2022 MegaZine

This is a Log Cabin Book, an imprint of THE CABIN, a center for readers & writers 801 South Capitol Boulevard, Boise, Idaho 83702 (208) 331-8000 www.thecabinidaho.org

© 2022 The Cabin

All rights reserved.

Book design and art by Brandon Stoker

Introduction

Chris Mathers Jackson | Teaching Writer

Every summer magic swirls about the heart of downtown Boise. Like many of life’s mysteries, it goes unnoticed by most. Nearly invisible to the undiscerning eye, young people gather in small cohorts along the Boise River Greenbelt, in the parks and public spaces, and upon the lawn of the little log cabin notably nestled between the library and the bridge. There is indeed enchantment at work as these youth miraculously investigate experience – tangible, sensory life, both real and imagined – and take up the challenge of expressing it to others through word and image. That magic, so unique to humankind, takes infinite forms; it provides endless possibilities of expression. And every summer, The Cabin’s Picture This camps hold space for young people to explore those many options.

You hold in your hands the echo of that summer magic. As you peruse these pages, reader, I invite you to celebrate the many ways these young writers and artists explore, question, and envision through image and word. In these pages you will find diverse perspectives and approaches. Just as campers found a wide array of styles, forms, colors, and textures at work in the art that fills Boise Art Museum’s galleries, you will find all sorts to wonder over here. From ekphrastic poetry to watercolors, line drawings to self portraiture and comic strips, there is something for every one among these pages. Take your time. Honor the work of these young artists and writers. Let the words, the colors, the shapes and styles wash over you.

When you do, you may well feel that tingle of magic moving upward from your fingertips toward your heart.

–Chris Mathers Jackson, Teaching Writer

Lunch Table Tales

Angie Musila | Grade 7, Meridian

I hold memories of the experiences of a middle school student: scenes of sauces from lunches, smudges of dirty fingerprints, teardrops of a young love breakup.

I have heard the excited chatter, the quiet whispers of gossip and the groans of stress from academic life: “Raquelle got suspended?”

“I’m so not ready for this history test.”

“I can’t wait for spring break!”

My life is one job and one job only: stay still and sturdy until the lunch bell rings.

Transformation

Keira

Fitzgerald | Grade 8, Meridian

We all go through it

The humble Caterpillar inches its way through life changes into something magnificent works hard to get there then turns into a beautiful butterfly flaps its way through life for one reason you start the process over again

Stupid Hordes of Purple Aliens

Guarding Stupid Generators Made by Stupid Genius Inventors That We Need to Power Our Stupid Ship

Isaac Filzen | Grade 7, Boise

“Lookout!” shouted Chandra. I took a wild guess and ducked just as a laser beam went over my head, singeing my hair. I smelled smoke, and yet, how did my head put out any pesky fires in my short brown hair. I brushed through some foliage of this purple and blue jungle on this alien planet. I yelled to Chandra, “where’s the ship?”

“A little late to be asking?” shouted Chandra.

“Well I’m sorry I was a bit busy running away from aliens!”

“Oh OK, we’re going straight toward it.”

“And do you have the generator question?”

“I thought you had it!”

“I got it!” said Max, the third member of our crew. He’s the brawn, I’m the brains, and Chandra is everything else. Soon enough we got to the ship. I went up to the pilot’s cabin, while Chandra and Max went back to install. I plopped into the pilot’s chair and waited for the Yale from Chandra. Soon it came, and I lifted us off, and set a course for Mars. They’ve got good burger places there.

Random Things

Saba Musila | Grade 6, Meridian

Dark, brooding building over / happy pink tree

Big busy city overshadowing / lush, green foothills

bride, blue sky, clouded not unlike / he overfilled mind

Calm. Cooling breeze blowing by / fighting the blazing hot sun. Luckily winning

Dreams

Noel Abebe | Grade 9, Meridian

Sleep is underrated

Resting your eyes Shutting down your body Activating your soul another reality

Of dreams and nightmares Depending on your fate

From being a superhero

To being a famous singer Is at hand

Just by closing Your eyes

Faithless Angels

Jacob Pense | Grade 9, Boise

As the smoldering embers burn deep into my soul, I can’t help but think of someplace after death. A place of spirits and angels of life. An empire filled by the imagination of the people on this plane, where no blood of war is ever spilled. Maybe death leads to a forgotten place where all you can do is hide or be driven mad by broken spirits. A place where greed and envy shroud thoughts of sanity. Mays is promising a way home but leads to hunger and bloodshed. A place where smoldering embers char and burn deep into one’s soul.

Ice Cream

Sophie Whitfield | Grade 7, Boise

I’m running. Running faster than I thought I could. The city blurs behind me, smog clenching my breath.

The sounds of screams. Gunshots with chaos echo in my head. I stumble into darkness, my face nearly colliding with the ground, and I take a moment to catch my breath and look at the surroundings, with only two distance flashes of light at either end. Faint music sounds from one end, and sirens from the other. The tunnel has a very distinct smell, of cigarettes and something sharper, sweeter. My heart still racing, I lean against the wall, the shadow of ice cream lingering on my tongue. Emily and I had just been laughing, mint chip dripping down my shirt, raspberry sorbet down hers. I used to tease her about getting fruity flavors.

“Come on Emily please be OK.” I whisper.

Gunshots rang first, then the primal instinct to run took over. I drop my cone, weave

around the chaos without thinking of Emily, leaving her behind. The thought of my best friend alone experiencing this …

My eyes draw upward to a huge mural. A large grandfather clock looms above me, painted on the cement wall. I stare blankly at it until the slap of flat flip flops against concrete breaks me out of my trance. I jump up suddenly, realizing all the bad things that can happen. My thoughts are cut short when I see a tall girl running towards me. “Emily!” I scream, relief washing over me. The relief is replaced with dread when I see dark red stains on her torso. She’s been shot.

“Oh Emily!” Tears streaming down my face , I collapse on the ground. Emily looks down at her shirt and starts to laugh. Through her hysterical giggles, Emily chokes out, “It’s my sorbet!”

Fire Then Ice

Evelyn Quilici | Grade 7, Boise

Left drowning in memories / Watching all the bluebirds smash it Growing used to the dark / Little do you know it

When you stop somewhere / On the road

And just watch what happens next / Your fate is like a story You have to read through / Just one day at a time

Tangled in the wild journey / And at the end of everything

Lighting up the sky / With your every last word And under lock and key / All the things you never knew

Like Stardust

The Simple Life

Avery Dynes | Grade 8, Boise

The boy reminds us all of what we need, everything is like a simple game. Everyone and everything is a part of his world. He is happy and sad. Only craving toys and food, the things we forget that were once all we needed.

