“The creative arts foster within us an aesthetic appreciation of our world and of ourselves. Writing enables us to share our innermost thoughts with others. It may create a tranquil world, a chaotic world, or a world filled with hope.”

Cover art by Owen Rokous

o said Mrs. Alberta Saffell Bell on the occasion of establishing the Alberta and C. Gordon Bell ’50 Memorial Endowment of The Cauldron in honor of her late husband. C. Gordon Bell often stated, “All writing is the sound of one voice speaking, and all writing can be heard.” As a writer, journalist, and publisher, he committed his time and energy to helping others fulfill their dreams of writing and of keeping their voices alive. The endowment is intended to insure a me-dium of expression for Kent School’s student writers and artists through The Cauldron. In estab-lishing this endowment Mrs. Bell further said, “I can think of no better way in which to honor the memory of C. Gordon Bell ’50. It is a gift of love in memory of a man and his love for the lively art of writing.”

C. Gordon Bell ’50 was a publisher and owner of The Gardner News in Gardner, Massachusetts, a family-owned newspaper for over a century. Mrs. Bell also served as president and publisher of The Gardner News for many years. Her late husband and his twin brother, Shane, were both members of the editorial staff of The Cauldron in 1947, the year of its founding. Kent School’s student writers, artists, and photographers dedicate each issue of The Cauldron to Alberta Saffell Bell and to the memory of her husband, C. Gordon Bell ’50, in appreciation of his past and her current loving commitment to The Cauldron.

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The Cauldron 2021

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The Team

Zoe WernerLayout Editor

Chris KimLayout Editor

Christian GreenLayout Editor

Nancy McLaughlinLayout Editor

Owen RokousHead Art Editor

Eyiwunmi AjaoArt Editor

Anthony ZhangArt Editor

Julia ZhangArt Editor

Amenaide BrownLiterary Editor

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Amenaide BrownLiterary Editor

A Letter From The Editor

Dear Reader,

Join us on a journey through this hectic year in the form of student expression. The Cauldron 2021 digs deep at what creative writing is and how art plays an important role in defining who we are as a student body. The art in this issue tells a story, shows life experi-ences, self-reflects, and prompts you to look through a lens outside of the box. When you leaf through this issue, I implore you to read closely. Find beauty in the imagery of “Poor Old World: Some Random Eternity”. Think hard about the absurdity of man-made things in “Cre-ative Problem Creating” and pause to listen to the lyrics of “Hookup Culture”. The Cauldron is meant to serve as a pause from the world around us. We created this issue to catch your eye and keep you locked in on the magazine while being locked out from the rest of the world. Take a breather, read our collection, and enjoy.

Sincerely,

Anna JangEditor-in-Chief

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Table of ContentsLiteratureRafa Albolote Falling 28Eyiwunmi Ajao I Wish We Lived in a Perpetual Night 22 Quick, Fast, Pantomime 47Bennett Burki Memories Interrupted 57Dora Gao Rhine Children 17Abby Halpin EVO-1956 44Anna Jang Am I Quiet Enough For You? 21Shirley Lin The Stolen Heirlooms 18Kuan Liu Creative Problem Creating 6 Thus Spoke René Descartes 38Nancy McLaughlin Beyblade 36 Hookup Culture 42Annabelle McLean The Veiled Woman 50Nicole Namath Bambi 49Yancey Pratt String 26Lexy Pryor Magnet Poetry 59Linnea Saxton To Swim 46Harry Song Four Instagram Captions 8 California 16 You Told Me Your Love Was Like 34

Emily Yemington Haunted 11 The Daydream 55Anthony Zhang Forged in Strife 33Christina Zhang My Happiness Dove With The Albino Whale 56Julia Zhang An Accurate Account of the Snow Textures in Kent 10 Bed-making 14 Poor Old World: Some Random Eternity 40

Christian Green, Jammin, Photograph

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ArtEyiwunmi Ajao Little Ducks 11 Contempt for Idle Eyes 12 She’d Found These Letters 18 Scarlet Redemption 39Maria Aleksandrova Untitled 46Bennett Burki Untitled 57Nicole Chan Street Cart 56Christian Green Jammin 2 Pink Market 16 Work All Day 31 Sunset Alley 34Chris Kim Untitled 15 The Pomegranate the Crow Dropped 32 Dorm Chair Mantis 37 Laborer’s Discrimination 41 Escaping the Museum 47Anna Liu Self Portrait 13 Off 27Nancy McLaughlin Slippery Surface 21Robbie Ober For Akira Kurosawa 53Georgia Polk Reflection 30

Owen Rokous Untitled 1 Untitled 13 Untitled 22 True Park 43 Untitled 54Hien Truong Untitled 58Anthony Zhang Green Graffiti 3` Obstruction 6 She Said There Were Spirits 24 Bird Flight Neon 30 Doe 48 Untitled 52Kevin Zhang Distortion 9 Shopping Mall 17 Grope 44Jess Zheng Untitled 8Anonymous Untitled 10

Anthony Zhang, Green Graffiti, Photograph

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Creative Problem Creating

Creative Problem Creating

Kuan Liu

This work is partially inspired by Cat’s Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut.

