The Cauldron
“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.”
So said Mrs. Alberta Saffell Bell on the occasion of establishing the Alberta and C. Gordon Bell ’50 Memorial Endowment of The Cauldron in honor of her late husband. C.Gordon Bell often stated, “All writing is the sound of one voice speaking, and all writing can be heard.” As a writer, journalist, and publisher, he committed his time and energy to helping others fulfill their dreams of writing and of keeping their voices alive. The endowment is intended to insure a medium of expression for Kent School’s student writersandartiststhrough The Cauldron.Inestablishing 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 familyowned newspaper for over a century. Mrs. Bell is currently managing editor of The Gardner News. 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 pastandhercurrentlovingcommitmentto The Cauldron.
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR(S)
Dear Reader,
This year’s issue of The Cauldron was inspired by the people who made us. For generations, The Cauldron has been a space where ideas, voices, and creative expression come together within the Kent community. This year, we wanted to celebrate the individuals whose stories, memories, and perspectives make our community unique.
This year’s publication highlights the lived experiences of members of our community through art, literature, and design. Visually, this issue embraces a cleaner and more cohesive approach to layout and composition, creating space for each piece to stand on its own while inviting readers to fully engage with the work.
We hope these pages encourage reflection, connection, and appreciation for the creativity that surrounds us every day. Thank you to every writer, artist, designer, and editor who made this year’s Cauldron possible.
Sincerely,
Harold (Harry) Wan and Grace Chen Editors-in-Chief
CONTENTS
“Untitled I & II” — Jayda Wang .................................. 8
“Endo” — Dionne Burnett............................................ 9
“As You Bloom in Midsummer” — Yushen Yang ........... 10
“Peace in Nature’s Gaze” — Selina Zhang .................. 12
“Restoration” — Rachel Kauer .................................... 13
“Swift Goes the Breath of Death” — Ella Sun ............... 14
“My Dream My Home” — Ella Sun ............................. 15
“Eternal” — Ella Sun .................................................. 16
“Untitled” — Mari Summers .........................................17
“Untitled” — Tasha Leung.............................................18
“The Day After You Take Your Life” — Serena Huang ... 19
“Film Photography Series”—Jayda Wang.....................20
“Art Series” — Alex van Dyke..................................... 22
“Dad” — Taylor Hennessey ........................................ 24
“Untitled” — Jayda Wang ......................................... 25
“My Blessed Sacrament” — Logan McInnis ................. 26
“Take a Bite” — Jayda Wang .................................... 29
“Assistance at Grand Central” — Sjeord Kelderman......30
“Untitled” — Charlie Tscheppe ....................................32
“Art Series II” — Alex van Dyke ..................................34
“Untitled”— Grace Chen ............................................36
“A Letter I Wish I Could Send” — Annika Hohn.............38
“Untitled”— Adriana Malik ........................................ 38
“Untitled”— Elva Hu....................................................39
“Blue Period” — Yushen Yang ......................................41
“Fog” & “Dawn” Photography — Jayda Wang .............41
“A Letter I Wrote for Myself” — Annika Hohn................43
“The Painter” — Anonymous........................................44
“Untitled Works” — Jilly Avancena...............................45
“Maya’s Room” — Zoe Karafotas ............................... 47
“Seesaw” — Judith Huang ..........................................49
“Art Series” — Julie Jeong ...........................................50
“DON’T FORGET TO SMILE!” — Grace Chen ..............52
“Untitled Series” — Elva Hu .........................................54
PEOPLE
Grace Chen
Harry Wan
Alex van Dyke
Jilly Avanceña
Jayda Wang
Ainsley Dreyer
Hazel Stone
Taylor Hennessey Emma Sun Ella Sun
Norah Zhao
Jayda Wang 1,2
1. Untitled
Endo
by Dionne Burnett
The cold tile bathroom floor. One window next to the shower, two sinks, and a door. It was small, there was no mattress, but many nights I slept there and even grew up there. Since the age of nine, I have spent much of my time there. While my classmates were learning in classrooms, I taught myself through watching lessons online and emailing to keep up with assignments. This was also my mother’s story, who wasn't diagnosed until her late twenties. Chronic illness. A bathroom that once confined me has now opened a path towards a field that I am passionate about.
Tree by Jayda Wang
As You Bloom in Midsummer
If you would only touch them, A flower bud of early spring
Would smile with all the beauty Of the world
And I followed quietly after, Sitting on the bench beside you, there At the countryside bus stop
But the last bus has finally arrived. And it’s over for the two of us
At that bus stop, to which you always go, You held your bottle of cider
Between two fingers as you always did
And though I was too scared
To even glance your way
My heart shivered You looked so beautiful.
And I, an artist with no talent to date, Sat sketching the distant scenery.
But when I finally
Worked up the courage to look your way You had already disappeared
With that bus
Drawing, drawing, and drawing, I finally captured it
My jealousy
My anger
Things I had long wished to forget.
When you stood up
Even the clouds would blush
In a million shades of the setting sun
As they float away
If you were here with me, There’s not even a single moment of boredom
That I could imagine.
But I have to bid that boisterous summer
I spent with you goodbye
As I check again for your nonexistent reply.
One night
You were standing by the old dirt road
With a crumpled bouquet Of red cattleya orchids
As the rain fell at your feet.
And I saw.
The tears that you shed
Traced down your face, Trickling away to give life to the evening rain
But
Even though you were crying, I could do nothing
But keep my hand moving, Gripping that old graphite pencil
Without saying a word
Just kept drawing that beautiful
Broken visage of yours
Without saying a word
by Yushen Yang
That night, After vomiting and vomiting, What I finally understood My pain, My emptiness Made me feel like Just such a fool.
Even now, I regret it, