The Cauldron, 2013 by Kent School

The Cauldron

2013

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

Cover Image: Liam Nadire, A Moment in Time

Her late husband and his twin brother, Shane, were both members of the editorial staff of The Cauldron in 1947, the year of its founding.  Kent School’s student writers, artists, and photographers dedicate each issue of The Cauldron to Alberta Saffell Bell and to the memory of her husband, C. Gordon Bell ’50, in appreciation of his past and her current loving commitment to The Cauldron.

Special thanks to: John Hinman The Art Department

Ji Young Byun, Rabbit Ears

So said Mrs. Alberta Saffell Bell on the occasions of establishing the Alberta and C. Gordon Bell ’50 Memorial Endowment of The Cauldron in honor of her late husband. C. Gordon Bell often stated, “All writing is the sound of one voice speaking, and all writing can be heard.” As a writer, journalist, and publisher, he committed his time and energy to helping others fulfill their dreams of writing and of keeping their voices alive.The endowment is intended to insure a 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.”  C. Gordon Bell ’50 was a publisher and owner of The Gardner News in Gardner, Massachusetts, a family-owned newspaper for over a century. Mrs. Bell is currently managing editor of The Gardner News.

Poetry Che Baez I.C Rebecca Bertuch The After Arrangement On Ice Katie Dembinski 1:15 am, January 20 Memories Mary Kraynak Insomnia Muriel Leung Home Front Kelly Masotta Four Years Raegan Stokes Dawn Mary Yoo Jin Um Suffering Transforms the World

Bianca Scofield Disfigured Four Horsemen Home Milkshake Bar Party Animal Vacation Ella Wilson Invisible Studying

39 13 34 24 5 32 23

Ji Young Byun Bubble City Fall Girl with Pearl Earring Rabbit Ears Sarah Cho Pain of Heels Rainy NYC Twiggy Amy Curry A Story to be Told Behind the Beauty Essence of Youth Fading Red Seeping with Joy Melissa Flack Bay Boat Chiharu Kawai Filled With Emptiness Diana YunJin Kim Passion, Authority, and Brightness Yoolbin Kwon Cat Mountain Perception Mikaela Liotta Felicity Hatcher Great Music Her Hair Klotter Anastasia Melvin Above and Beyond Alex B. Schwartz Simply Love Brie Walker Girl in the Wind Girl with Blue Cloak Linda Zuo Censorship

45 55 7 14

30 18 36 10 42

Photography Thomas Aiello Main Street Peter Chu Concerns Suaviolum Untitled Amy Curry Dream within a Dream Liam Nadire Essex Sunrise Foxhounds Frog Eye Monoliths Waiting #5 Waiting #17 Hurricane Sandy 5 Pathawinthranond Ploy Buddha Coney Island

44 25 8 33 37 28 40 16 18 54 32 21 15 39

Drawing, Painting, and Mixed Media

Prose Ranald Trevor Adams IV She Wants It Rebecca Bertuch Night Swim Eleanor Hilton Pancakes Kelly Masotta A Chip Anabelle Nuelle Squinting

30 47 35 45 31 35

Plates: from top to bottom: Amy Curry, Jake Diesu, Diana YunJin Kim

from top to bottom: Karen Gutierrez, Oban Galbraith, Linda Zuo

53 51 6 46 1 17 56 38 22 24 42 52 36 9 27 43 23 13 26 4 48 48 49 49 19 34 10 20

6 47

1:15 am, January 20 Katie Dembinski I felt a poem stirring, It caught me by surprise. My bed was quite alluring But I could not bear to rise

Yoolbin Kwon, Perception

Until the words had left me, They were jumping to the page. I simply had to set them free, My head was but their cage.

Ji Young Byun, Fall

Dawn Raegan Stokes The first thing I feel is warmth It drifts from the window and dances over my body My eyes flutter open; for a moment the world is light Contours are watered down by liquid gold Through the window panes it slips Carelessly swirling through the air Up and over my bedcovers Through my hair and in between my fingers I feel it sink into my skin They say nothing gold can stay So I close my eyes and catch it before it runs away

Amy Curry, Seeping with Joy

Peter Chu, Suaviolum

11 12

Amy Curry, Untitled

A Chip

The metal buckles of the case reflect the humming florescent lights onto the white walls of the room. The sound of metal against plastic echoes as the clasps are undone and they dangle over their hinges. And there it is, lying in a sea of purple fuzz. My eyes wander from the scroll to the chin rest. Reaching into the case I grab my instrument and pick it up by the neck. Then, just as I am raising its wooden body to my chin, I see it. A chip. It was right there, a missing piece of cherry wood on the lower bout, an eyesore to the rest of the beauty. The missing chunk burned a hole right through me. How could this have possibly happened? I treat my instrument like a crisp brown leaf fallen from a tree: a single touch could cause it to crumble. I was careful, I was gentle. How could this have happened? I hold the body by the waist now and examine the blemish. I take my index finger and let it run over the smooth wood and then over the indent. My stomach clenches as I do so. The pain goes all throughout my lower abdomen. It roils and twists, knotting itself as though someone is making macramé with my intestines. It is the type of pain I get that acts like a petty reminder for my mistakes. It is the same type of pain that reminds me about the time I could not remember the last two measures of the piece by Bach. And now I remember that after I forgot, I sat down hard and possibly, just possibly hit the lower bout on my seat. But I was careful, I thought, so why is there this chip? I know that I was careful; I know I could not have caused this hideous misfortune. Someone must have stolen the instrument and defaced it. That is it! My sister, small and curious, is the culprit. “May I please play your violin?” She asked me. “When you are older” I replied. She left with pouted lips and glassy eyes that stared at the black case I held in my hand. Yes, of course, she must have taken it. Her small, five year old fingers fumbled with the golden locks and her long hair got caught on the strings as she pulled the bow back and forth to create an amateur’s screech. Her hair had gotten so tangled up on the strings that as she yanked the instrument away it hit the corner of the table

