ZINE
VOL. 9, NO. 1
OFFICIAL JOURNAL OF THE CABIN’S SUMMER WRITING CAMPS
THE CABIN 801 S. Capitol Blvd. Boise, ID 83702
(208) 331-8000 thecabinidaho.org
the
CONTENTS VOL.9, NO. 1 SUMMER 2021
DEPARTMENTS Introduction • 2 Acknowledgements • 3 Student Writers & Artists • 4 Teaching-Writers • 26 Magazine design Jocelyn Robertson © 2021 The Cabin All rights reserved. Printed in an edition of 100 copies.
Sam (Seonyul) Hwang Grade 3, Boise
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INTRODUCTION A great Idaho writer, Susan Rowe, once gave me a jingle bell and asked me to clutch it tightly in my hand. Then she asked me to ring it. Since my hand-meat was all squished up against the bell, the sound that came out was muffled and flat, like a ball of foil rattling in a closed trash can. Then she asked me to open up my hand. Just a little bit. Not so much that the ball would fall out, but enough to introduce some space. I made my hand a play pen the bell could vibe inside. I gave it a shake. Reader, the bell rang with the ting, ting ting! of every holiday shop door you’ve ever entered. The bell is what writing and making art is like. When we apply too much force, our work comes out flat and muffled. Sometimes the condition of feeling squeezed comes from school, where we have a lot to do in not much time. Or we are squeezed by our own brain that makes shouty demands when an invitation would feel more, well, fun. The Cabin exists because writers and artists need space to breathe. We need somewhere sot, full of time and space for play. Summer writing camps feel like an open, gentle holding where writers and artists have access to the time and inspiration they need to create newly-born stories, poems, comics, paintings, sculptures, and whatever else we hear inside, asking to be made. The writing and artworks in these pages ring out with bright questions that animate our dreamed-of, wished-for worlds. I hope you find some sot time to enjoy them. Keep writing, keep writing! – Laura Roghaar, Teaching-Writer
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Harlow Caissie Grade 4, Boise
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Summer Writing Camps at The Cabin touch the lives of hundreds of student writers and adults each summer due to the talent of our teaching-writers, the generosity of funders, and the gits of time and support from volunteers, interns, board members, and community partners. Thank you to teaching-writers Cassie Angley, Ameerah Bader, Natanya Biskar, Colleen Brennan, Natalie Disney, Katie Fuller, Chris Mathers Jackson, Heidi Kraay, Hannah Rodabaugh, Laura Roghaar, Daniel Stewart, Tracy Sunderland, Tessy Ward, and CL Young. Many thanks to our 2021 interns, volunteers, and Cabin staff: MJ Norris, Emmy Parton, Madeline Ryan, Abby Peck, Aidan Cahill, Anika Bennett, Avery Gendler, Hunter Levy, Julene Elias, Meredith Higgins, Olivia Jeffry, Owen Curtin, Sara Ivey, Taylor Wyllie, Hillary Bilinski, Gen Emerson, Ashley Smith, Joel Wayne, Tyler Weber, Megan Williams, Kurt Zwolfer, and Bean.
A special thanks to Elizabeth Dickey, Education and Visitor Engagement Director at Idaho Botanical Gardens, Curtis Evans, Education Coordinator at Peregrine Fund World Center for Birds of Prey, and Tina Mullins, Director of Business at Foothills School of Arts and Sciences. Your generosity allowed us to expand camps when COVID might have kept them too close to The Cabin.
Writing Camps and publication of MEGAZINE are made possible by generous support from the Union Pacific Foundation.
