CAMP FIRE Vol. 2

CAMP FIRE

Writing Camps 2014 VOL. 2

CAMP FIRE

Writing Camps 2014 “I sit with the three others, Shoveling Safeway Baked Potato Soup into our mouths.

Our bodies are half-stolen by the humid air.

We sit on the rough redwood bench, For a small eternity watch the sun sink into the ocean.

The waves rise and fall against the dark rock with our Breathing as we sit, side-by-side, as if in a pew and not A picnic bench, so that four pairs of eyes can properly devour The ocean, and the sun, and the spouts Of whales that we have yet to see.”

– CLAIRE JUSSEL, from Battery Point The Cabin is a non-profit literary organization that strives to inspire a love of reading, writing and discourse throughout Idaho. The Cabin’s Writing Camps nurture the imagination and awaken the senses through creative adventures in the art of writing.

Cover photograph: Dan Kite Cover design: Jocelyn Robertson

CAMP FIRE

Writing Camps 2014 VOL. 2

CAMP FIRE

Writing Camps 2014 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 Š 2014 The Cabin All rights reserved.

Book design by Jocelyn Robertson.

Printed and bound in the USA in an edition of 50 copies.

Writing Camps and publication of CAMP FIRE are made possible by generous support from: The Bistline Family Foundation in the Idaho Community Foundation City of Boise Idaho Commission on the Arts KeyBank Foundation Landmark Promotions, Inc. Nagel Foundation Seagraves Family Foundation SOVRN Creative Our generous individual donors and Cabin members

CONTENTS Introduction

• 1

POETRY SLAM

• 5

STORY STORY

• 19

THE WORKSHOP

• 29

REVISE REDO

• 49

WRITING LIFE

• 65

WRITERS REVIEW •

79

Teaching Writers’ Biographies About The Cabin

• 95

Acknowledgements

Index

• 99

• 97

• 91

INTRODUCTION I never know what I really think until I’ve written it, and it’s hard for me to know how to think about what I’ve written until I have reactions from readers I trust. Community is as important to my writing practice as putting down those messy first lines. A lot of writers I know feel the same way.

The Cabin’s summer workshops for teens and adults offer writers a way into community. Here, we gather together in small groups to study poems and stories, and to write new ones following creative prompts from published teaching writers.

Feedback from peers and teachers is supportive, challenging and expansive. Some students are here are in pursuit of prestigious publication, some are in the process of making poems and stories for family and friends, and some have just begun to fulfill a promise made years ago to get started. Each student works toward an individual goal that everyone supports. This condition of exploration and encouragement makes exciting writing possible.

The point of the activity of writing, after all, is to learn to participate in community in ways that are challenging, that push us to be better for one another. The poems and stories included in this publication are a reflection of this process of thinking and writing hard, and then letting go and letting the work reach out to others. Welcome.

— LAURA ROGHAAR Teaching Writer and Programs Manager, The Cabin

1

CAMP FIRE

POETRY SLAM Get up at six a zero and a zero a.m. and watch the sun prance across the blue savanna like a lion that thinks it is all that and a bag of chips. — JACOB GUTRIDGE

ALL THOSE RUMORS Nikita Schwartzman Grade 10, Boise

All those rumors and all those lies All those tears and times She has cried Well no more, She did her best, she has tried Maybe this place is better without her Agree or not everyone will get the chance to see No more pain and no more struggling Finally this anger inside is bubbling…boiling She is out of control It’s as if She is buried in a big black hole If She is not living then one burden will have left the world Crying and sobbing beyond control, into a small ball She has curled She is only a small, young, innocent girl What did she do? Nothing! It’s society that’s to blame According to them she is an animal that needs to but can’t be tamed Well, she has had enough and is done with all those who don’t care

7

THE WORLD Jacob Gutridge Grade 10, Boise

Last time I checked, the world was still spinning with us on it.

It’s a ballerina music box hurtling through space until we finally spiral into the sun.

Even with our frequent disillusions into religion, we all still know that the end is coming.

So keep making your allusions to Jesus Christ coming in the future.

Thank God that until then, we’re still living on this world of misunderstood illusions.

It’s not a magic trick or smoke and mirrors.

It’s not a choice between right or wrong, black or white, tall or short, left or right-winged.

It’s a realization that we will never be good enough, but at least better then we once were.

So I don’t frankly care where you came from; I just want to know where you’re going.

This big ball of rock, of dust, love and hate, is the best home one might call home.

Your own life is a gift even if you think it completely sucks.

So tomorrow— Get up at six a zero and a zero a.m. and watch the sun prance across the blue savanna like a lion that thinks it is all that and a bag of chips.

Because the sun? It is all that and a bag of chips with a small drink on the side.

So I will take that diet Pepsi and my bag of spicy Cheetos.

And when we do start spiraling into the sun, I will have a front row seat, I will make the most of the life I was given.

And these scars that paint my arms like a mural on the side of a rehab building?

8

They are not my regrets.

They are my trophies. And each one of them says: Most Improved.

So get out of the doorway and go smell the sun.

Taste the mountains. And breathe the sea.

And if you are looking for somebody to tell you that everything is going to be okay, don’t come crawling to me.

Because tomorrow the world could end.

But Today?

Today we are still spinning and every inch of time could be spent living— watching the sun, falling in love, or simply smiling at the very thought of existence.

So go. And live. And see. And breathe.

Don’t just believe me.

9

ECHOING WALLS Alexandra Ruxton Grade 10, Meridian

Blue lines.

Blue lines trace a canyon in the valley of her hand, tanned like sunshine, wrinkled like dust, they glide over old broken things with the touch of someone lost.

What’s that? Thin red lips whisper.

That sound? Lips crinkled like paper.

Curly copper hair and streaks of gray peeking out a curtained window a leg kicking ancient, dusty things in a broken, ridiculous limbo.

OCD, I tell my mother.

Anxiety, hoarding, pills.

Post traumatic, she murmurs back to me.

My disbelief shakes her off.

The sky is a blue like fire, dusk creeping through the lawn as a crash echoes on empty, shadowed walls.

That sound? Her breath comes faster.

Hear it? Hear it too? She flinches.

One, two, wide awake I hear a robin’s call.

10

What’s that? Thin lips mutter.

Hear that? A raven caws.

I realize then, this grandmother, she hears the memories inside the walls.

A belted whip is the crash in the kitchen.

A robin; soft children sobs.

Post traumatic, my mother echoes.

I feel sick inside these walls.

What’s that? She says in an echo.

Hear that? Tiny ghosts start to sob.

What’s that? Her past echoes past pills and time and different walls.

11

DEFINITION Alexandra Ruxton, Jacob Gutridge, and Nikita Schwartzman Jacob

You tell me to be on time.

You tell me to shut my mouth, raise my hand.

Open my book to chapter four, you said.

Take good notes, you said.

Get a 4.0, you said.

You tell me to go to college and do the best I can.

You tell me so much.

Zandra You tell me words are the Sound of the Soul; that they bring down empires and raise up worlds, but you tell me letters, those letters don’t matter.

You tell me you love me no matter the letter that stains my paper with gold-veined ink.

But B is desperation, sweaty palms and wrinkle lines, smudges on the emptiness of a hidden Mason jar and B is the fog rolling in, disguising the ghost of the future, the shadow of a once-dreamed college and I see it disappear and that B, it brings down me.

Nikita

Jacob 12

You tell me to keep an enthusiastic attitude even in classes I despise.

Outgoing and interactive are two things in the classroom I must be You tell me no break between homework and school…

Come on, let’s be real!

All my grades must be the same, and enthusiasm for every class is what I must feel.

But this does not define me.

Jacob I must do what you say. I don’t really have a choice.

I must go to school, clean my room, and mow the yard.

I must go to bed on time and don’t be out too late.

Don’t Drink. Don’t do drugs. Abstinence is best.

Don’t watch too much TV. I must walk the dog, do my laundry, and pick-up my little

brother.

What choice do I really have?

Zandra Tear-stained glass and a windowpane.

I must pull us both off.

This house is ruled on broken stones.

“You must” means nothing anymore.

I am my own democracy and I govern myself, so don’t try to be the dictator here, because I can fly on broken wings, but you are someone else.

Nikita

I must do all my chores before doing what’s fun I must listen to others even when all it does is make me mad I must not be mean or selfish and I mustn’t ever tell a lie I must not be a child; it’s not ok to break down or cry.

Zandra But this does not define me.

Jacob I’m supposed to be the strong one.

I’m supposed to play a sport.

I’m supposed to dress in Nike.

And I’m supposed to be the man.

I’m supposed to do the heavy lifting.

I’m supposed to hate shopping, poetry, and art.

I’m supposed to go hunting because killing is a sport.

I’m supposed to be so much.

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Zandra I’m supposed to shove my opinion down deep inside a pearl-choked throat.

I’m supposed to be an obedient girl, an obedient girl shy and pretty and soft I’m supposed to be like a shell-less clam, no backbone to my soul.

I’m not supposed to shine bright enough to light a fire, cast shadows with my fierceness and strength and mind big enough to blow your son’s but glow, with the proper light, enough to satisfy and Just.

Enough.

To Think.

Nikita

I’m supposed to dress in fancy clothes and never ever pay I’m supposed to be a lady and never stand in the way.

Of what I might believe in or what I might think right I’m supposed to have better manners than all guys, and it’s not acceptable to get in a fight.

Nikita

But this does not define me

Jacob According to appearance I eat way too much.

I don’t run enough, and my clothes are a little odd.

According to appearance I should probably be wearing

Didas or Nike.

According to appearance my hair is different from normal.

My nose might be a little big.

And last but not least, my nails are way too short.

According to appearance I think I’m all but right.

