Cover Image: Trey Herlitz-Ferguson, Untitled, photography

“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 fi lled 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 fulfi ll 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.”

The Cauldron is published annually by a small group of dedi-cated students and teachers at Kent School, a boarding school of

570 students in grades 9-12 in Kent, CT. Both text and art, submitted anonymous-ly, 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 format-ted for printing in Adobe Photoshop 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 manufacture the paper and print the magazine is generated by wind power.

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The Cauldron

Literary Staff:Muriel Leung ‘15

Lindsay Wallace ‘15Rachel Coster ‘14

Editor in Chief: Michelle Hye Ryeong Bae ‘14

Literary Editor: Grace Jaewon Yoo ‘15

Arts Editor:Liam Nadire ’15

Layout Editor: Antonia Bowden ‘14

Production Editor: Bilan DeDonato ‘14

Staff Advisor: Joseph McDonough

2014Michelle Bae, Hope, oil on canvas

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PoetryRanald Adams

UntitledChe Baez AmorSabi Benedicto

Overflow The King Thoughts Whilst Sitting on a Hawaiian Beach during a Thunderstorm Christmas, 1914

Rachel Coster vAlen’ tine Hair Fish

David Field The Saboteur.

George Sticks

Ari Kanner Shuttereye

Muriel Leung April Mornings Spring

Lexie Menyhart A Long Face

Walker Sachner She Brought me Back

Alisa Wan Liar’s Contrition

Emma Woodberry Polaroid I wait on the fall. Starfield

ProseGrace Jaewon Yoo

Aeternus Eternus Ho3

FishbowlMuriel Leung

GlowPhotography

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Pin Chaipromprasith Peace Man of the River Young Priest

Peter Chu Drop

Ayse Ercan Untitled Untitled Painted Emotions Lost: the Identity of a Social Conformist

Katie I Icicles Vivian

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Drawing, Painting, and Mixed Media

Through the Lens Fleur Ansh Jetly

MountainsAriel Lee

Vivid WallLiam Nadire

Cadillac MountainGray Oates

Go FishSawyer Ryan

HandsJason Sohn

Landscape Series #35

Michelle Bae Hope

Old Man Beautiful Ugly Nude Ballerina Dancer Series Pending Storm Nature Abstract Self-portrait

Sarah Cho Lost Sole Reflection

Andrew Domzal Self-portrait Fear and Loathing Rendition 3 Untitled

Mikaela Liotta Tree of Thought The Fairy Queen Reads Untitled

Anastasia Melvin Spray

Gray Oates Sandy Save the Green Good Luck Heads or Tails

Jessie Ruah Self-portrait in 50 pieces Native American

Yuki Sato Untitled Untitled

Sammy Scofield Camp on the Lake Summer Dusk

Annie Yuan Self-portrait

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Gray Oates, Save the Green, scratchboard

Gray Oates, Sandy, scratchboard

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i.Moving beyond the petal colored walls,your paper gown swelling behind you.A chart of lies is stuck to the side of abeeping monitor.I call for help but the words linger there,unhurried and neglectful.

ii.Lost in a sea of CDsor in swamp of accordion folders,I am drowning.I have my father’s eyes,and my mother’s mouth,and on my face they are still together.

iii.I hold your delicate body in my hands,checking for signs of damage.Glasses sitting on the tip of your nose,toes curled over the edge of a tall building.Days pass lovelier, purer, curiouser.Some days I can still hear your golden laughter.

AmorChe Baez

Jessie Ruah, Self-p

ortrait in 50 p

ieces, charcoal on paper

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Perhaps we stare at pictures long forgotten,To beat the pale flagsAnd set free the dust.

PolAroid Emma Woodberry

Perhaps we may build a valley of ashesOr ragged sand castles,Where a ravaged ocean bruises the shore.

And perhaps the ebb and flow Of hollowed-out sound bytes will Rock us to sleep. A broken lullaby.

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Perhaps we may build a valley of ashesOr ragged sand castles,Where a ravaged ocean bruises the shore.

And perhaps the ebb and flow Of hollowed-out sound bytes will Rock us to sleep. A broken lullaby.

As metronomes snap their brittle bonesLeft and right,And right, then left…

A stack of bleached Polaroid Shuffle like cards…And the gamblers mustForfeit their chips.

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“Depart from me, blessed, into everlasting eternity. The righteous will go away to where eternity lives.”

II. This is a place for the doubtless believer, with no before or after. Just as I have imagined, this wants envy or despair or pain or hate or grief or shame or death. An eternal refuge. Although the life in body feels long, we live less than a hundred years in the world. We fail to endure that dust of time and stop praying. Why do we fail? Because we doubt. We doubt his omniscience, his judgment, and even his existence. Such a regrettable and pitiful life. But our sorrow cannot dare to compare to his anguish. So I pray for the others, still in the world, to not forget him, to not lose him. They then can reach this refuge and enjoy the splendid glory. I desperately pray. I kneel on the ground that welcomes me. Like a dream, a hundred years slip by. This is a place that wants a sense of time and place. So there is no way of knowing any concrete truth, but I can speculate. I can only speculate. When I try to describe or express this eternal glory, I

I. “Be transferred.” I hear a voice full enough to give meaning. It is both within and without. “You have shed the body, you have shed the world. Would you listen or ask of your sins?” “I will tell in truth,” I say. No one taught me to do so. I am definitely not forced. But I speak, frankly and blandly. My words fail to convey meaning, yet my mouth flies open. Time flies too. An hour. Ten hours. Even a year. Time escapes the words I am speaking, and hours slip away. And finally, I tell a ver-sion of the life I perhaps lived. “It is as I have known,” he says. The voice stops, and the space follows. An open-ing big enough oozes through the space. A door flings open in a solid rectangle, but soon erodes from the edges. When erosion reaches the heart of the door, it leaves no form behind. Immediately the rectangle pushes through the formless, blinding and blinding. “But is this enough to judge you, to accept you? It is a place for those who lived by my will only.” “I have believed in your might. In pain, I followed. In joy, I still followed. Wishing for the other life, I never harmed in shallow envy. But most of all, my faith wants doubt. The alpha and omega of my worship were our father,” I say. There are sheep on the man’s right and goats on the left. A Shepherd’s stick flies to me, and I grip the top of the stick. It fits my hands.