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STUDENT WRITERS & ARTISTS A/B
E/F
L
W/Y
Ayers, Landyn • 25 Barton, Elizabeth • 12 Bennett, Luke • 19 Black, Thor • 13 Brewton, Lucy • 19 Bullard, Oliver • 9
Edmondson, Hollis • 10 Fields, Scarlet • 8
Lawley, Phoebe • 23 Lee, Arianna • 5
G
M
Gamboa, Larkin • 12 Gray, Lillian • 10 Groenert, Kate • 25 Guill, Frederich • 15
Martinez, Maya • 16 Miller, Kirin • 20
Walker, Sam • 11 Walker, Sabrina • 15 Welsh, Maddie • 8 Winters, Genevieve • 10 Yang, Aubrey • 7
C Caissie, Harlow • 3 Cochran, Gabriel • 14 Cocozza, Mili • 11 Cover, Maya • 13 Cragg, Maddie • 17
D Daniels, Chloe • 19 Day, Ariana • 16
H
N Nelson, Evan • 24 Nelson, Mollie • 21
Hendershot, Bianka • 6 Howell, Olivia • 13 Hwang, Sam (Seonyul) • 1
S
J
Schwartsman, Nikolai • 6
Janson, Cash • 7 Jones, Joss • 16
V
Sandow, Olivia • 18 Sarin, Amiya • 20
Valderrama, Julia • 22 Van De Graaff, Fiona • 22
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Arianna Lee Grade 3, Boise
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A TALE IN THE WOODS Bianka Hendershot Grade 7, Boise It always tells a story Every groove Every curve Older than you or me Or a 103-year-old Each is unique None are alike Just like each story Some have witnessed Lewis and Clark While others may be World War II Paper is made from wood The very thing we used to document Wood never forgets And maybe if you look close enough It just might have a story for you
Nikolai Schwartsman Grade 4, Boise
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UNDER THE SEA Aubrey Yang Grade 3, Boise
A fish on the mermaid’s head. She is named Fishy. The mermaid’s name is Mirmir. Coral made with play-dough and sparkly pipe cleaners. The other coral is made of a water balloon filler-upper. In front of it is Mr. Fish. Mr. Fish is made out of a film canister and cardboard. The seashells are made out of buttons. I made this because I really like the ocean.
BIG BOY ROBOT WITH BAM! AND STICKS Cash Janson Grade 5, Boise
Paint, cardboard, paper, ribbon, clothespins, rubber bands, pipe cleaners, popsicle sticks, and glue.
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SHATTERED GLASS Scarlet Fields Grade 7, Boise It simmers under your skin. Molten lava bubbling beneath your cracked mantle. It waits for someone to pull the trigger of your cocked and loaded gun. Click. BOOM! Sometimes it erupts. Deafening. There’s no going back. Far from sot and in control, it is a volcanic projectile of feeling. Your amygdala takes over, adrenaline mans your body as irrationality hijacks your mouth.
And other times it overflows. Pouring over like the one time your mom made spaghetti and the boiling pot shoved its contents out, overwhelming the lid. This train has no brakes it runs – no, sprints ‘til it runs out of steam. And ater it twists and twirls, breaks and blinds, the rampage clears. Stooping to scoop up the shattered glass.
TAPESTRY Maddy Welsh Grade 11, Boise i walk at the heels of an idolized man hiding behind a curtain of hair and a fortress of sweaters from decades past i hear the chants of onlookers, revealing the man as remarkable. How he supports the perfect family what they don’t know echoes my head, they live in blissful ignorance while i live in chaotic knowledge of the man’s tragic downfalls the medical bills of a son who can’t cope, collecting dust, an orange bottle, that remains discreet under moth torn clothing the bitten nails of a young girl, unsure of what’s to come an image of a woman hunched at a desk lingers behind my eyes, as snores travel through my house a sick and twisted lullaby putting my fears to sleep and numbing my anxieties as my brother escapes into the night.
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the onlookers don’t understand the woven tapestry of this life. They’re not supposed to, because that’s all it is. a tapestry done and undone to create a flawless narrative that gets draped over the truth to maintain the perfect family
THE FEEL OF TREES Oliver Bullard Grade 4, Boise
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ROSES Hollis Edmondson Grade 5, Nederland, CO
HUMANS HOLD THEM BACK
RAIN
Genevieve Winters Grade 7, Boise
Lillian Gray Grade 7, Boise
Trees breathe the polluted air.