Anthony Zhang, Obstruction, Sculpture

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I was not me, am not me, and will never be me. As the cries of “Lo, I bring you the superman!” echos off the rooftop of my pathetic cathedral (my scalp) feistily, I decided that the world should condescend itself and listen to the mumbling of our ancestors: pirates. By the time I was a naive ignorant cockatiel, I was not searching for the legacy of our ancestors. I was not a Pastafarian back then. I was merely trying to find something to grasp out of the void. However, energy is always conserved, and a system of the void cannot simply conjure a valid belief system for my mind to scramble on. I was merely writing a book, a book called Creative Problem Creating. I went to the internet, and on Chinese Google, I unraveled a man claiming to be suseJ’s daddy. After two minutes of rigorous triangulation, I discovered that he is a physics student in Oregon from the staff list of a certain McDonald’s restaurant. Despite the naiveness, I was an old fashioned cockatiel, who sent this Bobby Henderson a letter. My letter went like:

Dear Mr. Henderson,I write to you because I am now writing a book titled: “Creative Problem Creating”. I simply could not stop wondering what God, or gods, or whatever it is, will think about this title. If you have seven days to spare, then please let me know what you think.Many Thanks,I’m Not Me

Some say that to God eternity is like seven days. However, His response merely took six-and-a-half rotations of the earth. His response was concise, and it went like:

Howdy Mr. Me,Hope you are well! Did the McDonald’s people tell you about the suseJ nonsense? Well, you are in for a treat. I am the great prophet of the church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster or Pastafarianism. First, I would officially invite you to this religion. It is exceptionally cheap by comparison — it’s free of charge, and if you suddenly become bored like nothing you can quit within the first 30 days. Second, if you ask me the doctrines of FSMism in person, I will blurt out that it is creating truth. And, the grander you create, the more miserable you get. But, the more miserable you get, the more humourous you become.RAmen!Rev. Bobby Henderson

Later that night, when I gulped down a cup of fast noodle, I muttered the words inside my head, while my serotonin level increased like never before and my dopamine level dropped like the water of Niagara: “Give us this day our garlic bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trample on our lawns. And lead us not into vegetarianism, but deliver us some pizza, for thine is the meatball, the onion, and the bay leaves, forever and ever. R’Amen”. I beamed miserably.

Creative Problem Creating

Creative Problem Creating

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1. My heart rises, as a sliver of leaf brushes my cheek and feathers the rock. The kiss of fall. The blush of Connecticut.

2. A litany of beautiful things: the sky; a song; the tapping of shoes upon leafed grounds; water lapping at the pond’s end; a peck that burns my face.

3. I found a caterpillar in the dirt, trampled by ants and wreathed in gnats. He raised his head and said, Hi, smile dazzling in sun rays.

4. A magpie chirps on a branch too flimsy for her weight. Her warble resounds across the sky, the ravine, and the mountains. Ah, she’s not standing on that fragile branch; she’s standing on the nexus of the universe, the string tugging at my heart.

Four Instagram CaptionsHarry Song

Jess Zheng, Untitled, Mixed Media

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Kevin Zhang, Distortion, painting

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An Accurate Account of the Snow Textures in KentJulia Zhang

* Sometime in late January: sugar powder on gingerbread houses.

* 2/18: cheap velvet.

* 3/1: a frozen slab of ice that used to be a puddle. It has probably grown impatient being melted and refrozen for this many times and thereby, finds its only source of entertainment in being slippery.

* 3/16: white grainy sand in the hourglass. Hold your breath… listen! Hear the sound of time passing from the very top of the heavens and accumulating on the ground.

Anonymous, Untitled, Eraser and Pencil

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HauntedHauntedEmily YemingtonEmily Yemington

Your fog hangs heavy in my air,Your fog hangs heavy in my air,rogue soul of feral dreams.rogue soul of feral dreams.There’s loneliness in haunted minds,There’s loneliness in haunted minds,that tears your leather seams.that tears your leather seams.

Are you the dagger or the bear? Are you the dagger or the bear? “The clerics always lie.”“The clerics always lie.”Those feral dreams and haunted mind;Those feral dreams and haunted mind;Twice dead or half alive.Twice dead or half alive.

You see the pixie-dust stars there,You see the pixie-dust stars there,and feel that you belong.and feel that you belong.Stuck in a place bound up in time,Stuck in a place bound up in time,You see yourself all wrong.You see yourself all wrong.

Rogue child, slow down; you’re worse for wear.Rogue child, slow down; you’re worse for wear.I’ve watched you cry and grow.I’ve watched you cry and grow.Someday I hope you finally findSomeday I hope you finally findI truly love you so.I truly love you so.

Eyiwunmi Ajao, Little Ducks, Photography

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Eyiwunmi Ajao, Contempt for Idle Eyes, Photograph

Owen Rokous, Untitled, Painting

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Eyiwunmi Ajao, Contempt for Idle Eyes, Photograph

Owen Rokous, Untitled, Painting Anna Liu, Self Portrait, Digital

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Bed-

mak

ing

Julia

Zha

ng

One fold I hope my mom was here. Another fold How I hope my mom was here. And my family. Align it. Hold it. Do it with strength and precision.But where, tell mewhere in hell would that strength come from? I shiver. I fold it again – it has become smaller since. I remember mom and auntie bouncing me in the stretched sheets right out of the washing machine and chanting “spin the charcoal balls” and I’d laugh non-stop. I loved that smell coming right out of the washing machine. I was five. I was light. I was cherished and forgiven for every dumb thing I did.

Now I am folding and changing the sheets all by myself. Might just be heavy, And uncompromising Like the days to come. But I mustn’t give in, just like this sheet bentbut unbroken. I feel it. Only to feel the love that wasn’t there. Ice cold. I fold it.I smoothen it.And I fold it again.

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1. Chris Kim, Untitled, Ceramics2. Chris Kim, Untitled, Ceramics

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Christian Green, Pink Market, Photography

CaliforniaHarry Song

In a Chinese fable,nine suns shine in a boundless sky.Let’s be nonconformists,say a thousand.A thousand suns shine in a boundless sky,popping popcorns and grilling meaton infernal earth.Let them shine for an houror two,and melt into the bleary sky,tinging clouds with colordreadful as the September 2020 Californian sky.Still it would be better,for there wouldn’t be human stupidity,for there wouldn’t be the wrath of God.

