2012

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Editor-in-Chief: Katie Dembinski ‘13

Art Editors: Maggie Saunders ‘12

Bianca Scofield ‘13

Literary Editors: Peter Moon ‘13

Bilan DeDonato ‘14

Faculty Advisors: John Hinman

Adam Levine

Staff: Anna

Kim ‘12

Grace (Jaewon) Yoo ‘15

Michelle (Hye Ryeong) Bae ‘13

Allison Dyer ‘12

Kat Andrews ‘12

Tiffany Ang ‘13

Rebecca Bertuch ‘13

Nicole Marvin ‘12

Ellie Shotton ‘12

Robert Roth ‘14

Kat Andrews ‘12

Katie Quinlan ‘12

The Cauldron 2012

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Poetry

Prose

Tom ArenaTime

Glynis CoyneRain, AgainTime Wasted

Rachel GarrityUntitled

Asia GrantMaybe

Krystyn GutuSociety

Rachael HetsonFinding Home

Ara JoseffsonHeathen

Jessica LiOne Million Origami Cranes

Kelly MasottaBack -

Charles NunziatoMutability, Revisited

Gray OatesA Poorly Wealthy Man

Lindsay WallaceNo Place for Her Here

Grace YooLacrymosa

Glynis CoyneHow to Waste Your Summer on People You Don’t Like

Peter ChuShip of Cheonan

Nicole MarvinTo-Do

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114

32

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18

29

38

7

41

17

26

28

44

34

14

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PhotographyAmy Curry

In the Harbor of MaineAnira Figueira

UnseenDan Harvey

Flashing LightsImogen Jenkins

Looking InLooking on the Outside

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Drawings, Paintings, and Mixed Media

Samantha KentAirplane CansAirplane RunwayStarfish

Hannah MoscatiLust

Liam NadireA Rainy ContemplationForgotten

Eunice ParkAdriftBroken

Katie QuinlanEpiphanyThe Rabbit Hole

Bianca ScofieldBefore BirthDeadly GirlsEverything as it Should BeThe Sands Wrinkle in Time

Jun TakedaThe GoatHerdingThe Past in the PresentWeasel

Kat AndrewsFanciful FishingKissing Fish

Michelle BaeBreakdownObjects on the Floor IISkeletonUntitled

Hannah CaneBlue WingsCheetahYellow WingsZebra

Sarah ChoGladiator

Amy CurryChanges of SeasonsComfortLooking Up

Bronwen KalmesLucy in the Sky with DiamondsSomeday I’ll Fly AwaySpace

Jackson Martin Untitled (Boy)Duneska Michel Untitled (Face) Untitled (Shades) Untitled (Hands)

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When in the chronicle of wasted timeI consider my allotment, at timesI find myself admiring just how manyHours I have squandered.

Pilgrims, I think, should visit me, From far away, to study at my feet, and IWould enlighten them:How to rationalize five hours spent looking at cute kittens,How to work all day and make negative progress,And get all hung up on irrelevant minutiae.

I could make expert procrastinators weepAs I turn ten minutes into sixtyChoosing the perfect desktop backgroundAnd losing at Solitaire.

So I could have been efficient, spent my time well,Maybe I would be wiser and wealthier.

But if I count my happiness worth moreThan advancing my position, Then I will take more empty hoursAnd still spend some moments uselessly.

Life is full of serious measures and hard workAnd more anxiety than strictly necessary.So I will fill up pages with doodlesAnd lose a day to Angry Birds,Fending off gravity with light hours.

I will waste time happilyAnd value my mental stability over worldly successUntil past when the days, and times, and theoretical pilgrimsHave eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Time WasTed

Glynis Coyne

The first and last lines of this poem are from Shakespeare’s “Son-net 106.”

Ellie Shotton, Untitled

1, acryllic

5

6

7

Mic

helle

Bae

, Unt

itled

K. P. Kim, Man with Glasses K. P. Kim, Pope

8

9

They hang, on thin white string, without a sound On the tree branch, they sway. Silent, distant, We hide, shadows overcome our light. Bound tightly, freedom is lost forever, nonexistent. Million paper cranes, dangling high. Limits faltered by a great wall, scorching hot sun, burning our skin, turning the sky gray, with our ashes. Paper, torching. We slave away, all day, our pale white skin turning brown. Puppets on thin string, so blind to a better world, no sins, punished for life, flightless, help us grow wings. Go through, our lives unnoticed, we die, we dry away in the white sun, turning to dust. Another takes our place, no one will cry. Ashes seeping, in soil by strong gusts Rebuild these cranes, cycle created anew. Free us, from this harsh life, dangling on strings. A wall forever in our life’s way, and few ever survive, this cruel, fleeting life. A million origami cranes, give us wings

One milliOn Origami Cranes

K. P

. Kim

, Ber

t and

Ern

ie

Bronwen Kalmes, Space

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Amy Curry, In the Harbor of

Liam Nadire, A Rainy Contempla-

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Rain, again

Glynis Coyne

Squelching across the rain–Soaked grass, limping on a swollen bruise,Counting the footsteps, a dead leafPlastered to my face, shivering coldUnder the watery ink Of a storm-cloud sky;

Or running beneath a bright white skySmelling in the air the promise of rainAs the day dims, traces of mud like inkOn my skin; now as the storm brewsLike bitter coffee, I can’t stand the coldAnd wet, don’t care about the budding leaf.

My teeth ache to the rhythm of a crunching leaf.And I bend down away from the skyWhen the air tastes like winter, coldAnd sharp like a smashed window, when rainTurns into shaved glass, and the roads into an icy bruise,While the trees stretch out tired skinny arms dripping with ink.