The grass moist under my shoes Though still wishing it would rain
The river churns going under bridges, trying to reach the sea. Roses attempt to grow, up and over they strain but they fail. Humans hold them back.
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The gibbons calling out Against the background of city noise The fantasy of rain But the reality of fire And the rain doesn’t come.
NO MORE MESSY FINGERS & STARRY NIGHT TELESCOPE Mili Cocozza Grade 4, Boise
Play-dough, popsicle stick, plastic cup, muffin liner, toilet paper roll, paper cup, pipe cleaners, and paint.
WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND Sam Walker Grade 9, Boise
A man walked alone on a dusty old road, the dark moonless night leaving the world around him bathed in darkness. Only faint silhouettes of the trees were visible against the star-filled sky. The only source of light was the evenly spaced row of streetlights casting an unnatural orange light on the pavement. These lights were the only things keeping the darkness that enveloped the world at bay. Stopping at the edge of the circle of light, the man looked to the forest. Looking down at where he stood, he noticed a flat dark image standing with him against the ground. “All the darkness except for you,” the man thought to himself. Staring at the dark mass in front of him filled with him with disdain. “Funny,” he said, though none were around to hear, “to see our own shadow. To see the imprint we have on the world,” he said to his imprint. “To see ourselves in our truest forms: dark, empty, relieved of the depth and meaning that makes you.” The man froze, glancing around, staring into the forest. For a long time the only noise was the humming of the streetlights. “Who said that?!” the man said into the dark void. No answer came from the cold night. “Funny,” said the void, “how you hide in the light like it means something to you. Why can’t you see what you are? Your imprint on the world isn’t just a shadow. It defines how you act, how you think. You are what you leave behind.”
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HIDDEN REALITY Larkin Gamboa Grade 9, Boise June 14, the blazing sun reflecting off my skin as the perspiration gathers under my mask. I’m filled with anticipation of what we might do next for today is a day full of the beauty of art and life right in front of my eyes. It’s hard for people to stop and see the goodness of life. But we are all surrounded by love and acceptance that I think we need to let it heavily outweigh all the hatred and sadness.
LOST Elizabeth Barton Grade 4, Boise
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MARCHING
Maya Cover Grade 4, Boise Called breeze tatters, the trees and there’s nothing you can do. No role to play. When the trees are in a stew and you have no clue what it should mean. The natural world may play with its branches, leaves, and weaves. The tree’s emotions, is that erosion, or is it good? Would the tree smile or frown at the breeze? Can I make that guess? Yes, but best, leave the world to the rest. Issues and ideas. What the world is and what it should be. I’ll be struck by acts of bravery, entangled in what I see and what it should be. The times you’ll face we’ll chase the breeze. Pin it down to the ground. Will we run off or stick around to see the outcome, get the job done? With everyone I hold a hand with, will we reach the top of the cliff ? Will we get our ropes and climb this cliff ? We can change, then we may rearrange in a burning time, a burning world with every rhyme, let our work chime, guide and provide all from what we find in our marching mind.
UNUSUAL WORLD Thor Black Grade 8, Boise
IN A STRANGE WORLD Olivia Howell Grade 6, Boise
The desert was pouring with rain on this cold summer day. Fred the magenta crab was sitting in his roofless house on his least favorite green rocking chair. As Fred sat on his chair, he thought about his boringly usual life. He wished he was one of those rare red crabs that lived on a beach near the ocean, or that he lived on one of those one-in-amillion dry deserts, or that he had a roof on his house. Instead, Fred the magenta crab continued to live his normal life, watching all the news on his waterproof TV. His clock said it was half past 13 on the 32nd day of December. This was his favorite day of the year for no particular reason. The newscasters on his TV were talking about how the oceans were all drying up and the Earth was getting cooler by the day. As he got up from his rocking chair, Fred the magenta crab circled back to the idea of living an unusual life, and concluded his old year’s resolution would be to be less normal than he was.
