And we’re shoveling like crazy.” “And then what? Like a bear showed up?” “No, then my mom came home and she was happy and made us grilled cheese and hot cocoa.” “That’s a nice story.” That night when Kyle was asleep, she retrieved the black and white photo of her parents she kept in her sock drawer. A photo taken before her, when it was just them. She ran her finger along the edge of the photo then gently over their faces. A nice story. She looked for writing paper. All she found was a bunch of sticky notes. She numbered them and wrote a letter to her parents.

THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE: An Excerpt Kathleen Taylor Boise

“It” resided in a glass container on the second shelf, well away from everything else. Trapped in its glass fortress, it appeared harmless. A small white block wrapped in plastic, sitting innocently in a clear square box. Limburger cheese. But all its white, creamy innocence belied the stench that was trapped within its glass cell. I always took great care to avoid even touching the container, afraid it would somehow seep through and contaminate me. It was Oma’s favorite cheese. I would set the table for lunch, carefully placing the bread, butter, mustard, meats and cheeses in the center. We each had a fork, a knife, a napkin and a small cutting board in lieu of a plate. Somehow, I never remembered the Limburger, but without a word, Oma would go to the fridge and add the offensive offering to the spread. All through the meal, I kept one eye on that sinister white square. The moment Oma reached for the Limburger cheese, I’d steel myself for the inevitable stench of dirty socks that would invade my senses. You could almost see the odorous waves approaching as she lifted the lid from the container, cartoonish green swirls winding their way across the room. The putrid scent intensifying as the plastic wrap was slowly peeled away from the cheese. I often wondered how she could handle such a toxic substance with her bare hands. It was horrifying and fascinating at the same time. Dipping her knife into the creamy whiteness, she spread it evenly over a slice of pumpernickel. Once the Limburger was safely on the bread, she carefully rewrapped the white block, and placed it back into the glass container. Apparently, she didn’t want to lose any of the taste, but I liked to think she was just sparing us from the noxious fumes. I watched Oma bite into the cheese-slathered bread, certain that she had lost her sense of smell – how else could she get that sandwich past her nose and into her mouth? It was a mystery I wasn’t eager to solve. Years later, I stood in front of the refrigerated case at Hickory Farms, contemplating a cheese tray for an upcoming holiday party. Large chunks of Edam, Gouda, Swiss, Havarti and Cheddar stared up at me. Which should I choose? I could

get a little of each, a nice variety of cheeses with summer sausage would look good and taste great. Then it caught my eye. A familiar creamy white block, vacuum-sealed in plastic to lure unsuspecting cheese neophytes into purchasing it. The stench was safely locked away, a ticking time bomb ready to explode with the first puncture of its protective plastic prison. Limburger cheese. Then, without being aware of it, I was holding the small package. This was my moment. I was an adult with a much more diverse palate now, not a child craving American cheese on white bread. Maybe my memories of “Oma’s Limburger cheese” weren’t quite accurate. And with that thought, a flood of memories washed over me. In my mind’s eye, I saw slices of pumpernickel bread with creamy white coats beckoning, followed by sinister swirls twisting their way towards me, converging into a sickly green cloud. Too soon, too soon. Thirty years had passed, but it still wasn’t enough time to erase those childhood memories. I am now the same age Oma was when I spent those glorious childhood days learning about the pleasures of smoked eel, pickled herring, red cabbage and mashed potatoes. And, while shopping at Albertsons, Limburger cheese caught my eye during a search for a wedge of Manchego. This time, it was cleverly disguised in a shiny gold wrapper, undoubtedly trying to trick unsuspecting shoppers into thinking they were purchasing a premium brand of cream cheese. I took this as a sign from Oma that it was time I paid homage to the cheese she had enjoyed so many years ago. It sat in my refrigerator a full month before I could even entertain the thought of tasting it. Encased in two zip-lock bags and pushed to the back of the deli drawer, the gold bar waited patiently. After my purchase of pumpernickel bread from World Market, I knew there was no turning back. The time had come. Unwrapping the gold foil package, I was surprised to see a thick orange skin coating the cheese. I wondered if the cheese’s month in cold storage had caused it to go bad. But there was no odor, another surprise, reassuring me it was probably still edible. Well, as edible as Limburger can be. My knife sunk into the orange skin and I braced myself for the expected assault on my sense of smell. Nothing. I checked the package. Clearly I must have bought the wrong 96

cheese. But the words “Bavarian Limburger” were splashed across the gold foil in bolded font. With a healthy chunk on my knife, I spread cheese across a thick slice of pumpernickel bread. Bringing the bread to my mouth, I closed my eyes and took a bite. This couldn’t be; the hearty taste of pumpernickel overpowered the cheese. The experience was underwhelming. Where was the stink? That unmistakable stench of dirty socks couldn’t have been processed out, could it? Has society become so politically correct that even Limburger cheese wasn’t safe from being made presentable? The depth of my disappointment took me by surprise. All those childhood memories of cringing at the mere mention of Limburger cheese suddenly seemed contrived. Have I been clinging to an imagined childhood, or maybe Oma was finally asserting herself, making me face the uncomfortable truth of odorless Limburger. I was saddened by that thought. I sought comfort by telling myself, “We’ll always have smoked eel.”