Zandra According to you, I am rain drizzle-thin 14

and ray of sunshine-bright, made up makeup perfection, and according to you with my teeth so white and straight and lips so shiny redHow are you not blinded?and according to you I am skinny and athletic but I never, ever sweat.

And according to you, I am little-black-dress clad, but proper, and according to you I am perfect and I look perfect (always) and I am perfect and I am broken.

Nikita

According to society, makeup and a dress will go far According to society, I must always look my best According to society, messy hair and sweats aren’t ok According to society, a girl must be polite, all sunshine and lemon drops with a life that goes her way

Jacob

But this does not define me.

Jacob

You say I don’t text you enough.

You say we should hang-out, but you don’t really want to.

You say I should be a team player.

You say something else came up.

You say I need a girlfriend and you say I’m just not cool. You say I’m not as smart or You say all the cool kids do it. So shouldn’t I? Finally you say, “Why don’t you just do it?”

Zandra You say and you push and you pull

and you shove at me with your meaningless words more typed than written, and attach a telephone wire leash to my hands and my feet.

Your judgment rings like a text through the foothills, echoes off the sunrise and slides off me like crows, Red lips sidle close and you whisper, “Let me in” and I am left to choke my opinion through the sliding glass roar of a waterfall window, but all you hear is white noise, crashing foam and water onto the school doors like stones.

Society talks with your words in its mouth, and you try to listen for me, but my opinion is echoing on the other side of our foothills.

Nikita

You say I have to be their kind of cool.

You say I don’t appreciate you yeah well I look at that in disgust.

You say let’s be friends but you go and talk behind my back.

You say that you are sorry but around them you’ll be rotten.

I know that, it’s a fact.

Zandra But this does not define me .

Jacob Society says I need this or that. I need an Xbox, a Macbook, and an iPhone.

Society says I need a big house with shiny floors.

Society says I need a fancy boat. And the biggest truck I

can buy.

Society says I need more coffee and I should probably join

a gym.

Society says I can probably never win.

16

Zandra

Dear Society, You say that time and money and money and money and money and beauty and fashion and beauty and fast cars and throwing a few bucks there and here for the poor and the fast cars and faster cars – Dear Society, You are a broken record, all you ever hear and all you ever listen for is the material, for that is all you see.

You see and you say, you scream and flash billboards until all I can hear is money, and more money, and time is money; use your time wisely but spend it dressing to impress and be fashionably late, and don’t waste time, because well, that would be ironic.

Nikita

Society says I must have loads of money in order to be a success Society says that with money one can always buy their way in Society says if you have money and connections you will succeed Society says and acts like money grows off of trees

All

But this does not define me.

17

STORY STORY Paul shouted to me, “Are you okay?” I responded in a thick Russian accent, “I’m fine.” I got back on and rode the night away.

— SARA MURPHY

A PLACE OF MY OWN Sara Murphy Grade 10, Boise

You never know who you are with a home until you’re without one. I had only attended horse camp for one previous summer but I knew from the moment I stepped out of the van I loved the camp with all my heart. The camp sits down in the Stolle Meadows looking out onto the burnt mountain sides. We rode all night; we rode all day for hours at a time. We sang, we laughed, we listened to one another. I feel like I fit there perfectly like a piece in an ever expanding puzzle.

This one time our whole camp went swimming at Warm Lake.

A younger kid named Ryan kept splashing my best friend Lily and me. Lily proceeded to scream “spawn of Satan” at Ryan over and over again. And then we noticed a group of people staring at us like we were from another planet. These people looked overall disgruntled with our appearance. Paul, the leader of our horse camp then said, “Guys that’s a church camp over there and they’re baptizing people.” Lily and I then sulked out of embarrassment farther out into the lake.

Another time we were on the night ride and you could see every star in the sky. The night began with Russian accents and the singing of Christmas carols. I was riding an older horse named Gretal who had previously injured both her front legs and they were still swollen. Farther down the road her foot collapsed into a hole in the pitch blackness. Unable to remove her foot from the hole she fell on top of me.

Gretal remained on top of me for about 10 seconds and then ran down the road. Paul shouted to me, “Are you okay?” I responded in a thick Russian accent, “I’m fine.” I got back on and rode the night away.

My second year however this all almost came crashing down on my 11 year old head. Horse camp is exactly 300 feet from the end of the Salmon River. Towards late July and early August, chinook salmon come up from the Pacific to spawn their eggs in the river.

The forest service believed that a horse camp was a hazard to the endangered fish. They began to restrict us, we could no longer swim in the river, go near the river or cross horses over the river.

How could a small horse camp affect the salmon while the forest 21

service let the Native Americans do whatever they please with the salmon and the river?

One week at camp we were told that the bigwigs from the east coast forest service were coming to judge if the camp should stay open or not. Everyone worked so hard that Thursday to clean and make the camp shiny and pristine. They scurried in with their white hard hats and critical faces. A single saddle could be out of place and they would shut us down. I stood in the cooktent nervously pacing back and forth and anxiously awaiting the fate of my home. A counselor named Mallory at the time overheard them calling our camp dirty and unsophisticated. Paul told us they could search our bags without a warrant, that it was their right. This made me furious. I wanted to barrel into them with a debate on how this camp was my resort from the real world. It is a sanctuary from the sad, warstruck life we’re all living. But I couldn’t. All I could do was sit and watch. By the time winter rolled around the forest service had made their decision. We could stay only with many more absurd restrictions. This was a battle for many more years to come.

Even this year as a counselor, I fight the forest service and their policies. Hopefully one day my home will finally be free of this burden. I almost lost the place nearest and dearest to my heart and someday I might, but right now I’m not ready to let go.

22

BRACES, GLASSES, AND A TUBA Emily Anderson Grade 11, Boise

Braces, glasses, and a tuba. My mom always hoped I would have these three things by the time I reached high school. She thought it was the perfect recipe to keep boys from liking me.

Luckily, I don’t have any of these, and boys aren’t really a concern for me.

The first girl I really, blatantly could tell I liked was when I was in fourth grade.

Looking back now, I can tell I did like other girls before then, but at the time, I couldn’t understand what I was feeling.

But in fourth grade, I knew.

However, I didn’t know girls could like girls or boys could like boys. Not until seventh grade. And in seventh grade, I had enough without adding in that I was even more different from anyone else.

I put it on the backburner for a very long time, trying to make myself like boys, creating stories in my head so I could think of them the way I thought I was supposed to.

But by the end of ninth grade, I had a huge crush on this girl in one of my classes, and I would be leaving the school that caused me so much pain soon, so I finally let myself think about girls the way I thought I was supposed to like boys.

When I got to high school, things got much better.

There was a sort of “perfect storm” that led to me finally coming out.

Tumblr and “coming out story” YouTube videos helped me see that people who weren’t straight could be happy and safe, at least for the most part. I became part of my school’s gay-straight alliance where I met a group of kind, open-minded people my age.

My childhood best friend, Ian, came out as gay, so I decided to tell one person. My friend, Nate, is one of the best people I have ever had the privilege to know. I told him on one cold spring night. Nate helped me the most. I can tell him anything and he made me feel really okay with who I am.

Now, my immediate family knows and they’re okay with it, along with most of my friends. My friend Blake high-fived me when I came out to him, which was great.

I don’t have to make up stories about girls to make myself like them, like I had to with boys, I just like them.

23

I remember about a year ago, when this guy, who will remain anonymous, asked me, “Are you gay?”

And I said “No.” He replied with “Good. But that would be hot.”

And what bothers me is that a lot of guys would say something along the lines of that. And if I were to tell a guy about this, he wouldn’t understand why I was offended. He’d say something like “What? You don’t want to be called hot?”

But that isn’t the problem. The problem is that when two girls kiss, it’s hot, but when two girls marry, it’s wrong.

Women do not exist to further men. We are our own beings, not objects, and it pisses me off that most guys don’t think so.

But I’m no man-hater, despite what society may tell you. I’ve always mainly had guy friends. I will always be a tomboy.

In many ways, having guy friends is almost better, in my opinion. Partially because I can talk about girls with them, but also they tend to be very immature. My family jokes that I have the maturity level of a twelve year old boy, on good days.

But I like being immature. Maturity is highly overrated. One night, on a kayaking trip, I was out on the beach with my friends, all of them asleep except for me, Nate, and Blake. We wanted to play truth or dare. Blake kept falling asleep as we tried to talk to him, and Ethan was sleep yelling.

Finally, Nate and I got Blake’s attention.

“I said dare!” He yelled angrily.

Nate smiled. I didn’t know what he was going to say, but he already had me laughing.

“You see that bag of sour patch kids over there?”

“Yeah,” Blake whispered.

“I dare you to shove one up your butt.”

“What? No!” “Do you chicken?” Nate asked, and by this time I was crying with laughter.

Blake didn’t answer.

“Do you chicken?” Nate asked again.

“No.” Blake said, reaching for the bag of candy. Soon, Blake was wriggling around in his sleeping bag, yelling and squirming.

I don’t know where that sour patch kid went, and Blake denies that this ever happened.

Anyway, not all guys are bad. Straight girls, there are good ones out there.

24

Nate and Blake will hug me and we can cuddle and they aren’t trying to get laid. They respect me and want to be close to me, just not in that way. And I love them.

Coming out didn’t solve all my problems. I’m not 100% happy all the time. But I’m more comfortable with who I am. Not everyone has to “come out of the closet” in the manner that I did.

But I think we all have our own closets to come out of, and I think we should all be as kind and honest as we can be while we are alive.