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Rhine ChildrenDora GaoThey grew up split by mother river Rhine,To one another’s young heart’s every beat,As if in dreams, with olives intertwined.Caressing Koln’s face, Lyon felt its heat.Euterpe weaved an inspiration smart; Athena left and drowned them in desire;A pact was signed, salvation bid them part.When war broke out both sides were washed with fire.As flowers faded, Ares raised his spear.Too close to sun, they woke up from their dreams.Her Great Victoria held her own more dear,Ambition rose and signed the devil’s scheme.Weep, youths of Rhine, and wash your bloody hands,You need forgiving winds to kiss your lands.

Kevin Zhang, Shopping Mall, Mixed Media

The story is revolved around the French and the Germans, as their states grew next to the Rhine. The poem is inspired from Goethe’s

romantic novel Faust and the Elysée Treaty, a friendship treaty signed between France and Germany in the 1960’s. The two nations cer-tainly experienced some turbulence before

the eventual peace and the foundation of the European Union.

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Eyuwinmi Ajao, She’d Found These Letters, Photography Series

The Stolen HeirloomsShirley Lin I stood in front of a grand old mansion, shaded by twisted branches. The mansion lived as if under a constant shadow, isolated from the outside world. A thick fog that swam around the house obscured my view. I breathed in the scent of the damp old oak and took a step closer to the house. When I reached out my hand near the gate, it abruptly creaked open as if swept by an invisible shadow. A gust of dusty wind blew towards me, suggesting the decrepitude of the house. I was attracted by the splendid decors and eerie patterns on the walls, yet the dead silence around me unsettled me, almost alarming me to leave. Inside the entrance, a large staircase situated central to the foyer. The staircase guided me to a chamber on the second floor, where a four-poster bed loomed out of the darkness. I lit the candles and my eyes fell on a diary that rest-ed on a moth-eaten antique desk. When I opened it up to the first page, a cold breeze stroked against my back, and all of a sudden, the candles went out as if some kind of creature got mad at me for my impertinence. Suddenly, I awoke in my room drenched with sweat. I got up from my bed to embrace the warmth of the morning sun, and I found a novel

on my desk that I had never seen before. I start-ed reading the story of a greedy grave-keeper who steals a pocket watch and a golden dagger from a crypt. The spirit pleads with him to return her heirlooms, but the grave-keeper indifferent-ly ignores her and slams the door shut behind him. The spirit, enraged, vows to trap him in her house and hunt him to death over and over in an endless cycle of his reincarnations. I quickly fin-ished the first volume without realizing how much time had passed. As I was curious what would go on next after he returns from the crypt, a knock interrupted my fascination. “Come on in,” I sighed and reluctantly paused my reading. Uncle Jeff entered my room and leaned against the door. “Hey, what’s up? Breakfast is almost ready so you might wanna come down soon.” I folded a corner of the book page. “Al-right, I just woke up. I’ will come down after I wash up,” I mumbled as I stood up to stretch. My uncle nodded and gently closed the door as I headed to the bathroom. I lived with Uncle Jeff and his wife, Caroline, after my par-ents passed away in unexplained circumstances. We lived in a three-story house passed down by my great-great-grandfather far out in the countryside, and in my opinion, in the middle of nowhere. After I closed the bathroom door and turned on the tap, I looked into the mirror. I froze in horror. Instead of my own face, I saw a pointy-faced old man whose deep wayworn eyes and wrinkles covered on his forehead reminded me

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of my paternal grandfather, who had died 4 years after my parents. The old man’s eyes widened in terror and his gnarled hand trembled as if he wanted to escape from the other side of the mirror. I soaked my face with ice water and the hallucination vanished immediately. “Aunt Caroline?” There was no one in the kitch-en. “Jeff?” No one responded, so I sat down at the kitchen counter where I found myself a fried egg

sandwich. As I picked it up to take a bite, I felt something hairy prickling my palm and I looked down to see a giant spindly-legged creature staring at me with its eight shiny black eyes. Disgusted by its hideous appear-ance, I jumped out of the chair, and the spider swiftly crawled into darkness. I rushed down the stairs in search of my uncle as I started to realize how my surroundings faded back to the dim, inanimate mansion that I encountered in my dream. The once polished hardwood stairs were now rough and layered with thick dust. As I climbed up the stairs, something I hadn’t really noticed before grabbed my attention; several mysterious oil portraits hung from the wall, arranged from the oldest to the youngest family member. Their glares followed me wherever I went, and their lips silently mouthed indecipher-able words. Besides the portraits hung a rusty gilded mirror where I saw a young man with a tousled beard that sharply contrasted with his deep-set blue eyes. As I retreated, the man in the mirror frowned back at me and reflected my movement. In shock, I examined my face and touched my chin to feel the shaggy beard that didn’t belong to me ten minutes ago. The clock on the wall began to tick faster, which made my heart pound harder. Suddenly, I heard something advancing towards me - a golden dagger flew across the room and shattered the mirror in front of me. Before I had the time to react, the dagger was pulled out by a seemingly in-visible hand, leaving a deep crack in the wall.

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Then, the dagger came after me. I grasped the only nearby object my hand could search, which was the curtain, and hurled it towards the dagger. The curtain suspended in the air, outlining a human-shaped figure. The creature madly threw it aside accompanied by a maniacal cackle that echoed off the walls. I ran down the stairs to find the gate.My energy was drained. Exhausted, I laid down to the ground to catch my breath. But realizing I came back to the same floor, I looked over the railings and a deeper despair overwhelmed me. I felt breathless and light-headed as I stared into an infinite spiral and a bottomless abyss. I laid silently on the floor, listening to the ticking of the clock and hoping I would find myself waking up on my bed again, but nothing changed when I reopened my eyes. My body had gotten weaker; veins and wrinkles started appearing on the back of my hands. I checked in the mirror again and this time white hair and beard began to grow on my face, which now resembled the old man I saw in the bathroom earlier. Watching the clock and listening to its ticking sound, a throbbing headache invaded me with scenes flashing through my head. All the memories came back: the pocket watch, which now became the clock, the familiar dagger, and the curse.