Brie Walker, Girl in the Wind

Kelly Masotta

and created the chip. How could she? Even someone as young as she should know how to handle other people’s prized possessions. What would mother think? She would scowl for sure, and tell her to be more careful. But now that I think of it, who would mother reprimand? Nine years of neck cramps and hard earned money down the drain. Father working overtime so we could pay for my lessons. What were all of these things for if I did not seem to appreciate them? I am awful for having blamed my sister. But, it is so common of me – to blame others for my own mistakes. I did that with mother too much. When I lost the car keys it was because she misplaced them. When I did not nail the job interview it was because of what she made me wear. I always pointed my finger at her but she never flinched. She loved me, and it seemed okay for me to take out everything on her. Mother told me to be careful with my things and to treat them with respect. I always heard every word she ever said, but I did not always listen. And why listen? She was only going to say the same things a hundred more times. “When I was your age” my mother told me once, “we did not have these luxurious violins like you do now.” “Yes mom, you told me. The f holes on your violin were not symmetric and your strings were like fishing line. I get it.” “Exactly, so I would take care of this beauty if I was you. It is special.” At that time I did not listen. I thought what she said was silly. But she was right; I did take things for granted. I let her down because I did not take care of the violin. I forgot the last two measures of the piece by Bach and sat down hard and hit the lower bout on the edge of my seat. I created the chip. That piece by Bach was her favorite. She always begged me to learn it. It was not until she could no longer beg me that I finally learned to play it for her. For hours I practiced the piece; I wanted to get it perfect. When I finally thought I was ready, I went to play it for her. I packed my violin in its case and left the house. After a twenty minute drive, I stepped out of my car and took out my instrument. I raised the violin to underneath my chin and began to play. As I played the piece for my mother, I started to smell her in the melody. Her perfume and homemade stew took over the air around me. The lines of legato started to remind me of her smooth and seamless voice. No wonder this was her favorite song, it painted a picture of her perfectly. I was lost in reminiscence until the last two measures. I forgot them and stopped short. My forgetfulness hit me like an oncoming car with burning bright lights blinding my whole world. I felt like I was swerving, driving off the side of the road, and then I felt a sharp pain in my heart. I sat down hard and hit the lower bout on the edge of my seat just as I began to cry. Just then a piece of the cherry wood chipped off my violin and was lost in the grass atop where my mother was buried. *** I was waiting in the wings of the stage. My turn was up next. I was going to play a piece by Beethoven. The whole week I spent complaining about how my fingertips were going to bleed if I practiced one more time. Mother, she made me practice. I stepped on stage and lifted my bow. The horse hair tickled the metal of my violin strings and I pretty soon I got lost in the music. I no longer felt the throbbing in my fingertips. I was alive.

When I finished pulling out the last note I looked out into the audience to take my bow. My mother was always the first one I saw, and when she saw my face she would know that I apologized for being a brat about practicing. But she was not there. The vacant seat next to my father’s shaking leg got me very confused. I ran off stage to meet him; one look and I knew something was wrong. “There was an accident,” he said. Now as I am looking at this chip I feel that pain that reminds me of my mistakes. I am reminded that I never learned the piece by Bach in time. I was not always careful and I was not always gentle. Sometimes I forgot things and I blamed my mother for no reason. Now a chip is missing, and I will never get her back.

The After

Diana YunJin Kim, Passion, Authority, and Brightness

Melissa Flack, Escher Hands

Rebecca Bertruch Who’s gonna save my soul if I keep throwing it away? Kneel at the alter of my misgivings Clasp my hands — pretend to pray. Lies roll of my tongue faster than Hail Mary`s ever could. The flame that warps my heart burns robo red and oxy blue. Contrition doesn’t find those that sneak their secrets by His view. They accept just what I say, but I wish they’d ask for proof. My cigarette stained bones hide the should-be-shine of youth No matter how I try I can’t feel as sorry as I should Who`s gonna save my soul? Act! before I put it up for sale The auction block is always kind To girls taught not to care.