Still, inside the warm, inside the air heavy with heat like inkIn peroxide, under a blanket the color of a summer leafAs my graphite stained fingers bruiseA clean white page, from behind curtains the skyAnd storm don’t seem so real, and the endless rainSeems almost forgivable, sequestered away from the cold.

But just once more into the coldAgain, and the oncoming evening like inkAs the winter draws near, and the rainWhich hurts my face, more solid than fluid, and each leafDrifts to rest, silhouetted against the glowing grimy sky,Floating as the season broods;

And a back that aches like a single, massive bruise,When everyone is catching a coldOr faking one, all below the indifferent sky,Running barefoot to class, the asphalt slick and black like ink,Drowning in a raincoat, patent-leather shoes in hand, sliding on a leaf,Sprinting through the unpredictable rain,

Sick to death of the bruised sky,Of moldy leaves and wet clothes, of fending off the coldWith hair dryers, of muddy ink, of the hopeless wish: “Maybe tomorrow it won’t rain.”

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Hannah Moscati, Lust

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Katie Quinlan, Epiphany

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“Dae Ho Suh? You there?” She asked him. It was one of those voices that one can never remember who it was from, but the one that one can rec-ognize. Dae Ho Suhwasn’t dreaming, she’s not one of those common characters that show up in his dreams. But if Dae Ho Suh wasn’t dreaming, but was sleeping, then where was the voice coming from? “Dae Ho Suh!”No it wasn’t her. Although all he had was a vague image of her, he knew how she sounded like for sure. This wasn’t her. “Dae Ho Suh! Wake the hell up! I don’t know that’s going on but wake your ass up and let’s go!” Brian screamed until Dae Ho Suh’s eyes were open. Dae Ho Suh jumped off from the second bunk, or rather fell. Every-one in the room were rushing out the front door, some without wearing any pants or a shirt.“Alarm 101. This is not a drill. Alarm 101. This is not a drill.”“You hear that? We’re hit! We don’t have much time. This ship is drowning soon!” Brian yelled as he was going to lose his voice.Dae Ho Suh had to rub his eyes, stretch his arms until he noticed the alarm bell was ringing. “Dong Jin Kim? Dong Jin Kim?” One can barely hear to Dae Ho Suh speak because of the siren.Nobody was there…Dae Ho Suh could barely stand still with the ship drowning.“Shit…” There was nobody to listen to poor Dae Ho Suh grieve in the middle of the Pacific.

Ship of Cheonan Peter Chu

“Dae Ho Suh? You there?” she uttered softly into his ears.She probably thought he was asleep, or maybe bored. But he clearly wasn’t both. He was rather… excited. It was a chilly day to lie down in plain grass and look for fireflies. Dae Ho Suh was expecting something else when she asked for a date, something like hooking up in the student center. Dae Ho Suh felt the wet grass, the wet football field. They’ve been lying down for about 30minutes, and Tommy felt like going to sleep rather than coperating with her. If it only wasn’t for the blonde hair with her cute eyes, Tommy would have left a long time ago. But the ulti-mate purpose of this date was to get into her pants, not to satisfy her. All he had to do was wait with patience.“Hmm? Yeah I’m right here with you.” He said to her with a slight smile on his face.“Sorry… I hate being alone. Remember when I said loneliness is the worst out of emotions. My dad used to tell me the reason people drown is cause they notice that they’re alone, not cause they can’t swim. So whenever I’m alone, or feel alone, I’d remind myself that I’m not near the sea and I’m not drowning.” She said with the worried face she always carries around with her. It was like that, her smile was never happy but her tears were never sad. It was common sense smile represents happiness and tears represent sadness. However it seems like it’s the exact oppo-site for her. Dae Ho Suh didn’t care, he knew all he had to do is wait with patience.“I never thought about how it would feel to drown.” He chuckled and looked into her eyes. He continued, “By the way, talking about loneliness, you know why the moon is so lonely at night?”‘It’s because your eyes are closed’. A typical line that would make a woman want to kiss a man. Dae Ho Suh knew exactly what was going to happen next, he would finish his line and magic will begin. He knew, and was ready for the fact that she will be the first and last love of his life. All he had to do was start the magic, and the lips will do the rest. “It’s cause…” Complete silence. With no doubt it was she who kissed him first. Before Dae Ho Suh can even lean over to her, she was leaning over him. It was a quick one, not too deep but not too shallow. He didn’t know what to say, and what to think. It felt too sweet to be reality, but too real to be a dream.“It’s cause the fireflies stole all the light.” She whispered in his ears. For another minute there was silence. Then what broke the silence was drop of happi-ness coming from the wrong place. It was tears that drop on Dae Ho Suh’s face, not a big fat smile…

“Shit…”There was nobody to listen to poor Dae Ho Suh grieve in the middle of the Pacific.Their objective was to defend, but never to attack. We had a fair amount of pride for this battleship, and enough

Han

nah

Can

e, P

ink,

acr

ylic

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pride for our job. The cost of floating still in the pacific for every two weeks with 60 other men was enormous. All we had to do is stay still, since the government was paying us for not being afraid of drowning. It was simple as that, but today everything made sense why the government was paying off the brave 60 mariners. The more Dae Ho Suh tried to calm himself down the more he noticed he was alone. It felt so unreal. He heard water flooding down from upstairs. “It’s probably from the side…” Dae Ho Suh told himself.There was no use of knowing where the ship was hit. He could feel the water rushing towards him but all he saw was him lying down looking for stupid fireflies. Now he realized, he could feel death but not see it. His face felt stiff and his body was numb. What covered his body was not the flood of water nor the rushing emotion of sadness, but the happiest memory of his life. Soon, the ship was gone.