AETErNUS ETErNUS

Grace Yoo

Michelle Bae, Old Man, scratchboard

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fail. No matter what language I use, I cannot capture even one hundredth of the beauty that surrounds me. No matter how I exaggerate my joy, my words fall short of the true delight it gives me. My unending description about its majesty is only a short syllable when compared to the actual glory of this place. Here, everything is more beautiful, delightful, and glorious. More so than the beginning of life. This is such a place, and I exist, here.

III. A thousand years slip by. I can only speculate. This is a place that wants time and place. I cannot feel the life, but I do not need to. I already know I exist until eternity, so I feel no need to track where I am. When I try to describe or express this eternal glory, I fail. Yet I still try. I use all language I have known and learned about. I use by body—my limbs, my voice. But no matter what language I use, I cannot capture even one hundredth of the beauty that surrounds me. No matter how I exaggerate my joy, my words fall short of the true delight it gives me. My unending description about its majesty is only a short syllable when compared to the actual glory of this place. Here, everything is more beautiful, delightful, and glorious. My words lack meaning. They cannot convey meaning in this place. This is such a place, and I exist, here.

IV. Ten million years slip by. I speculate. No time and space. No need to track where I am. It is impossible to describe or express this graciously eternal place. No language can capture even one hundredth of the complete beauty. My exaggerations fall short of the complete joy. My descriptions are only short syllables, compared to the full glory of this eternity. My words lack meaning. More beautiful, delightful, and glorious. This is such a place, and I exist, here.

V. Ten billion years slip by. The world I have lived, the earth, dissolved days ago. Sun is growing cold. This is beautiful, joyful, and glorious. I pray. I kneel with my head on my hands. Everything is more beautiful, delightful, and glorious even compared to the beginning of life. And I still, still exist.

VI. One quadrillion years slip by. The universe continues to explode, compress, and explode. Eternity is relentless. Beau-tiful. Joyful. Glorious. From the beginning of life, this is such a place. And I still, still, still, still, still exist.

VII. One decillion years slip by. The earth, sun, space, and universe form and decay relentlessly. And I here, here, here, here, here, here, here.

IX. One centillion years slip by. Beautiful. I here, exist. Eternity. Exist. Glorious, Joyful, and Exist. Blessing, pleasure, festival, festival, festival, so I exist. Continue to exist. Still exist. Still. Fail to stop. Still. Eternity. Ever, ever continues. Ever, ever continues. My words fail to convey meaning. I can exist just as much as I have existed. I can watch the universe form and decay and form and decay a million times more. Then I can exist that much more in this eternal refuge. I, my sense will still exist, ever. This place wants envy or despair or pain or hate or grief or shame or death. I want envy and despair and pain and hate and grief and shame and death. For eternity, will exist in this Beautiful, Joyful, Glorious place. Always happy, delightful, hopeful, exist. No end, for eternity. And I exist, here.

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i wAiT oN ThE fAll.Emma Woodberry

For leaves to drink in color through their veinsAnd float from the sky Like flakes of the sun.

Ayse Ercan, Untitled, photograph

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ShE BroUghT mE BAck

Walker Sachner

She brought me backdown to earth when i was high--flying on a smoking plane.

“please put Your mask on first before helping others with theirs.”

i couldn’t realize the ramificationsof the smoking turbine in my fingertips.She thinks prophetically seeing each degree of altitude as we descend.“give me the keys; i’m driving.”

each aluminum tombfilled with pseudo gold--“give me the fucking keys.”

now i wobble with UnsuRe sea legs

because She put Her mask on firstbefore helping me with mine.

and i took the keys.

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Michelle Bae, Beautiful Ugly, oil on canvas

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APril morNiNgS

Muriel Leung

In mist,Soft as flowersAnd crisp as skiing snow,Sleep tulips like yellow bullets—And Summer.

Annie Yuan, Self-p

ortrait, m

ixed media

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Yuki Sato, Untitled, m

ixed media

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Peter Chu, Drop, photograph

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vAlEN’ TiNE

Rachel CosterP.un©tuations’ not, you’ re-thing;

you never Know wHEn to CAPITALIzeur splelling is atroucious

and your vocabulary is badsometimes you sound like fricken white trash

your analogies are like elephants trying to ride bicyclesBut I love you, contrary to my malapropisms

Ayse Ercan, Painted Emotions, photograph

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Grace YooThe thing I absolutely hate about this job is smiling. Making eye contact with those gift-crazy kids. Showing a sparkling, wel-coming, not-too-much-gum, a-lot-of-white-teeth smile. Daddy drilled that into me yesterday. So I guess no Jennifer Garner?

But of course I gotta smile—it’s that day. I have to blend in with the Christmassy spirit around me. Everyone’s smiling. Even those adults usually with a McKayla Maroney face are laughing at the fatty hugging their kids. And the kids! Their faces are so

boring. Rectangular. Blank. Nada. Only two eyes bulging for a present.

I’m only doing this crap for 30 dollars. Thank god it’s a one-day gig.Besides, wearing this elf costume isn’t all that bad. I’m sure Daddy’s gonna dig the pointy ears and short skirt thing. It’s even

sparkly. Maybe I’ll give this as a present. But it’s green. Why can’t it be light blue? He says I always look better in light blue. Pulls the beauty in my eyes, or something. Now look at that kid. A giant pink ribbon on her head. I would never wear something like that. And of course she has match-

ing pink ballet shoes. You know what kid, boys don’t dig pink.

Trust me.

Rocky hated pink. Reminded of his mom, I guess?His home phone rang day and night. When he finally picked it up, they always said, “I’m so sorry for Tina. I hope she gets

well soon.” He didn’t reply, cause he really had nada to say. How is he supposed to know if his mom was nauseous all day? Rocky spent most of his time with me, and who can blame

him. So he stayed quiet.

After the call, they always sent something. Vitamins, fruits, bibles, candles, hats, and wigs. Always giftwrapped with a pink ribbon.

And a note: “Thing will get better!”It didn’t. Tina died soon. So whenever I wore pink clothes, he would scream and slap me. It wasn’t a big deal, but I stopped

wearing pink.