*** I couldn’t remember how many times I’ve been

through this cycle, but I deeply regretted what I had done in my past life. My limbs were as frail and feeble as the petals on a withered flower; I could do no more running. I dragged myself back onto my feet and crippled to the room where I discovered the diary that I remembered from my dream and add-ed this section with sincere contrition seeking your forgiveness.But too soon, I realized everything was in vain. The book cabinet collapsed in front of me, and copies of the same diary fell around me. I had no place to hide, and I knew this cycle will never end, just like every other meaningless life of mine. Loud knocks echoed in the hallway, and I curled up behind the pile of diaries despondently, giving up on my fate. After a while, the knock ceased. Swallowed the lump in my throat, I peered over the cabinet, and the golden dagger showed up at the door. All of a sud-den, the apparition, who was now slowly approaching me, finally revealed her real image before ending this hunt. Dressed in a white nightgown, her bony arms hung from her narrow torso, and the distorted fingers with sharp nails extended from her rotten hands were gripping onto the dagger. Her eyes were black oblivion, yet shining in the desire of revenge. A wicked grin crept across her pale face behind her scraggly long hair, and she raised her dagger. This time, the candle dies out with me.

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Am I Quiet Enough

For You?Anna Jang

My name is Youngju but you can call me AnnaI tell my substitute teacherWho seems to thinkThat young is yangAnd ju is youIt’s Youngju not Yang youBut I don’t correct her,Because Anna is easier to say.

Or maybe it's the dayat the mall ten minutes from my houseWhere they wereSneering, screaming, spittingGo back to your country.This is my country.Ten minutes.

Because us is me and my parentsWho came at the turn of the century 22 years agoSitting in the Disneyland parking lot on New Years EveHopeful of the life that lay ahead.

But in this life they must’ve not expectedTheir daughter’s embarrassment.Of their broken EnglishOf their strange and foreign foodWhen she should be proudOf their bravery.

And she isProud.It just took a couple years to get there.As the kids called her bananaYellow on the outside, white on the inIs this what it means to be American?To be the white girl’s more-than-fraternal twinIs being Asian American such a sin?No it’s notBut the pride certainly came from within.We Asian Americans haveKept our voices mostly quiet.Because “we have it better than other minorities”Because our only aspiration is to become a doctorBecause we are all crazy rich asiansWe continue to smile and nod.

Smile and nodAn Asian man gets stabbed as he walks homeSmile and nod“Chinese Virus” they snarl in the lady’s faceSmile and nodSix Asian women and Eight victims dead in Atlanta.It’s time to stop smiling and nodding.

My name is Youngju Anna Jang and today I askAm I quiet enough for you?

Nancy McLaughlin, Slippery Surface, Photography

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I wish we lived in a perpetual night.

Eyiwunmi Ajao

I wish we lived in a perpetual night, In which I’d rule my clan to fight. We’d picket small, And riot all, To scones, and scotch and whiskey We’ll nigh be done, We’ve had our fun. But the night, be ‘for the dark and riskySo give it a tuck, You’ll gamble your luck, Run, tell Moses come and save me.

Owen Rokous, Untitled, photography

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Anthony Zhang, She Said There Were Spirits, Photography

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Don’t you ever stop to wonderWhen someone drops your stringWill you fall to death, to pain you plunder, Or will it set you free? You see, every human has a threadHeld onto by a god.But when he drops it, you’ll be dead!Let loose, then you’ll be gone! But the question is, what is this thread,And what lies there when you fall?Does this place share joy or dread,Or does it share nothing at all? Does this string act as a noose,Like a nuisance for our wings.Or does it keep us from fallingTo a place with no good things? Humans could have wings or shackles.We could either fly or fall.But what’s dependent on this matter,Is that it’s really not our call.

tYancey Pratt

S ri n g

Anna Liu, Off, Digital

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Anna Liu, Off, Digital

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Gavin screamed in frustration. The court hearing had just ended, he had just found out that he had to spend an extra hundred hours going to rehab and attending the addiction support group at the local hospital. Rehab was one thing, but the support groups were just unbearable. Gavin dreaded those stupid meetings; he hated listening to their boring problems and trivial issues. It didn’t matter whether they lost a family member, went through a divorce, or were simply depressed: they were all hopeless addicts, and no amount of useless conversation would change that fact.

Gavin opened the door to the court building and started down the stairs. He was immediately greeted with the warm embrace of the sun. The sky was a bright, brilliant blue; the morning breeze was cool and crisp. Kids were playing in the park across the street, and it seemed, by the looks on their faces, that they were the happiest creatures in the world. Gavin scowled. The whole world seemed to mock him: the children giggled at his pain; the sun laughed in the face of his suffering. He made a sharp left, pulled the hood of his overcoat further over his head, and continued briskly down the street.

A few minutes later, Gavin was greeted by a man. He was a friendly-looking fellow, dressed in a tattered t-shirt and ripped jeans. A collection of meager belongings lay strewn about on a blanket behind him. He gave Gavin a toothless grin.

“Hullo!’ “Care to offer a chap some spare change?”

He offered a grimy hand to shake. He was well-mannered and polite enough, but Gavin could not stand his presence. He detested the sight of tramps and beggars: they only served to remind

FallingRafael Ablolote

him of the poor, decrepit state of his home and of the surrounding neighborhood. He forcefully shoved him aside and continued down the street, while his injured cries echoed behind him.

He rang the doorbell. “Baby I’m home!” he cried. There was no reply. A loud, thumping sound shook the door and the floor beneath him. Gavin sighed. She was playing music. He fumbled in his pockets for a minute and found the keys, but a moment later someone knocked them out of his hand. Gavin jerked his head to the side.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

A kid, no more than a teenager, jumped back startled. He fell back onto the carpeted floor and took his hands out of his pockets to shield his face.