25

YER A WIZARD, HANNAH Hannah DalSoglio Grade 10, Meridian

Most kids grow up wanting to be singers, or super heroes, or firemen. Do you know what I wanted to be? A writer. Or a pharmacist. I was always the kid that asked for an ultra-deluxe, multipurpose, state of the art graphing calculator for her birthday, and wouldn’t let her parents touch her Halloween candy until she had it all counted and put on a bar graph. I had to “collect the data” and “graph the results.” In middle school, I learned the term for kids like me: nerds. But it wasn’t until high school that I also learned that there were other kids that spent their entire childhood on mathisfun.com.

When I was 14, I started my freshman year at a school tailored specifically for the super-nerds of Boise, Idaho. In our trophy case, where your high school might have sports trophies, we have academic decathlon and debate trophies. It was the school of my dreams – I had my graphing calculator and I was ready. By the time I got to the end of my sophomore year, I was fairly used to the antics of my geeky classmates (and teachers). Until senior prank day.

My mom and I drove up to school on that Wednesday morning, and we were greeted by a sign that read “Platform 9 ¾.” I couldn’t give a particularly satisfactory answer when my mom asked what it was about, but my nerd senses were tingling.

She dropped me off at the front of the school where “Hogwarts” was written across the sidewalk, and I walked in with a few other awestruck students to see that my school had gone through a complete transfiguration.

Owls and cauldrons decorated the front desk, anti-Muggle propaganda plastered the walls, our principal was featured on some “Have You Seen This Wizard” posters across the school, and a chair was “floating” from the ceiling. I don’t know how much you know about Harry Potter, so I’ll spare you the details of Dumbledore’s Army sign-ups and the Polyjuice Potion station that blocked off one of the girl’s bathrooms, but having been a huge Harry Potter geek since 3rd grade, I was in heaven. I probably ran around the school four times in order to see everything.

The seniors didn’t stop at decorations, either. According to the new labels on the classrooms I had Arithmancy first period instead 26

of Pre-Calculus (which was actually disappointing because we still had to do calculus) and I was in the Ravenclaw common room for English where I heard the announcements.

“Gryffindor is looking for a new seeker – Quidditch tryouts on Friday!”

“The downstairs girl’s bathroom is closed for...maintenance.”

“All underclassmen should be aware that the first row of parking spaces are reserved for seniors.”

At the end of the day, I came out of Muggle Studies and met Jill, a good friend of mine, on the Hufflepuff staircase. This had been a weird day for Jill. She’d never really kept up on Harry Potter, the books or the movies, so she didn’t really have the same appreciation for her Spanish class being re-christened as “Charms” that some of the rest of us would have. That also meant that when we walked out to her car in its first row parking space and saw a slip of paper on her windshield, she was genuinely mortified. I, however, was thrilled. It was the first and probably the last time I would ever be excited about a parking ticket.

She read the note out loud. The fine: 50 Galleons. I went on to explain the entire system to her – all about Galleons, Sickles, Knuts, and all sorts of other things that made me sound like I was speaking really mangled Welsh. Jill mostly just gave me the look of a confused and slightly terrified tourist until I finished.

“Yeah,” she ended up saying, “I’m not paying that.”

But you know what, Jill, if you can’t pay the wizarding fine, don’t do the wizarding crime.

27

THE WORKSHOP Diagonal lines make my head spin Vertical make me fall I fall into the sins of my ancestors America is a stolen place — HENRY PRICE

DEMON Samantha Roberts Grade 10, Pocatello

How do you spell me?

How should I spell you?

What do you touch?

What should I feel?

Why do your eyes bleed and why can’t I see?

I hear tremors growling while your falsettos caterwaul.

My clock’s hands are making circles, digging holes into my chest.

You laugh thunder when cherries stain.

My looking glass is made of gold and sees too much.

You pick lilies while wearing silver fox tails.

My shoelaces are united by knots, and I try to swim in the trees.

You walk a field of roses; your fingers are stabbed by stilettos.

I use my magnifier to see shadows and burn the earth.

You use your flaming core to make the Arctic cry.

How do you see you?

I am blind to me.

31

CRAVINGS Lucas Ballard Grade 10, Meridian

We live in a world where everything is on sale.

Everything you could want, acceptance, sex, satiation, entertainment, all for the low low price of your attention.

We all accept it. How could things change? We deny its power.

We think we can resist the forces, but they always are getting something from us.

They want our devotion. They want our crisp sheets of cotton.

They want our representative value. The want our love.

We are eaten alive by the endless spiraling vortex of advertising. A highly specialized machine that selects us individually and exploits every weakness we have to offer.

They have given us the diseases of stress, anxiety, insecurity, and poverty and they are selling us the cures at half-price.

32

TIM TIM NOM! Lucas Ballard Grade 10, Meridian

Tim Tim was a very young boy. He would play games with his small bro Jim Jim. Tim Tim and Jim Jim likes to play blind mans bluff. One day in a game of blind mans bluff Tim Tim fell into a hole. Jim Jim could not find him so he left. Tim Tim was stuck in a big hole so he had to find a way to live. He then tried to eat peas, and he did. Soon he could not eat any thing but peas. So Tim Tim found Jim Jim and they ate peas.

33

DANCING Coen Jardine Grade 11, Boise

Why do you do what you do?

Your benevolence does not mimic your glamour You dragged me along with your leash of lies But I gladly followed These cuts will just turn into scars You lied We danced You told your friends you wouldn’t know what to do without me We kissed And of course I should’ve known that when we kissed I was going to get hurt somehow But I was lost In your blinding rays of kindness and allure Not spotting what lies beneath We gossiped We whispered We flirted We danced We kissed You left We died

34

NERD Coen Jardine Grade 11, Boise

You know that guy Sitting at a table alone with his DS, cards, comic book stories That’s me I am that nerd Catching all 719 Pokémon not once, but twice Still hunting for that shiny Pikachu Collecting Naruto scrolls so maybe there’s a chance it might exist Debating with myself to dye my hair more blonde to be more like Goku Because I too want to go super Saiyan Spending gas money on Yu-Gi-Oh cards Secretly wearing my limited edition Flash underwear Hoping the Justice League will notice I am that nerd

35

KANSAS Henry Price Grade 11, Boise

The blue sled screams down the ice like knives on knives and only I get to know this.

The hills around the town rise like walls and we have to pedal the car to conquer.

The kindergarteners gasp as I strut in like a warrior come home and a scarlet gash on my cheek We must have walked for hours the legs on my body have died from leaving the scalding metal.

36

SHOWER Henry Price Grade 11, Boise

The window is opened The monsters stampede Nothing lasts forever Especially forever The orange is peeled Juice floods the children The unexpected happens Expected is a myth I am a secret agent I sneak through the forbidden zone A problem is just a difficult solution The first solution is another problem Water bottles aren’t real Neither is consciousness What is gender?

Probably just a marketing scheme Diagonal lines make my head spin Vertical make me fall I fall into the sins of my ancestors America is a stolen place

37

SPACE Joshua Okocha Grade 11, Boise

No one will ever understand the nightmares of my past as the monster within slowly takes off its mask a world of darkness we dwell in it, we die in it Sins of our forefathers planted deep as roots.

Memories are sacred as a womb beautiful, roses getting ready to bloom, keep me sane in this cold, empty room.

38

BATTERY POINT Claire Jussel Grade 12, Boise

The beacon flashes on and off: Three and a half seconds, 26 and a half seconds; Even from its height, sending through us waves Of heat, nonexistent.

I sit with the three others, Shoveling Safeway Baked Potato Soup into our mouths.

Our bodies are half-stolen by the humid air.

We sit on the rough redwood bench, For a small eternity watch the sun sink into the ocean.

The waves rise and fall against the dark rock with our Breathing as we sit, side-by-side, as if in a pew and not A picnic bench, so that four pairs of eyes can properly devour The ocean, and the sun, and the spouts Of whales that we have yet to see.

Somewhere, a sea bird is screaming into the wind As we converse. We give each other Nautical nicknames. Dad makes us wear The ridiculous hats from the gift shop. We laugh Until Mom spews beer across herself and the table. We laugh Beyond words and beyond daylight. With the salt Now settled in our lungs, we breathe, and the waves Go out and in, gushing across the isthmus, trapping us Until the tide recedes.

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LUXURY Hannah DalSoglio Grade 10, Meridian

1 Reflecting sunlight dies at the angles of the ring.

The necessities of the day ending in soft green mist on the horizon.

2 “Work hard and make good choices” the teacher’s board screams over the dutiful children.

They may grow up to own, to buy and sell, to want, to receive.

They may appreciate.

They may stay silent.

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SLY Audrey Antoniuk Grade 10, Boise

Informatively I lack compunction but relish destruction.

Inevitably incriminated.

Everything ends with a lie.

For the benefit of others I offer infinitely selfish presentation and lemon water.

(Adjective) principles shrink without definition.

Cunning.

How could anyone be comfortably indifferent when so obviously unoblivious? Wind-slapped red cheeks.

Rats continue their acrobatics.

All end in I.

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THE RIVER PEOPLE Hannah DalSoglio Grade 10, Meridian

Inside every water-drop there is a person. Beside you the stream runs by easily in smooth curls of current, but inside, men with pick axes chip away at rocks on the floor and dig away at sand on the edge of the bank. If you sit and close your eyes for a while, you might hear the pretty ladies in shimmering blue dresses gossip beneath the earth as they tend the roots of the grass tickling your skin; and from that grass, you might feel the children, dressed in sunrise colors, as they play in the morning dew that seeps in through your jeans.