GOLDEN SHADY PLACE Genevieve Rivero Boise

when I was a child I reigned over the mud hills of side and the grasses of oolong. I delved deep into the rich earth and made many tunnels of moist darkness with jeweled paths. I called to the grasses and they braided themselves into emerald and golden halls waiting for my wandering feet to feel their smooth stalks twisting into sneaky tunnels. I crawled on my belly with binocular eyes. There was I, lord alone to rule myself. My ancestors were gone and I did not remember them. What I did recall was a red moon ever in the sky an earthen chair and a solitude lonelier than that of the mud kingdom, and the grass halls. Sometimes I think maybe I came from none that I am just a child of light and dark, of rock and earth, of atmosphere. Born to share in this planet with its many creatures and creations and when it is my time 98

the grass will close over my face, and the mud kingdom with the jeweled floors will crumble in the rain, and wash down over my belly pulling me down into caverns and holes dug by other animals paw and nose.

MUSKEGON Janet Schlicht Boise

Lake Michigan came into view at intervals as Lydia made her way north from Muskegon, sailboats in the distance augmenting the sense of ease she felt as she got closer to the cabin. The overblown growth of summer, the tall grasses near the shore that caught the dapple from the lakes surface, reflected back to her a buoyancy and exhilaration at being back “home.” She kept an apartment in town, but here at the lake was her home of the heart, overstuffed with memories, mostly good ones of family days every summer. She smiled to herself as she thought back over childhood days there, splashing in the creek at the back of the property under the cottonwood trees, making mud pies with her sisters Catherine and Carol before Annie, her parents’ late-in-life child, had been born. Many years later, under the same trees, and maybe with the same mud, she had gotten dirty with all her nieces and nephews, wrapped in the insect hum of summer, while their parents sipped gin and tonics on the porch. They would all play until they were exhausted, basking in the deep thrill of summer, and then they would watch the clouds shuffling across the sky and play the “I love you” game. “I love you more than squirrels love nuts.” “I love you more than the moon is high.” “I would love you even if you stole my candy bar.” “I would love you even if you put a bug under my pillow.” It went on and on in the lazy intimacy of summer days. All that was before Celeste died. A few miles down the road, Lydia turned onto the short dirt lane to the cabin. The red and pink hollyhocks, planted in seasons past, bobbed a greeting as she approached, and the tall pines around the side of the cabin relayed the gentle breeze coming off the lake. She opened the door and felt the familiarity, the sense of languid summer days that had embedded themselves in the very walls. The cabin was a place that took no settling into. It was always ready, slightly rumpled but ever so comfortable, the minute she came in. Near her favorite chair, the end table held the talismans of Lydia’s life: the shells and pine cones found on her walks, the rocks from

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the area containing the layered history of their existence, two owl feathers, a piece of moss. On the same table, and seeming somewhat out of place in this otherwise earthy assemblage, was a silver candlestick holder. Lydia kept it there, knowing its presence was odd, as a reminder of her parents who had displayed it always and used it often. They had been the only people in her family who had ever visited her in prison, seemingly the only ones who believed in her innocence. They had never told her their plans, but after their deaths, within weeks of each other, the will was read, and Lydia learned that the beloved family cabin now belonged to her, no strings attached. Since that time, even in winter, it had become her place of refuge. She stepped through the screen door and heard it make its usual decrescendo of thwacks against the door jamb as she headed down the back steps toward the cherry trees. As she had hoped, the branches were bowed nearly to the ground with ripe fruit. She picked a bucketful, and returned to the cabin, where she began the chopping and sautĂŠing garlic and onions. After adding the tomatoes and eggplant and peppers, she turned off the burner to let the flavors mix, and poured herself a glass of red wine, settling on the porch in the magic hour just as the sun chased the shimmering image of itself in the lake. The unremarkable ritual of this ordinary day made her feel sheltered against the quicksand of daily life. She saw the figure out of the corner of her eye, and it brought to her a flutter of feeling, an odd mix of familiarity and strangeness. The glint of red from her hair gave her away, though she was a grown woman now. It was Claire. Memories that Lydia kept in a carefully secured oubliette deep in her brain escaped, like a swarm of stinging insects. Lydia pictured Claire as she last had seen her, a thirteen-year-old girl staring awkwardly at her green plaid sneakers, so lost for the words to say to an aunt who had been to prison. She had no vocabulary for it then, for a conversation with Lydia about what her life had been like. Lydia did some quick arithmetic in her head. Claire had been six when Celeste died, the night 101