Suffering Transforms the World Mary Yoojin Um Suffering transforms the world in elegant ways Coming then going, it finds us again Few realize before the end of their days That pain is but a passing refrain Coming and going, it finds us again Lies are lived while love is lost And pain remains a passing refrain A mournful tune with a delicate cost. Lies are lived while love is lost Innocence fades and softly we sing A mournful tune with a delicate cost. But beauty endures in what time will bring Innocence fades till softly we sing A new verse of hope, a chorus of joy For beauty endures in what time will bring Pain and sorrow while love seems coy Now the angels are blackened, disfigured, and worn Still few realize before the end of their days When purity is lost, the truth is born. Suffering transforms the world in elegant ways

Ploy Pathawinthranond, Buddha

XVI Sarah Cho, Pain of Heels

Liam Nadire, Frog Eye

Rebecca Bertuch Blue and red light danced up the side of the white cinderblocks as the cop car`s lights flashed. Like a spotlight, the pulses of light made it impossible to ignore the details of the girl I saw. The blue light reflected off the tears haphazardly streaking down her face, the red light wrapped around her bare thigh. The cop had a note pad out. He was asking her questions, but she only shook her head the wet mop of hair on her head. Her mouth didn’t move from its shocked gape. She looked around, searching for me, waiting for me to come back for her, to spit out some sort

Liam Nadire, Monoliths 21

of an explanation. My hands dug into the bark of the tree I crouched behind. I looked down at my bare feet, but could hardly see them in the daunting blackness. The dirt was turning into mud between my wet toes. I willed my legs to step out from behind my spot in the woods, but my legs felt like concrete. The cop would probably let her off with a warning; he would just drive her home. Thinking about it now, I couldn’t even tell you what he looked like. My eyes were locked that girl, the one who looked so small in the flashing light, the one who knew me the best. She kept looking around, like a little kid who`s parents forgot to pick her up from school. I saw a gleam of silver metal as the red light flashed blue. That’s the funny thing about the people you’ve known forever- you get so used to their incessant, grating presence that they eventually seem disposable. Really, it wasn’t my fault that she had a death grip on me. Everywhere I went, there she was. Every friend I made, she made too. For years people thought we were sisters, and even though we looked nothing alike, we resembled one another. Her laugh echoed mine; our hair was cut the same way. But her sentences always trailed off at the ends, her voice got higher the more she spoke. Something about her personality was, for all its warmth, pliable. Her sense of humor, her interests, her aspirations, all bent under the weight of the unspoken authority of the people around her, like me. I was always the talker, the pusher; people always said I seemed much older. So, naturally, the boys had befriended me, not her. There were four of them. When I try to picture them now, their faces are all blurry, a jumbled, interchangeable

“Yeah!” I jumped in, instantly put off my by own eagerness. “We actually sneak out there all the time during the summer. It`s awesome to go when no ones around, after closing.” Jack was interested, and asked if I could let him know next time we snuck for a swim. He was staring at her, waiting for her to be normal and make eye contact, the way I was. “Yeah totally, we could totally do that.” I said, keeping my voice as monotone as possible, aiming for easy-going boredom. I needed to appear older, show him that at least one of us could be mature. As we watched he boys walk away, I couldn’t help feel like I had something to prove. The boys came and talked to us outside of school every afternoon for two weeks straight. Jack was always so sweet to her. I thought it was cute that he could even be kind to my friends, even when they were so different from me. When Jack suggested we go for a swim that weekend, she said nothing. I said yes for her.

Anastasia Melvin, Above and Beyond

Night Swim

mess of ungroomed hair and attempted mustaches. Although there was one tall guy, the ringleader, named Jack. I liked him. I don’t remember how I met them. I do remember them asking her if she belonged to the town country club. They had seen her there, near the side of the pool house, one day after school in the spring. The moment they asked, her face turned bright red, the gaze of her blue eyes flashed down, away from the boys in front of us. “Her dad is the janitor.” I spat, embarrassed that they hadn’t noticed me first. Immune to my cattiness, Jack kept looking at her. “Cool. Maybe we can hang out there sometime.” He was only afraid to be rude to my quiet friend, I was sure.

“I don’t even think I can get in. I mean, who knows if my dad`s key would even open the pool. The whole thing is pointless, really.” She mashed her lips together, picking at her nails. She had never learned how to lie. She persisted, however futile the effort “You didn’t even want to do anything tonight. You said those guys are annoying.” “I didn’t say that. Come on, they`re senior boys. It would piss the senior girls off in the best way to hear about those guys hanging out with freshman.” She shifted uncomfortably under my stare and kept picking at her nails. “Seriously, your Dad won`t even hear about it, we`ll be perfect little angels.” I brought my hands together in front of my chest and did my best impersonation of Virgin Mary, to which she could do nothing but emphatically scoff at. “Just stop being a pussy and give me the key.” There was a long pause as she played with a loose thread on the couch pillow. I knew she would crack any second now. “You promise it`ll just be for a swim?” She looked back at me, round eyes wider than a cartoon puppy dog. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, so grow a pair and hand `em over.” She got up from the couch, found her dad`s green jacket near the door and pulled the key from its right pocket. She held it up like communion, adding an enthusi-