Now there’s even more people flooding into the NP Reindeer-3 Village. Those parents, trying to make up for a lost year with a cheap gift and a hug from Santa. Do they really think their kid won’t remember being left alone every night when they went to find new clients? They remember everything. They remember being locked in the veranda when new clients came in. A 20

dollars Christmas gift card from Toys-R-Us really can’t make up for any of that shit.At least most of them left in a couple of hours. Of course, the worst nights were when they stayed the whole night. My mom

cried awful lot on those days. They sometimes brought toys. But mom never let me play with it.

“Not for you kitty,” she would say.How greedy she was. She never gave me a Christmas present. Not even the free ones she got from her clients. But I’m smart

enough to not want one. Who wants to look like them? Those bulging-eyed freaks. How stupid they must look with their blank faces and all.

And besides, why would you want your kid to sit on that creep’s lap? I heard he goes to special seminars to learn how to properly hug a kid. What would he learn? How to gently feel their tushies?

Oh now that kid’s kissing him. I heard he’s been doing this gig for eight years. Daddy likes him, cause he actually looks like a Santa. The super fat one. With

a real white beard and all. He has a failed mix of John Goodman’s melting face and Donald Sutherland’s chaotic beard.Maybe he shaves it on the twenty-sixth and grows it throughout the year. Gross. So the kids are kissing a 364-days-old beard.

But who would grow a beard for eight years? I bet he gets off on little kids kissing him. Now that the Santa put the kid down—and I swear to god he’s grabbing the kid’s Johnsons-Baby-Powered tushie—I have to

give her a little gift. I wonder if her eyes will sink back in if I give her this green paper wrapped present. “Rosey, say cheese!”

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I guess that’s her name. Rosey. I hope you never wear pink, kid.

I’m not sure if I hate smiling the most. Scratch that. The thing I absolutely hate about this job is not being able to pee when you want. All cause Daddy doesn’t want the innocent little kids to think elves have to pee too.

So I have to exactly aim for the five minute break between the Santa’s hug time and the family picture time.Which is now.

I run to the NP Toys-R-Heaven Factory. Daddy really did a great job making this look real. Just in case some dumbo kid ends up here, he put a cookie jar labeled ‘For Santa.’ And there even is a cup of milk. I guess Daddy didn’t think the fatty would

leave his Santa Claus seminar handbook, ‘Children Hugging for Dummies’, on the elves’ table. Someone grabs me. It’s Daddy. “How’s Jim doing, princess?”

“Still groping kids. But this time he’s not drunk.”“Groping’s fine. I don’t blame him. How can anyone resist! But the drinking worries me. Keep an eye on him, angel, would

you? Now tell me princess, how’s the job?”“Not bad. But only if you give me the 30 dollars you promised.”

“Of course, Kitty. I would give you anything. Everything. Dinner later as usual?”“Sure.”

“Get excited. I’ve got the best give for you.”I think I got the best gift for you too.

I’m sure he’ll love the elf costume. Besides, I wasn’t gonna spend my only 30 dollars for Daddy. He’s not worth it.Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good man. Especially to kids. So everybody admires him, at least in front of him they did. They

called him Finder, except when he handed out their paychecks every month. Then he became Mr. Finder. But when he wasn’t around, everyone called him Finger, cause his finger would somehow always end up on you. I don’t think anyone knows his

first name. Shane, Samuel, Scott, or something like that. I called him Daddy.“Kitty.”

I guess he didn’t leave.“Do you want anything for Christmas? Other than my annual gift.”

Oh right, his annual gift.

When my mom left me in the veranda one day, I found a half-open window. I crawled inside to find something other than a t-shirt to wear. But the window was connected to mom’s room. She was working a client. The client saw me and gave me my first Christmas gift ever. A handcuff. He cuffed me next to mom. So Daddy gives me a new handcuff every Christmas to

celebrate the day I started working with my mom.

“Everything.”Her eyes started to sink, moving back into her face. It was boring. Rectangular. Blank. Nada. Only the once bulging eyes

could be seen.

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Sammy Scofield, Camp on the Lake, oil on canvas

Sammy Scofield, Summer Dusk, oil on canvas

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Michelle Bae, Dancer Series #1, acrylic on canvas

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Michelle Bae, Dancer Series #9, acrylic on canvas

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The way he moves on the ice#11 with love on his mind2 goals scored is pretty nice

Goals against Avon and TPLoves to put points up As 10 is pretty neat

Beauty from DCAlways knows where to beRespectful, and loves his mommy

Never too cocky but confidence is keysuch a beauty

Steps on the ice without any stresssticks loves to win

STickS

George

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Pin Chaipromprasith, Peace, photograph

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fiShBowl

Grace Yoo

Jo Fiske stood behind a group of tourists waiting to cross the West Roosevelt road. A sudden shade drew over him, and he was about to check the weather again. He clearly remembered today was supposed to be mostly sunny, though not sure what the chances of raining were. There was a new weather girl for NBC. She was clearly distracting. For chrissake, it’s still Spring. But Jo soon shoved his phone back into his front pocket, realizing the tourists were from Hawaii. He could al-ways tell where they were from—tourists, librarians, even a cute freshman girl with rosy cheeks. At least after he visited the Shedd Aquarium for ten times he could. After he figured out where they were from, he casually slipped how his grandpop living in Seattle, Texas, or even as far as Singapore was doing. Or mentioned his favorite Thai, Mexican, or Russian food in a matter-of-fact fashion. It was just a detail. Just to jump-start small talks. But Jo always had an in with them. With random people. Anyone. It always did the trick. It wasn’t magic. Of course not. He was attentive, but that wasn’t it either. He just guessed from the fishes that floated above people’s heads. Everyone had a different kind, and he could recognize every single one from his weekly trips to the Shedd. He usually guessed a country near where that fish lives in. Most times, it was a pretty nice guess. Now walking across West Roosevelt road, a man from the tourist group had a humpback whale over his head. The kind found in Hawai-ian shores. With an indifferent face, the whale followed the tourist who was now completely absorbed in taking pictures. Jo slowly followed them to escape the shade. Soriya had a betta fish. Whenever he sat next her, it swirled around to show off its vibrant red tail. It matched her cheeks. Betta fish were too common to be in the Shedd, but he had seen plenty in the pet store that was only a block away from his middle school. So he knew bettas are from Cambodia. He talked about Cambodia. Soriya’s cheeks turned even redder. His memories started with people and fish. Those fish were so natural, not interrupting anything. They were just there. They survived without food or, surprisingly, water. So for years Jo thought they were part of the human body. He