of the flashing red lights and siren wail that had invaded their lives. By the time Lydia came out of the Big House, she had been thirteen, so that made her twenty-eight now. Claire had always been her favorite, though she never would have said it out loud. She had loved the staccato of her laugh, the commotion and exuberance that came into a room just ahead of her. She saw Claire approach with faltering steps, and had the sense that she might just as easily turn and go back toward her car as proceed on to the porch. The idea that Claire might be afraid of the reception she would receive brought a rush of tenderness to Lydia, pushing back the deep shadow of her memory of those early days after prison. By the time Claire reached the porch, most of the wariness and bitterness and reserve that had surfaced when Lydia first saw her had dissolved. She reached a hand out to Claire. “You grew up,” she said and smiled. “I guess I’m still working on that,” Claire said. It came out with an exhale that seemed to have been lying coiled inside her for years, waiting for just this moment to be released.

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TEACHING WRITERS’ BIOGRAPHIES Amanda Bennett started writing because she loved reading. She wrote as a way of sorting out what she thought and felt about the world, first as a highschooler growing up in the suburbs of Connecticut and then as a chemistry major at Hamilton College in upstate New York, where she did lab experiments and wrote short stories on the side. Now, Amanda is nearing completion of a novel, and teaches writing at BSU and through the Cabin’s Writers in the Schools Program. Adrian Kien grew up in Elko, Nevada and Missoula, Montana. He has authored several chapbooks and collections of poetry, most recently, The Caress is a Letter of Instruction. He teaches poetry at BSU and is a writer-in-residence with The Cabin’s Writers in the Schools program. He likes to speak French, ride his bicycle and make dinner for his wife, the painter, Kelly Packer. Valeri Kiesig has an MFA in fiction from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and teaches composition and creative writing at CWI. She is working on a novel based in Idaho about teenagers, religion, death, ancestry, and of course, liberation. John Ottey teaches in the English Department at BSU. He has served as editor on several publications. His short stories have appeared in Harvard Review, Bat City Review, Redivider, New Plains Review, juked, Scrivener Creative Review, The Puritan, Foliate Oak, LITnIMAGE, and elsewhere. Daniel Stewart, a teaching-writer for The Cabin’s Writers in the Schools and Idaho Writing Camps since 1999, is the author of a collection of poems, The Imaginary World. A variety of print and online publications have featured his poems, most 105

recently Prairie Schooner, Skidrow Penthouse, Educe, and Thrush Poetry Journal. A seventh generation Idahoan,Kerri Webster is the author of two collections of poetry, Grand & Arsenal (University of Iowa, 2012), and We Do Not Eat Our Hearts Alone (University of Georgia, 2005). The recipient of awards from the Whiting Foundation, the Idaho Commission on the Arts, and the Poetry Society of America, she teaches at BSU, CWI, and for The Cabin as a Writer in the Schools. Christian Winn is a fiction writer, poet, journalist, and BSU creative writing professor. He holds an MFA from BSU, and a BA from Seattle Pacific. His fiction has appeared in the Chicago Tribune’s Printers Row, McSweeney’s, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Gulf Coast, Santa Monica Review, Chattahoochee Review, Greensboro Review and others. He has won the annual Gulf Coast fiction award, and his work has been nominated for a Pushcart Award, a National Magazine Award, and Best American Mystery Stories.

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ABOUT THE CABIN The Cabinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mission is to inspire and celebrate a love of reading, writing, and discourse throughout Idaho and the region. Each year, The Cabin serves about 750 members, more than 2,000 children and youth, and about 30,000 people through educational and cultural programs. Programs for young people are the largest part of The Cabinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work. The Cabin has transitioned from a young literary organization to a cultural anchor in Idaho and serves diverse constituencies through:

Readings & Conversations an annual lecture series featuring world-class authors.

Writers in the Schools (WITS) which places professional writers in classrooms across the state. Idaho Writing Camps offering creative writing adventures for youth and adults.

Writers in the Attic an annual publication opportunity for local

writers.

Read Me Treasure Valley an invitation for the community to read the same book.

Literary activities such as visiting author workshops, readings by

Idaho authors, and other programs for readers and writers of all ages.

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ACKNOWLEGEMENTS Idaho Writing Camps touch the lives of hundreds of young people and adults each summer due to the talents of teaching writers, the generosity of funders, and the gifts of time and support from volunteers, interns, board members and community partners. Thank you to Teaching Writers Guisela Bahruth, Amanda Bennett, Nate Green, Torin Jensen, Valeri Keisig, Adrian Kien, Genna Kohlhardt, Heidi Kraay, Nicole LeFavour, Alan Minskoff, Erica Martz, John Ottey, Bill Pettitt, Laura Roghaar, Ruth Salter, Danny Stewart, Kerri Webster, Megan Williams and Christian Winn. Many thanks to our 2013 interns and volunteers: Gabrielle Nelson, Tina Acree, Kate McNeary, Chris Crawford, Amy Kidd, Bridget Harkness, Jessica Remeis, Mary Brady, Cheryl McKell, Melissa Whiteley, Cassidy Richey, and Julie Zimmerman. The Cabin’s Board of Directors also provides encouragement and support for camps each year through their board service. A big thank you to our friends throughout the state who helped us with venues, learning opportunities, and field trip locations for our campers. We extend a heartfelt thanks for their warm and enthusiastic welcome: Sun Valley Center for the Arts in Hailey, The Fine Arts Center at the College of Southern Idaho in Twin Falls, The Foothills Learning Center in Boise, The Fort Hall Indian Reservation, The Boise Art Museum, The Boise Bicycle Project, The Idaho Historical Museum, The Boise Zoo, The Basque Museum, The Herrett Museum, Karen Bubb, The Sesqui Shop, The Boise Weekly, Deanna Darr, The Morrison Center, The Lisk Gallery, Flying M, The Record Exchange, Moon’s Café, and Boise Parks and Recreation. 109

Lastly, thank YOU, our writing camp families. Your belief that writing is an important and worthwhile summer activity has made this all possible.

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INDEX A

Anderson, Emily • 57, 63 Atkins, Grace • 35

Elsethagen, Abby • 24 Englert, Sabine • 7 Everett, Savana • 27

B Baird, Angus • 17 Belveal, Hannah • 39 Berliner, Ruby • 33 Billings, Tori • 35 Binegar, Madison • 58 Boice, Linnea • 50 Breidenbach, Grant • 34 Butler, Finley • 8

C Carlson, Arianna • 25 Carter, Madison • 15 Cheng, Abby • 26 Clark, Avery • 45 Cole, Max • 47 Combs, Sarah • 26 Cronin, Isabella • 37

D Dahlin Greenwald, Ava • 8 Davis, Mae • 31 De Vera, Hadrian • 21 Derkacs, Ashley • 84 Detweiler, Gayle • 93 Drougas, Naia • 43

F Fichtman, Rachel • 56, 59

G Gaddi, Vera • 47 Gaddis, Grace • 48 Gass, Mackenzie • 19 Gerfen, Baylee • 70, 71

H Hargroder, Mara • 85 Harms, Kaelyn • 11 Hoffman, Kira • 62, 65 Holt, Larson • 68, 72

J Jacobia, Audrey • 10 Jones, Riley • 65, 67 Jones, Alyssa • 56

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K Kerr, Chloe • 38 Kingston, Sha Sha • 47 Knox, Kit • 79 Krause, Madeline • 44 Kulchak, Kate • 16

L Lago, Emma • 41 Linquist, Jayne-Maire • 14 Lynne, Kathy Jo • 80

M McGovern, Diane • 10 McRoberts, Quinn • 9 Mooney, Samantha • 66 Morrow, Dan • 82 Murphy, Sara • 28

N Nicholes, Courtney • 64 Nicholes, Katherine • 32

O Olson, Emily • 36

P Pelley, Arthur • 88 Phillips, Darlene • 83 Ploussard, Carol • 87 Price, Henry • 59, 67

R Remeis, Jesse • 62 Rice, Megan • 9 Richey, Cassidy • 69, 74 Rivero, Genevieve • 98 112

Roberts, Rachel • 16 Robertson, Evan • 23 Robertson, Sheila • 86 Rodgers, Megan • 30 Roper-Moyes, India Mae • 55, 58 Ruxton, Alex • 40 Ryan, Madeline • 42

S Schlicht, Janet • 100 Schroeder, Samaria • 20 Seidl, Olivia • 31 Serio, Sofi • 12

T Talcott, Natalie • 15 Tanner, Alexa • 18 Taylor, Avalon • 48 Taylor, Kathleen • 95 Thayer, Emily • 43 Thayer, Leah • 46 Thompson, Rose • 37 Torf, Mira • 49 Trebbi, Mia • 22

W Waddell, Catherine • 33 Watkins, Janine • 81 Webster, Hannah • 28 Webster, Katie • 29 Welch, Levi • 17 Whittier, Laine • 39 Wiley, Rachel • 49 Wilson, Grace • 13 Wilson, Sarah • 60 Withers, Dalton • 7