astic gasp for effect. I laughed and jumped up to grab it from her “They’ll meet us there at 12” I leaned against the white cinderblock wall and played with the payphone as she fumbled for the key. The boys pulled up just as we pushed open the red door to the pool area. Jack had two guys with him. I was embarrassed by the way her smile took up her whole face when he strode in. Before I could even turn around, she was in her bathing suit, ready to jump into the pool. The blue pool lights made her pale skin look sickly. Jack was smiling. The other two had wandered off to the changing room, goofing about some surprise they had left in their locker. Jack dove in after her, clearly he had pitied about her childlike excitement at being near a stupid pool. It was nice of him to try and make her feel like less of a loser by joining her. She was laughing, the same way that I laugh when I`m nervous, in the pool while he splashed her. “I`ll just go make sure we locked the door” my voice boomed against the tile floors. I didn’t hear what they said back. The door was locked, but as I stood under the illuminated red, exit sign, I couldn`t help but smell something strange. The locked room door was open. One of Jack`s buddies was lying on the floor playing with a lighter while he waited for the other guy to finish inhaling. Musty smoke was slowly starting to fill the small locker room. I bounded out from the doorway, whipping around the corner towards the pool “Jack I never said you could bring—” I stopped mid-yell. They were sitting on the stairs. Their bodies, illuminated by the cool light of the pool, melted into each other. They hadn’t heard me, or if they did, they ignored me. I would’ve yelled, screamed at them for being so selfish, but the light of the pool made the tiles glow this eerie, iridescent blue. I had caught them in a moment of dead, sacred, silence. A lull where there was no sound of 23 water sloshing around the edges of the pool, no echo of

a hyena laugh from the stoners in the locker room. It seems absolutely crazy, but I swear it felt like a cathedral in there. It was suffocating me. Silently, I pushed open the red door and left. I ran out into the damp night, my sneakers in my hand, and looked around the empty parking lot. I sunk against the wall, running my hand over the cool cinderblock. Before I knew what I was doing, the weighty black phone was in my hand, my fingers quickly punching out the three number combination that meant disaster, emergency, desperation. “9-1-1 what is your emergency?” I slammed the receiver down, slumped onto the curb, and steeped in my own bitterness as I waited for him to be sick of her stupid laugh, the one that was mine first. The whirl of sirens came a few minutes later, jolting me from the curb. Instinctively I jumped up, leaving my shoes on the curb near the pay phone. My bare feet slapped against the pavement, but I couldn’t feel the ground. I didn’t remember why the police were here until I was halfway into the thin woods on the other side of the parking lot. I turned around, hoping to make it back to the pool to warn the others before the police arrived, but I could already hear the car as it was pulling into the parking lot. I stared at the bright red door, waiting to see how she would get out of this. My heart jumped as I saw the red door fly open. Jack`s friends were the first ones out. They ran in opposite directions, as the cop car slammed on the breaks. They were out of sight before the cops could get out of the car. Hardly a second later, the door flew open again. Jack was shoeless, shirtless, and surprisingly fast. He sprinted along the building and into the woods close to the road. Undoubtedly, he was headed for his car, which they had insisted on parking down the street despite my promises that no one would be around the pool at this time. She walked out last. The cops had been reaching for the door when it slowly cracked open. She was already crying. They brought her away from the door, while one cop walked in to search the pool. She just stood against the

cinderblock wall, panicked and cornered, like a dog on its way to the vet. I watched her glance towards the payphone, I watched her realize those were my dirty Converse that were sprawled on the curb beneath the phone. Her shoulders sank, her arms slunk to either side of her. I watched her deflate as she realized what I had done. Surely they would only take her home I thought, they would only bring her back to her dad, who would convince them that this incident didn’t need to be written up. I confident that all would be made right, that is the only reason I didn’t turn myself in too. I`m sure I would have volunteered myself if I had noticed the tiny detail the older boys had missed. The cop who had gone inside emerged with something in his hand. He wore an unconvincing grimace as we walked confidently from the building. I couldn’t see what the small white object was from my hiding place, but I heard her shaky voice perfectly “ That is not mine! It`s theirs! It`s hers! She set me up!” She was looking around the parking lot desperately

facing page: Brie Walker, Girl with Blue Cloak

now, scanning the edge of the woods desperately. I didn’t budge. I didn’t dare exhale. But, I couldn’t look away, the siren`s lights danced across the white wall, flickering against her small body until it looked like she was on fire. I saw a flash of metal as the red light flashed blue, as they put the silver cuffs on her wrists. None of it seemed real. Maybe that`s why I didn’t run out into the parking lot and turn myself in. I was actually about to, but something stopped me, and I couldn’t bring myself to try and lie for her, or try and blame the boys. So, instead, I let hollow pit of my stomach cave in on itself. I just let my toes sink deeper into the muddy dreck, wishing the thick roots of the oak tree I hid behind would rise up through the dirt, wrap themselves around my ankles, and pull me down until I disappeared completely.

Liam Nadire, Hurricane Sandy

Chiharu Kawai, Filled With Emptiness

Insomnia

Amy Curry, A Story to be Told

Mary Kraynak Days pass slowly but nights pass even slower. As the sun descends and the night continues forward like a clock, heads lay down but thoughts come up. Time forces daylight to fade almost as fast as our dreams of maybe, someday, finding something more. But now I only remember you as a reverie. As for me? Remember me as a time of day. 26

25 On Ice Rebecca Bertuch

Amy Curry, Behind the Beauty

With an indignant chin stuck out at higher consciousness you take a look around. Unsatisfied with just one drink you chug another down. You knew this would go quicker if you could get it off your chest, but pesky vowels are clinging to the enamel of your teeth. I watch you squirm. I knew you would miss me. “You`re oxy clean for a bad conscience.” Did you write that in advance? You never adored me like you adored a loud place to drink. Still, my etch-a-sketch memory comes back to bite me amnesia venom in its teeth. I forget, the second you`re around, how quickly quicksand kisses can pull me down.