The people in there are not like you and me. The river men are accustomed to rampant currents and the flick of spray off of rocks and out of the river beds. The darkness of their subterranean workplace does not bother the women. The children have no problem with playing amongst bugs and others unlike them. But rubber sneakers and dry concrete interrupt grassy play grounds and I watch as children play a little close together. When men and women are trapped in metal pipes and petroleum bottles, you can listen as hard as you would like, but you will not hear the fluttering of their laughter or the rusting of the pick axes. But if you find a patch of grass and sit softly, you may still see the people smile. And when the river men are thrown onto shore from their streams, when careful women are left to puddle in the dirt where plants do not need them, and when those little children start to see the light of morning compress into a warm afternoon glow, the little water people climb up the crystalline staircases in the rays of light and settle together in the clouds. Pick axes are sharpened, skirts are mended, and the little people cradle their children as they sleep.

But children and women and men soon grow heavy together, and some awake with a rumble before they fall again. Children join the mix of women that dance about among the fins of fish and treat the growing grass. More add to the throng of men that chip rocks and carve out canyons, and after the storm, and if you sit awhile once more and enjoy the soft scent of new life that accompanies the waking water, you just might witness new children being born from the morning dew, nursed by soft sunrise to be brought up in the sky to feed the cycle another day.

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THE SEA’S WELCOME Claire Jussel Grade 12, Boise

The sisters walked along the beach until they came to a small river seeping into the choppy sea. Salty air whipped against their faces and stabbed through their sweatshirts, numbing their noses and fingertips into oblivion. Neither of them spoke, leaving the howl of the wind in their ears and the roar of the crashing sea to mask the trickle of the stream before them. The older of the two promptly turned around.

“What is it?” the younger asked.

The older looked back at her, dark eyes meeting light.

“There’s a body of water in our path, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t care to walk through that.”

The younger sister shrugged and plunged her foot into the water, resting it on the sandy floor. The grains squished beneath her toes, scraping her skin, trying to escape, to roll away to the frigid ocean. Her foot met something brittle, a small sand dollar beneath the tide of sand. The newly emerged dollar gleamed white, as if to oppose the dimly colored world around it. The girl smiled, her teeth matching the dollar’s color. The older sister stood, arms crossed and shivering, thinking of sinking into a comfy velvet armchair.

“Can we go back now?” she questioned.

“Oh, but can’t we just go a little farther?” her sister pleaded.

The eldest grabbed her sister’s hand, tugging her away from the fingers of water lapping across her ankle. The younger looked at her with pleading eyes; oh, how she wanted to stay! The wind picked up into a full gale, screaming louder than the seagulls wheeling overhead. And so the sisters stood, like two stones leaning apart, relying on their bond to keep them upright.

“You know that the sea has already been more than generous today,” the eldest sister whispered, “and it would be impolite to overstay our welcome.”

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EMOTIONS Samantha Roberts Grade 10, Pocatello

Shame: Charles frowned. He sat on the stairs to the front porch.

Rosie had fallen asleep with the dog and Charles was alone. Her raised voice continued to echo in his ears. It was unlike her to yell at him. Maybe I deserved it, he thought. I did close the door in the girl’s face.

Charles pursed his lips as he fidgeted with his fingers. His emerald eyes focused on a small weed growing between the pathway’s tiles.

Rage: Rosie lay hidden by the shielding blankets. She had a scowl on her face; the bedroom was a mess. She had slammed the door so hard that a few books had fallen from the cluttered book shelf.

It caused Bo, the red husky, to yelp. Rosie twisted the sheets in her fists as she stared out the window.

Belonging: Bo rested at the side of the bed. Rosie had slowly fallen asleep. The husky had heard the van drive away. His ears flickered when he heard it return later that night. Bo sat in front of the window. He saw Charles. He stood on a ladder and looked into the room. Bo wagged his tail.

Victory: Charles let a rare smile crawl onto his face. He had finally finished Rosie’s garden. Water flooded the soil as he watered the plants. In the depths of his ear, he heard a hoot. A horned owl observed him from a great oak tree. Charles smirked. “And she wanted a dog.” Charles didn’t want to wake Rosie by opening the door, so he fell asleep outside on the bench.

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GYWSS AND HYCRONNIKEY Audrey Antoniuk Grade 10, Boise

“Are you still alive?” Gwyss said, chipping away at a ruby.

Hycronnikey sighed and threw a jug of salt into the pot.

“You’re normally not this quiet,” Gywss said.

“I thought you would be happy about it. You finally get some peace.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Oh, am I? You use half the time you bother to speak to complain about how I never shut up!” Gwyss clenched her hand around a stone dragon, cracking it with a sound like miniature thunder.

“Stop showing off,” Hycronnikey said.

He hunched down over the stew while Gwyss stood ramrod straight, staring ahead at the wall.

“I remember you in every possible mood, but I never remember you quiet,” Gwyss said.

Hycronnikey sipped a ladleful of stew and made a face. “This is disgusting.”

“Want me to come over there and help you with it?”

“I used to think no one was worse at cooking than me, until I met you.”

Gywss frowned at the half block of stone in front of her.

“What’s bothering you?”

Hycronnikey tossed a pair of onions into the stew. “It all began when I was a little lad, you see,” he said in a high falsetto voice.

“I was happy until my house burned down and my mother and father were killed in a trainwreck and my dog ran away and some kids took money and I lost my shoe and –” He switched back to his normal voice. “Look. You never cared before.”

Gywss whipped around, clasping Hycronnikey’s hand. He turned to look at her and she gave him a sad smile.

“I never stopped caring,” she said.

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LAST ENCOUNTER Joshua Okocha Grade 11, Boise

I remember waking up to people yelling.

I assumed it was my dad coming home wasted on palm wine as always. I wiped my sleepy eyes and staggered to the living room.

Suddenly, two women pushed past me and bolted right out the front door. They were completely unclothed and were being chased by my mother holding something that I thought at first was a swibe but soon realized was an obe. My dad emerged in pursuit of my mom who was in pursuit of the women. He was naked like the women. He managed to get a hold of my mother and pulled her back before she caught up with the women.

He stood in the doorframe, blocking her way. He started apologizing, saying he was drunk when he brought the ashawos home. My mom spat in his face. In Nigeria it’s taboo for a female to spit in a male’s face. He lunged at her, wrestling her to the ground. She tried to free herself but couldn’t. He slapped her, so hard she passed out from the impact. He took the obe out of her hand and set it on the counter. It took my mom a few minutes to regain consciousness. During all of this I had just stood there, and now I continued to stand, listening to my mom cry.

I was four years old and overwhelmed by the feeling of hopelessness, but it quickly gave way to anger. I ran toward my dad and bit him so hard I tasted blood. He cursed, picked me up by the neck, and threw me across the room. I landed on my butt, knocking my head on the breakfast table. This gave my mom enough time. She grabbed the obe. I knew my dad knew that my mom would stab him if she had to. I knew she loved me, I knew she would never let anything happen to me.

My mom kept the knife pointed at him as she helped me up.

She told me to go outside, to get in the car. I hesitated but I did what she asked. I was in a lot of pain, my sight blurry, my head ringing. I limped through the backyard door got in the car, and locked it. It took my mom only five minutes to join me, but it felt like hours. She came out of the house, sprinting towards the car, and I unlocked it to let her in. We peeled out of the driveway.

I remember looking back at our house. He stood in the driveway with what looked like some type of assault rifle pointed at 46

our car, but we were too far away for him to do any damage. I was only four. It was the last time I saw my dad.

Translation of native terms: Ashawo are usually employed by an iyawo. An iyawo’s main target is young orphan girls that have no money to survive or nowhere to go. They convince these young girls to sell their bodies to men in trade for a place to sleep and food to eat.

Palm wine is strong alcohol that is made by collecting the sap from a palm tree and letting it sit for a long period of time. It’s known for its sweet taste.

Obe: a long bladed kitchen knife that looks like a miniature machete. It’s used for hacking into bone or cutting tough meat.

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REVISE REDO She carried a wall everywhere, stacked up with wads of cash.

Her fingers held glittery stones and her feet walked on five inch stilts. — COURTNEY NICHOLES

CRADLED APPARITION Jayne-Marie Linguist Grade 11, Meridian

The ghost that haunts my future is derived from summers past.

Rainy days soak the cloth of my father’s t-shirt that used to touch my toes and blanket my innocence.

Goldenbooks are exchanged for e-books and finger paints are swapped for lipsticks.

The butterfly on my cheek from the birthday party long ago has now been ruined by black tears of waterproof mascara.

My childhood phantom whispers my name in a melody I used to sing.

I reach out to grasp the memories of jump ropes and SpongeBob Legos.

Focusing on my future made me abandon life of endless playtime.

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THE CITY THAT TURNED ME TO STONE McKinlee Mayer Grade 11, Bountiful, UT

I cannot stay here.

Everywhere I look and everywhere I go, I see him.

I feel him, in my bones, and I do not want to anymore.

I do not want to be haunted from every nook and cranny in this city.

He is not just a friend who stopped talking to me.

He is not just a love who slipped away.

He is not just an ex I might bump into on the streets.

He is dead.

Gone forever.

And I will never see him breathe again.

When he took his life, he did not just end his own—he ended mine as well.

I was cursed to remember all the things we did across the city.

I was cursed to relive the thoughts.

I hate the memories.

I hate this place.

So yes, I am leaving.

Because he is in every inch of this town and I do not want to feel him anymore.

And although he was gone, I still felt him like the mist of a winter morning.

His presence could be felt like the cold cut of a knife, slicing through me with every beat of my heart.

That is the problem with losing someone you love.

Your mind takes every single memory and idea you have with them and connects them with everything around you, You can never truly move on.

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When he died, the sun dimmed, And my heart turned to stone.

The stars are caught between my bones, And my heart grows colder each day.

My thoughts keep falling out, Keep slipping off my tongue.

My sobs echo throughout this place, they bounce off the wall.

I am a walking skeleton that the city turned to stone.