Gray Oates, Good Luck, colored pencil on wood panel

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thought everybody could see them. Everyone has two heads. One with hair, one with scales. I have two. You have two, too! Until his second grade field trip to the Shedd. He had seen a maple-sauced grilled salmon before. He had also seen some goldfish in a picture book. But after peering through the glass walls of the Shedd, he could put a name to every shape he saw above people’s heads. Pete had a swordfish; Jemma had a Mahi mahi. Jo was excited to be the first one to notice this, still thinking his friends saw it too. Running around in the Amazon-Rising Exhibit, he tapped his classmates’ heads, shouting the names of their fish. His homeroom teacher was usually understanding—one of those model teachers who can nod to any kid’s odd imaginations. He once let Jemma talk about riding on a bouncing pink bubble gum for an hour. He could respond with many questions. So he tried talking to Jo. Are you excited to see new animals? Is that why you’re screaming fish names? No, it’s cause I see them! I found it first, Mr. Avary. I know them now. What do you know, Jo? I’d love to hear. Of course I know about the fishes. Living on top of our heads! Are you talking about those swimming in the ceiling? They don’t live in our heads. They live in glass tanks above us. But good job, Jo. You don’t understand. I see them right now. Above you. You are a stonehead fish. Just look on your head. Maybe it was the language. Or the comparing to a stonehead fish. Jo’s teacher lost it. He just didn’t want to listen to another kid ramble about some stupid dream when Jemma started crying for a lol-lipop and Sammy walked towards a restricted door. He couldn’t handle it. No, Jo. No fish above our heads. Look at me. No fish. Look! Didn’t I tell you to look at my eyes when I’m talking? Didn’t I tell you it’s rude not to? Did you even learn anything from my class? Yelled at. In front of his whole class, his whole grade. Jo was embarrassed. He couldn’t look at the teacher, because he was scared of his face. He just started at the stonehead fish that didn’t stare back. Pete started singing The Goldfish Song. They laughed. The irony was why Nettelhorst Elementary school took went on the fieldtrip: to understand diversity by appreciating the variety of different fish. Back home, Jo opened his favorite Dora the Explorer book where he drew a small fish over Dora’s head. He drew a purple one, because he thought if Dora was his real friend, that’s the kind of fish he would see on her head. He called his sister and pointed at the purple fish. Do you see this on top of my head? No? Why would you? That’s kinda weird. His sister wasn’t mean like the other kids. So Jo knew. She was clear. No purple fish. No any fish. Jo closed the book, and set it aside. He piled every book that he drew a fish in and didn’t open them until his mom sold them to a used book

Gray Oates, Heads or Tails, mixed media

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store. He didn’t share secrets since. He didn’t shut the world out, but just saw a world of fish. Jo talked to people, but looked at the fish when he did. People noticed his sight was a bit off, but no one bothered to correct him. Jo saw the fish, because it did not stare back. He could look as much as he wanted without them screaming or calling him a weirdo or mocking him. He didn’t know what the fish thought of him, but they were friends to him. Real friends. He made new friends almost every

day. So in days when he saw new kinds of fish, he went straight to the Shedd and found out where his friend was from. He wanted to know everything. Absorb everything. On days he didn’t make new friends he went to see the Bean. It was a ritual. There was a fancy name to the public sculpture, the Cloud Gate, but he stuck with calling it the Bean, because it was a giant bean. A three-floor apartment sized bean. The enchanted kind that Jack Spriggins would have bought in exchange for a cow. Its hulking size impressed him, just as it did everyone else, but that was not why he visited. Jo didn’t stop to appreciate the bean’s smooth surface that reflected everything. He went straight inside for the cen-ter. He looked up and saw a fishbowl. A three-floor deep fishbowl that only he could appreciate. The glossy top of the bean perfectly reflected every fish on people’s heads. But its concave shape gave a strange twist. In the edges, a goldfish looked bigger than a beaufort shark in the center. As people moved out of the center back outside, their fish grew until it suddenly escaped the fishbowl. Jo wasn’t the only one looking up the bean, but he was the only one who could truly appreciate it. His favorite thing to do besides looking up was to count the number of fish in the bowl. With new tourists flooding in, there was a new fishbowl every day, a new group of shape-shifting fish. But today, Jo was disappointed. Perhaps he came out too early. He should have waited for the afternoon tourists. He saw only six fish swimming in the fishbowl. It was not even close to being full. One of those disappointing days. He was walking out when he noticed an impossible thing. He passed six people inside the fishbowl. Seven including himself. But there was only six fish today. He counted the fish reflected on the fishbowl. Six. Recounted. Still six. He frantically moved around to check everyone’s heads. And there she was. A person without a fish. A weirdo. There was nothing above this chick who seemed com-pletely normal. She wore a simple blue sweater. She was supposed to be normal, but wasn’t. Jo had never seen anyone without a fish, missing a body part. She was handsome. A handsome chick. Everything was where it should be—eyes, nose, freckles—but just no fish. She reminded him of Dora the Explorer before he gave her a purple fish. Jo felt like cry-

ing. He wanted to ask someone if she really didn’t have a fish on her. Jeez, fishless. Jo wanted to follow her. Check her head, check if she was really there. She drew him in, but also frightened him. She possessed the sort of power that makes you peek with your hands over your eyes. In this tug-a-war between his hands and