Peter Chu, Concerns

While you troll for money or booze or girls that are barely conscious I`ll still be here, down town. Waiting for you to walk around my house like you never left. Waiting to watch movies with my head on your chest as you knock back a drink. My empty threats have no bite, they don’t even have teeth. When it comes down to it, I`ll choose you over me. You charm her through clenched teeth scanning the room. She looks like me, the one who bought your drink. You try, but can`t numb the icy consciousness this brand of loneliness bestows. Remember, you chose to run away from me. If you`re wondering: the itch you can`t scratch is in your chest cavity. It`s my voice you cant shake. A month from now, you`ll be back around. And you`ll catch me: hook, line, and sinker. I never let you down.

Melissa Flack, Bay

Twenty-Seven Yoolbin Kwon, Cat Mountain

Liam Nadire, Essex Sunrise

Ranald Trevor Adams IV Do you hear it? Just take a moment, and listen to her voice. I do not quite recall when I first heard the sweet voice of my lover. For, you see, it seems to me as if her soft lilt has always been with me and always will. Its gentle strains permeate the air around me, a siren song full of life and joy and just a hint of desperation. I have never loved a single melody more than I have loved the voice that calls to me, even now, as I talk to you. Even now she waits for me in our chamber, the goddess with her heavenly voice, trying to tempt me back to her side. She always had a certain coyness about her, a certain cloying reluctance. She enjoyed the chase, you see. For years she resisted my advances, her falsely anxiety masking the delight with which she rejected me. But I knew she wanted what I had. I knew, and I waited. And every time she rejected me, the most bittersweet sensation evolved; for every time she rejected me, she rejected me with that angelic voice which calls to me, even now. I remember one time that she pushed me away, laughing. I had waited for her, a repentant sinner searching for my goddess. I had waited for her at the garden near where she lived. I had waited for an eternity, watching a loathsome sun slink away in defeat, its glaring rays incapable of shattering my resolve; time would not turn me away. I waited for her to show herself to me, her most devoted servant. The garden, surrounded by its high hedge, was a veritable Eden. It was filled with exotic species of flowers and blooms and bushes and other flora; purples and greens and reds and yellows competed for dominance in an anarchic orgy of color. Hidden away in that garden was my beloved, unspoiled and untouched, and for her I waited by an apple tree outside the garden, perched so as to avoid detection. She knew I was there - I know she did - for why else would she feign surprise when I accosted her upon her appearance? That coy girl, I know her well. I leapt at the opportunity, and she could not reject me. I had picked the perfect opportunity. I backed her into the garden, the sun barely a surrendered glimmer in the west, and professed myself again. Surrounded by the steaming, glistening plants, the scent of fertility on the air, I confronted her. “Come back with me!” I told her, “Come back with me, as I know you want to. There is nothing stopping you – what say you?” I leaned in, my face almost touching hers, our breath mingling in ways that set me afire with longing. “I suppose I co-“ Bianca Scofield, Disfigured

“Good,” I interrupted – I already knew her answer, and couldn’t bear listening to her voice when I needed to focus – and took her as gently as I could by the hand. That there was a slight resistance which I attribute to her anxiety - for all of her coyness, I knew she cared. She, after all, wanted me just as much as I wanted her. That’s why she accepted. That’s why she sings to me, that’s why I must protect her from the world. But I digress. She came back with me to my abode, an edifice on a hill, fronted with cracked marble and Romanesque pilasters. The estate loomed, permanent and stable, a mountain among lesser dwellings. Within lay a sanctuary from the sun’s intensity, a luxurious underground castle built back into the rock; here I brought my lady love, to my labyrinthine lair, which was adorned with many fine oriental silks and marble busts of cultured men. I brought her back, and awe took the words from her lips – for I have no doubt she had never seen such a fine place to live: rich red velvet seats and cushions filled the room I placed her in; fruit in silver bowls, wine in carafes of gold; paintings and books and sculptures. No windows, though, and one door – I cannot abide the sun. In this red room I placed her, and ensured she had all that she needed. After all, she was going to stay with me forever, I had no doubt. I still have no doubt. You see, I know just how jealous men can get, and envious – I’ve seen it happen, you know. So I knew I had to protect her, and that lovely voice of hers. In that red room, buried in the rock beneath the stony edifice, I deposited my love. I took her there, and I took her for she was mine by her own acceptance. All by her own acceptance. All. She said so, in words like honey and ambrosia. So I took her in that room, and I left her in that room, and I locked that one door so no one else could touch her – because I know how envious others get. And I let her sing to me, her tones desperate and pleasing – because she is desperate indeed, to please me, I know. She sings to me through that door, of help for me. And I love her singing. The plaintive tone,

Bianca Scofield, Party Animal

She Wants It

the call for someone – anyone she says, but I know who she wants – to come to her. That song is mine, you see. She gave it to me, it was mine for the taking. She made me wait outside her garden, and rewarded me with her song, and you shall not take it from me. You shall not. She wouldn’t want it – just listen to her.