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TROUBLE IN DINOLAND Gabriel Cochran Grade 5, Boise
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IN THE OCEAN Sabrina Walker Grade 7, Boise
In the ocean a totally different world filled with sights and wonders never thought of before but
MY CHILDHOOD Frederich Guill Grade 7, Boise I was born not breathing and blue. I was put in the N.I.C.U. for a long time. The funny thing is that I would hold my breath for just a little bit then I would scream. Two years later I was at my friend’s birthday party and there was a clown. He was not that good at his job. He made balloon animals that looked possessed. Fast forward six years, I was 8, I got to try a sport for the first time and it was soccer. It was not that fun. I was not good at it. I was knocked around a lot. My teacher was not good and not too bad.
D E E P E R down it’s filled with terrors and frights and things never before seen no one really knows what lays under the sea but the surface is a sight to behold with dazzling water lit up like gold and fish of all shapes and sizes and if caught are like prizes but I think the ocean is beautiful from far away so I’ll sit on the beach while you splash and play.
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I AM ALONE
WHAT MAKES YOU?
Maya Martinez Grade 7, Eagle
Ariana Day Grade 7, Boise
I’m alone. There is no one here but me. The shadowy figure is coming over me, but it only makes me feel more alone. I can feel I am in an empty room where no one goes into. No one is here. I can hear the shadowy figure as it repeats, “You are alone, there is no one here but you.”
Think about you, what makes you? Do you do things from others’ decisions? Or your own? Are you who you say you are? Who are you?
EXTERNAL SELF 16
Joss Jones Grade 6, Boise
What makes you? What do you like? This is for you, no one else, not them. Do you know you? Here’s my answer. You are the only bearer of you, yes, yes, you do know you.
INTERNAL SELF PORTRAIT Maddie Cragg Grade 6, Meridian
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HOUSE 18
Olivia Sandow Grade 5, Meridian
HARD OF HEARING Lucy Brewton Grade 7, Boise
The carrot tasted good but not great, just good. Better than the carrots yesterday. I grabbed a couple more and went to checkout. I bought them and let to walk home. As I was walking home, I noted the new technology store next to the lake. Making a mental shopping list for technology, I found myself in front of my apartment. I went in and slept. I woke up suddenly to an alarm. Probably a fire alarm. The resident in the apartment above and to the let of mine oten had fire alarms going off. I calmly got out of bed and phoned the apartment above and to the let of mine. I said, “Your fire alarm is going off again.” The voice answered, “Is it really?” “Yes,” I replied. “Terribly sorry, dearie,” I heard the voice apologize and then click as they hung up. I grabbed a carrot and, shortly ater, the alarm turned off.
MY OFFICE
Luke Bennett Grade 9, Boise I walked out of my office and into the cafeteria. My door slammed into the frame, where it rarely ever moved when it was there. There was no one there, but I guess that they were still working. As I moved closer toward the center of the cafeteria, I could smell the flies swarming all over the food that would be sold for two dollars. Although no one was there I didn’t think much of it. I assumed that the cafeteria was closed for the day since it was 3:15 in the aternoon. I went back into the office and looked out my small window so I could only see so much of the outside. I began to wonder. What does the outside feel like? I was too high up to smell anything or hear anything when I could barely crack it open. I decided to go back out of my office and head down the stairs. I opened the door, walked out and suddenly I saw tons of people waiting in line for the fries I smelled just one minute ago. I thought nothing of it, went over to the stairs and slowly walked down. When I took my last step of the stairs, I was back in my office.
FABRICATED
Chloe Daniels Grade 9, Kuna A fine young frog hopped down Oak Lear Lane. His hat took the air and his suit bounced with every hop he made. “Sir Frog,” a lady dragonfly cried, “you could use a drink.” The frog shook his head and continued down the lane. He hopped over his favorite crooked tree stump and ran into a beetle. “Sir Frog,” the beetle spoke, “you could come and rest with me in the shade.” The frog shook his head. “I must be on my way.” The fine young frog hopped onto Meadow Street. All the while he traveled the road, his feet got covered in mud and dirt. How the fine young frog loves the mud and dirt. A creepy creature with a thousand legs blocked the road ahead. “Sir Frog!” Mr. Centipede called out. “Why have you gotten yourself grimed up in dirt? You must put on socks. Socks will keep the hideous grime off of you!” Mr. Centipede showed a hundred of his legs to the frog. The fine young frog reluctantly covered his webbed feet with the socks. Once the fine young frog hopped down to the bog, he approached his swamp friends. “Sir Frog,” his swamp friends cried, “why do you keep your feet from the glorious mud and dirt?” His swamp friends were displeased and chose to spend no more time near him. The fine young frog cried out in shame, “I have disgraced our culture and name!” One young frog threw off the confining material and splashed in the mud and dirt and spent the day in the bog.