Nothing makes sense, but life is so simple for him, because he has a golden soul. Life slowly rains sadness upon his Earth, but still, nothing like the place he left behind. Nothing but the things that don’t matter can touch him.

The place where repetitive thoughts feel new, the place where everywhere is filled with the unimaginable, in humanly things is where he lives. There are hard times but they’re easy to forget.

Like the Wonderland he’s in, it feels like the most amazing dream. His golden soul takes in all hue. The easiest things to live are the hardest things to hold on to. But he doesn’t understand, the world holds him tight, and keeps his ball of innocent light safe from the storms.

He won’t remember, but he doesn’t need to. He knows. He knows he was truly alive once.

Once on a day called today.

The boy feels invincible as the moment of dawn turns back to day. For him, it always feels like that. It’s always good, being a golden soul. He holds dear the things that he does. He booms as he explodes through the shining water, it’s spray into the sky singing as he skips.

His youth invisibly carries him and his gold throughout the fountain’s waters, a real life fantasy, or heaven’s rainbows, spraying upward from the cemented grounds of the grove. The dancing flames of water now fall, ending the driving vehicle of desires inside the mind of the boy, nothing else matters but this simple thing.

The cool sensation slowly falls on top of the boy’s warm, soft body, ending his suffering instantly. And the world feels so small. So small that the girl watching goes unnoticed.

The girl who knows what he doesn’t. That he’ll know soon, but not today.

For now, the world is small, only holding the hue of his golden soul. The levitating water does not protect him from the sun, though in the shape of an umbrella. Say it again. It’s the simple life.

Things get done. Things are given more than taken. The boy can’t imagine it being any different than this. Hopefully he can hold onto the gold in his soul, and stay the little boy he is. The girl envies him in a way. She’s known him all his little life as she’s seen him for the first time today. Never have they spoken a word to each other, but she still knows everything about him.

There’s not much to know. But there’s way too much. One day the boy will understand, will cherish what little he remembers of the good old days. And hopefully he stops reminding us of what we need. But leads us to getting our golden soul.

The Orange Ball

Malakai Wickstrom | Grade 7, Boise

I am a small orange ball with no owner just rolling around flying up fountains by being kicked to the fountain being kicked in a place surrounded by buildings with brick and a fountain on the ground. This life kept going until one day a person dropped a glass full of a shiny substance right next to me and it touched me. I started feeling weird. Then I grew a mouth and eyes and a nose. I now had a mind and could move by myself. I started scaring the people that kicked me (by screaming really loud and chasing them) until one found a sharp dart and popped me. I started to deflate and lost my eyes, nose, mouth, and mind until I was just a flat ball waiting to have my face back just one more time.

Something Here, Something There

Finch Letellier | Grade 8, Boise

With a scream, the unknown woman tumbled onto the tracks before Des’s eyes, her bright blue scarf trailing behind her. Des had lunged forward to grab her hand, but was pulled back by someone in a dark hood. The subway train rushed by, a sick CRUNCH echoing through the underground. Des stumbled back, a hand to his mouth and his eyes wide in shock. His stomach churned and the light above felt like eyes. Des felt shaky and light-headed like he was going to be sick. He fell to the ground. The pain from his knees hitting the concrete like an electric shock to him.

“Hey man, you ok?” The man in the hood leaned over him, his face in shadows. Des didn’t answer, trying to get over the sick feeling in his throat.

“Yeah,” he said weakly, finally looking up at the other man. He had a concerned look on his face as he helped Des stand up.

“Aster,” the man said. What? Des thought, confused.

“Ah, sorry.” He grinned awkwardly. “That’s my name. Aster,” he clarified.

“Oh. Thanks?” Des grimaced, voice still shaky.

Downstairs

Lili Wiebe | Grade 8, Boise

I walked in through the side door of my house as to not disturb my neighbors with my motion activated porch light after a long and tiring day of working at a salon. As I walked past the windows of the house, I noticed the daisies underneath them had been stepped on. I paid no attention and kept walking. The cool air conditioning blasted me in the face as I opened the door. I walked towards the kitchen and sat down

on the green cushion I placed on an old wooden chair I picked up off the side of the road. I sighed as relief came almost instantly. Everything was so much louder in NYC compared to Kansas. I didn’t want to move, however, I didn’t have much of a choice with the amount of bills needing to be paid off. As I removed my bag full of pens and appointment sheets from my shoulder, I heard the disturbing noise of glass breaking downstairs. Did I just hear what I thought I heard? I thought. Suddenly the smell of the warm night air and sweat seemed to fill the air, reminding me of my trip to Hawaii when I got off the plane and smelled the humidity in the air, instantly drenching me. Slowly I looked to my right where the archaic basement door was located, unlocked. My heart began to pound as I wondered what I should do. “Call 911? No, I should deal with this on my own.” I said to myself. I slowly got up from my seat and grabbed a pen from my bag, the closest thing to me. I walked to the basement door, the floor boards creaking. Each step knowing what I was walking into. Before I knew it I was at the door debating if I should run out of the house, but my shaking hand was already on the bronze handle. I pulled the door open for the first time since I bought the house, its hinges squeaking. I opened the door to the warm, murky darkness, and at the bottom of the splintering wooden stairs was the outline of a person.

The Subway Rat

Nia Zaragoza | Grade 7, Boise

You’re getting on the subway in New York City with your favorite bagel, a warm cinnamon swirl from Just Bagels, your favorite bagel shop in all of New York. You’re sitting next to the door and you’re about to take a bite out of your bagel when a rat with bright yellow eyes lunges at you. Immediately, you jump up so you don’t get bitten. You look around to see where it had gone when suddenly you see it by your hand you then scream this causes people from all around the train to look at you. You then try to shake your hand so the rat falls off. That’s when you realize the rat is gripped onto your bagel which made you drop it immediately but that also made you a bit upset because

you had to wait in a long line to get it. “Oh man,” you said with disappointment. That’s when you noticed the bagel and the rat falling to the ground. The rat still gripped onto it. That’s when the rat tried to run away with the bagel you quickly grabbed the bagel trying to still eat it because you were very hungry. The rat tried to bite you but you moved your hand. You pulled the bagel, and then the rat pulled the bagel, you then finally grabbed the bagel and took a bite but that’s when you felt a crunch. You assumed it was just a sugary, cinnamon clump but that’s when you noticed a man cutting his toenails across from you. Your face turned green. You immediately spit it out and dropped the bagel. That’s when the rat took the bagel and scurried under a chair.

Class President

Lilly Sloan | Grade 7, Boise

“She was afraid to lose class president.” Kaya was afraid to lose to her rival, Abby. The next day she was wearing a black bucket hat with stars on it. She had a shell anklet on and a black shirt and a long sleeve light brown shirt with love on it. She was walking in California, her hometown, to go to school. She made cookies for everyone. Once she got to school, she started to pass out cookies. Everyone loved them until she saw someone with a hat on.

She went up to them and looked at the hat and it said Vote Abby. Kaya was so mad that more people started to wear the hat. Kaya looked to see where Abby was selling her hats.

Kaya walked up to her and snapped, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Um winning, duh.” Abby said sharply.

Kaya glared at Abby and said, “We’ll see about that,” and walked off. Once Abby got home she went straight up to her room. She studied and studied

because she wanted good grades; only the two highest students go head-to-head to become class president. She kept studying until she heard a knock.

“Who is it?”

Someone opened the door, and it ended up being Kaya’s dad. “Hey, I know you love school and stuff, but you should take a break,” said Kaya’s dad. Kaya sighed and nodded so Kaya closed her book and plopped on her bed. She closed her eyes as slow as a tortoise and fell asleep. She started to dream …b-but how did Abby win. How did I lose? Everyone was cheering for her. Kaya screamed. She woke up. “Omg it was just a dream.”

It was already the next day, and she was ready to go to school. She wore brown overalls and a black top. They were new clothes too. So, once she got to school, everyone was telling her how nice her clothes are until she saw Abby with the same clothes. They both looked at each other and they were ready for war. They went up to each other and Abby pushed Kaya. Kaya didn’t want to start a fight, so she just walked away. The rest of the day was normal. There was a vote for class president on the wall and there were people talking everywhere. But soon, the day was over.

She opened the door and smelled the New York air. She was walking on the streets and looking at the pink trees that looked like cotton candy. When she got home, she studied, ate dinner, and went to bed. For the past few weeks were the same. Abby and Kaya fighting, studying and sleeping until the day finally came.

Kaya woke up, put on a blue skirt, and black sweater. She ran out the door, smelled the fresh air, and ran to school. Her day was normal. She went to class and ate lunch until there was an announcement.

“Students there has been a delay. There is a play in the auditorium today, so the election will be held next month.”

Kaya was sad. Abby looked at Kaya and yelled, “Be ready next month loser!”

Kaya yelled back, “Oh, I will!”

Yet she was ready. :)

The Subway Station

Kaira Stambulis | Grade 8, Boise

“Oh my god Ella, stop,” I say to my older sister.

“Stop moving, May. Your hair is sticking up in the back,” Ella replies.

“I’m 21. I don’t need you to be my mom,” as soon as I say it, I know I messed up. Our mother died two months ago due to cancer. I got over it pretty quickly. As for Ella, she still cries every night.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” I say quickly, as tears well up in her eyes. “The subway’s coming.” I say just to try and distract her.

The subway really is coming through. I hear the click click click of the wheels on the tracks. She silently nods her head and stands beside me. We are in one of the many subway stations in New York. It’s dark and rats are crawling around our feet. We can barely move a foot without running into someone.

We’re going to a play at the new theatre downtown. We’re seeing Romeo and Juliet. I didn’t want to go, but Ella said that mom’s dream was to see Romeo and Juliet at the new theatre, and we should honor her memory.

Ella is back at fiddling with my hair. Giggling, I shove her. She starts to sway on her feet. All at once, she loses her footing and as if in a slow motion, she starts to fall onto the subway tracks.

Do something! my brain yells at me. But instead, I just stand there, frozen. Just like that the subway is here and Ella is gone.

“Did you purposefully shove Miss Ella Jones in front of the subway?”

The police have been asking me the same question for a half hour. They’re starting to get impatient because I haven’t said a thing, not a single word since Ella died two days ago. It’s as if my tongue is glued to the top of my mouth.

I’ve never felt more alone. Ella was my best and only friend. I was never very social. My mom is dead, and my dad is in jail for killing five people when I was two. As for my older brother, well he fell off the face of the earth. No one has heard from him for ten years.

“Ms. Jones, I will ask this one last time. Did you kill Ella?”

I don’t want to be here. I try to close my eyes, but all I see is Ella in front of the subway. My heart starts to beat fast, my palms are getting sweaty, and tears start to fill my eyes to the brim. I taste blood; I’ve been biting my cheek.

My eyes shoot open, but now I see I KNOW WHAT YOU DID written in red everywhere I look. I blink again and it’s gone.

Tears are leaking onto my cheeks now, and I’m gasping for breath. I stand up and run out of my apartment. I kept running down the stairs, as far as I could go.

All I can think is, I need to get out, I need to get out.

I run past the Empire State Building. I know now that I will never stop running. I’ll be running from myself for the rest of my life.

The Reaper

Lillian Gray | Grade 8, Boise

As I exited the subway, I bumped into a man. He spun around glaring at me, eyes ablaze with anger. I begin to apologize, but then I stop. Do I know this man? He seems familiar. After a moment of thought, I recall who it is. This man killed me and my mother 13 years ago.

Hello, my name is Zephyr, and I am a Grim Reaper. This essentially means that I kill people and escort them to the afterlife. 13 years ago, when I was 11 (in human years), my mother was killed. My mother was not a grim reaper, and neither was I at the time.

It was a normal day for the most part. Me and my mother were walking home from the market when my mother was stabbed. I remember staring at her lifeless body before the first tear rolled down my cheek. I then felt a sharp feeling in the back of my head before everything went black.

When I woke up, everything around me was a bright white and there was some sort of creature in front of me. It was huge. It had hundreds, if not thousands of eyes. It had wings as well. All I remember is staring at it while it asked me, “Do you want another chance?” And then waking up like this.

Now back to the present.

As the realization sets in he notices as well. “A-aren’t you dead?” he said, the fire in his eyes put out by fear.

“Well obviously not. I’m here right now, aren’t I? I responded.

He looked at me in horror and then sprinted away. I casually walked after him, for he was a slow sprinter. After catching up to him, I calmly asked him if he’d like to get a drink.

“How’d you catch up to me?!” he said, horrified.

“Do you want to get a drink or not?”

He stopped and stared blankly at me, “F-fine.”

“Wonderful! I know a great cafe nearby. Shall we?” I said, as I pointed in the direction of the cafe.