Liam Nadire, Waiting #17

Memories Katie Dembinski Those memories are still now, Fading relics of a distant time When events were Hot, burning coals, Scorching my soul and shaping my being. The passing of time drew the fire out, Leaving a dark mass where Once the flames of passion danced. But I keep the quiet weights, The foundations that I stand on.

Peter Chu, Untitled 36

Arrangement Rebecca Bertuch Bianca Scofield, Vacation

I`m fine with no attachment. There`s no jealousy with me! Look elsewhere for fulfillment I`m fine alone – no – I mean free. People are so silly, chasing things that won`t love them back. I`m right to think realistically an iron heart is safe from cracks. I`m fine with hotel meet-ups just leave an extra key. Should the staff call me Mrs. I`ll correct them gracefully. That’s right! We made the perfect deal, left our feelings at the door! This arrangement was a great idea. One of my best ones, that’s for sure.

Bianca Scofield, Home

Remember when you loved me? Thankfully, I talked you down. Constructed neat new boundaries, we could never go back now.

Alex B. Schwartz, Simply Love

I`m fine with our arrangement. Possession is passé. Don’t you dare think of chasing me or of buying a bouquet.

Eleanor Hilton

Amy Curry, Red 39

Tammy never noticed anything was wrong. Leaving her warm bed in the morning and walking to the bathroom to brush her teeth, she only thought of herself. She inspected her face in the mirror, checked for any bumps, and rubbed the dry patch of skin that she had been trying to lotion away for weeks. Scrubbing her tongue with her toothbrush, she peered into her green eyes and remarked their beauty. Her boyfriend, Mark, was lucky to have her. What a deep color-how penetrating. Peering over with her nose barely an inch from the mirror, she watched her pupils dilated slightly-back and forth-at her every breath. Spitting out the minty foam, she gazed at her perfectly polished nails and cupped water from the faucet to rinse out her mouth. Standing back, she grabbed her hair tie from the edge of the sink and spent far more than necessary time tying up her hair into a messy bun. Watching her fingers work as she pulled out strands here and there, she smiled. No one could touch her; even if she stepped outside onto the street now, in her pajamas, people would still wish they were her. Finally turning away from the mirror, not noticing the distinct lack of toiletries at the sink, she opened the blinds at the window and stared outside. She watched the people-the ants really-bustling to and from their way to work as she proudly stood high above in her twelfth floor apartment on her day off. It wasn’t really her day off, but every now and then, about once a month, Tammy would take a personal day where she would sleep in and relax. Working in the city was stressful and the weekends were far too short, so she figured she deserved it. She was never alone though. On the days she needed a break, she would always ask Mark to take the day off too, so he could make her breakfast. He never refused. Who would he? The fact that there had been a presentation by her department this morning didn’t bother her; there would be another one another day, for some other ridiculous proposal that would probably never be passed. Leaving the bathroom, she realized that Mark was still in bed. He hadn’t woken up to make her breakfast yet. She considered lying back down and pretending to sleep, perhaps rolling onto him, provoking him to wake so he’d get started on the pancakes. But instead of bothering him in bed, she decided to be nice and go to the kitchen and wait for him there. As she entered, Tammy saw the mess. Last night they had had some friends over for a nice dinner. They stayed rather late, and everyone drank a little too much wine. There were several courses, each filling up their stomachs beyond belief. Then there was the dessert, her baked Alaska which always evokes compliments. Beamingly she had served it, all the while thinking about how good of a cook she was, as Jake said something about getting engaged. Mark was lucky to have her. She also remembered someone turning on some salsa music for a laugh while she and her friend Melanie

pretended to tango around the dining room, wobbling and bumping into furniture, as Robert told Mark the story of how he once almost caught the biggest bass he had ever laid his eyes upon. He tells that story at every party. Mark just listened and nodded, acting surprised as if he’d never heard the tale before when Robert exclaimed how the fish jumped over the little boat. What a sad man Robert was; his crowning achievement was the one time he almost did something. The rest of the evening had been a blur, and thinking about it now, the memories weren’t any clearer. She remembered having coffee being around ten-thirty, but she didn’t fall into bed until at least two, what had happened? She remembered some loud voices, some shouting, maybe some shoving, and a slammed door, but from whom she didn’t know. Was it to do with her? Probably. Everything was. It was all too mixed up and hazy though so she put it out of her mind. No one had called to continue the fight, so all must have been well. Moving past the plates, forks, knives, wine glasses, and plenty of now cold leftover food,