“I’m sorry sir it was an accident!” he cried shakily, “Please don’t hurt me.”

Gavin stared at him bewildered. He leaned down to pick up the keys and the kid flinched.

“Relax kid, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Cautiously, the kid pushed himself off the ground and shuffled away, looking back at Gavin every few seconds. Gavin continued to watch him until he turned the corner and was out of sight.

“What the hell…” he muttered.

He put the key in the lock and opened the door. The music was louder now, and Gavin felt as if his eardrums would split open. He ran to the bedroom, where the sound was coming from. He covered his ear with his left and hand and used his right to shut off the speakers. He let out a sigh of relief.

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Suddenly, two figures emerged from underneath the blankets: his girlfriend and another man. Both immediately stood up upon seeing Gavin. An awkward silence ensued. Both wore nothing but their underwear. For a few seconds everyone was still, then suddenly Gavin rushed towards the man, his fist ready to strike. The man ducked and Gavin buried his fist into the wall, leaving a small hole. He howled in pain. Meanwhile, the man quietly slipped out of the bedroom, but before Gavin could chase him his girlfriend stepped in front of the doorway.

“Stop!” she yelled.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said angrily. His face flared and his nostrils fumed. Outside the building, a few people had gathered around.

“Dealing with your problems,” she said, “That man was the judge for your next hearing.”

He clenched his teeth. “How stupid do you think I am? You think that—”

She snapped. “I work tirelessly to provide for both of us. I paid for this apartment so we both have a place to live. The only thing you have done in the past few months is blown away our money on drugs and...”

Gavin wasn’t listening anymore: he was staring out the window. Now, a huge crowd had gathered outside the apartment. Accompanying them was a black police car. He panicked. Did they know about the drugs? Were they coming to take them from him? He had to do something fast.

“I need to go,” he said desperately.

She grasped his arm tightly. “Oh no, you’re not going anywhere.” she grasped his arm tightly.

“Let me go!” he said. He twisted violently in order to escape her grip but accidentally struck her in the face. She clutched her face and stared at him in shock.

“Get out of my apartment.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“Now!” she yelled.

Gavin scuttled out the apartment door and looked back inside as she slammed the door behind him. He slouched and sat down on the floor, leaning against the door. What had he done? He had lost the only person he had loved. He had wasted her money and his life on drugs. Now he was home-less and alone. What would he do now? He buried his head into his knees and wept.

Suddenly, a booming voice echoed from outside the building. “Sir, please get off the roof. We’re here to help you.” Gavin wiped his tears, stood up and shuffled down the hallway to the nearest window. A policeman was holding a megaphone. He and a large gathering of people were staring at something above Gavin, something on the roof. Gavin’s initial fear was replaced by curiosity: What was on the roof, or rather, who was on the roof? He made his way to the stairwell and ascended the stairs until he reached a steel door. He unlocked it and stepped outside.

A kid stood at the edge of the building, preparing to jump. Gavin’s eyes widened with realization: it was the same kid that had bumped into him earli-er. It was windy, dangerously windy, and Gavin had to yell in order to be heard above the noise.

“Hey, kid!”

The boy turned his head to the side. Tears streamed down his face. “What do you want?”

“What’s your name?” Gavin asked.

“Arthur.” he cried, “But why does it matter? No one cares about me anyway”

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The wind was louder and stronger now. It was terribly cold, and the sun was rapidly disappear-ing. But he wouldn’t give up: Arthur needed him. Gavin’s life was over, but Arthur’s was only begin-ning.

“Every day my dad hits me,” cried Arthur. “But it’s worse when he hits my mother. He was high like he was every day, but this time he had this horrible look in his eye. He kept hitting and hitting her, and I couldn’t stand it. I cried out over and over for him to stop, but he just kept on going.” Gavin stood still. He watched silently; he didn’t know what to say. The wind had died down. Ar-thur’s outpour of emotion had ended. He now spoke with a chilling calmness; yet, his words were louder than they had been before.

“I killed him,” he said. “I took his handgun and shot him. Now, they’re here to arrest me.”

Gavin stared at him. All he heard was the pain of a young boy who had suffered at the hands of a violent abuser. He felt nothing but empathy, and wanted nothing more than to see Arthur live a new life, a life free of pain. As Arthur began to fall forward, Gavin rushed towards him and grabbed him, pulling him away from the ledge and onto the terrace. Gavin’s momentum carried him forward and he was shot off the building. He fell through the air and the roof and skies drifted farther and farther away. Yet, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace. All the lights and sounds around him fad-ed, and he was thrust into darkness.

Georgia Polk, Reflections, Photograph

Anthony Zhang, Bird Flight Neon, Photograph

31Christian Green, Work All Day, Photograph

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Chris Kim

, The Pomegranate That The C

row D

ropped, Drawing

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Forged in StrifeAnthony Zhang

A bow so strongLike a hammer that smashesA mountain and Hill stayBorn from ashesAres’ temper, Hephaestus tempersEnthralled in yourselves, Narcissus ForeverThey stay side and stride, tangled together

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You told me your love was like a doorknob, pandering to my youthful hand. Motionless, determined, uncomplaining, only to lead me to another room, eyes straight into the future, not minding you. Then your love was like a stirabout that transmits warmth and energy no matter who I am, what I am, how I am. Unconditional. Steaming, soothing, invigorating. But why the knob rusts and stings my hand the stirabout molds and perishes my soulwhen I confide in you that I like men. Your love changed to a well that fills your eyes to a hissing pot that spews hatred and disgust scoffing chiding sighing The lid flipped.Fuming. Blazing. Unaccepting.