“F-funny. I don’t remember a cafe being here,” he chuckled nervously as we arrived.

“It’s new! I promise it’s great.”

I ordered him the special.

“Mmm…what’s in this? It tastes good.”

“Oh, you know…coffee…stuff—oh! And cyanide,” I chuckled.

“What?” he gasped.

I then watched as he fell to the ground, dragging himself across the floor in an attempt to grab my feet.

“H-help…me…”

I then left the cafe, as it disappeared behind me.

Untitled

Juniper Davich | Grade 7, Boise

Devin was drenched in sweat. The sun was high in the sky beating down mercilessly on the city below. As he opened the door to the music shop, his body was met with a cool rush of the air conditioning. The comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air. He made his way to the back of the store with one thing on his mind: his friend Alex. His plan was to buy him a new CD to play in his busted up Subaru, since the old thing was made long before Bluetooth. He fished through his pockets, trying to find the money he had put in there a couple days ago. He pulled out a couple cough drops, a library card, and a wadded up piece of paper that read: “Don’t forget about the limes,” then finally, a crisp 20-dollar bill fresh from the ATM. It took as least seven tries to get it, as his card kept declining. Devin always thought it was cursed by some mysterious money stealing entity. These kinds of thoughts were probably planted into his mind when he was younger, by his mom. She liked to tell him stories about fantastical lands with outlandish creatures, it always put him to sleep. He’s always had an overactive imagination. Every writing assignment he’s ever gotten, he’s been able to twist it in a creative way. Now he had to be creative to find the perfect CD for his friend. The two usually listen to the radio on the rock station while driving through the city. Pearl Jam. Nirvana. AC/DC. The Beastie Boys. So many bands and so many choices. What was he to choose?

Cars bustled outside. It’s Saturday, the height of the activity in this city. Despite the heat, everyone’s kicking it downtown today. Including Devin. His eyes wander about

the shelves, considering each title. Finally, he decided to walk over to the counter and ask for help. A younger man with a black button up shirt, patterned with geometric shapes turned to assist him.

“Hey, I was wondering if you could suggest an album or something to me,” Devin said awkwardly. “I want to buy my friend a CD for his car.”

“Yeah no problem, what does your friend like?” the man responded.

“Um, like, rock and stuff, y’know?”

“Sure.”

Stickmin (Exerpt)

Max Wyatt | Grade 7, Boise

The Battle of the Bands

Jack Keller | Grade 8, Boise

I just want to be accepted. That is what he told himself as he strummed his guitar at midnight. The sound of it reverberating off the strings and through his dreary, cramped apartment. Dustin is a 14-year-old, acne riddled, slightly awkward, lanky and superstitious boy living alone in his small Cleveland apartment directly across the avenue from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He plays and is not limited to the instruments of: Guitar, Flute, Piano, Saxophone, Base, Trumpet, Mouth Harp and Trombone. “I just want a chance to fit in at school,” he said seven hours later as he was stuffing his Purple L.L. Bean backpack full of mismatched guitar picks, Saxophone reeds, blank CDs, lucky pennies, and notebooks. Ever since his first day of highschool he has been looked at as the outcast, the weirdo, the nobody. He was just itching for a chance to prove to his classmates that they were every bit wrong about him.

Then, that very day as he was sitting at his regular desk in his ordinary Calculus math class he saw it, the very chance to prove himself. He bolted upright, frantically packed his things and shot out of the classroom door followed by the calls of, “Dustin, come back!” Battle of the bands starts in one week, he silently thought to himself, I haven’t a moment to waste.

He burst through his red and yellow apartment door followed by the angry meows of his cat Bon Jovi. He threw his school bag onto the kitchen table, snached up his ancient sony tape recorder and phone and dashed right back out the door. He knew exactly where to start looking for inspiration for his song. Inspiration alley is what they called it. They, meaning him and his only friend, Jordan, possibly the only person on God’s green earth that understood him. Right then his phone buzzed, it was Jordan. “Hey Jordi wassup.” “Dustin, something awful has happened, I’ve lost my lucky socks, again!”

His lucky socks, or in other words, the pair of black polo socks that he wore quite possibly every day and never washed, ever.

“We’ve got more earth quaking problems than missing socks right now Jordan. Battle of the bands starts in only one week, ONE WEEK!”

“Woah, woah, slow down there egghead. That gives us plenty of time to prepare a song for the show.”

“I don’t think you understand Jordi. This isn’t just any concert, this is us competing with the best of the best, from highschools around the State! This can’t just be any good song. It has to be something that gets your heart racing, blood pumping, brain misfiring. This has to be the greatest piece of music that we have ever created, that anybody at the school has ever created. With that said, meet me in the alley as soon as possible. We’ve got some work to do.”

Thirty minutes later they arrived. Inspiration ally, a run down vandalized alleyway. Possibly the last place any normal person would go looking for musical inspiration, but they knew better. This is where most of the musicians in the city come to meet up with their band, practice their music, and just like them, look for inspiration.

“Ok Jordi, time to get serious. Let’s split up, you search the East side and I will go West. We’ll meet back here in fifteen minutes, right?”

“I hear you loud and clear. Fifteen minutes, got it.”

So they split up and began to saunter down the graffiti riddled alleyway where they would soon find the perfect beat to kick off their musical masterpiece.

Squirrel Versus the Bird Feeder

Daisy Brewton | Grade 4, Boise

Blowing Trees

Deeya Barman | Grade 4, Boise

ANIMAL O’S

Brynn Hobbs | Grade 6, Boise

The Sea Drags

Character Creation: A Board Game

Maddy Hassoldt | Grade 4, Boise

The wheels below are the makings of a character creation game, invented and designed by Maddy, who took her marvelous spark of an idea and ran with it. On the last day of camp, these wheels were printed out, glued onto foam cardboard, and made (with the help of some push pins and paper clips) into real, interactive spinners.

Players could spin the wheels to create a character, and as you can see, the possibilities were endless—a librarian who is also a secret alien, an actress living in a volcanic bunker with her pet alligator, a used car salesman with the power to summon cacti. Maddy presented her game at our final reading by asking a volunteer from the audience to create a character right on the spot!