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eyes, the hands won. His hands made him go back to the West Roosevelt Street full of fi sh and people. But he had spent too much time idling in the bean and was now late for Wilkinson’s Lyrical Events class. Wilkinson was unusual. He didn’t mark tardiness or call you in front the whole class. He stared with eyes that followed. He started back. Jo couldn’t bear the suffoca-tion, so he was mostly on time. Last time Jo was late, because he saw an angry pufferfi sh. He wasted time wondering what had made his friend so furious. The other time he was late counting the nibble fi sh in the bean. Somehow a family shared a similar kind of nibble fi sh, so it took a while for Jo to separate them. He was also distracted by how it seemed to take bites off of the family’s heads. Nibble fi sh were supposed to nibble on dead feet skin, not the scalp. Fish were no help for Wilkinson’s class. This time it was the fi shless chick. At least the L Train came in fast. He could still make it, and maybe pass on the suffocation. But there was an equal sense of suffocation waiting for Jo. The L Train with the shortest route was already full of people. And of fi sh. A group of large tuna was huddled up near the door, and for the fi rst time, Jo was intimidated by them. He searched for an opening, away from the fi sh and people. He was instinctively drawn to a small depression in the moving fi shbowl, where there was a small space to breathe. Standing in that space, Jo realized that the fi shless chick was in front of him. Because she didn’t have a giant fi sh hovering over, Jo could breathe. This was a strange sensation. He was still afraid of the chick and what a fi shless head means. The fi shless chick still made him cover his eyes. But this time, his eyes won. Curiosity got the better of him, making Jo observe the chick. She really was handsome. But there was something more to her. A sense of confi dence. Even though she was the only different one, she had the courage to stand there. Jo couldn’t imagine living without these fi sh. It was his way in. He wouldn’t know how to start a conversation without the fi sh. Or where to even look while talking. Jo felt like crying. Wilkinson was unusual today, but not to Jo. He escaped the suffocation with really no margin. But the fi shless chick also escaped the suffocation. Jo never realized that anyone without a fi sh was in the same class. With everyone else seated, Jo had to sit next to the chick. He had never spent a minute with a fi shless person, but now he spent about two hours straight with this one. Of course, Jo couldn’t focus. The absence, the blankness sucked him in.

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Hey, you going out?Jo had to search where the words came from. It wasn’t Wilkinson, because he had already left the class. There was no

one on this row except for the fi shless chick. You okay?

He couldn’t believe it. She actually existed, she was real. This one could live without a fi sh. Jo heard a part of him collapse. I’m fi ne. Sorry, you trying to go out? Yeah, can’t wait to get out of Wilkinson’s class. Thank god we didn’t get the stare. The fi shless girl squeezes out be-hind my chair. She moves. She looks back, looking. This might sound weird, but were you at the bean? Just before? I was, yeah. I thought I saw you. It’s weird seeing someone who actually lives in Chicago go there. Oh. Sorry if I’m being nosy. It’s just… Oh. It’s okay. I just like how it looks. The inside. Oh yeah? It’s kinda funky. I like watching people move around it. Pretty much same for me. She introduced herself as Sarah. She was still missing a fi sh, but Jo could talk to her. Jo could breathe besides her, no matter how crowded and suffocating a place became. Something opened inside Jo. Sarah let Jo see the people in the bean—how they moved their feet, heads, lips. He didn’t have to cover his eyes anymore, but could see with open eyes. They went to the bean before Wilkinson’s class, every day. But it was no longer a fi shbowl.

Gra

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ovErflowSabi Benedicto

Because trying too hard is a ticket to Hell, And the Devil won’t take the soul you would sell.

If you walked from LA to a Jupiter moon, You’d realize that you’re not in imminent doom.

It’s something much worse. You are where you’re at; Caught in between peace and a heart attack.

Heartbeat was racing, but the gun did not shoot.Intent versus action, the argument’s moot.

Saw

yer

Rya

n, H

and

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hoto

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ThE kiNg

Sabi Benedicto

All hail the king.Too bad he’s forgottenThat kings were once nobles,And nobles once beggars,And beggars, nothing at all.

Mikaela Liotta, The Fairy Queen Reads, mixed media

Mikaela Liotta, Tree of Thought, mixed media

Mikaela Liotta, Untitled, mixed media

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You know what he told me? You’ve made it through. He told me:The hard times are past. He told me:Good things come to those who wait. He told me:I believe in you. He told me:Winter is dead;Time to spring.Turned out it was an Indian Summer.

UNTiTlEd

Ranald Adams

Jess

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Nat

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Am

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35

We poke at the stars, Hanging from brass strings. Lattice fields of cosmic flint weave patternsAcross the lace of night Shapeless gray clouds scrub at the sky,Smudging the infinite darkness.

STArfiEld Emma Woodberry

Ans

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Michelle B

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ThoUghTS whilST SiTTiNg oN A hAwAiiAN BEAch dUriNg A ThUNdErSTorm

Sabi Benedicto

If you look past all the people, you can see that there’s a ghost. He sneaks around Manhattan and he lightens all our loads. We can hop onto the Crazy Train and holler, “All aboard!”

We tried to rock like Ozzy, but we missed too many chords.

I have met some saviours who have made me feel so at home, But when day breaks, they slip away and I’m alone.

Five hundred new guitarsWon’t hide your battle scars.

All I can do is tell you things you wanna hear, Have another beer,

You’re not a martyr, dear. Lions are just glorified house cats.

There’s not a drop of water, but it rains here all the time. The sun comes every day, but it’s darkness that it shines.

Understand I’m broken and my heart’s too cold to touch. You’re not all that different, dear; you smile way too much.

There are a hundred thousand reasons why a house is not a home, So when day breaks, we slip away to be alone.

Dance with me for a while,Foxtrot is not in style,

But we’re in ballgowns anyway, soI’m too young but I can drive,

So that you can rideShotgun in my dad’s Mercedes Benz.

Traipsing the sidewalk,Making small talk with yourself.

Time is wasted,Water’s tainted,

And the child dies a fool.

Cities are pretty rough,Towns aren’t good enough.

Tell me exactly why you wanna run away,Because when day breaks,

I’ll play a song you used to know.

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38

liAr’S coNTriTioN?Alisa Wan

There is no such word as “truth”,Even if there was one, it’s obsolete, it’s fading, it’s ephemeral,

Simply gulped by huge tides that would not let it go.Say you happened upon luck–discovering shards of actuality floating around the Pacific–

Still, nothing’s going to happen.Those shards are muted, through the immense influence of newspapers, radios, internets, smart phones…

“Facts” established by the media is the truth- fooling around, along with the ash of smoke, cloaking human beings.Without any ability to defend, all of a sudden, we are hypnotized by the media.

Rumors, just like pestilence, callously infecting the innocents:They spread quickly to everywhere in the world, as fast as a rocket shooting up into the sky.