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Kirin Miller Grade 4, Boise
CAPITOL IN JUNE Amiya Sarin Grade 8, Boise I hear car keys jangling, vehicles driving past, a mother congratulating her daughter. I see suited men walking briskly, a statue of a man staring at me, a golden Angel on top of a Dome, the taste of the clouds on her tongue. I feel my pencil scratching the paper, the rough wood table under my arm, the soles of my shoes brushing over the sot lush grass. I wonder why all these people chose to be here today. Why the old man has walked the same block twice over. Why this squirrel is determined to get peanuts from my back pocket a bold risk he must have quite the personality.
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ME
Mollie Nelson Grade 6, Boise
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SATURN DEVOURING HER SUN Julia Valderrama Grade 11, Boise O to be unseen before the rapture comes! O to be the sterilized sting! O how much easier it is to sleep when the doors are locked. I don’t cry; just rattle in the back seat. A bouquet of dead flowers sun cap, and golden. I know this, having a home. I knew it once, let bent keys and mandible hanging. Experimental, I was never the inventor. All frankincense, and burning sage a possession A possession! Maybe he knew it too, before the commune. Before his parents drank the communion wine and worshipped the bar stool. Siddhartha says, there is purity in forgiving. In an oxman drunk off rice wine. Charlie’s girls, say a slap and a stroke, are the same as a man as if to say What is a labyrinth without distance? In humans without patriarchy? Palatable without the pot belly? Rattle, as I do the dishes, puke before I pack up the letovers. Avoid doors until footsteps are filled with toothpicks. O to be seen before the rapture comes! O to be the pink spiraling purge! O how much easier to sleep when the doors are locked.
ANATOMY Fiona Van De Graaff Grade 10, Boise
We share 99% of our DNA with chimpanzees; Think about that; we share so much with something we can’t even talk to, peer in to observe and catcall and question, Tour their environment that we created, forgetting we’re destroying their true home. Playing God when we share 99% of genetics. By birth, we’re practically the same. Less than 1% of our DNA differentiates between person to person, dark skin versus light; an X versus a Y or a combination of both; being lited up on a golden podium or let with wrinkling fingers, trembling as the sun dips below the horizon, rushing for sanctuary or striding across wide sidewalks, humming and clapping, curling in when you see flashing blue and red lights or expanding outwards. All those differences, the minutiae that become definitions instead of symptoms. And when the skin is peeled away, our hearts all beat trapped in barbed wire, our screens all echo as our skin crawls, and we all sink the same as the world turns to tar. We all struggle.
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We all fade away.
THE PURE POETRY ROSE Phoebe Lawley Grade 4, Boise
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I AM Evan Nelson Grade 6, Boise
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THE CHURCH Landyn Ayers Grade 7, Boise
There was a church on Olsburgs Hill that had old dark windows, and the stone statues looked faded, like the church was built ages ago. The townsfolk who went there would be surprised to learn about the staff. The staff always wore wooden masks and never spoke, giving the church a corrupted feeling. The church was called the Church of Blood Ministration, and it was oten surprising how well the staff could help others with infected blood. But the church always seemed unnatural. Some people said it was strange that the staff never let the church, and others said it was mysterious how the staff never hired anyone. Most strange of all, no one ever was allowed anywhere beside the main hall. But four people were about to break that one rule, and they will find dark secrets.