Untitled

June Shang | Grade 5, Boise

The Garden

A Land Called Sunrise

Marlies Royer | Grade 6, Boise

Universe

Naomi Fields | Grade 6, Boise

Hello

Nora Glancey | Grade 5, Boise

Self Portrait

Trey Murata | Grade 6, Boise

Untitled

Ariana Day | Grade 8, Boise

Blackout Poem

Audrey Stephenson |

Blackout Poem

Erik Bruce | Grade 9, Boise

Your Kid Has Food on His Face

Mae Merriman | Grade 9, Boise

Self Portrait

Max Wyatt |

Untitled

A hidden magical cafe looks over the city. Is something too cold? Let a barista know series! “The again! I would not like to Gnome-like hobbits trying to defeat evil warlords? Not really

Cat

Aubrey Yang | Grade 4, Boise

Mossy Fish

Lena Brown | Grade 3, Boise

Otto

Karthik Baluswamy | Grade 3, Boise

The Awesome

Ridley Bevis | Grade 4, Boise

The Geometric Eye

Madison Hassoldt | Grade 4, Boise

Trebeled Music Notes

Julia Abac | Grade 4, Boise

Why Is Life So Hard

Charlie Bevis | Grade 4, Boise

Grade 9, Boise

Falling down the spiraling black hole with nothing in arm’s length, falling falling fallen.

I am nowhere but with myself stuck in this complex of me,

I see my thoughts; I see what’s left of me

Are you slipping, watching myself slip I see myself melting through my fingertips falling falling fallen.

I see green and blue, they’re so nice, I fall but I fall with them falling falling landed to be.

Tree Bark

Savannah Rutledge | Grade 9, Boise

I gazed out my window at my neighbor’s tree. That tree had been there since I moved in. Then a Labrador walked by here a Labrador barked at the squirrel in the tree holding the dog away lots of the trees out of bark we will take exposing the inner bark of the tree here some of the bark is fresh and beautiful other parts are mold rotten. But that makes no difference in all exposed. I wish I was more like that tree.

Dragon of the Orient

David Davis | Grade 5, Boise

A Haze of White

Keeley Raeder | Grade 8, Boise

A little girl sat on an old, dilapidated swing set. Her now brown lacy white shoes methodically kicked in the chilly morning breeze. Her faded pink and blue summer dress fluttered. Her big eyes were closed, her lashes knit together. Her perfect pink lips lay still. Strawberry blonde hair shifted across her back and shoulders as her head began to move upwards. Her eyes slowly began to open. The whites. More white, more. Her eyes were fully open now. There was no pupil. Just a haze of white.

Stealing Happiness

Meadow Grace | Grade 9, Boise

It seemed like there should have been an alarm like maybe it would have been better if I’d worn a burglar mask and had a little cloth on my shoulder stealing happiness far too, which somehow made it all the less attainable.

I considered throwing it for the sharks but decided they probably didn’t deserve it; they ate Nemo something.

I wondered if I should just go back and commit to the cashier with his face phone but deemed he probably couldn’t care less about this little token.

After we left I thought about tossing it into the ocean; through the tides, someone may eventually receive Happiness without the burden stolen. We didn’t go to the beach that day.

I know it’s not worth the money that nothing is in this economy. And I’m sure that, every day, little kids take laughter, courage, or most often Happiness...

but stealing Happiness is something I’d never recommend because when I stole happiness, it just ended up stealing my time.

Up, Up and Away in My Flying Machine

Marshall Blades | Grade 8, Eagle

It was finally finished…

A beast of rusty metal and bent pipes Sitting in my garage in a heap It’d been 7 months and 72 days, Going slightly insane… Kept adding on for the final reward:

FLIGHT

I poured the metallic green gas Tightened the last bolts Sealed the door Have to go before they get here

The Watchmen Rumbling signaled the beast waking Engine for a heart, gas for blood My very own Frankenstein

Whose single purpose: Carry me to the Heavens

Fire and Flames

Alyssa Hardman | Grade 10, Caldwell

You are luminous, cast in the glow of two fires burning like a chain of gold, a line of light in the darkness.

The planes are stars, freed from the galaxy only to choke the sky that birthed them, giving them light in the darkness.

They are golden beasts, preying on us, ever wild and strange chasing our breath from our lungs, blinding us in the darkness.

They tell us to give up so like a dreamer I come up for air, but one of us does not, trapped in the coldest torch in the darkness.

They never tire of hunting us, chaos ensuing as they eat at our bones, and in the end we are the ashes, the embers buried in the darkness.

Onions and Glass Houses

Naomi Cramer | Grade 9, Boise

She’s often heard that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. But what if they’re trapped?

When she asked her mother this, her mother sighed and turned away from the stove, letting the sweet-smelling onion and rust-colored spices sauté.

“But if it’s a metaphor, can’t there be other meanings, too?”

“Honey, I’m too busy for your questions right now,” and she roused the onions with a poke from the spatula, being rougher than strictly necessary and causing them to sizzle in protest.

Her daughter blinked. A tear was hiding under her eyelid. She blamed it on the onions once again, she found herself in a glass house, hiding half of what she felt from her mother, the other half from herself. There was no door in the house, only a wall of paper-thin glass that she was terrified of breaking.

She suspected that the tear was what kept her trapped. She spent so much time pressing her face against the window, trying to see what she was keeping on the other side, but the glass had long since become foggy with her breath. But even though she couldn’t see through, she kept trying, because what else was there to do?

There were stones in the house she ignored them. She turned from the kitchen and walked away.

River’s Tie

Julia Perl | Grade 9, Boise

I had never met him before. Tall, menacing. He came to our house, knocked entered without a smile. My mom looked intimidated. A stranger-danger perhaps yet dressed in a suit and tie. I remembered that I had adorned River’s neck before he ran away and we no longer had constant paw prints on the floor if they want they wiped away with a single swipe and sometimes I wonder if I had hurt his feelings fasting that I two type. The man leaned against the doorway. After I was sent upstairs, I heard my mom’s gentle protests turned sobbing, then nothing at all now, that I leave with this strange

I Remember: Shirley House

Aberdeen Sanchez | Grade 7, Boise

I remember that one time that I figured out

My best friend’s mother’s killer.

I remember when I messed up and deducted that Jenny had drunk lemonade, when she had actually Had sugar-free lemonade.

I remember when I first saw the bench that Lucy Welch died on, and I said “Someone died

On that bench,” and it was the first time I’d ever seen that bench.

I remember when my teacher thought I was a psychopath, and I had to take a test.

Turns out I’m simply a high-functioning sociopath.

I remember when I pretended to commit

Vehicular manslaughter so that I could Catch the Carolina Crasher.

I remember faking my death so that I could secretly move to Teton.

I remember when Jenny Wangley called me a genius, and I said, “Obviously.”