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THE GHOST Rachel Roberts (aka R.M. Everhart) Grade 10, Meridian

The ghost watched. It watched little children and the elderly.

Standing where there was once a window, it watched life. It doesn’t know anything about itself, so it looks outside and handpicks a story.

It was a teenage girl who died of influenza.

It was an old man who died sleeping next to his wife.

It tries to forget the loneliness and one day a young girl enters its home.

The loneliness starts to waver. She steps carefully, aware of the building’s age. It follows her. It slams a door, causing her to step back into a hole to the cellar.

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FALLEN ANGELS Elisabeth Laird Grade 10, Nampa

I moved my hand down and scooted over to a corner, pumping the shotgun. I watched Gid tenderly care for Rose, his gentle hands carefully wrapping the snow white cloth around her arm.

With his uniform short blond hair and steely gray eyes he looked like a soldier, but the way he treated Rose betrayed that image.

He’d always seemed so out of place in this world. He was like a spark of flame in a frozen wasteland. He had no idea how much I needed that. No idea how much I looked for that flame in a world that was transformed into a place of danger and horror. He was the proof I needed that I was fighting for the right side. Ten years ago if you had asked me if angels and demons and monsters that come from under the bed existed I would have laughed. Now, I knew better. They were here, and they weren’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

Rose screamed again and fainted as Gid tightened the bandage around her bicep. He caught and laid her on some burlap sacks in the corner.

A figure dropped down from a hole in the ceiling, landing with a graceful motion. I raised the shotgun.

“Hold! It’s me.”

I grunted in greeting to Logan. His face was covered in dirt and blood, and his curly black hair coated with a fine layer of mud.

His hands were stained red. Whose blood I didn’t know, but he didn’t seem to care.

“We’ve got a problem. One of them found our food stash and trashed it. We’re out except for the little bit we’ve got at home base.”

Rose groaned, but it was from pain. I didn’t even think she knew Logan was there.

I stood, “How much is that?”

He shrugged, “If all of us take our usual rations then I’d say it’ll last ‘bout three more days.”

Gid frowned. We were both thinking the same thing. There was no more food in Philadelphia. We’d have to move, but the nearest town with food in it was Harrisburg and that was three hours away by car, which we didn’t currently have. We owned three motorcycles but that meant taking three and leaving four to fend for themselves. In a city out to get anything that smelled even

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remotely like a human or angel they were dead. They were getting more violent and brave.

But on the on the other hand if we just stayed and didn’t go get food then we’d all be dead anyways. They were getting more clever. They knew where to hit and they hit it hard. I would need something big to get past the things guarding the city border.

Something only an angel would carry. I got to my feet.

“I need to talk to Charlize,” I said, brushing off my ripped blue jeans.

Logan frowned. He distrusted fallen angels on principal but this one he hated more than the others just for one reason.

She was my mom. ~~~...~~~ “Charlize?”

My voice echoed around the gigantic warehouse, bouncing back to me three times before fading off. A flock of pigeons flew off, making me draw my gun and shot at them.

“They’re only birds, Jared.”

PAGE TWO: I turned to see my mother fly down from the loft behind me.

She landed with a soft fluff of dust and smiled at me. I frowned back. Angels fall for a reason and my mother was no different. I didn’t trust her and she knew it.

Charlize was the very model of a fallen angel. She was beautiful, cold, and insane. She used people to get what she wanted, and that included me, her own son. Most fallen angels stick together to stay alive but she had her own agenda.

“The demons hit our food stash today,” I said, staring her straight in her cold blue eyes that looked so much like mine.

Everything about her seemed copied onto me. Her eyes, the messy black hair, the slender cheekbones. Even the way that she held herself. The only thing I’d found that separated me from my mother was my slightly crooked nose. She’d always said it looked like my dad’s, wherever he was.

“So?” I crossed my arms across my chest protectively and nodded at her coat.

She reached inside her long black trench coat and drew out a 56

long white sword. How she’d gotten her hands on an angel sword, I’ll never know, but she turned it over in her hands, studying it.

“I can take care of them.”

“That would be appreciated but I need something else from you.”

She raised one perfect eyebrow, “Oh?” I gulped. She always made me feel uncomfortable.

“You aren’t going to like it,” I warned.

“Darling, I didn’t like the apocalypse.”

I closed my eyes, “I need you to give me the sword.”

Charlize turned pale.

“You what?”

I stood my ground.

“The sword.”

“Not while I’m alive is a half-blood getting his hands on my sword!”

I swallowed down my anger. “We have to go to Harrisburg to get---” “NO!” I was startled when she shouted at me so loud that a pane of glass shattered and fell around us.

She composed herself, but I saw panic under her shell, “I forbid you from going to that city, Jared.”

I blinked. Charlize never, ever, had forbidden me from doing anything. I’d almost gotten the impression she really didn’t care if I died or not.

“Don’t leave the city. Swear to me,” Her eyes bored themselves into me, cutting into my soul. Charlize had lost most of her powers when she fell but she still scared the living crap out of me and that took skill. Most Archangels didn’t scare me.

Thankfully I didn’t have to answer. There was a flash of light and a tall, muscular man with wide wings made of light glowed into existence. An angel. He ran a hand through his perfect blond hair and his perfect smile blinded me. Usually everything about these guys were perfect. That was, until the apocalypse happened and they all fell. Now they could get hurt and be marred just like anyone else.

I sighed in relief. The wings flicked out of view.

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BUTCH Mal Layne Grade 9, Caldwell

Butch drove down River Road, passing various cabins and houses — one of the Oldsmobile’s headlights thankfully still worked—until the road narrowed. A rusty blue sign with an H printed across it (and “ELL” scrawled in spray paint next to the H) meant the hospital wasn’t far.

I’ve gotta’ park it back here, he thought. That way, they won’t know where I’m headed.

He put it into park, took the keys and his backpack, and continued down River Road.

It was too dark now; Butch’s own shadow wasn’t visible on the asphalt. The vigilantes, dressed in their black outfits, were easily camouflaged. If there were any of them out here—of course, Butch knew they were everywhere—they could come out of nowhere.

He secured the backpack and broke into a run. Part of him knew this was risky: Now they would be suspicious, if they were surrounding the sides of the road like he imagined they were.

They would probably shoot at him just because he was sprinting— just because he was in a hurry. They would probably take a blood sample and put it in the cabinets of their creepy RVs. The temperature was dropping more now; he must’ve passed under a tree.

Finally, the hospital’s silhouette came into view. This was a more desolated are than anything; the building only had a ground-level floor and a basement, at best. It was tiny for a hospital. There couldn’t have been optimal supplies in it.

He stopped, unholstered the Python, and raced down the gravel driveway. He tried to take lighter steps to not be heard, but it wasn’t possible. There was gravel everywhere.

Piles of decaying cars and hospital beds were thrust into the doorway. Most of the building had collapsed, and several of the windows were broken or open. He prayed there weren’t more of Matt’s friends in here.

Taking a deep breath, Butch slipped in through a window. It was so dark inside he couldn’t see well enough to get into the backpack for the lighter he had brought. A rush of air passed through the room.

He stood completely still. Someone was in the room with 58

him. But, if it was one of those vigilantes with their ever-present concealing sunglasses, how could they see any better than Butch in this darkness?

The person inhaled. He stood there, frozen, holding his breath, hoping whoever it was would assume there wasn’t someone in the hospital and just leave.

Footsteps milled about around him. A shiver ran up his spine.

The recurve bow and his knife—the only quiet weapons—were in the backpack. Shooting this one in the head with the Python was just too risky. More of them easily could have been behind this one. The flash of light the Python’s shot would provide lasted for half a second—barely long enough to see back into the room. It wasn’t worth it. This was Butch’s only strategy.

As the footsteps circled to the right of him, he knew this guard knew he was here. If the guard didn’t know, he probably would have said something.

The darkness was the worst part. The silence. That vigilante was probably armed, but Butch couldn’t tell.

He waited in terror for what seemed like hours for a click of a gun or the shing of a knife from its holster, but there was nothing.

The footsteps slowed. Still, they remained very near to him.

Butch dared to breathe for a millisecond. It was silent.

Then, there was a whisper. “Hey!” The vigilante next to him turned.

“What’s in there?” The second one further back into the room whispered.

“I don’t know,” the guard whispered back. “I think it’s just a raccoon or a fox or something. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

Now was the time for Butch to blow his cover, in the dark, while they weren’t expecting it.

The guard’s footsteps grew further from him. One of them unzipped a backpack, and they whispered back and forth for a bit.

Butch opened his backpack the same time they opened theirs— this way, the noise wouldn’t distract them. He slipped his hand in and searched for the knife. A fingertip touched the leather holster.

He pulled it out.

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Near the back of the room, both of them were still fumbling in the backpack. This would be a hard kill if they had somewhere to run. To start, Butch would wait until they had the flashlight on and fling the knife into one of their heads. He would have to move fast to get over to the next one and stab him as well. Matt’s group was notoriously fast.

He waited, read to throw the knife just like he had done in the breakfast disaster the first day at any second. They whispered and fumbled some more in the back of the room, and then it stopped.

A flashlight flicked on. Neither of them had time to react. He was across the room and on them as soon as the flashlight clicked. He stabbed both of them in the head.

Trembling over their corpses, he stopped to catch his breath.

After a while, he took the flashlight and began to search the room. It was one of the hospital’s executive offices—office chairs piled up in one corner and desks were stacked on top of each other in a burnt heap in another. Papers were strewn about all over the floor, some of them news headlines. He picked up one that said, “STRANGE MYSTERY DISEASE SIMILAR TO BIRD FLU FOUND ON RETURNING VIETNAM VETS”. It was dated May 1978, just a month before the collapse. The paper under it read, “NEW BREAKTHROUGH COULD MEAN A CURE FOR DIABETES” and the one below that read, “CONTROVERSIAL VIETNAM WAR MOVIE TO BE RELEASED”. These headlines were from more than ten years ago now, but they felt recent still.