“Dae Ho Suh? You there?” she uttered softly into my ears.“I can’t believe this is happening…Dae Ho Suh… Please tell me you’re still out their alive…Dae Ho Suh…” It was more of a murmur than a scream. But yet she sounded like the happiest women in the world.…“You know why the moon feels lonely every night?” “It’s cause…”Complete silence. With no doubt it was she who kissed him first. It was a quick one, not too deep but not too shallow. Before Dae Ho Suh can even lean over to her, she was leaning over him. It was a quick one, not too deep but not too shallow. He didn’t know what to say, and what to think. It felt too sweet to be reality, but too real to be a dream. He knew he would regret if he didn’t finish his sentence. It felt like he’d never have a chance to tell her if it wasn’t now. But her tears were too sweet for him to open his mouth and speak. “It’s cause… It’s cause… The moon knows it has to leave the stars bright and the sun shining while looking at itself drown in the horizon.” He murmured to himself.

Bianca Scofield, The Sands Wrinkle in

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Kat Andrews, Winged Lady

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NEEDS FOOT

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;Cavorting alone in transient luster;Casting shadows like planes, like Ptarmigans, Loons, Until we dissipate, no strength left to muster.

The painter’s palette, with omnipotent tones;Chaste hues at his beck, until the slightest tilt;Shades run together, a thousand color show;But unwanted as grays rot and sag and melt.

Bloodsport, once so festive and fervent; Relegated, perverse as the ape; Duck fall, in mammalian cursive;Swan fall, in Darwinian cape.

As passions end in primordial rust,A man should now be all he can be;Mountains will fold and return to the dust;Nought may endure but Mutability.

muTabiliTy, revisiTed Charles Nunzaito

The first and last lines of this poem are from Percy Bys-she Shelley’s “Mutability.”

Kat Andrews, Winged Lady Sabine Neschke, Untitled

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You control who we are And define our being, When we have the right to be happy, you put us at war With ourselves and show us what we aren’t seeing.

Our imperfections, Our flaws, You list them in sections. And show us the effect of our cause.

We smile, We laugh, We’re happy for a while, But then you tell us we’re not enough.

You tell us we’re beautiful, But label us for what we’re not. You make life dull When we’ve already had enough.

“We’re all beautiful” you say, But the words you whisper to the side are what you truly think. “How can you be beautiful after what you weigh?” “And what about him, when he’s gay?”

sOCieTy Krystyn Gutu

You contradict yourself; Put us down And wonder why we can’t be ourselves. You wonder why we frown.

But that’s what our generation has come to. Judging others; judging ourselves. We try to view this world askew, But we don’t know how to when we’re trying so hard To live up to someone else’s definition of perfection.

You wonder why we starve ourselves And don’t understand how seriously we take your verdict. We don’t know who to be Besides society.It defies us. It defines us. And it is us. We are the very thing we’re so scared of. Insecurity has become our drug.

Bia

nca

Scofi

eld,

Eve

ryth

ing

As

It Sh

ould

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Dan Harvey, Flashing Lights

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Dan Harvey, Flashing Lights

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The aging man walks forever on,Carrying on without stopping, fast and slow,With one concern, to be forgotten, rather than gone.

He takes a path less traveled, whereupon,There might be room to see and grow.The aging man walks forever on

And he continues, still thereon.A lapse in progress, lacking much to show,With one concern, to be forgotten, rather than gone.

Though his nature tends to be withdrawn,His struggle continues to overthrow The aging man who walks forever on.

His effort has become overdrawn,And his patience was lost long ago,With one concern, to be forgotten, rather than gone.

Since his time as an early spawn,His simple fate was sealed before he could know.The aging man walks forever on, Ending both concerns, being forgotten and gone.