You Told Me Your Love Was Like

Harry Song

35Christian Green, Sunset Alley, Photography

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Alex is the type of person who will talk endlessly hoping there will nev-er be an “awkward silence”. I swear he should take up swimming be-cause of his breath control. It made me nervous how he didn't talk but then realized that he kept looking over at how pale my skin had gotten. It's all Nick’s fault. Why did he have to get that violin for me? Why did that violin have to be so expensive? Why would he buy something that was too expensive for me? Why would he wash Alex’s car for two years so he could buy a stupid violin? Why did he have to die? As I thought about all of this, my thoughts started accelerating in my head. This had happened before. Where you feel as though you can't breathe, as though you are drowning in your own thoughts. I have to use every muscle in my body to just gasp for air. I’m having a panic attack. Like a beyblade, my favorite toy I played with growing up. Inserting the zip tie as you watch your opponent prepare to pull with all their might. My heart feels like the thumps of a rabbit that is running for its life. Leap-ing left, right, left, right. The buildings start spinning and the noises of the cars are muffled. Like wearing earmuffs, muted. You can see the mouths moving like a puppet but somehow the puppeteer has lost their voice. I suddenly feel trapped. This seatbelt is suffocating me. I try to pull on it, but it retracts and locks so I can't pull on it anymore. I want to call an ambulance, but I know this will be over soon, but at this moment my brain has no patience for logic. I lock my eyes on my phone. It's in the cup holder, but it's too far. It's too far away. Even if I reach it, I don't even know what number to call. Was it 111? Or are there more numbers? What is it? Who do I call? The phone is too far away. I see the corners of my vision start to go black. Pulling with all your might, the beyblade turns like a tornado.

BeybladeNancy McLaughlin

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Chris Kim Woodwork

Dorm Chair Mantis

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Thus Spoke René Descartes Kuan Liu

In the mist of nothing to be knownWhere all knowledge is alone.An idea surged from ivoryLeft for thinkers to let its meaning vary.Thus spake René Descartes:“Epistemology is like life’s bar,I know nothing about anythingbut there is something that is not my creating.Cogito ergo sum,”Intuition is to which we are costumeI think therefore I am,As certain as the U.S. was in VietnamGoing along the path of deductionSelf always possesses a position.Is there anything more to explore?That is intellectualism’s core.When fine traces of thought were formedThe mansion of knowledge was domed.As each instantiated individual roarThus spake René Descartes.

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Poor Old World: Some Random EternityJulia Zhang

A lady walks past behind me to the counter and starts speaking in a tone that is very much like French. At least, I hope it’s French. Then all of a sudden it is precisely French because the world runs out of patience, order and sanity. Love loses its purity and becomes the moist tail of a white swamp fox. Reason falls into a long sweet sleep with his fat furry body tucked in a warm tree hole, where no blizzard or wind can break in. The situation persists until an important avalanche smothers his dreams into a vain and point-less death. There is nothing except for a grand smile in the grey, sullen sky, be-longing to everyone and no one at all. It is the color of Anastasia’s eyes — they’d thank her for sacrificing it. Now what a pity, she’s nothing more than a lost pirate drifting somewhere at the edge of the universe, robbing the humpback whales along with the dolphins that they didn’t mean to swallow. Hidden treasures are, after all, black wires like my mother’s hair, sharp and fatal as a bored sea urchin. There are children lying everywhere in the ruins, all dressed neatly in clothes from the eighteenth century. One little boy with golden hair gets up and says to me with a touch of sympathetic formality: “Please don’t feel alarmed. It was a hard day for everyone and the world only just attempted suicide — he does that sometimes.” His wisdom struck me until I realized that he resembles a milk bottle more than a chimpanzee.

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Chris Kim, Laborer’s Discrimination, Sculpture

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Why can’t I call you mineYou fall for every guy who walks by But you try to convince me you’re doneAre you convincing me or you? But a sentence later you introduce me to your next soulmate

You do it again and again At this point it’s a tradition or a bad habitI can’t tell the difference when it comes to you Search for love in people who only viewed you as an object while you just want-ed to connect

Hookup Cultures got me wrapped into this vicious cycle Everyone’s trying to hookup while just sobering up Saying you’re in love but watching him brag about hitting a nine when you’re a ten

You do it again and again At this point it’s a tradition of a bad habitI can’t tell the difference when it comes to you

live in the back of guys’ cars Is this really “just who you are”?

Hookup Cultures got me wrapped into this vicious cycle Everyone trying to hook up while just sobering up Saying your in love but watching him brag about hitting a nine when you’re a ten

Hookup Cultures got us all surrounded like vultures Hookup Cultures got you bring down your self worth for some guy you met a minute ago

Hookup CultureNancy McLaughlin

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Owen Rokous, True Park, Photograph

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PROJECT: EVO-1956

[PATIENT #0000]XXXX FORDHAM RD., XX/XX/1977, ACCOUNT BY XXXXXX “XXXXX” DERVI-SHI: The Bronx is burning and Mick Brady stands in the coals with his outstretched hand, turning slowly right-wards. His highwaters are stained with ash at the ends and his brother’s red t-shirt falls well past his hips. Bobby kicks his feet against his cinder block throne left by the stubborn foundation of the building. “Is that what they teach you in Donkey School?” He pitches his voice. “If you pray hard enough, you can put the fires out with your mind!” Mick laughs easy, dropping his hand. “Nah, man. It’s like the comics, ya know?”