He read the story on the top about the “mystery diseasE.” It didn’t include anything he didn’t already know; the pictures on the side showed a few Appalachian vets stuck in hospital beds. Only about seven thousand people were infected then, according to the paper. In a month, the whole world was in ruins and subsequently infected.

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FOUR MICROFICTIONS Courtney Nicholes Grade 12, Meridian

My Phantom The ghost lives in hollow hearts and latches on the chamber walls like a leech feeding on broken wishes and shattered faith.

It takes control over its prey innocently at first whispering desirable promises. Promises that convey worldly happiness and pleasurable traits. It isn’t until the whispers become walking, talking nightmares that it’s realized you’ve become the host to a deathly plague hidden inside of your whimpering soul. You try to hide underneath secrets and lies and distractions of all kinds but nothing can get you far enough from the devil growing inside of you. You try to run. You’re stuck.

Diamonds and Spades She was someone whose book was always closed and no one dared to flip through her pages. She carried a wall everywhere, stacked up with wads of cash. Her fingers held glittery stones and her feet walked on five inch stilts.

I met her one night after work at the bar. I was drinking away my ex-wife’s memory. One beer at a time. Each sip was another faded thought of my ex. She plopped down next to me. Her painted dress caused my eyes to look her over. She smiled softly as she saw my eyes devour her.

She purred a hello while her eyelashes fluttered. I tightened up the knot of my tie in a manly response to impress her with my wealth.

“No need.” She breathed, eyeing my attempt. She brushed sensual claws against my hand. Normally ladies couldn’t control me like that, but my mind couldn’t stop my body from craving her.

“Next round is on me.” I waved my hand to the bartender.

Alexithymia I could feel the wind smacking my face like a newborn’s bottom. The sting awoke my eyes as they watered down my checks.

Everything became alive as the wind pressed against its victims.

My hair tangled itself, making wild dances as I stumbled to pick up my feet. My tired knees cracked with agony with every step upon the bitter world. I felt my fingers twiddle with anxiety. My senses tickled even closer to my ultimate goal.

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My right hand reached outwards as if it knew better then my mind. Something touched my fragile fingertips. Something so inviting, needed, familiar. My teeth started to grind, making a sound that caused my eyes to squeeze themselves shut. When the doubt becames too much to bear, I ran.

I ran until my lungs started to pop, causing my breath to become unsteady and fearful. A part of me, deep inside of my soul, longed to go back. My fingers craved that familiar touch. My body, against my mind’s protest, stopped and ran back until my hand clasped against the warmth.

I’m finally home.

Thantophobia and Cathects My hands are the dusty windows of my soul. They reveal all of my secrets. Secrets that I fight to keep hidden.

There was that deadly mistake of trying to feel something other than nothing. It’s funny how only agony and desperation can make one feel whole again.

Some nightmares don’t end once my eyes open. I still continue to see the girl in my living nightmare. The girl that used to be me is running farther away from me as I gaze into the teasing mirror.

I watch her cry. I don’t know what to do.

So I cry too.

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WRITING LIFE virgin paper cotton candy before it blushes — SUSAN GLAVE

MARGUERITE Dena Parker Duke Boise

Most people don’t name cats after their mothers.

They have little girls for that and train them well in the ways of wheels.

Because cats can climb on wheels and get crushed while coffee sprays on white skirts as reckless people try to get to work on time.

When they should let them focus on slow steps through the grass and licks with their legs to the sky.

If they don’t, they may find themselves alone with a broken cat and nothing left to cry but that name; Remembering one whose slow steps in the grass stopped way before her heart, who, in the end, couldn’t curl a shawl around her own shoulders.

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BONE Tara Burt Boise

Living alone for the first time in her life she made new friends no one ever met, bought $4,500 worth of cheap jewelry, cut up her estranged husband’s favorite leather jacket and built a landing pad in the backyard for alien saucers. She was ripe for new experiences in what she referred to as her “middling age.”

Now receiving Social Security she felt she could live without her husband’s assistance. A sentiment not shared by her family.

Each Mother’s Day she waited for a visit from the babies that had been taken from her after the birth of each of her four children. Five babies each time. Twenty babies total. Only one sent home with her each time, the others secreted away. She knew the sixteen would come home to her someday and love her more than the four babies she raised. This year, like previous years, did not produce the stolen children. She took up walking to ease her loss. More than once she had walked out her backdoor into the countryside. Walking for hours through newly planted fields.

Walking straight out the backdoor, into the fields, and finally into a stranger’s kitchen for water and a ride home.

This time she wasn’t being paranoid when she thought she was being watched. She was. The water-providing stranger was a sheriff’s wife. Concerned for the woman’s safety, the police routinely drove by her house. Even before the missing person report was filed, a deputy was looking for her car unseen in three days.

The car was found stuck in the mud on the Stanger property near Bone. Leaving food, water and medicine on the front seat, she simply got out of the mired car and walked straight into the foothills wearing a tennis shoe and a sandal.

Searchers first found the sandal, then her pants.

Her body, discovered 45 days later, was stretched out in the undercut bank of an aspen grove. Feet crossed, arms behind her head, fingers laced.

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MUSIC WITHOUT WORDS Janine M. Watkins Boise

Ventilators whoosh their rhythms in concert Alarms beep their warnings to cue an orchestra of watchful players Muffled voices play soft background music of prayer punctuated by staccato sobs and silent rests.

Maestro marks a muted beat at the back edge of the stage In time steps to the podium Raises the baton conducts “Requiem” in its’ dissonant chords.

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YELLOW Mara Hargroder Boise

My father used to say The reason he didn’t go to war Was back trouble…

A big yellow stripe down the middle I had to grow into understanding What he meant I didn’t comprehend My yellow-caped hero My daddy Carried me high On tall shoulders My daddy Who stood between me And the thrashing hanger Held in my mothers hand My daddy Who made puppet stages For me to play with When I was sick My daddy Who said he loved me Even when I swallowed Too many pills My daddy Who taught me how to drive And never yelled

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My daddy Who colored Easter eggs And showed me how To do the same My daddy Who held me tightly As tears fell off my chin With the first heartbreak My daddy Must have been lying About being yellow

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AN EXCERPT Patricia Cunfer Boise

She crouched down, after dusk, in the alley behind the general store, hiding herself behind a tall stack of wooden pallets, feeling fairly secure, having done this several times before, but not totally relaxing, knowing she would have some explaining to do if she was discovered. She wasn’t ready to explain anything to anyone. She had to continue hiding in the woods until she figured out how she would survive in this new place. Her thoughts raced one minute, then stopped the next without warning, when she heard suspicious sounds. Her breathing did the same.

“Is it stealing, if it is taken from a garbage can?” He was late tonight. She felt guilt, touching her uncle’s gun, lodged in her waist band, hard, heavy and frightening. She feared she might shoot her own foot. She had stolen the gun not knowing what she’d find in America. She knew the dark street dangers of London and the risks of remaining in her uncle’s home, but America, what fears would she encounter there?

“Why is he so late?” she thought as she straightened out her crouching legs and bent from the waist so her head would not be seen above the pallets. After a short bending rest, she went back to crouching, feeling safer when close to the ground. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the alley but his probably wouldn’t in the short time it would take him to bring the scrap meat and bones out of the butcher shop and place them in the metal trash can. The sing-song childhood rhyme “Finders. Keepers. Losers. Weepers.” flashed through her mind, which was immediately countered with “He’s not losing the scraps, he’s discarding them and it’s not stealing if they’ve been discarded.”

The door opened. As he had done on several moon-lit nights in the past, he carried a small white box, lifted the tight fitting lid of the can, dropped the box in, replaced the lid, causing a tin-y clang and without notice of her, went back in the shop.

While waiting for him to turn out the lights and leave, shame washed over her, starting like a hot shower at the top of her head.

It flowed over and through her crouching body sickening her.

She stood in a puddle of shame, not about stealing, but about eating out of a garbage can. It pushed her lower to the ground and ground her in, but hunger pushed shame down as she took a 72

half-step out from behind the pallets…a half-moment too soon, because there he was again, this time coming from around the building carrying a dirty, holy burlap bag.

Upon seeing him, she gasped, jumped back into hiding, scratching her arm on the rough cut edge of a pallet. She expected him to come toward her to explore the sound, but he walked on past and put the burlap bag on top of the center trash can.

As he left she gratefully thought, “He must be deaf.” She didn’t know he was a compassionate and kind man as well as good looking because in spite of her fear and the dim alley light, she had noticed his street clothes, blue shirt with top two buttons open, tan trousers and brown leather belt. She had only ever seen him before in a bloody white apron. Even then she had noticed his strong face. His bloody aprons had helped him develop into a sensitive man. Chopping up dead animals to feed himself and the town folks had built in him a reverence and respect for life. He lived in a continual state of awe.

When he heard the sound, he walked cautiously toward the trash cans not wanting to alarm whoever or whatever was behind the pallets, instinctively knowing it was human, not animal, female, not male. He pretended he hadn’t heard the gasp. He wasn’t really surprised, had known for months something unusual was happening in the alley, had noticed when taking trash out at noon, things discarded the night before were gone. He had started observing the entire alley more closely. Small things had disappeared, old receipt books, a flat metal scrap and a lop-sided partially rusted bucket. There were times he sensed he wasn’t alone.

Could it be the strange girl that had gotten off the bus last spring, sat on the bench in front of Sims general store and then disappeared, totally disappeared? Few had seen her and those that had thought they had imagined her or read of her in a book. He knew he had seen her, had wanted to see more of her and now, maybe, had found her.