Time

Tom Arena

Katie Quinlan, The Rabbit Hole

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Anira Figueira, Unseen

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Lately, the drive home seemed longer than the drive to work. Every road sign appeared on the horizon and lingered in the distance for ages before beginning its slow approach, drawing out the agonizing seconds that Trevor spent thinking and planning. He was tormenting himself, really, but there was a lot on his mind: his next presentation at work, the shame-ful state of his neglected front lawn, Laura’s upcoming birthday. Whereas time flew by in the mornings, its elongation on the ride home seemed to make a mockery of his attempts to complete tasks. His was a simple approach: state the objec-tive, create a plan, and carry out said plan. It seemed so straightforward and basic, yet no matter how organized Trevor’s to-do lists were, check marks indicating a completed task were few and far between. His problems really boiled down to a lack of time; no matter how greatly Trevor intended to be productive, he felt obligations pressing in on him from all sides. Like swarms of locusts, they were piling up around him faster than he could dig himself out. The hands that raced around the clock from the moment his alarm shook him into consciousness suddenly took a break during rush hour, when he least needed it, when all he could do was think about all he couldn’t do. Forced to concentrate on the road, Trevor was pained by the lost opportunity to attack his to-do list and get stuff done. Travel time was time wasted. He enters the house through the garage door. As always, he brushes his thumb against the top right corner of the frame holding the black-and-white photograph of him and Laura, two years ago, beaming on their wedding day. He doesn’t even have to look at the photograph; the tactile recognition of the frame’s texture is enough. He breezes through the hall-way and strides into the kitchen to meet his wife. Her back is to him, but she turns when he enters.“How was your day, love?” she asks as he leans in to embrace her.“Another busy day at work,” he replies.“Mmmmm,” is all she can think of to say. He knows she is frustrated with him for working so much, but he can’t help it. All he can do is hold her tighter. She is just as stunning as always, even now, here in the kitchen.It’s a shame that he can’t hold her forever. But he does have to get back to work, now that the clock has kicked into over-drive and threatens to blur the evening into one negligible tick, gone before he can blink his eyes. Releasing his wife, Trevor heads for his study to resume tackling the layout of his presentation right where he left off earlier. It is tedious work, but he must check and double check his evidence and facts. If he is meticulous in every aspect, he should get the promotion he has been wanting. His work will all be worth it when he earns a higher salary and a larger Christmas bonus. It has meant years of keeping his nose to the grindstone, but with a promotion he and Laura could have a bigger house, and someday even travel the world. They wouldn’t have to worry about how they were going to pay the bills, and Trevor could draw a thick black line through the words “get promoted” and be done worrying about to-do lists, forever.Or so he tells himself. But now he has to work. He looks up, wincing, as the racing clock tells him just how long he has been working. It is the third time Laura has called him for dinner. Forcing himself to leave his desk, he goes to the kitchen. Laura is already eating. Trevor serves himself some of the cooling soup and joins her. They talk. She tells him about her day, and he listens. She served some famous country singer, Chris something-or-other, while waitressing at the diner and later had a nice conversation with an old friend at the supermarket. It sounds nice; exciting, even. He doesn’t want to bore her, but he can’t think of anything to add to the conversation except talk about his work. He says very little. And the meal is over. Trevor thanks his wife for the soup and leaves her to clean the dishes. He is tired but thinks he has the energy to revise another paragraph of his written proposal before calling it a day. Objective: revise paragraph. Plan: verify evidence, check grammar, check spelling, reword awkward phrases. Trevor completes these steps, but the result is only a baby step in completing the whole proposal, which is only one part of his presentation, which is just a step towards getting promoted. But getting promoted means a better life. He thinks of how happy Laura will be.He fights to keep his eyes open, but at last, satisfied with his paragraph, allows himself to retire. He fumbles around in the dark of the bedroom before lying next to his wife. Her warmth soothes him into the few hours of sleep he has to recharge his batteries for another demanding day.

* * *

TO-dO

Nicole Marvin

Anira Figueira, Unseen

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The days blur into weeks as Trevor stretches himself thin. He manages to mow the lawn once but still does not know what to do for Laura’s birthday. It is coming up soon, but he can’t think of the perfect gift. He is putting the finishing touches on his presentation but keeps second-guessing himself, probably changing it more than necessary. The deadline looms over him, even though he should have nothing to fear. Still, he worries. He enters the house through the garage door. As always, he brushes his thumb against the top right corner of the frame holding the black-and-white photograph of him and Laura, two years ago, beaming on their wedding day. When he enters the kitchen, he sees Laura, and she is beautiful. He has to work. He goes into his study and rereads his written proposal. He examines the charts he has prepared and is satisfied. He reads the proposal aloud to practice. His voice is shaky, and Trevor knows he still has work ahead of him to make his presentation of the fruits of his labor worthy of the efforts exerted in preparing it. He is fumbling around and garbling the words. He needs to nail this presentation so he can get the promotion so he can make Laura happy. He worries.Laura has to call him four times tonight before he comes to dinner. He brings his room-temperature meatloaf to the table

where Laura has finished her meal. They talk. She says she misses spending time with him. He clears his plate and returns to the study. She is asleep by the time he joins her in bed. Trevor left work late. He will make his presentation tomorrow. His lawn looks wild, and Laura’s birthday is only a week away. It is darker than usual by the time he gets home.He enters the house through the garage door. As always, he brushes his thumb against the top right corner of the frame holding the black-and-white photograph of him and Laura, two years ago, beaming on their wedding day. In the kitchen, he kisses his wife and heads for his study. He practices his presentation for what feels like the hundredth time. He will continue to practice until it is flawless. Failure is not an option; if he fails to get promoted, he is failing to provide for Laura. They both need this. Laura is angry. She had to call Trevor for dinner five times. He finished his meal practically before he sat down and is already anxious to return to his study. “More work?” Laura questions cynically. “It’s important,” replies Trevor, “It always is.” “How can you leave me like this, alone every night?” she continues. “I don’t want to, but I have to. You know that I am getting promoted. Soon. I just have to keep plugging away until that day comes.” “And you think it will get easier when you have a better job? With more responsibilities? When you have even more work, you think you will somehow have more time?” “It’s just a rough spot right now. It’s just a lot right now. But this won’t be forever. We need to get by right now, but soon it will all be better, for both of us.” “How can you say that?” She raises her voice. “Because it’s true, and you know it, too! Once I get promoted, everything will work out. You can do whatever you want with the extra money, and we will be able to take vacations and dine out and see movies! We will have the life we deserve.” “Can you hear how ridiculous you sound? How can I believe that you are capable of stopping? Do you think you