THE CROW EATING BAKERY Kate Groenert Grade 7, Boise
I walk into the Crow Eating Bakery expecting a piece of rotten meat to welcome me, but a crow does instead. This is a pleasant surprise, and I’m smiling as I walk up to the crow. “Would you like a rotting piece of meat or a crow to eat?” he asked gruffly from behind the one-inch wall. I take my time thinking. Those two choices are hard to choose from, but ater 10 hours I have chosen. “A crow, please.” The crow looks surprised when I say it. “That was quick. Are you sure?” “Yes,” I nod, frowning. Of course I’m sure, I DON’T KNOW WHY THE CROW WOULD ASK ME THAT QUESTION. He goes and picks a crow from the heater with his beak. I smile wide, “That’s a great one.” He nods when I say it. I can see he wants to eat his brethren, but I snatched it away before he can dig into it. I walked the short five miles to the door and call goodbye to the crow. He waves and I walk out. Today was a great day at the Crow Eating Bakery.
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TEACHING-WRITER BIOGRAPHIES Ameerah Bader is a Palestinian-Tlingit poet and artist located in Boise, Idaho. They have been writing poems for ten years and drawing for nine. They have been published a handful of times and nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice. Humor, identity, and tiny moments are at the forefront of Ameerah’s work. They use creativity to learn how to navigate spaces, places, and the sweetness of life. They work within the processes; they appreciate the unseen. Most recently they have been creating stop-motion animations with relief prints, as well as learning sotware development to bring interactivity into their artwork. In 2019 they graduated with two BFAs in printmaking and illustration from Boise State University. Their favorite pastimes are long walks, talks, and drawing all day.
Natalie Disney recently earned her MFA in creative writing from Boise State University, where she served as Associate Editor of The Idaho Review. Her work has been published in The Florida Review, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the PEN America Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers. She is a recipient of the 2017 Glenn Balch Award for fiction. She teaches writing at BSU and is at work on her first novel.
Chris Mathers Jackson is a freelance writer and editor, an aspiring novelist, a teacher, a mom, an artist, and a lover of the natural world. Chris received her MA in English Literature from University of Montana in 2005. She taught English Composition at UM from 2003-2006, both during and following completion of her master’s (as a TA and then an adjunct instructor). She worked in the administration of Missoula International School from 2006-2010 before
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becoming a full-time freelance writer, editor, and graphic designer. Ater several years, she stopped doing design work professionally to focus on her growing family and her passion for the written word. In 2019 she established a book review website (LitReaderNotes.com). In addition to teaching, writing, and editing, Chris enjoys spending as much time outside as possible, adventuring both near and far, with her husband and two daughters.
Laura Roghaar is a poet, educator, and arts administrator. She serves as the Poetry Out Loud coordinator for Idaho and teaches writing at The Cabin. She holds an MFA in poetry from Boise State and her chapbook of poems, SISTERHOUSE, is out from dancing girl press. Tracy Sunderland is a professional writer, director, actor and teacher working in theatre and film. She’s written and directed award-winning short films and plays for young audiences; her first feature script was shot in Greece this summer. She is the Artistic Director of the physical art company Migration Theory, and an Associate Artist with Boise Contemporary Theater. She also teaches at Boise State University and The Cabin. Tracy received the 2015 Idaho Commission on the Arts Fellowship in Filmmaking Award and the 2015 Boise State Adjunct Faculty of the Year Award.
Daniel Stewart is a teaching-writer for The Cabin’s Writers in the Schools program, serving as Writer in Residence at Ada County Juvenile Detention, and Frank Church High, an alternative school, in Boise, ID. The author of the collection The Imaginary World, his poems have appeared in BOAAT, Parentheses, Prairie Schooner, Rattle, Scab, Thrush, Yes Poetry, NightBlock, and Graviton Lit, among others.
Cover design: JOCELYN ROBERTSON
Cover artwork: CSA IMAGES
The Cabin is a Boise, Idaho literary arts organization. We forge community through the voices of all readers, writers, and learners. Writing Camps nurture the imagination and awaken the senses through creative adventures in the art of writing.
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