Lilly was apprehensive about going back to the alley, but now needed more paper to write letters to her mother which she would never mail, but needed desperately to write. She picked a dark 73

night, hid, waited, and was horrified when, in the bone box was meat, lean beautiful meat and onions, potatoes, carrots, even thyme sprigs. “He wasn’t deaf after all,” but at the sight of real food in the trash can, she became numb, outside of time and the alley as she realized she had been discovered. She ran behind the pallets, seeking cover, transparent as it now felt. She wasn’t ready to step out of her hiding place in the North Carolina woods. She still needed to figure out how she would survive in America.

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EVERY DAY Maisara Boise

I was born in Rwanda I did not go to school because of genocide School for me was sleeping on the street under cardboard I would look for someone who would take my daughter inside for the night I would look around at all the children who were cold on the street I wanted to help them Look at me You do not see what my eyes have seen Where I came from, my country, where I will go Between my life new, my life old New is my daughter, new is hope Old is suffering – am I going to carry it with me?

Old is hurt – very hard for me to see.

I wish to remember my mom; I remember her voice She fix hair, she cook nice, she love us seven kids My memory is precious So my girl, she talk about my mom and she ask about my family I think about some special moment with my mom I think about my family I wish I could remember them It was hard for me to be thinking But the sun is coming back It is coming back, it is coming back It is coming, coming Wake up – the time is ready I have to do something I have to do something 75

WHITE Susan Glave Meridian

reaching through palpable fog swirled egret down foam surfing winter waves onto a beach steam rising from a bowl of rice virgin paper cotton candy before it blushes the so long salute from a deer fleeing the hunter cherry blossoms riding out the rain milk on a black cat’s chin brittle bleached bones

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WRITERS REVIEW Ethan fidgets and shrugs his shoulders. He seems distracted by the plastic ID bracelet on my wrist. Then he reaches out to fondle the bracelet and asks, “Will some of the stars stay inside you?”

— MICHAEL PHILLEY

from MASTER OF DISAPPEARANCES Michael Philley Boise

The walls of the hospital room are grey and bare except for a calendar showing snow-capped mountains overlooking the month of August. I lie on a motorized bed padded with white sheets that smell as if they’ve just come from the laundry. Above me hovers a massive vaulted machine that will scan every bone in my body, from head to foot, even the digits of my fingers and toes.

The warm throb of the injected radioactive tracer is not unlike the rush I used to have when making love to Alison, when we would look at each other with wonder and astonishment.

The technician asks me to provide my name and birth date; it’s the third time I’ve had to confirm my identity since checking into the hospital. “Leonard Quade,” I tell him. “January 21, 1975.” He marks something on his clipboard and explains the procedure: “You’ll hear me tell you over the intercom to take a deep breath. Then you’ll exhale slowly and remain perfectly still until I tell you to relax and breathe normally.” What he doesn’t tell me – what my oncologist already has explained – is that a special camera will be taking images that show whether or not an area of bone is abnormal. Above me the machine hums and whirs, doing its work.

Alison meets me at the outpatient station, squeezing Ethan’s hand as he squirms and tries to wriggle free. She looks exhausted, gives me a look that says, you can’t imagine. I know I’m about to hear a litany of Ethan’s latest transgressions, but Alison surprises me by saying, “We got to look at the monitor during your bone scan. Ethan was transfixed. Really, it was the only time I can remember him being calm all day.”

“What did you see?” I ask.

“It was amazing. The monitor showed an outline of your body and all these tiny points of light vibrating inside you. Then it was like a vacuum started sucking the points of lights from your body. The technician said we were seeing gamma rays emitting.

“And Ethan?”

“He kept staring at the screen. His hands were clasped and he stood so still. Then he said something I’ll never forget. Ethan, 81

honey, tell daddy what you said.”

Ethan fidgets and shrugs his shoulders. He seems distracted by the plastic ID bracelet on my wrist. Then he reaches out to fondle the bracelet and asks, “Will some of the stars stay inside you?” ***

It is Ethan’s eyes that you first notice — grey, intense, seemingly able to penetrate rather than merely focus on an object.

Eyes that rarely meet your own, and then only fleetingly. An observer’s eyes, detached, yet precise in gathering information; like the eyes of a raptor circling over a field of freshly mown hay.

As a toddler, Ethan couldn’t walk from here to there without being distracted by something in his path. Tugging against my grip in a crowded parking lot, he would wrestle away to run after a plastic shopping bag that was flitting along the pavement.

While other children scurried to find hidden Easter eggs, Ethan would fill his basket with rocks, bottle caps and cigarette butts.

One Fourth of July, when we took him to Alison’s parents’ cabin by the lake, he spent hours staring at a column of ants scurrying across a sunlit boulder. He used a rock to crush and grind the ants; then waited patiently for the column to reform. Alison’s mother said, rather curtly, “I don’t know what’s to become of that child.”

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from THE BIRD MAN Annie Hindman Boise

“Vous avez l’air triste, Mademoiselle.”

Uh, oh. He had spotted me. I hugged my backpack closer to my chest. My fear of speaking mangled French with a native coupled with my fear of homeless people. My folks taught me that all these people want money for booze and drugs. Of course, I always did my part for those truly in need. I donated blood to the Red Cross. See, I thought I was this good person or something.

You knew that. My false humility manifested in my quiet presence, but I sure looked down my nose a lot.

I felt myself standing there, staring, so I tried out a sentence in French to tell him No, not sad, just serious, and then I looked around for you and wondered if I should have gone to the phone booth too.

“Ah, you are American,” he said in perfect English.

Oh man, I didn’t even get that one simple sentence correct. So much for all that money spent on school.

“Uh, yeah,” I answered in embarrassment. I hated admitting it. I feared a stereotype. I wasn’t one of those Americans who thought everyone should speak English, even in different countries.

“America, the beautiful. Purple mountains.” His yellow teeth showed and he wheezed again. His pigeon friend still hopped at his feet. “It is a song, non?”

“Right, of course.” My cheeks surely blushed deeper.

“Mademoiselle, you think I am crazy? You think I have nothing better to do than play with birds all day?”

He leaned toward me and I grabbed your backpack and shoved it between my feet. His tone less playful, I grew more wary and answered quickly, “No, not at all.”

He sat back again on the bench. Then he turned and smiled dreamily, or crazily, at some more birds that swooped in to pick at the sandwich crumbs. “It is true. What have I to do but this? I used to own a bookstore,” he kept his eyes on the birds. “My wife wanted to move to Spain, where she’s from, and I didn’t want to leave my store. So she left me. I begged her to stay. I promised I would sell the store in five years, just five years more. She never 83

wanted to be married to a shop owner anyway. She wanted me to take over my father’s vineyards. I didn’t want that. She did. She’s gone.” He sighed, and threw some more bits of bread from his pocket out to the pigeons. “We used to feed the birds together.

Now my store is gone – business never that good anyway – my wife is gone, and all I have are the birds.”

My hands loosened a little on our packs and I lost myself, for a second, thinking what a sad story. I thought it had to be a sad story, right, because if he wanted drink or drug money he needed my pity. But some kind of feeling welled in me for a minute, such that I almost burst into tears. Back home I always pretended that homeless people didn’t bleed like you and I.

Just as I was thinking I should say something, you came breezing back, a little too happy considering the news you had: no place to stay. You said we needed to get somewhere a little safer before dark. Then you grabbed your pack and started walking.

I turned to look at the man and my voice caught in my throat. But his eyes, staring right into mine, gave me a chill of sadness. Did he think we thought he wasn’t safe? All my body language had indicated as much. So I left with you. Just left.

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from PEEPHOLES Kelli Laughlin Boise

The knocking on my door comes like the assault of rapid gun fire. This only happens when I sit down to write. Or read.

Or eat. Or sleep. All of which I do alone, in peace, the way I like it. For the most part, my existence has become simple, quiet and solitary. Except for Isadora and her incessant knocking. When I peer out the peephole, of course, Isadora’s eye is staring back at me. I open the door.

“Peepholes don’t work that way, Isadora.”

Her tiny body pushes by me and into my apartment where she huffs around touching everything she passes, inspecting her fingers afterwards. Against magenta tinted hair, her leathered copper skin is especially off putting. Her green jumper sticks to her pruned body from the mixture of iodine and baby oil she’s slathered on.

“I don’t need a peek hole to know you’re in here.”

“PEEPhole.” I say.

I wonder how many other people’s peepholes Isadora peeps into. She is always frantically worried about something.

The Chinese are coming to enslave us all. We are being poisoned by radioactive water. Selma at the end of the hall found a baby in the dumpster. That one is probably true. Today it is something different. She peeps behind my bookshelf and beneath the sofa.

There had been much talk up and down the halls over the days following Sal’s alleged disappearance. Speculations were forming and everyone seemed to have their own theory about what would happen once the police found him. Chatter amongst the tenants spread like a terrible rash. Everyone itched with the need to give their input. Isadora was no exception.

“You wouldn’t happen to have tea on, would ya?” She asks looking over her shoulder, “I really would love some tea.”

“I do not happen to have tea on.”

“I suppose coffee will work, then. Sugar. But no cream!

You know how anything white gives me the gas. Except for cheese, I can have cheese.”

Isadora slips off her flip-flops like she does when she intends to stay a while. I consider my options and think that perhaps I could survive the jump from my window. Then I think 85

of being paralyzed by the landing and Isadora rummaging through my things as I lay helpless and immobile. Perhaps not surviving the jump wouldn’t be so bad. I decide against a window escape and start the coffee maker.

“You know I don’t like to gossip-” Isadora calls from the living room, “But I’m sure you’ve heard all about Sal, being missing and what-not.”