Imog

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will ever allow yourself the time to go on vacation and eat at a restaurant and go to the movies?” “Look, we all make sacrifices. I don’t like to work so much, but I don’t have a choice.” “Do you think you are making it easy for me?” She shouts, but maybe he isn’t capable of listening. “Think of a better life. For both of us. It is what we both want.” He is pleading now. “How would you know what I want?” “Because you do want it. I know you do, but you are not willing to work for it the way I do.” “Do you know me at all?” “I love you,” he says weakly. But he means it. He takes her hand and coaxes her out of her chair. He grabs her waist with one hand. With the other, he powers up their old radio and tunes in to the slowest song he can find. And all at once, they are dancing. Their bodies flow together just like they did on their wedding day. Laura is crying and she is beautiful; the light over the kitchen table catches her tears and her rings. Trevor thinks of how raindrops can cut sunlight into a million tiny pieces, but rather than leaving it broken, they create a rainbow: a promise. He hopes there is a rainbow shining through her tears.He whirls her around until the music’s dying strain. They stand together, listening to the fade of the final notes and waiting for silence, but suddenly a blaring voice is telling them to vote Republican and the moment has passed. Trevor’s to-do list lurks. Nothing has changed. Trevor’s palms are sweaty as he exits the conference room. After months of preparation, the worst is over, yet he now feels powerless. He is no longer in control; he has made his presentation and can no longer state objectives and devise plans. The fate of his career is in the hands of his superiors. But he has to hope for the best. He decides to take the afternoon off. This presentation opportunity was the chance they both wanted, and it could

end up with a promotion. They have to hope for the best. He knows his to-do list is growing, but now, nothing is more impor-tant than Laura. For Laura, he can take a break from his life. On his way home, he stops at the florist’s shop. He has a few days left until her birthday but figures a little surprise now would be exciting for her. He will give her something much more special on her birthday, but it can’t hurt to be thought-ful now. She deserves it. He enters the house through the garage door. As always, he brushes his thumb against the top right corner of the frame holding the black-and-white photograph of him and Laura, two years ago, beaming on their wedding day. He knows Laura won’t be home yet from working at the diner but somehow, he isn’t in the mood to attack any of the items on his to-do list. So he will wait. Laura will be so surprised that he is home before her. He makes his way to the bedroom. He takes out his wallet and opens the drawer on his nightstand. Placing the wallet in the drawer, he is surprised to see Laura’s engagement ring and wedding band. He realizes now that he is standing on something soft. Lifting his foot, he finds an argyle dress sock, hastily half-hid-den underneath the bed. He does not own any socks from Brooks Brothers.

He exits through the front door and throws the flowers into the gutter. He walks. He doesn’t know where he is going. He doesn’t think he will ever turn back.

When Laura got home, she wondered why a solitary rose petal was resting on her floor.

Imogen Jenkins, Looking In

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Amy Curry, Changes of Seasons

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I am a mere serf -A servant of sin, a prisoner of fault,Destitute, vacant for self-worth,A feeling, showing no signs of halt - I open the gates, my thoughts run wild,Great riches in pain, a symptom of masochism,I long for a redo, infancy of new beginnings -Decisions corrupt, poorly wealthy in sadism,The Lord’s court I avoid, unanimously guilty,Forgiveness a great fortune cannot buy,People judge, their verdicts prove I’m filthy -Credit card declined, I lack funds for repentance,Devoid of happiness, I lust for reform,I declare bankruptcy, my heart’s desires I will conform.

a POOrly WealThy man

Gray Oates

Mic

helle

Bae

, Bre

akdo

wn

31

I am a mere serf -A servant of sin, a prisoner of fault,Destitute, vacant for self-worth,A feeling, showing no signs of halt - I open the gates, my thoughts run wild,Great riches in pain, a symptom of masochism,I long for a redo, infancy of new beginnings -Decisions corrupt, poorly wealthy in sadism,The Lord’s court I avoid, unanimously guilty,Forgiveness a great fortune cannot buy,People judge, their verdicts prove I’m filthy -Credit card declined, I lack funds for repentance,Devoid of happiness, I lust for reform,I declare bankruptcy, my heart’s desires I will conform.

K. P. K

im, U

ntitled

32

Euni

ce P

ark,

Bro

ken

Sam

anth

a Ke

nt, F

ishb

owl

Bianca Scofield, Before Birth

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Ellie Shotton, Beautiful, acrylic

34

The two men are regulars, that is for certainWith their tipped hats and thick, leery eyebrowsThe way the shiny surface of the bar has becomeFor themLike a second torsoHe has to wonder, however, about that woman

As he reaches beneath the sticky counter for Yet another glassTo fill

He wonders if she notices, ever,Just how far out of the wayThat man brings her

HerWith her plump red lipsTwo halves of a heartbreakCurved at the ends in the kind of never-dying ghost smileThat only the innocent can wearThat dressShiny and tacky in the harsh lightsWith its artificial, machine-made fibersOptimistic and out of place and almost rude

ReallyAlmost rude of her to parade around in front of his weary eyesFlaunting every inch of her innocent belief that the worldCan still be kindFlaunting it in front of him, when he knows better

That cherry-stain hairThe only occurrence of any real colorReal, heart-beating lungs-heaving colorIn this place

Of empty windows and empty eyesAnd fumbling, shaking fingers as they drop sweaty dollops of silver To pay

All at once the first debt of many And yet also one familiar

For whatThey know they shouldn’t have

Like a splotch of paint on an otherwise empty canvasThe mistake that was not oneA twitch of someone’s unsure wristAn inadvertent, reluctant breath of lifeThrough stone-cold, stubborn lips

Why spoil something so beautifulSo pristinely and utterlyOut of place

By trying, even for a moment, to make her seem to belong here

nO PlaCe fOr her here

Lindsay Wallace

Gian Carlo Varela, Untitledfacing page: Hannah Cane, Cheetah,

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36

(Ten)Pulling up to the people covered porch

A breath of dew blankets the grass Hand trembles like Tremblant

Parking at the people covered porch I recognize no faces

Hand trembles like Tremblant Amicable smiles greet all around

I recognize one face (Twelve)