Tsimami

Claudia Burton | Grade 8, Boise

Out There

Scarlet Fields | Grade 8, Boise

the Duck searches food hidden in the murky water. The river, dark as chocolate drips off the end of her flat dandelion -yellow beak (black snip at the tip) underwater legs like invisible motors, knifing through the calm eddy. Can you see me?

Lethargic light sneaks through the trembling leaves; yawning in the breeze And a curious gnat tickles my ankle Frightened away by my stare. Can you feel me?

Ripples through the summer air Reflections of the current circling past my toes A medley of birdsong carries a waltz as piercing as the pebble in my shoe. Can you hear me?

Cushions of river bank (months wet) Stinking of rotten velvet and lost damp leaves mixes with the pollen like sweet coral drifting through my hair. Can you smell me? Quack: She is back

Dewy feathers glistening the current as bright as chimes

Carrying the grace and the taste of the fallen river, The one that we both love.

Where I Was Created and Built Upon

Amelie Purcell | Grade 8, Boise

I am from the rush of the river behind the shy corner. I am from the white churn of the water splashing, reaching to the sky of cool calm. I was born from the scorching cool ball of fire beating down on you till you gave into its opposite, water. I was raised beneath the stars, a handful of bright lights my captor’s child had thrown there for my pleasure. I was taught by the nipping cold and bright whites falling from the sky collecting in a fury, baking powder. I was told about love from the great cacophony of green, blotting out the sun, showing and whispering things I could never forget. I was awed by the tiny, cold, hard things with a brilliant spew of colors. I was hugged by the cold rush and flow and smell of warm air and the aura of green. I was taught, told, born, raised, awed, and hugged by nature and forever will be.

Nature’s Child (Exerpt)

Amelie Purcell | Grade 8, Boise

She came from the crackling swirl of red and orange. She was taught from the white swirl and cold blue collecting. She was born from the cold-cut corners and weeping, flowing ebb and flow of the ever-present. She was as indestructible as the sun and time. She was hugged by the great cacophony of the green looming and showering and cowering.

Where I’m from

Marcus Aguilar | Grade 7, Boise

I’m made up of Northwest Hot, cold, and wet weather.

I’m from video games and Music. Hide-n-go-seek and Outside playin’.

I’m from Mexican rice, tamales, Tacos, pizza, and cucumber.

Where I’m from, the music flows.

I’m from John Coltrane, Wayne Shorter, and classical music.

I’m from sitting in the living room

With my family and not being able to find a movie

For an hour.

I’m from going to the skate park

And bike park and going To the climbing gym.

BentleyHaedyn Asmussen | Grade 7, Eagle

Navigating the halls at school got harder alone. Home was my perfect escape. I come home to the sound of paws jumping and Hitting the ground. Whimpering for my attention

His fluffy white tail, His tail high up in the air, swaying fast like There was no tomorrow, Eyes glowing with excitement

His ears flapping as he runs up to me, Happy to see me.

I was no longer alone. When I was lost, we were lost together.

If I’m being honest, Bentley was my only word for home. He was my home.

Each day I came home, I was coming home to Bentley. Each day he was overjoyed to see me.

We were alive Together. Some might say he was just a puppy, A pet, That he didn’t matter, That he didn’t care. But, to me, that was a lie. We weren’t just owner and pet, We were family, We were never alone, We had each other And that was enough for me.

Gus, the Talking Cat

Erik Bruce | Grade 9, Meridian

One day, Gus the cat was in the living room, talking to Betty, who was Gus’s owner. The two were talking about what movie to watch. The smell of burnt, buttered popcorn filled the room. They realized that they left the popcorn on the stove, and they started arguing. They quickly ran to the stove and tried to save the popcorn. When they opened the pot, a plume of black smoke came out. After the smoke cleared, Betty looked inside and saw a void of black. She quickly put the pan in the trash and started over.

Seasons

Vanessa Schliep | Grade 8, Boise

Summer

Summer is eating lemon-lime pop popsicles in the back of my dad’s truck. Summer is sleeping in because there is no school. It’s freshly cut grassing and having my windows open so I can smell the warm breeze. It’s when our air conditioner breaks down on the hottest day of the year. It’s going on long bike rides and seeing friends. And saying, oh, I can’t wait for winter. Summer is memories.

Fall

Fall is the smell of wildfires burning in the distance. It’s raking leaves and eating apple pie. Its fall-scented candles and Thanksgiving dinner. Its windy days and knowing that winter is coming. Fall is scratchy sweaters and watching the hot air balloons. Fall is memories.

Winter

Winter is Christmas movies and hot chocolate. It’s skiing and ice skating. It’s sitting by the heater and wishing for warm weather. Snowball fights and saying, “oh, I can’t wait for summer.” Winter is memories.

Spring

Spring is watching the flowers grow. It’s the smell of rain and thunder that rumbles like the clashing of stones. Spring is sunflowers that return every year to take over our garden. It’s singing along to songs on the radio and watching squirrels fling themselves from tree to tree. Spring is memories.

Folklore

Charlie Bolinder | Grade 7, Boise

James was eagerly waiting for the party that Ines was hosting. He hated crowds but wanted to go to be with his girlfriend, Betty. It would be a nice surprise. He went to buy nice clothes to show up in.

Betty was beyond excited for Ines’s party, despite knowing James wouldn’t show up. She knew all too well how James hated crowds. She would show up anyway. Betty thought about trying to convince him to come but decided against it.

James was getting ready for the party. He realized how late he was and started running. He got there twenty minutes late. When he did get there, he saw Betty dancing with another guy. He was going to say something but decided to leave instead. As he was leaving an earthquake of thoughts was going on in his head. So when August pulled up and said, “Get in,” He did.

Betty knew James wasn’t gonna be there. So when a guy asked her to dance, she agreed. If she knew James was gonna come, she wouldn’t have danced with the other guy. She saw him leaving and ran to get him but he was already gone.

As James was leaving, a girl turned up in a white convertible. She told James to get in the car and drove around town. They were together every day. Soon, these days turned into nights. James slept next to August but dreamt of Betty. August didn’t know about Betty until Summer ended and James was gone.

Soon, school started again, and Ines told Betty that James was cheating. Betty confronted James and he didn’t deny it. James wanted to make things right, so he showed up at her party. Betty knew James hated crowds, so he must be sorry.

In the end, they all made a decision they would regret. August wished she didn’t pull up and told James to get in the car. James wished he never got in the car with August, and Betty wished she didn’t dance with another guy.

The two got married twenty years later. They got a house called Holiday House.