EVO-1956Abby Halpin

Kevin Zhang, Grope, Painting

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Lions, leaning against the cinderblock and consequently eating the dust falling from Bobby’s brand new Adidas skitches, coughs. “Nah, Mikey. Some of us have girlfriends.”“Not with that face.” Lions’ visage is unique to the Yonkers-Woodlawn area, a mark of his diplomatic talents. Mama Brady says that God didn’t give Lions his nose, but He gave him the mouth to earn it. Mick continues, ignoring Lions’ new dedication to foot-drawn phallic imagery. He’s much the same in class. “The comics keep talking this evolu-tion bull, how the heroes all got powers now because they evolved that way. It got me thinking. A bazillion years ago, some dumb fish looked at land and thought ‘hey, what’s over there?’ And now we have legs.” Bobby tilts his head up. “Popular science would agree, yeah.” Mick shrugs. “All I’m saying is that if I keep at it, and my kids keep at it and so on, somewhere down the line one of us is gonna be able to move it by an inch.” “What the hell are you supposed to be moving?” Lions squints at the fire in the distance. A million feet above the ground, smoke becoming sky. “I thought you were putting it out.” “That’s not how telekinesis works, man,” Mick explains. “The land-lord lives across the street. I was trying to move the building.”

[PATIENT #0000]DOB: 05/02/1956WEIGHT: 3.2kg HEIGHT: 45.8cmDESCRIP.: Subject born with feet turned outwards at +45°, but otherwise healthy. Prescribed to wear braces on feet until fixed.

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The bottle, stoppered, bobs across the sea;A bubble, tiny, sheltered from the cold.Your message safe inside for none to see:Society has yet to fit your mold.

The bottle holds your friends; it’s where you fit —A town of few, too few the minds to touch.Within the glass, with luck, they’ll benefit,But you long for waves, to swim, to leave your crutch.

To march, to speak — the sea’s just out of range;People, cultures, friendships yet to come.Your parchment’s folds hold words your friends find strange.The world can sing; you’re muffled to a hum.

The world’s evolving, situation’s grim —It’s hard to make a splash without a swim.

Maria Aleksandrova, Untitled, PhotographTo SwimLinnea Saxton

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Quick, Fast, PantomimeEyiwunmi AjaoNo expression, or rain, or call of mine, Does save my love from that dear Pantomime.With such honest laugh and humble child’s gaze, Does trouble find a truly savage place.You say your wisdom fill my idle head Tho’ without my wit, we’d still be fed. Winding, war, and troubled passage of time,In which we sit, and play, and feud, and whine. Though silly, and stumbling, and evil in stead, I’d be a fool to turn eyes, to turn ‘head. To the moon and sun, to lines with no trace, There are oil wells of pride, flowing in your grace.

Chris Kim, Escaping the Museum, Sculpture

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Anthony Zhang, Doe, Photograph

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The daffodils and crocuses bloom across my yard.But to see tulips and hyacinths, I’m finding very hard.

Forsythia is shooting up in gaudy yellow hunks,But all that’s left of my tulips are chewed-off verdant chunks.

Bambi is a monster, Bambi is a thief,Bambi took my flowers and left nothing but the leaf.

Bambi needs to learn respect, Bambi is an ass,Bambi should just stick to eating twigs and grass.

BambiNicole Namath

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The Veiled WomanThe Veiled WomanThe Veiled WomanThe Veiled WomanThe Veiled WomanThe Veiled WomanThe Veiled Woman

Annabelle McLean

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ell, I think that’s all.” With one foot already out the door, Ivan handed me the ring of keys in his hand. The clang of the keys against each other echoed in the grand foyer of the museum, their sound bouncing from painting to painting, filling up the almost empty room for a split second. “Sounds good.” Although I was nervous, I called out confidently, and Ivan gave an approving nod as he began to shut the door behind him. “Don’t be afraid to call if you need anything, Nicole,” he said as he stuck his head back to add one last assertion. “Especially if this place gets too creepy for you. I heard the last security guard never—” Ivan was cut off as the door slammed shut. I looked down at the keys in my hand before using them to lock the door. Throwing them into my pocket, I turned to take in the exhibit behind me. The neoclassical wing was the newest addition to the museum, as it had only opened a year ago. It was an interesting place to look after, especially for a twenty-four-year-old temporary security guard who was only trying to pay her way through art school. The twelve paintings, varying from por-traits to depictions of mythological scenes, were purchased from a private collector in Italy along with one bronze statue, but the collection of figures had grown since then. The original statue, called The Veiled Woman, was the most prized possession of the museum. Standing at six feet tall, The Veiled Woman was made completely of bronze. Her unwavering gaze focused on the main entrance, where I was standing. I walked over to the famed piece of art and took in the amount of fine detail it had to offer. Ev-ery fold of the veil was placed perfectly upon the woman’s serene face, its train draped over her left shoulder, morphing into her delicate dress ever so perfectly. The statue looked so lifelike that with only a sliver of moonlight to illuminate the room, it almost seemed to move. I reached out my hand, sliding it across the smooth surface of the statue’s face, running my fingers along the crevices of the impenetrable veil. Suddenly, a sound rang out. My hand jerked back reflexively before I realized it was only the phone in the back room. Letting out a sigh, I made my way to the opposite side of the foyer. The museum exhibits were arranged in the shape of an octagon, with a statue at every vertex. All the podiums were topped with a bronze or marble neoclassical statue, whose realism could rival a living human being, each with a unique stance and expression: a dainty young woman with tears running down her hysterical face, a muscular young man, laying on the ground as if he fell, a look of terror gleaming in his eyes. Only one podium was vacant. Instead, the platform closest to the back room where the phone remained was surrounded by a stanchion with a sign.

New Exhibit Coming Soon.

Once I reached the door, I wrapped my hand around the handle and twisted it, pulling the heavy walnut door towards me. The phone rang another three times before I yanked it towards my ear. “Hello?” My voice called the question out before I could register that the line was dead. The hum of the phone filled the room, which was so silent I could hear my heart beating as if it was trying to break out of my chest. Calm down. I took in a deep breath to steady my heart rate before return-ing to the exhibit. I could sense that something was wrong before I could place what it was. My eyes darted back and forth, trying to discern where the feeling of danger originated from, but their rapid scan came up with no hazards.