Amicable smiles greet all around I have knowledge of where to go

(Twelve) The next summer will be simpler

I will have knowledge of where to relax (Fourteen)

This summer is the simplest yetSoon the faces will not be strangers

(Fourteen -plus two) They will be lifelong companions

Soon the faces will not be strangers, rather sisters (Ten plus seven)

Pulling up to the people covered porch A breath of dew blankets my grass

finding hOme

Rachael Hetson

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Samantha Kent, Starfish

Jun

Take

da, G

oat

Jun

Take

da, T

he H

erd

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Kat Andrews, Kissing Fish

Jackson Martin, U

ntitled (Boy)

Duneska Michel, Untitled

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40

All weighted pain till the death drops, Had flowed so nice for long,Gone away, done with the new crops,Done struggled through the wrong.

Hah! Yeah the religious explain Damn them. Like I’ll be fine?Hate enough to all go insane,I think I’m wasting my damn time.

Hell, but we all gotta conform, Now He’s got the new spread,So I’ll pack the bag, stop the mourn,Try to clear my damn head.

Nope, I’ll be a heathenAnd take back the life this Bastard been steal’n.

heaThen Ara Joseffson

Yuki Sato, River

41

Michelle B

ae, Skeleton

42

Sarah Cho, Gladiator

Bronwen Kalmes, Lucy in the Sky with Dia-

mondsh Diamonds

43

Kat Andrews, Fanciful Fishing

44

Maybe she should just runaway, from them and from herself. Maybe if she learned, she could grow some wings she could fly. Maybe she should tune them out, she should go crazy and shout. Maybe then someone might figure her out. She’s so caught up, so left behind. Maybe she’s tracing her steps, she wants to see what she’ll find. She’s so over everyone and everything. Maybe she’s afraid to care, she knows if she did, They wouldn’t dare. Maybe she’ll lose her mind, Maybe it’s just a matter of time.

maybe Asia Grant

45

Maybe she should just runaway, from them and from herself. Maybe if she learned, she could grow some wings she could fly. Maybe she should tune them out, she should go crazy and shout. Maybe then someone might figure her out. She’s so caught up, so left behind. Maybe she’s tracing her steps, she wants to see what she’ll find. She’s so over everyone and everything. Maybe she’s afraid to care, she knows if she did, They wouldn’t dare. Maybe she’ll lose her mind, Maybe it’s just a matter of time.

Eunice Park, Adrift

46

unTiTled

Rachel Garrity

Dreadful things happen on days like thesewhen the ground is frozen six feet deep,and there are no longer leaves to warm the trees.

At times like these, your entire world seems to freeze.When nightmares come, the thing to avoid is sleep. Dreadful things happen on days like these.

The last thing you remember is your mother’s pleasas she runs out the door before she weeps.And there are no longer leaves to warm the trees.

You pray to God that he will not seizethat aging monitor’s final beep.Dreadful things happen on days like these.

As you shake and shudder in the icy breezeyou must stay strong- don’t let the tears creep.And there are no longer leaves to warm the trees.

When the only remnants of the car are the keys the crushed metal box she’ll no longer keep.Dreadful things happen on days like these,when there are no longer leaves to warm the trees.

K. P. K

im, U

ntitled (Scream)

47

Liam Nadire, Forgotten

Jun Takeda, The Past in the Present

48

“I really don’t want to have to watch her dance,” James said.I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. He already knew that we had to flatter Cousin Ethie until our faces melted off, or we’d never hear the end of it. Also, there really wasn’t much I could say to alleviate his discomfort, since I wasn’t really psyched to spend my afternoon witnessing a washed-out ballerina’s pitiable attempts to relive her one moment of mun-dane glory all over her faded, semi-floral rug. Instead, I stared at the doors of the antique elevator, studiously ignoring its alarming spasms. The car wrenched itself to a halt at the fifth floor, and belched James and me into a tiny landing, lit only by a tiny window. The elevator doors creaked shut as we blinked in the sudden gloom, abandoning us to the tableau of wilted finery. The useless window had been dolled up with a pair of yellow curtains, now faded unevenly by the sun. The floorboards were scuffed and warped. The only furniture was a dusty end table holding a tiny bowl of potpourri. The potpourri had long since ceased to smell like anything, but the whole room stank of sickly-sweet scented Lysol. There were three apartment doors: 5A, 5B, and, mysteriously, 5D. James and I shuffled over to 5A. He raised his hand to press the buzzer, then stopped. “Why do I have to ask her?” he whispered. “’Cause you’re older,” I hissed back. “And you’re the boy. You know how old-fashioned she is!” James grimaced. “It’s because she wants me to flirt with her,” he said unhappily. “So? It’s not like you have to take your top off! Just ask her to dance for us. If we suck up enough, we won’t hafta visit again till Christmas.” He heaved a sigh, but he knew I was right. I was much more sensitive to the political currents of our extended family than he. Grudgingly, he raised his hand to the buzzer again and gave it three sharp pokes. Briefly, there was silence, and then the sound of quick, heavy footsteps thumping over carpet. The door was opened by a small, dark-haired, professional-looking woman: Ethie’s personal assistant, Amy. She smiled politely at us, then bellowed over shoulder, “The Dentons are here!” From the depths of the apartment, a thin, sing-song voice called back, “Just a moment!” Amy gave us a nod and bustled off towards the voice, leaving James and I to stare around at the all-too-familiar décor. The furnishings, while still very stuffy and old-fashioned in style, were at least well-kept and clean, in contrast to the rest of the apartment building. Cousin Ethie had not made much money of her own, but she had married a rich boy and managed to hold onto his money even after he had died. Ethie could afford to employ a cleaning staff and pay re-pairmen even into her old age, mostly because she never really spent her money on anything (or anyone) besides herself. Still, the furniture and decorations had probably not been updated since her wedding night, and the apartment’s Old World grandeur felt oppressive to James and me as we huddled together in our plain summer clothes. James was unhappy. I could feel the resentment peeling off of him in waves – resentment that his enjoyable summer day had to be interrupted for this,