They got divorced though, and Betty started going by her full name, Rebekah. She would be seen staring out at the sea, pacing the rocks. She was known to be kind of crazy. Once, in a fight with her neighbor, she stole his dog and returned it after dying its fur key-lime green. But after a while, she left St. Louis.

A while after Rebekah died, a girl bought Holiday House. That girl was Taylor Alison Swift. Haunted by Rebekah’s ghost, she wrote the album, Folklore, which revolved around this story.

The Horse Queen

Rose Murphy | Grade 7, Boise

All of a sudden I start floating up in the air, five feet above the cracked pavement.

“What is happening to me?” I yell in horror.

“You’re, you’re floating.” Sabrina stutters. “Well, aren’t you going to do anything about it? Help me!” I scream as I float up higher. “Okay, okay,” she shouts as she tries to jump up and grab my foot but misses by an inch.

“Ahhhhh!” I cry out as I float up three more feet. But then I stop. I sigh with relief. At least I won’t float up to space.

Then, my whole body starts to tingle. I can see my blue sneakers turning into hooves. Then my jeans turned into a horse’s brown hind legs. Then both my legs disappear altogether and become a horse’s back legs.

“I have horse legs!” I shriek at Sabrina.

“What is happening to you?” Sabrina asks as she stares in awe.

Then I look down as my arms turn into a horse’s light-brown front legs. My head starts to ache, and I feel the horse hair creeping up on me like the deadline for homework.

My mouth turns into a huge horse mouth, and my nose starts to morph bigger and bigger. Then, as if I’m being swallowed whole, my head turns fully into a horse’s head. My whole body finally stops tingling.

I’m surrounded by dust and blue sparkles now, so I can’t see the alley or Sabrina. I try to scream for help but all that comes out is a “neigh.” Slowly, I am lowered to the ground as the sparkles start to disappear and my hooves touch the pavement. Sabrina doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me, her eyes as big as frisbees.

“I am. A. Horse,” I say slowly, focusing on what I just said. What do I do now?

Exquisite Corpses

Hannah Phillips’ Strange Lands Campers

The following depictions of original characters are composed through collaborative effort, each artist contributing one detail at a time. Note: The artist collective democratically voted on the title of each piece with passion and consideration.

Claudia Burton, grade 8

Calvin Carter, grade 8

Betty Clark, grade 7

Sage Ellestad, grade 7

Max Keim, grade 7

Dane Landry, grade 8

Yam Pushkin Huang, grade 7

Jackson Radford, grade 7

Custard

Exquisite Corpse | Grades 7-8

Genetic Malfunction

Exquisite Corpse | Grades 7-8

Grandpa

Exquisite Corpse | Grades 7-8

Historically Correct Leprechaun

Exquisite Corpse | Grades 7-8

My Sleep Paralysis Demon

Exquisite Corpse | Grades 7-8

Peppa Pig

Exquisite Corpse | Grades 7-8

Acknowledgements

Summer Writing Camps at The Cabin touch the lives of hundreds of student writers and adults each summer due to the talent of our teaching-writers, the generosity of funders, and the gifts of time and support from volunteers, interns, board members, and community partners.

Thank you to teaching-writers Natanya Biskar, Colleen Brennan, Meg Freitag, Desmond Fuller, Lyd Havens, Chris Mathers Jackson, Heidi Kraay, Aurora Mehlman, Kathleen Olp, Hannah Phillips, Hannah Rodabaugh, Daniel Stewart, and Tracy Sunderland.

Many thanks to our 2022 interns, volunteers, and Cabin staff: Alize Portue, Shriram Sivaramakrishnan, Aiden Cahill, Sierra Culver, Hallie Delaney, Sonya Feibert, Sara Ivey, Perry Kemper, Sebastian Kou, Abby Peck, Grace Schlafer, Taylor Sharp, Ambrosia Shomaker, Darien Smartt, Fiona Van De Graaff, Madeline Welsh, Rebecca Young, Adie Bartron, Hillary Bilinski, Chris DeVore, Gen Emerson, Jordyn Marcroft, Emmy Parton, Joel Wayne, Megan Williams, and Kurt Zwolfer.

A special thanks to Foothills School of Arts and Sciences, Idaho Botanical Gardens, Albertsons Library at Boise State University, Flying M, Boise Art Museum, Zoo Boise, and the Idaho State Museum. Your generosity allowed us to expand camps when COVID might have kept them too close to The Cabin.

Writing Camps and publication of MEGAZINE are made possible by generous support from the Whittenberger Foundation.

Teaching-Writer Biographies:

Natanya Biskar grew up in San Francisco. She graduated in the spring of 2022 with an MFA in fiction writing from Boise State University, where she also taught fiction courses and served as Associate Editor for The Idaho Review. She is the recipient of a 2021 Alexa Rose Foundation Grant, and the winner of the 2021 Glenn Balch Award for Fiction. Before she turned to writing, Natanya taught elementary school for over ten years. When she is not reading, writing, or teaching, she loves to swim in the Boise River, ride her bike, and appreciate other people’s dogs.

Colleen Brennan is a freelance writer, editor, writing coach, and teacher with an MA in linguistics. Her stories appear in Writers in the Attic and A Year in Ink. A native Minnesotan, she has lived and worked in San Diego, Boulder, Paris, Bordeaux, and Boise. She is the recipient of a 2018 literary arts grant from the Alexa Rose Foundation.

Meg Freitag was born in Maine. She earned her BA from Sarah Lawrence College, and has an MFA in Poetry from UT Austin’s Michener Center for Writers, and an MFA in Fiction from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her first poetry collection, EDITH, was published by BOAAT Press in 2017. Individual poems have appeared in Tin House, Boston Review, and Black Warrior Review, among other journals. She’s currently at work on a second poetry collection, a short story collection, and a novel. She lives and works in Boise, Idaho.

Desmond Fuller is a third year MFA candidate in fiction and the Associate Editor of The Idaho Review for the 2023 issue. His work appears in Indiana Review, West Trade Review, The Timberline, The Gravity of the Thing, and elsewhere. Desmond holds an undergraduate degree in English/Creative Writing and Spanish (double major). He spent two years teaching middle and high school students in bilingual schools in Spain.

Lyd Havens graduated with a BFA in Creative Writing from Boise State University in 2021. Their poetry has been published in Ploughshares, Poetry Northwest, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal, among others. She’s also had essays published by ENTROPY, Half Mystic, and Autofocus Lit. They are the author of chapbooks I Gave Birth to All the Ghosts Here (Nostrovia! Press, 2018) and Chokecherry (Game Over Books, 2021).