Amy Curry, Dream within a Dream

Pancakes

Tammy started to make a pot of coffee. She pushed aside the cocktail shakers to get to the kettle, not seeing a note as it fell to the floor. Waiting for the water to boil she sat down at the table, drumming her fingers on the polished wood. She was not in a cleaning mood right now. When everything was ready, she poured her cup and set it at the table. Whatever happened to Mark? Perhaps he had gotten ill from all the food the night before. Curious, Tammy walked back to the bedroom and poked the covers. Her finger sank right through to the mattress. Startled, she ripped the covers back, the bed was empty, the sheets cool. No one had been there for hours. Tammy walked faster and faster as she checked every room to see if he was there. She hoped to find him sitting on the sofa with a book, showering in the bathroom, changing in the closet, or eating in the dining room, but everywhere she looked she was still alone. Like a frightened child, she even checked under the table to make sure he wasn’t hiding. Dazed, she slumped down into her chair at the table, staring at the pancake mix she’d set out the night

Ploy Pathawinthranond, Coney Island Pink lace swirls around your pale skin, Metronome background with feet parallel to the sky. Locked out of a Brooklyn Brownstone, Jesus hanging around your neck. Golden curls and spotless toe shoes, Broken, bruised, and subdued.

before for him. It was oatmeal-raisin; she was on a diet and wanted the whole-wheat. Mark was going to take the raisins out of his pancakes because he was allergic. Tammy always thought him strange for that-such a bizarre allergy. Glancing down to the floor, Tammy saw the note she had missed before. Picking it up, she saw it was scribbled in Mark’s hand, as if he had done it in haste. It read, “Dear Tammy, I know it’s wrong to leave you like this, but I’ve had enough. After what you said last night-to me, to everyone-that was the last straw. How could you possibly think that your stupid Baked Alaska recipe is more exciting than Jake getting engaged? And then yelling at us about it? It’s over. I thought I could change you, help you at least, but I was wrong. Why don’t you care about anyone but yourself? I need to find someone who will love me as much as I love her, and as much as it pains me to write this, you’re not that girl. Can’t you see? I do everything for you, but what do I get in return? I get to make you pancakes. So I hope you enjoy them now that you have to make them yourself. Good luck Tammy, Good bye. –Mark” Placing the note on the table, Tammy stood up. She grabbed a mug from the cupboard, the one he gave her as a surprise gift from when he came back from a business trip, and poured coffee into it. What had she given him? Nothing. She placed the mug at the seat next to hers and sat back down as the gravity of the situation and the night before hit her. She added cream and sugar to her drink and was about to do the same to his when she realized she didn’t know how he liked his coffee.

Che Baez

I.C Sarah Cho, Twiggy

Squinting

Melissa Flack, Boat

Generations sat across from each other in a sun filled room. The younger sat at the corner of a wood table, running her fingers over the same letters she had pushed into the table’s surface with the dull side of a fork at age five. Those uneven, unsure letters that forever remained a part of the table had gotten her a request to rise from the same seat she sat in now and leave her grandmother’s golden-brown potatoes to chill untouched at the table while she spent the rest of the night moping in her room. The master behind the potatoes from that night was seated across from her now. Rays of light broke through the windows. Seeming to come from an eternally setting sun, the light danced over the pond that lay just outside and stretched just far enough to spread itself across the wrinkled face of the older other woman. In the light, she squinted. But she was always squinting, not the kind of squint that helps focus a distant, blurry object or the eye-narrowing kind that associates itself with crossed arms, but the kind of squint that comes from a smile too big, and a sun too bright. No, this woman had purposely filled her life with squinting. She was squinting very intensely now as she always did when in the company of her daughter’s daughter. The reasons for her joy were always a mystery to the granddaughter. Pride was one thing, but the way in which this woman smiled was entirely another. She smiled as if she had seen the future, and not only was it very bright but she wasn’t going to disclose a single detail, letting the excitement for all the marvelous things to come bring an ever laughing joy to her eye. “Wonderful,” her eyes said, “Everything is going to be simply wonderful.” The granddaughter turned away from her childhood mistakes to look at her grandmother in quiet awe. The older woman who sat across from her was not just the woman who had raised her mother, but the woman who had tried unsuccessfully to teach her to knit, had sewn various articles of clothing over the course of seventeen years, and had filled her stomach with a number of apple crumbles that was too great to count. Here was the woman who had soothed choking voices on the other side of a telephone and had refused to shake simply for the sake of those who were shaking. Here was the family peace-keeper for a family that never ran out of its need for her. Here was the woman who had looked into her granddaughter’s infant eyes and understood exactly who she was to be. The two generations mirrored each other over the table they had sat at for years. Less than fifteen minutes ago, the girl had walked over to the familiar house, used the golden fish knocker she had waited anxiously for years to be able to reach and had been let in by the stout man she called “Gramps.” The customary smile had been exchanged with the customary hug, and she had been pointed in the direction of the kitchen where the customs were broken when Gramps excused himself to establish a sacred solitude for his wife and granddaughter. The conversation had rolled about from school, to extra-curicular activities, to the rest of the family, and taking a sharp turn to the plane the granddaughter had to catch the next morning, before it came to a screeching halt. The mention of departure snapped the granddaughter’s eyes to the wheels of the unfamiliar wheelchair. Her fingertips sprung away from the indents she left on the table years ago. She swallowed hard. The silence was loud. Their purposeful solitude was louder.