hOW TO WasTe yOur summer On PeOPle yOu dOn’T like

resentful even more that he had been all but ordered to present himself to a relative whom he neither liked nor cared about for rea-sons that seemed trivial to him. Maybe it was some “girl vs. boy” thing that I got the strange entanglements of family, got why people attach themselves to others whom they don’t neces-

Michelle Bae, Objects on the Floor II

Maggie Saunders, Vase

Maggie Saunders, de kooning

49

sarily like or respect, all because of genetics, or proximity, or habit, and then make themselves miserable through these strange, self-enforced entanglements. I think it was more the essential difference between our personalities: I was the one who watched, and thought, and considered, while James was the one who moved and acted and observed the world by experiencing it. As such, I had a much easier time dealing with family obligations than James. After several more uncomfortable minutes, Amy reentered the room. “She’ll see you now,” she said dryly, and

we followed her through the small maze of hallways and rooms into the parlor. And there was Cousin Ethie herself, draped across a puffy, cream colored sofa. She was not necessarily a big woman, but her person gave the impression of being made entirely of flab, and her clothing and makeup were uncom-fortably meticulous. She sat up a little as we came in and sang out, in her weedy, affected voice, “Ah, the children are here!” James was a sophomore in high school by this point, and didn’t really appreciate being a child. Still, he swal-lowed his irritation and bent down to give Ethie a vague hug and instantaneous kiss. “Look at you, Jamesie!” she said, almost gleefully. “Oh, and little Carola,” she added as I approached, a touch more coolly. “Her name’s Caroline,” muttered James. I kicked him in the ankle, subtly. For all that I understood why we were supposedly obligated to visit Ethie, I didn’t enjoy it any more than James. I wanted this visit to go as painlessly as pos-sible. If that meant being named Carola for a few hours, so be it. “Have a seat, children!” she said, flapping her hands at the two chairs placed facing her sofa. James and I eased ourselves into the perpetually musty chairs. One we were settled, Ethie leaned forward and began to converse at us. Ethie was never very fond of girls, since she couldn’t charm them. She could charm guys either, but she thought she could, which was all that really mattered in her world. Still, she made an effort to be polite, asking me about my summer vacation, books I was reading, did I still like ponies, and so forth. She seemed surprised upon discovering that I was not yet in high school, as if she thought I should have been done with this whole adolescence business by now. At that point, she was getting bored of me, and her politeness was starting to fade. Finally, she gave me one last look up and down and remarked, “Isn’t it strange that your mother would let you out onto the street in those short pants?” I looked down at the offending garment. I was wearing a perfectly normal pair of athletic shorts, and besides there was hardly anything enticing about my bony toothpick legs. I gave Ethie a lame half smile and said, “Well, it’s such a warm day out, you know…” James shifted angrily in his chair, drawing Ethie’s attention. Happy to abandon the topic of me, she turned to him and said, “Ah, James, I hear you’re playing American football, correct?” He choked down a burst of laughter at this. Ethie had only ever spent about a month at a time abroad, and only rarely and long ago; still, she liked to pretend that she had not been born in Schenectady, NY, but rather was a cosmo-politan citizen of the world. She might have pulled the act of better if she had perhaps been less ignorant and self-ab-sorbed, but she made the effort nonetheless. “Yeah, I play football,” he said at last. “Not until the fall, though.”

Am

y Curry, C

omfort

50

Ethie clasped her hands to her chest. “An athlete! You must have girls swooning over you!” I was, at this point, so wildly uncomfortable with the whole situation that I shrank down into by seat cushions, hoping they would absorb me. James hunched his shoulders defensively and said, “Not really.” Ethie gasped in mock astonishment. Her melodramatic flirting was so pitiful and obvious that I cringed visibly, but she wasn’t paying any attention to me at this point. “What a shame!” she shrilled. “A handsome boy like you should have a girlfriend for sure!” “I have a girlfriend,” James growled. “But she doesn’t need to swoon.” Ethie sniffed disdainfully. “Hmph, an ingrate. Why would you bother with such a frigid girl?” James went pale. I could see his fingers digging into the armrests. I blurted out the first tactful thing I could think of: “You were a ballerina!” In a rush, the universe shifted, and I was suddenly Ethie’s favorite person in the whole world. “Why, yes, dear, yes I was,” she cooed. She giggled – a disturbing sound – and continued, “Did I ever tell you about how I danced Odette