Chris Mathers Jackson is a freelance writer and editor, an aspiring novelist, a teacher, a mom, an artist, and a lover of the natural world. Chris received her MA in English Literature from University of Montana in 2005. She taught English Composition at UM from 2003-2006, both during and following completion of her master’s (as a TA and then an adjunct instructor). She worked in the administration of Missoula International School from 2006-2010 before becoming a full-time freelance writer, editor, and graphic designer. After several years, she stopped doing design work professionally to focus on her growing family and her passion for the written word. In 2019 she established a book review website (LitReaderNotes). In addition to teaching, writing, and editing, Chris enjoys spending as much time outside as possible, adventuring both near and far, with her husband and two daughters.

Heidi Kraay examines the link between brain and body, seeking empathy with fractured characters. Her work pulls myth, metaphor and monsters together to discover connections across difference. Plays include Unwind: Hindsight is 2020, see in the dark, How to Hide Your Monster, New Eden and Kilgore, as well as co-devised plays, one-acts, plays for young audiences and short plays. Her work has been presented in Boise, regionally, in NYC and internationally, most recently through the Last Frontier Theatre Conference, MING Studios, Mission at Tenth’s podcast Artifact, Boise Contemporary Theater, Storyfort, Climate Change Theatre Action, The Bechdel Group, West of Lenin Theatre, Spark! Creative Works and Oregon Contemporary Theatre. Recent publications include Smith & Kraus and Magical Women Magazine. Heidi holds an MFA in Creative Inquiry, Interdisciplinary Arts from California Institute of Integral Studies and is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild of America.

Playwright and writer across disciplines

Aurora Stone Mehlman earned her MFA in Fiction from Boise State University. A writer, freelancer, and teacher, Mehlman organizes and facilitates Treefort’s Storyfort, and teaches with The Cabin and the College of Western Idaho. Active in her local community, she was awarded a Judge’s Recommendation in Boise Weekly’s Fiction 101 Contest, and recently shared her stories at the Idaho Botanical Garden, Scaryfort, and Story Story Night’s Grand Slam, where her team won first place. Previously, she designed and facilitated writing workshops with underserved communities and scribed at hospice homes for Write Around Portland. Mehlman is currently at work on multiple projects, including a lyrical novel about the women fire lookouts of WWII and a collection of short stories. Mehlman resides in Boise, Idaho with her 6-yearold daughter.

Kathleen Olpis a recent graduate from the MFA Fiction Program at Boise State University. Originally from Chicago, she currently lives and writes in Boise, Idaho, where she is at work on a novel.

Hannah Phillips is a fiction writer and screenwriter originally from the Endless Mountains region of Pennsylvania. She has BAs in creative writing and English secondary education, and she loves working with young writers of all ages. Currently, Hannah is a second-year fiction student in Boise State’s creative writing MFA program where she’s working on her first novel, as well as a TV pilot.

Hannah Rodabaugh is the author of With Words: Verse in Concordance, We Don’t Bury Our Dead When Our Dead Are Animals, and We Traced The Shape Of Our Loss To See Your Face. She’s been published in Anti-Narrative Journal, Berkeley Poetry Review, ROAR Magazine, Horse Less Review, K’in Literary Journal, and Written River, among others. She’s received grants from the Idaho Commission on the Arts, the Alexa Rose Foundation, and the COVID Cultural Commissioning Fund. She’s been an artist-inresidence for the National Park Service, the Bureau of Land Management, and Surel’s Place.

Daniel Stewart, a poet, is the author of the collection The Imaginary World, and a teaching-writer for The Cabin’s Writers in the Schools. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he won the Erskine J. Poetry Prize from Smartish Pace, and has published in BOAAT, Graviton Lit, NightBlock, Prairie Schooner, Puerto Del Sol, RATTLE, Sixfold, Skidrow Penthouse, Thrush Poetry Journal, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere.

Tracy Sunderland loves storytelling and the particular demands of writing plays and screenplays. Her short films have won multiple festival awards and her first feature film script Tailor played in festivals all over the world and won the 2021 Best Screenplay award at Festival 36 Mostra de Valencia in Spain. Tracy holds an MA in filmmaking from London Film School and received the 2015 Fellowship in Filmmaking from the Idaho Commission on the Arts. She also teaches at Boise State University and received the Adjunct Faculty of the Year Award in 2015.

Index A

Aberdeen Sanchez 70

Ada Addis 33

Alyssa Hardman 67

Amelia Winters 69

Amelie Purcell 44, 73, 76

Angie Musila 4

Ariana Day 45

Aubrey Yang 54

Audrey Stephenson 46 Avery Dynes 9

B

Betty Clark 47, 81

Brynn Hobbs 28

C

Calvin Carter 81

Charlie Bevis 61

Charlie Bolinder 78

Charlotte Mitchell 32

Claudia Burton 71, 81

D

Daisy Brewton 24

Dane Landry 81

Darby O’Brien 57

David Davis 64

Deeya Barman 27

E

L

Emerson Woods 25

Erik Bruce 48, 76

Evelyn Quilici 8 F Finch Letellier 11 G

Genevieve Winters 52 H Haedyn Asmussen 75

I Isaac Filzen 5

J Jack Keller 22

Jackson Radford 53, 81

Jacob Pense 7

Julia Abac 60

Julia Perl 69 June Shang 37 Juniper Davich 18 K

Kaira Stambulis 15

Karthik Baluswamy 56

Kate Elliott 62

Katy Brewton 38 Keeley Raeder 65 Keira Fitzgerald 4

Lena Brown 55

Lili Wiebe 11 Lillian Gray 16

Lilly Sloan 13

M

Maddy Hassoldt 34

Madison Hassoldt 59

Mae Merriman 49

Malakai Wickstrom 10 Marcus Aguilar 74 Marlies Royer 39 Marshall Blades 66 Max Keim 81 Max Wyatt 20, 50 Meadow Grace 65

N

Naomi Cramer 68

Naomi Fields 40

Nia Zaragoza 12 Noel Abebe 6 Nora Glancey 41

O

Olivia Edson 63 R

Ridley Bevis 58 Rose Murphy 79

S

Saba Musila 6

Sage Ellestad 81

Savannah Rutledge 63

Scarlet Fields 72

Sophie Whitfield 7

T

Trey Murata 42 V

Vanessa Schliep 77

Vera Brooks 51 W Whitney Brooks 43 Y

Yam Pushkin Huang 81