It’s not a big deal after all - a couple of people who cannot handle societal pressure simply choose to leave this worldUnfortunately, a force carries me back from the secular void,

I hear what everyone else can’t hear, I use microscopic lenses to look at the world, scrutinizing every single bit of details,But trust me (I hope you won’t),

I always bear a solemn and wretched heart whenever I look in people’s eyes- It seems I am living in two different worlds.

Every word spoken out is incongruent with their minds, or is simply twisted.Seriously, the Oscar Prize doesn’t have its value after all.

The most gruesome part is not the words, but is the overly natural interactions between people, Who secretly smirk when comforting their enemies, Who “unintentionally” intend to mock their friends.

What they do is really nothing special; it’s simply a weed they chose to plant as they grow up. Their hearts are numb after years; they can hardly feel the guiltiness leaking from their souls.

Adopt it, get used to it, become part of it–this is life. No, this is an essential component of a successful life.Sassiness brings you to nowhere in this grandiose world–You have no right to the splendor hoarded by the suck-ups.

Cover up your intuition that prevents you from reaching the finishing line.Without rumors, without lies, without hypocrites–

Would the world be a better place? Yes, but not necessarily.

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Pin

Cha

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Katie I, Icicles, photograph

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chriSTmAS, 1914Sabi Benedicto

I was made to fight in this war.With you back home, a sacrifice had to be made.Say hello to Ruth for me.Give my best to Ronnie.They’re growing so slowly,‘Cause we have no more food.

On Christmas Eve, we turned on the radio.It was playing something by Irving Berlin. I looked across the hills. The men were throwing bombs,But when I got a closer look,They were apples, as red as your cheeks.

As I buried some of my dear parted friends, My new friends were doing the same.I played football with a young German soldier.He told me he’s never been to the sea.I gave him seashells that I found in my pocket.Too bad he died; never found out his name.

It’s the day after Christmas,We’ve cleaned all our meals.I can hear the gunshots.They ain’t apples no more.

I love you, Charlene,So I’m telling you now,I won’t be alive in 1915.

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Pin

Cha

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mpr

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, Yo

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Prie

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ThE SABoTEUr.David Field

There goes my Dorm-mate, leaving in a rageAgain, for his girlfriend escaped his cage.He storms from here, cursing her name again.He scorns her lust for capable-type men.My friend, you know their tale not very well,My thesis, will all inquiries yours quell.You see, thrice she did seek some other mateBut he forgave her (each time with more hate)!Her wanton eye, a simple cause for shame,But I will prove my Dorm-mate is to blame!Cursing her openly throughout the night,And through his feebleness, had caused their plight.His notes and papers that he held so dear.I found his mind could never process clear.He never could become a scholar great.His marks were low. His mind could not think straight.He tried his hand at sports one sunny day.He was not athletic enough to play!Pursuits would always come before his girl.A need now shone inside her like a pearl:A need for one whose love would not succumb.She cried so loud. I know well what from:Comparing Dorm-mate to the other men,She wondered on what did he his time spend?She would request he come meet her outsideAnd he replied as if he had no pride:“I cannot go. The test is coming soon.”He studied all day long, from morn till noon.I studied ten minutes, fifteen at most.My grade was greater (I don’t mean to boast).His manageable work proved to be hard.She wondered maybe if she should discardThis boy who gave her not a single thing.She was so pretty and her looks did stingThe hearts of many boys whose gaze she caught.Not me of course!!! For I knew her true spots.She probably asked in vain somberly“Why does he try so hard on all but me?And were his time and energy well spent? Now I am sad and I must go and vent.”And off she trudged to share her tragic plight.The one who listened was her shining knight.Her senior by three years, and of her race.He wooed her well, and then he stole a place…Now hush for I hear him returning now–“Why do you look at me with a raised brow?”

And

rew

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–I complimented your exquisite taste–In girls. That one who you stick to like paste.“I liked her since I was with my old Mare. You like her too? I knew you found her fair.”Of course dear Dorm-mate, shouldn’t you now go?She... Waits for you to meet her in the snow.Asthmatics and Anemics all would fold.Embrace and shatter stark and nettling cold.“Are you for real? I’ll leave you two alone.That girl outside could catch a chill-ed bone.” He’s gone at last. Now I’ll explain just why She left him for a more qualified guy.Their final goodbye was caused by a girl:Alas, her picture Dorm-mate did unfurl.He rolled it up and carried it around.JUDGMENT. His obviously was not sound.She found the picture, and declared him mad.Betrayal with them seemed to be quite the fad.His short rebuttal made a funny show!She found him useless and she longed to goOut with another. He was never thereTo be beside her. He just didn’t care.He failed in proving his worth as a man.Of course she chucked him deep into the can.The three nouveau men she had then acquiredEmbodied traits that she greatly desired.A smart or friendly man? Or maybe strong?This story, I’m afraid, is much too long. Believing he was a gift sent from God,He was too proud. All pride was fueled by fraud.He lied because of things he had to hide.The world has no such thing as a free ride. I saw that she deserved a better man,And graciously had led her to her fans.I’m nothing more than a fair saboteur, But know that my intentions all were pure.She suffered greatly at his Chauvin hand!I could not watch… This man’s abuse can’t stand!He had nothing to offer, don’t you see?!All his time: Wasted. None was used on sheWho gave him benefits and gifts galore.He follied, yet she was the one abhorred.I’ll give you now this last thought to digest:If you’re not decent, promise not the best. A

riel Lee, Vivid

Wall, photograph

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46

SPriNg

Muriel Leung

Sara

h C

ho, L

ost

So

le, c

olor

ed p

enci

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Will you mourn when winter is dead?When pale stillness and quiet pass—when the sun pours gold instead?And the dull hollow aching of endless white slips away, until next year, as if into bed.

Who will mourn tender cold winterwho weaved the land in rust, golden, red—as it lay helpless, deserted by summer—to honor with beauty what she soon would leave dead.

In her wake sacred silence, chastening cold,It thickens hot cocoa, sweetens shortbreadand lights your fancy with magical dreamsof stardust and Santa, a penguin-pulled sled

And the soft tender snow entombing the landsomehow enthralls you, thrills you with dread.For a moment you crave it, the chilling truth:all are powerless, even you so well fed.