I had, indeed, heard all about Sal. As I watched my delicates tumble in the quarter operated dryer, I had overheard a group of single moms hanging around the washing machines as they discussed the breaking news.

“To think, he was our neighbor. Lurking amongst us.”

One said.

“I hear he’s got children buried beneath his floorboards.”

Another chimed in.

The moms gasped, shaking their heads, bouncing their bare bottomed toddlers on their hips. I couldn’t imagine someone Sal’s age would have the energy to drag children up two flights of stairs and bury them beneath the floor boards.

“If he did, we’d have probably smelled them by now.” I told them.

They turned to me aghast, no longer bouncing.

Apparently that wasn’t funny.

“Anyway,” Isadora continues, “Now his wife’s turned up.”

“So?” I ask, “Why don’t they ask her where he’s gone?”

“I suppose they could.” Isadora says as she flips on the television, “If she hadn’t been unplugged.”

“Unplugged?”

“They found her unhooked from all the machines in her hospital room. Now Sal’s missing and his wife is dead. If you ask me, we’ve got a man slaughterer on our hands.”

“It’s manslaughter, Isadora.”

“Sure it is, honey. Either way, the lady’s dead. Kaput. Now how’s that coffee comin’ along?”

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from WHAT YOU WISH FOR Kevin Coryell Boise

The emergency room had open windows, a tall ceiling, and a single row of light green plastic seats that ran along the walls. Though the sun poured in it felt cool. Several parents sat throughout. The room had been sterilized recently but it would not be clean. Outside the bathrooms at the end of the room sat an old wrinkled woman who focused on Jim. He sat and pretended to watch the soap opera on TV until her gaze burned so that he looked up.

“What’s wrong son?”

The woman must have been eighty and was caramel colored with bristly gray hair. She motioned to him. “Come here, talk to me.” He went to her. “What are you here for hijo?”

“My little girl. Something bit her. We were on our way to the coast for our vacation.”

The woman held his hand. “You’re shaking.”

“I shake.”

This elicited a laugh from her belly. “I’m Rosa. Everybody calls me Mami.”

“Nice to meet you Mami,” He thought of his own Mom and wished she was still there to help him. His insides seemed filled with sand and weighed him down. He was sinking into the earth and yet felt a certain lightness when she touched him.

“This happens a lot here. The araña del rincón.”

“And how does it end up?”

“It can end up bad.”

He bowed his head against his own wishes.

“You can’t decide everything hijo.”

“It’s my fault.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe about it.”

She breathed out with a low whistle. Below sat the Alameda, muffled echoes of crowds. The clock ticked many times before she spoke again. “So, what’s your name hijo?”

“James.”

“James. It will pass.”

“Everything does.”

“Yes. But where we go it will not matter.”

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He looked for a cross on her sternum but none was there.

“Where do we go?”

“Someplace better, no? You don’t agree?” She smelled soft and honest.

“I don’t think it matters. This is what matters.”

“Oh, it all matters son. This. Where we go. Where we don’t go. Of course, I’m a believer.”

He looked at her sideways, but catching a glance of the intensity of her eyes forced him to look at his feet. “I wish I could say the same.”

“If you feel that way, say it. You feel, no?”

“I feel. It just so happens I feel too much.”

“Then perhaps it’s meant to be, this.”

Jim flinched at the thought that he was being evangelized in such a moment. It seemed tawdry. His wife Rocio and their daughter Ana were in the back room, tended by nurses in the labyrinthine interior of this provincial public hospital. They were far from home, something he was used to. Not them. Surely they were scared. If Ana was awake she would be holding onto her mother tightly. Outside the windows there were several small white cumulus clouds bunched together high up in the sky blowing quickly out to the west. Up where they were it was pure and clean.

Empty. Those clouds that would make it to the ocean long before Jim.

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TEACHING WRITERS’ BIOGRAPHIES A.K. Turner is the author of This Little Piggy Went to the Liquor Store, Mommy Had a Little Flask, and the New York Times bestseller Hair of the Corn Dog. A former writer in the Boise Artist-in-Residence program, she now hosts the Tales of Imperfection humor podcast.

She is a regular contributor to Nickmom and a blogger at The Huffington Post.

Amanda Bennett attended Hamilton College and received her MFA in fiction from Boise State University, where she now teaches. Her most recent work has appeared in Confrontation, Alice Blue’s Shotgun Wedding series and The Boisean. Amanda enjoys dragons, the periodic table, bad movies with dancing, and good movies with Paul Newman.

Daniel Stewart has authored a collection of poems, The Imaginary World. A variety of publications have featured his poems, including Educe, Lonesome Fowl, Puerto Del Sol, Prairie Schooner, and Rattle. Recent work appeared in the anthologies REDUCE and Thrush Poetry Journal: an anthology of the first two years, and is forthcoming in the journal, Sixfold.

Emma Arnold is a comedian, published author, and storyteller.

She is the Artistic Director and host for Boise’s beloved live storytelling event, Story Story Late Night, as well as a frequent headliner at comedy clubs around the Northwest. When not touring, she lives in Idaho, where she keeps children and bees with varying degrees of success.

Jessica Holmes is a lifelong word nerd and driving force behind Story Story Night, Boise’s popular live storytelling program. Also the owner of Jessica Holmes Copywriting, she makes up marketing words in every medium for ad agencies and businesses. She won 91

the inaugural “Boise’s Funniest Person” stand-up competition in the 2013 Boise Weekly 2013 “Best of Boise” issue.

Kerri Webster is the author of two books of poetry: Grand & Arsenal (winner of the Iowa Poetry Prize) and We Do Not Eat Our Hearts Alone.

The recipient of awards from the Whiting Foundation, the Poetry Society of America, and the Idaho Commission on the Arts, she has taught in the MFA programs at Washington University in St. Louis and Boise State.

Valeri Kiesig has a pair of mismatched degrees (a Masters in Public Health from Columbia University and an MFA in fiction from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop). She has written about public health surveillance and the history of popular health movements; edited literary, science fiction, and romance novels; and is currently at work on a sort of detective novel about teenage Mormon girls.

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ABOUT THE CABIN The Cabin’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 500 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 Cabin’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 worldclass 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 Cabin Writing Camps touch the lives of hundreds of young people and adults each summer due to the talent of our 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 Adrian Kien, Alan Minskoff, Amanda Bennett, AK Turner, Bill Pettitt, Cassie Angley, Christian Winn, Danny Stewart, Elena Tomorowitz, Emma Arnold, Hannah Rodabaugh, Heidi Kraay, Jessica Holmes, Katie Fuller, Kerri Webster, Conor Harris, Lacey Daley, Megan Williams, Mollie Ficek, Nicole LeFavour, Reggie Townley, Tracy Sunderland and Valeri Kiesig.

Many thanks to our 2014 interns and volunteers: Alexandra Ruxton, Allison Allen, Anne Buckley, Catherine Kyle, Claire Jussel, Coen Jardine, Colleen Brennan, Erin Fenner, Gabrielle “Nails” Nelson, Henry Price, Henry Shafer-Coffey, Jelena Borak, Jesse Remeis, Jonathan Warren, Kate McNeary, Lilly Dorr, Madison Nagel, Malorie Bennett, Megan Gehrke, Nikita Schwarztman, Phillip Bode and Sylissa Franklin.

The Cabin’s Board of Directors also provides encouragement and support for camps each year through their committed service.

A big thank you to our friends throughout the state who provided venues, learning opportunities, and field trip locations to our campers: Big Tree Arts and Conor Harris, Kristen Smith and Megan Williams, Boise City Department of Arts and History and Karen Bubb, Boise Contemporary Theater, Boise Rock School and Jared Goodpaster, Boise Weekly and Jessica Murray, City of Boise Parks and Recreation, City of Boise Sesqui Shop and Karl LeClair, Flying M Coffee, Idaho Botanical Garden and Elizabeth Dickey, Idaho Historical Museum, Jack’s Urban Meeting Place and David Standerford, Lisk Gallery, Moon’s Café, Story Story Night and Emma Arnold and Jessica Holmes, Sun Valley Center for the Arts in Hailey, The Boise Art Museum and 97

Terra Feast, The Crux, The Fine Arts Center at the College of Southern Idaho in Twin Falls, The Foothills Learning Center in Boise and Kristin Lundstrom, The Herrett Museum, The Poetry Show with Daphne Stanford on Radio Boise, The Record Exchange, The Timbee Hall Recreation Center in the Fort Hall Shoshone-Bannock Reservation, WTC Marketing and Dustin Verburg and Kate Smith, and Zoo Boise.

INDEX A Anderson, Emily • 23 Antoniuk, Audrey • 41, 45

Layne, Mal • 58 Linguist, Jayne-Marie • 51

B

M

Ballard, Lucas • 32, 33 Burt, Tara • 68

C

Maisara • 75 Mayer, McKinlee • 52 Murphy, Sara • 21

Coryell, Kevin • 87 Cunfer, Patricia • 72

N

D

O

DalSoglio, Hannah • 26, 40, 42 Duke, Dena Parker • 67

P

Nicholes, Courtney • 61

Okocha, Joshua • 38, 46

G

Philley, Michael • 81 Price, Henry • 36, 37

Glave, Susan • 76 Gutridge, Jacob • 8, 12

R

H

Roberts , Rachel • 54 Roberts , Samantha • 31, 44 Ruxton, Alexandra • 10, 12

Hargroder, Mara • 70 Hindman, Annie • 83

S

J

Schwartzman, Nikita • 7, 12

Jardine, Coen • 34, 35 Jussel, Claire • 39, 43

W Watkins, Janine M. • 69

L Laird, Elisabeth • 55 Laughlin, Kelli • 85

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