“W

52

I briskly walked over to the main entrance and tugged at the door, making sure it was still locked tight. It didn’t budge. Suddenly, every hair on my body stood up straight, and my heart began to race. The air around me seemed to become unusually still as I inhaled an aroma of what smelled like an old pen-ny, which left a strange metallic taste in my mouth. I noticed the danger in the reflection of the deep ebony door before I felt the sensation of cold run up my forearm. The Veiled Woman’s expressionless face stared at me through the dark slab of wood, her gaze paralyzing every muscle in my body with fear. Managing to find enough composure to move, I pivoted towards the statue. She threw out her left and right arm simultaneously to prevent any escape attempts, but I instinctively ducked under her shoulder before she was able to cage me in. I took two bounds forward before the statue’s cold bronze hand grasped my wrist, jolting me to a stop immediately. I turned to break the hold, but the clasp was too secure. In a desperate attempt, I used my free hand to strike the Woman’s bronze body, but the action had no impact on the figure’s sturdy stance. It wasn’t until I had lost complete feeling in my right hand that I realized the paralysis didn’t come from the statue’s tight grasp. The complexion of my hand had turned from a pale, freckled tone to a deep, metallic shade of bronze and had stiffened as though it was made with the metal. The remainder of my arm seized up as the pigmentation of my skin continued to change, hardening every nerve and muscle as it spread through my shoulder and onto my chest. Panic set in, but my heart rate refused to accelerate, and my breaths began to slow. The en-tirety of my body was frozen in place, except my face. The Veiled Woman finally loosened her grip and turned, leaving me as the last bit of soft skin was replaced with unyielding metal. She returned to her pedestal, reinstating her pose of serenity and poise as I remained unable to break free of the impenetrable cage that coated my body. With my entire body stuck positioned defensively in fear, I watched as the moon hid away and the sun began to rise. It seemed like hours before I heard the sound of the lock clicking. Someone was finally going to find me. Ivan stepped through the doors, and shut them behind him. He contin-ued by walking towards my body, but he remained unphased by the exhibit’s new addition. “Sorry to see you go so soon.” Ivan wrapped his hand around my waist as he began to drag me towards the back of the hall. “Normally, security guards last a few days at the very least. Jordan over there even made it four days.” He gestured towards the statue of the sobbing woman. He must have known the entire time. We reached the back of the hall, and Ivan managed to hoist my inanimate body onto the empty pedestal. I watched helplessly as he took the stanchion and sign to the back room. He checked the time and gestured towards his watch. “That’s just about opening time.” He stopped to stare at me for a second more before leaving. Cocking his head to the side, he said, “Don’t look at me like that. They’ll love you,” and gave a chuckle under his breath. Silence filled the room for a split second before it flooded with visitors. Each passerby looked at me with curiosity and intrigue before moving on to other parts of the exhibit. Not even the echo of the foyer could let them hear my silent screams.

Anthony Zhang, Untitled, Fashion Sketch

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Robbie Ober, For Akira Kurosawa, Charcoal Drawing

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Owen Rokous, Untitled, Photograph

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Tattooed, there, under my own eyelids:Addiction stealing sleep. Toes dipped into the crystal water, You stretch your darkling wings.

How can you so ind’lently lay whenYou’re neither there nor here?But when I’m lost, I lift my chin andwonder if you’re near.

Vividly you dance with nightmares, heart hardly humming. Can you steer my buzzing, burning soul? ease my violent drummings.

My little devil, vafrous god,I made you in the dark.But when life glows like vast daylightYou’re still a dulcet spark.

You’ve lived with me, you’ve cried for me, yourargent eyes ne’er dim.You couldn’t ever know me, reader,Unless you first knew him.

The DaydreamEmily Yemington

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My happiness dove with the Albino whaleChristina Zhang

my joy swam deep beneath the navy seait took a breath the white whale took and goneSo rare returns to Rome’s own coastal keynot ever has it come again in dawn

for finding bliss is finding ‘bino whale so rare the beast appear in watcher eyes one taste enough to sell a holy grailconvince the people not to be too wise

became a cloud to everywhere I went No whale before me or below the beachBut ever present was the ‘bino’s scentI just was unaware of rapture’s reach

I wish to now forgo the search below But failed to know to swim along the show

Nicole Chan, Street Cart, Drawing

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Memories InterruptedBennett Burki

The ocean tides ebb and flowLike the thoughts in my mind.Ridges in the sand from the wavesAre like fleeting memories of moments in my lifeBut, life is about moments!

The ocean beckons me to grab my surfboardI venture into familiar waters.Suddenly a whale breaches in the distance.Comforting my mind like a sea angel looking upon me

The whale’s massive bodyHas God-like strengthHe looks over the oceanLike God looks over earthSending a message of good fortune.

The whale breachesOpening his mouth to accept his dinner of krillLike a human heart opening to accept love.

Satisfied, he crashes back down on the ocean’s surfaceLike a bomb explodingMore powerful than my fleeting memoriesLeft at the water’s edge

Bennett Burki, Untitled, Photograph

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Hien Truong, U

ntitled, Painting

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Magnet PoetryLexy Pryor

Strong ElectricPop

Dead Bird

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The Cauldron is published annually by a small group of ded-icated students and teachers at Kent School, a boarding school of 570 students in grades 9-12 in Kent, CT. Both text and art, submitted anonymously, are selected by an editorial board of students. This edition is set in Adobe Quasimoda using Adobe InDesign. Allied Printing of Manchester, CT prints and binds the magazine. This issue was printed on paper with 15% PCW. All of the electricity used to manu-facture the print of the magazine is generated by wind and solar power.

AcknowledgementsThank you to everyone who made this magazine pos-sible. Special gratitude to Joseph McDonough our teacher advisor for always being in close contact every step of the process. Thank you to the students who submitted their beautiful pieces and the teachers in the English and Art departments who encouraged them to. Finally, thank you, reader, for spending time with your nose burrowed in our magazine.