Bid goodbye at the end of her reign.Earth will renew itself in thick spring rain—pouring lush and forgetful as champagne—sweeping away the silence and painand the awe that lit you, fleeting as a crane.

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Mic

helle

Bae

, Nat

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Ab

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glow

Muriel Leung

I remember standing next to Laney and Gracie Thanksgiving morning as she came in. I remember how for one pain-ful, wonderful moment I thought it was her. The woman I would never see again. She had the same soft, pooling brown hair and the same round eyes, fringed with long, thin eyelashes. The slight, delicate figure, the long neck and the way she carried herself, like she was floating. I wanted to cry. “Oh, Anne! Don’t you look great.” Aunt Harriet brushed past me and embraced her. “Oh psht. You look a jillion light years better, as usual, and you know it.” The spell broke. She was not my mother or a hallucination of my mother. Her voice was loud like an announcer’s on television. My mother’s voice had been melodious and raw—vulnerable. I needed that voice, the only honey that could fill my deep, aching emptiness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It happened on Friday—what had been my favorite day of the week. My tutor Ms. Littleton never gave me home-work on Fridays, leaving the weekend fresh and full of promise. After my mother came home from her work around seven we would concoct a yummy dinner and a yummier, hodgepodge dessert. Finally it would be time to read and read and read until we were deliciously tired. I first stayed up reading with her when I was just out of second grade, and she didn’t have to feel completely bad anymore about my staying up past eight. The first time we snuggled on the sofa and read, I remember tingling with adventure as the clock passed nine. We were entering a magical, forbidden time with the whole human world sleeping and a world of spirits and stories shimmering in the velvet quiet. My mother was my private conductor and I loved her. Even when I got older, our nighttime stories still carried rich, Christmas-like magic for me. From 9 AM, Ms. Littleton trying hopelessly to teach me morning math, to 7 when my mother’s keys jingled like bells into the door, I looked forward to them. On that night, I waited and waited for her to come home. I was nervous but I knew I was a big girl now—I was al-most thirteen—and I couldn’t cry. She was coming back any minute now; she always did. There was just a train delay. But there wasn’t. She had been walking back from work, towards the train, when she had been mugged and shot. She died while I was curled cozily in our living room reading. While I was thinking of heroes, someone had threatened my mother for a purse and killed her just because he could. It all seems like yesterday, but almost half a year has passed since then. It seems like yesterday, too, that I was sent off to live with Harriet Toms. My aunt. And her two daughters, Laney and Gracie with their black, blank eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My mother had only passingly mentioned her sister like you would mention a distant cousin. I’d never really thought of myself having family and I couldn’t make myself now. They were just strangers who didn’t know what to do with me any more than I knew what to do with them. The house was big and felt as strange as the family. It was filled with comfort—soft white sofas and big black TVs—but it felt empty. It could have been any nice house anywhere. I longed for our house, which always seemed just on the brink of chaos: books in unsteady piles, an array of just-kicked-off shoes fanning the front hall, smells of eggs and cardamom. The purplish spot on the living room carpet marking the night she had fallen asleep reading to me and knocked over black currant tea. Later she told me the stain looked just like the Mediterranean sea filled with wine. I missed her—her vibrant disorderliness, her creativity, her glowing smile. I needed her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ School started barely a week after I moved in, and off I went in a school bus with my cousins as if the only thing that had ended was summer break. I had never been to school before and it terrified me. Everyone seemed loud and frantic. They moved in packs throw-ing canned laughter around them. My cousins were like everyone else but they also were, after all, my family and they would take care of me. So I ate

49

lunch with them. I had never met people like their friends before. There were three others in their pack. Blond, solid Sandy who wore too much eyeliner, and Doug and Phil, both tall and scrawny. They scared me. They spoke slowly and tore people apart as casually as they said hello. I remember a particular all-school Monday meeting, in which our principal announced the beginning of fall. One of the teachers rose. He was old and wispy with a glowing pale face. He began to sing in a hoarse, trembling voice.

The falling leaves Drift by my window The falling leaves Of red and gold I see your lips The summer kisses The sunburned hands I used to hold

Since you went away The days grow long And soon I’ll hear Old winter’s song

But I miss you most of all My darling When autumn leaves Start to fall

Since you went away The days grow long And soon I’ll hear Old winter’s song

But I miss you most of all My darling When autumn leaves Start to fall*

He sat down. His singing was rusty and random, but his raw and tender voice moved me. I wanted people to smile, to forgive him him for being old and a little loose, but when he sat back down there was only a distinct silence. At lunch, Sandy ripped him apart. “He’s a nut. Someone should cart him off to an elderly home soon.” Everyone laughed. My mouth turned sour. “I thought it was sweet.” They stared at me. I never talked, I always tagged along, only tolerated because I was Laney and Gracie’s cousin. But meanness wasn’t just for Sandy. At home, whenever I walked up the staircase to or from my room, my cousin’s voices floated up to me from the dark lounge, their haunt. Their cool and merciless voices cut through the liquid, warbled sounds of the TV, tearing people and life down. This was lame, that was lame. They practically ignored Aunt Harriet who drifted around like a housekeeping ghost. I thought of bustling, good-hearted Ms. Littleton. I remembered Mr. Meyers, with a body as stooped as the teacher’s, in the next-door apartment. Every other time my mother and I came off the street, Mr. Myers was there smoking and chatting with

Anastasia Melvin, Spray, acrylic on canvas panel

*Frank Sinatra—Autumn Leaves

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our doorman, hunched over, smiling as people came and left. He cared. But those were the only people I really knew or could really, confidently say cared. All those tourists bustling by my building on their way to or from some museum—I didn’t really know anything about them. Neither did I know all the deliverymen, business people, politely smiling shopkeepers. I didn’t really know anything about anyone. The house across the street glowed like a lantern, cozy and safe. Yet, for all I knew, someone as cold as my mother’s murderer lived there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ At first it was little things, little comments, that Aunt Harriet made during dinner, that she just couldn’t seem to hold back. I think its good you’re back in a stable environment. You’re mother always had her head in the clouds. Practically ran away, disappeared—poof! My cousins talked more, too. They seemed to think that because I was quiet, that I couldn’t hear them either—that I was as conscious as a wall or a table.