Amy Curry, Essence of Youth

Anabelle Nuelle

“Darling, I’m so proud of you,” the squinting woman said. “Oh, well, thank you,” the granddaughter clumsily said as all the air left the room. “Honestly, you’ve done so well.” “Thank you.” The granddaughter forced a smile and batted away tears from her eyes. “I really appreciate it.” The smile grew bigger. The grandmother squinted more as she stuck out the hand on the side she still had use of, and the granddaughter instantly took it. “You’ll be good to Mummy?” she questioned as the grip grew tighter. “Of course,” the granddaughter replied, while the grip relaxed. “You’d better go then, darling.” The single working arm sprung out to the side for an embrace. The granddaughter stood and leaned over to hug the woman with still perfectly groomed silver hair. Her younger arms wrapped around the slender shoulders. The fresh scent of the various creams she had known for years filled what air the granddaughter could breathe, and she felt the warmth of her grandmother’s head balance next to hers before the embrace tightened and was released. Moving away from the woman whose name for the past month had consistently brought a quiver to her own mother’s telephone voice along with flashing images of hospital beds and concerned doctors, the granddaughter began to stand up. “Have a safe flight. I will see you when you next come back from school,” the grandmother said, her head now turned up at her granddaughter who had moved her gaze upward in an effort to hide her tears. With this remark the granddaughter’s gaze shot back down to meet her grandmother’s. “You will?” the granddaughter accidentally questioned. “I will,” the grandmother said and smiled even brighter at her granddaughter. “You will.” The eternal sun had shifted positions and as the girl straightened fully up, its rays stretched just far enough to spread itself across her face. The granddaughter squinted and smiled as her eyes twinkled with tears.

Home Front Muriel Leung I stand in front of the mirror’s silver ocean. Slowly, I slide open the eyeliner Stroke on deep black lines, slicing out from my tear ducts In the kitchen, my father is fumbling with the microwave It leaks the scent of bananas, burnt leche y miel. I hear my mother’s laughing exclamations of exasperation Outside, I know the handsome boy with his handsome car is waiting. Forcing the fluttering bedroom curtains back, I can see his blank face already overseas. His leather jacket makes a black halo in the lantern’s faltering light. Forcing the front door open, later, I notice the light falling harshly in his eyes. Forcing myself down the steps, his cheeks become gaunt.

Bianca Scofield, Milkshake Bar

From behind him, he awkwardly produces his white navy cap, like a bouquet of lilies. His arms reach out, place it on my head. Miss me, all right. There is no question hovering on right, No hopeful eyes searching mine for a promise. Looking away, he holds the door open for me. When it slams, its echo is loud and doesn’t go away.

Thomas Aiello, Main Street

Ji Young Byun, Girl with Pearl Earring

Bianca Scofield, Four Horsemen

Linda Zuo, Censorship

FOURTY -SIX

Mikaela Liotta, Great Music

Mikaela Liotta, Klotter Mikaela Liotta, Felicity Hatcher

Mikaela Liotta, Her Hair 51

FIFTY ONE

Ji Young Byun, City

Ella Wilson, Invisible Studying

Ji Young Byun, Bubble

Amy Curry, Fading

Four Years Kelly Masotta

Liam Nadire, Waiting #5

The first day was not fast; The hours dragged, the full twenty-four. We unloaded our boxes into The rooms which have been used and reused for years. Our familiar families left for home and said goodbye And we had nowhere, but everywhere to go. Our parents would ask, «where did the time go? But we were just beginning and we wanted to begin fast. It was time for us to make mistakes by the hand fold; we did not worry what was for the worst or what was for the best. We had four years to go and thought we had nothing to hold onto. Falling asleep atop Shakespeare sonnets and scientific calculations as late as 2:32 became a natural part of life. Waking up, sleep deprived, to the sight of Mount Algo became inevitable. We developed a new type of stamina over the years because we could not give up procrastination. Time went by fast so we snuck across the hall at night to talk about boys and make up for lost time spent doing the same thing. How did we ever manage to get by? Our massive herd began to shrink little by little; but then it multiplied with our new friends. Still, it is only we who know too much about each other. But it is a lovely knowledge we should never trade for the exchange of any memory, good or bad. It is okay to go back and remember our awkward adolescence. Remember the fast changes, the rumors, the fights, and the smiles during those first few years. Still, continue to look ahead; there are no more years for us to waste. We have made it to the head of the pride by being us. Do we all agree that it never felt so fast? We thought we would be here forever and we never had to Worry about the end. We cannot go Back. The memories are what we now live for. Four Years Go By Too Fast. When we are dressed in flowered headbands and white suits, standing side by side, we might not think we are ready to go because the four years we have grown here will seem so fast and small.

Sarah Cho, Rainy NYC

THE CAULDRON 2013 Editor-in-Chief: Art Editors:

Katie Dembinski ‘13 Hye Ryeong Michelle Bae ‘14

Bianca Scofield ‘13 Literary Editors:

Bilan DeDonato ‘14

Jaewon Grace Yoo ‘15 Faculty Advisors:

Adam R. Levine

John Hinman 59

Staff: Tiffany Ang ‘13 Rebecca Bertuch ‘13 Toni Bowden ‘14 Amy Curry ‘13 Krystyn Gutu ‘15 Muriel Leung ‘15 Jessica Li ‘15

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 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.

Robert Roth ‘14