in Swan Lake?” “Only a million times,” muttered James, but quietly. He was still on the verge of fury. Ethie didn’t notice. She had a remarkable talent for ignoring realities that didn’t flatter her. “I’d love to hear it,” I told her, with a massive fake smile. Ethie reclined royally, her ego swelling. “Well of course you know I first fell in love with dancing when my Auntie Martha – that’s your grandmamma,” she added, as if we might have forgotten that we were related, and that we called our grandma grandmamma, “When she took me to see Swan Lake when I was but a small girl.” Now that Ethie was on her favorite topic – herself – she pulled out her most affected tone. “You see, at the end, when the girl who danced Odette came out to bow, well, everyone cheered so very loudly, and I thought, ‘I do wish to be cheered like that!’ So I had Mother and Father send me to ballet school.” James was staring at her with disgust. My eyes had glazed over with bore-dom. Mistaking our expressions for interest, she smiled benevolently, then continued. “Well, you see, I joined quite a renowned dance troupe, but I started in the corps, you know. But then, some years later…” she clutched her hands to her breath and sighed happily, “I was made understudy to the understudy to Odette!” She beamed at us. I adopted an expression of wonder. James yawned. “Did you get to dance in a performance?” I asked. “No,” she began, cautiously, “but, of course, I danced in front of the entire company during rehearsal, and they were quite ill with jealousy.” Ethie began to sit up. “Of course, you will want to see

me dance a little, but I’m just so tired these days, I couldn’t possibly dance.” She looked at me expectantly. “Yes, please dance for us,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could bring myself to fake. Ethie was already half off the sofa. “Oh, but I’m so tired, I couldn’t possibly, but if Jamesie wants me too…” She looked at James. James looked back at her. Then he smiled and said, “Don’t trouble yourself. You’re tired! I wouldn’t dream of asking a tired woman to dance for me.” Ethie was flummoxed. I nearly choked on my own spit. James was too far away for me to kick his shin, but I gave him my very best are you crazy stare. “I’m – I’m not very tired,” sputtered Ethie. James laughed nonchalantly. “Don’t try to be brave. I don’t need to see you dance.” He paused. “In fact…”The elevator car rattled its way down the building. James and I stood side by side in silence. Finally, I brought myself to speak.

Am

y C

urry

, Loo

king

Up

51

“We’re really gonna get it now,” I said. James didn’t reply. “From Mom and Grandma,” I continued. Still silence. I sighed. “James,” I said seriously, “You really should have asked her to dance.” He snorted. “Also, you probably shouldn’t have insulted her.” He rounded on me. “Didn’t you hear her? She was mean to you, she insulted my girlfriend… besides, once we got into it, she was way more vicious than me!” I shrugged. “Yeah, but she’s the old one, so everyone’s gonna just say we were being brats.” “She’s always a brat!” “I know it’s not fair,” I said. “But we are gonna be in trouble, just as soon as she calls Mom or Grandma or Aunt Patty or someone.”

James sighed. We were silent for a few minutes. I listened to the groaning of the elevator car. “On the bright side,” said James, “They probably won’t make us visit her again until Christmas at least.”

Maggie Saunders, Harvey Dent

Jun Takeda, Weasel

52

53

What’s your sin?

Hannah Cane, Zebra

Bianca Scofield, Deadly Girls

54

Hannah Cane, Yellow Wings

Dun

eska

Mic

hel,

Unt

itled

(Sun

glas

ses)

K. P

. Kim

, Wha

t If?

Han

nah

Can

e, B

lue

Win

gs

55

I could give it back to you,

it was spring. I could give you sun,

Sorrowful light filling the abysmal

sky; blue and serene, empty

looking glass from above.

Back the proud bang, crackled

into tears.

Back the rifle, the red, white and blue

flag un-waving; but wound,

wound around your wounded self

Lowered down, down.

I could give it back to you,

her fragile hands, lonely

thumbing each bead of her

Rosary. Wishing your hands

back, dropping a mug,

gluing back the broken pieces.

Back to watch the white between the cracks

“baCk -” Kelly Masotta

Gian Carlo Varela, Untitled

56

K. P

. Kim

, Pen

cil,

Shoe

, Cha

ir

Samantha Kent, Airplane Cans

57

Samantha Kent, Airplane Run-

Emily H

ayes, Fountain

58

The music blares, not for deathbut for the honest fact thatafter the dire salute, the dead will no longer be.All lament for the doomed souls summoned for crowning judgment.All bewail the saved and unsaved.The music is a swan song,bowing its last notes for the deadand for me, the creator, who will no longer be.

laCrymOsa (requiem ‘dies irae’: WOlfgang amadeus mOzarT)Grace Yoo

Gian Carlo Varela, Buddha

Duneska M

ichel, Untitled (W

om-

an)

59

60

Bronwen Kalmes, Someday I’ll Fly Away

The Cauldron is published annually by a small group of dedicated 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 the Optima font family using Adobe InDesign

CS5. Most of the images are photographed with a digital SLR camera; others are scanned from prints. All of the images are formatted for printing in Adobe Photo-shop CS5. 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 manufac-ture the paper and print the magazine is generated by wind power.

“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.”

C. Gordon Bell ’50 was a publisher and owner of The Gardner News in Gardner, Mas-sachusetts, a family-owned newspaper for over a century. Mrs. Bell is currently managing edi-tor of The Gardner News. Her late husband and his twin brother, Shane, were both mem-bers 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 Caul-dron to Alberta Saffell Bell and to the memory of her husband, C. Gordon Bell ’50, in ap-preciation of his past and her current loving commitment to The Cauldron.

So said Mrs. Alberta Saffell Bell on the occa-sions of establishing the Alberta and C. Gordon Bell ’50 Memorial Endowment of The Caul-dron 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 help-ing others fulfill their dreams of writing and of keeping their voices alive.The endowment is intended to insure a medium of expression for Kent School’s student writers and artists through The Cauldron.

In establishing 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.”

Special thanks to: Colin EverettMs. Alexandra KellyThe Art Department

Cover Image: Maggie Saunders, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (edited by Colin Everett)