My mother hadn’t actually run away. She had grown up in Tipton, thirty minutes away, with Aunt Harriet and another aunt she barely mentioned, Aunt Anne. The family was well-off; some ancestor had made money in the railroad industry a long time ago. My mother had always been restless, sad—strange. She had met my father who I didn’t remember, and they had moved to the city together. The family didn’t approve. They thought she was using the city as an escape. She had always seemed to be trying to escape something. When my father disappeared, so did my mother. She withdrew from life, cut off communication with the family. And she raised me. I had grown up in a teeming city with all types of people brought together, yet had been completely cut off from my own his-tory. My life was a haze of museums, reading, laughter, and making black currant tea at ten PM. And I hadn’t realized that that wasn’t life. It was a dream my mother lost us both in be-cause she was a frightened child with enough money to never grow up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The woman standing in the doorway was my Aunt Anne. I didn’t think I could ever process that my mother came from this family. That she had come from any family. Over Aunt Harriet’s shoulder, Aunt Anne’s eyes met mine. I shuddered at how similar they were to my mothers. The woman—Aunt Anne—broke away from Aunt Harriet. Her expression was awkwardly pitying. “Oh, hi, sweetie. You’re Karla, aren’t you. God, I haven’t seen you

Katie I, Vivian, photograph

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since you were a baby”. Before I knew it, she had enveloped me. Her body felt like my mother’s in so many ways—thin and bony yet soft—but it wasn’t her. She smelled like perfume; my mother had smelled like shampoo, laundry detergent, cardamom. When she pulled back, her eyes betrayed her: self-conscious, uncomfortable, ready to get the production over with. Soon Aunt Anne disappeared upstairs to the guest bedroom. Aunt Harriet slipped off her smile and went back into the kitchen with a sigh on her face. All at once, the house was silent and separate again. I stayed downstairs for a while, listening to the weary, empty clang of pots in the kitchen and the sweet, comforting, deceiving smells. Baked yams, cranberry sauce, turkey—these were all the smells of home and yet they weren’t, and they only made me ache for my mother. My mother and the way life seemed so sweet and alive with her. Before I knew it I was outside. Suddenly I knew what I needed to do this Thanksgiving. At least once, on this special day, I needed to bring my mother’s magic for us. The sharp air cut right through my sweater, but I walked and walked, down our street and then down Dover street. The houses became more closely packed together as I went on, shops popping up in their midst. Soon, I approached a parking crammed with an array of all sorts of cars. The big white house at the end had its door thrown open, and I could see people and hear voices. Two women approached. One was very old and very thin, the other youngish and plump. They saw me. “Hello, sweetie”, the elderly woman smiled. Her voice was soft but strong. “Did you come to help? Are you someone’s grandchild?” “No, I just want to help.” From flyers I had seen around town, I knew the senior center was preparing a Thanksgiving luncheon and needed helpers. “Well, we certainly could use more of that. You won’t regret being here. Everyone has a wonderful time.” Her eyes twinkled. Mr. Myers had come over to our place for Christmas dinner once. I remember how excited he had been, how his eyes had twinkled just the way this woman’s did. It was as if he had waited all year to sit around that table with us and entrust us with memories and stories. I thought of the teacher’s singing, quivering voice. Why did life seem so especially precious to these elderly? Maybe only when people are vulnerable—when they run out of things to take for granted—do they open up. Maybe Mr. Meyers and the teacher would roll their eyes to the world if they could afford to be bored and vain like my cousins again. My mother had always been soft, ready to appreciate anyone and anything. Almost like she knew that life would be taken away from her early. But maybe she was just different. What I knew for sure was that in the moment, the women’s eyes were glowing like my mother’s always had—full of wonder and joy—and I could keep them radiant.

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Please be wary

Of fish that are hairy

They’ll get you

They’ll wrap you

Up in their locks

So don’t get too close

To the edge of the docks

They’ll pop up and ‘wow’ you

With their smokin’ hot ’do

Then persuade you to braid it

And when you are through

They’ll drag you down screaming

To their underwater barber shop

And have a sketchy marlin

Give you the CHOP

hAir fiSh

rAchEl coSTEr

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Katie I, Through the Lens, photograph

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Mic

helle

Bae

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A loNg fAcE

Lexie Menyhart

Who knew a face could look so long?Those hollow eyes could not be mine,This strange reflection must be wrong.

Perhaps a light and cheery song?About a time the sun would shineWhen, who knew a face could look so long?

Someone that many know as strong,I throw my hands and cry “I’m fine!”This strange reflection must be wrong.

I do not wish for the pain to prolongKnown I am not to gripe and whine,But – who knew a face could look so long?

In this desolate place I don’t belong.All I ask is the slightest sign,This strange reflection must be wrong.

One day I hope I’ll come alongThere must be an end to the slow decline –Who knew a face could look so long,But – sadly – a reflection is never wrong.

Sarah Cho, Reflection, pencil on paper

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Eyes shut, like windows in December.Drowning in a Sea of cotton. AloneWith wishes to forget, but only can remember.

The fire’s been put out, all except one emberIlluminating the night—the moon shone.Eyes shut, like windows in December.

Fly a white flag; a plea for surrender,But time marches on, destination: unknown.Wishing to forget, but only can remember.

I will not lie. I will not fib. I am no pretender.Truthfully, I lie. Awake in a bed as hard as stone,Eyes shut, like windows in December.

I toss and turn, these actions not so tenderAre accompanied by sounds: a moan a groan.With wishes to forget, but only can remember.

Here I am, moving further from my center,Where I could rest my tired bones.I close my eyes, like windows in December.I wish to forget. I only remember.

ShUTTErEyE

Ari Kanner

Katie I, Fleur, photograph

Cover Image: Trey Herlitz-Ferguson, Untitled, photography

“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 fi lled 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 fulfi ll 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.”

The Cauldron is published annually by a small group of dedi-cated students and teachers at Kent School, a boarding school of

570 students in grades 9-12 in Kent, CT. Both text and art, submitted anonymous-ly, 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 format-ted for printing in Adobe Photoshop 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 manufacture the paper and print the magazine is generated by wind power.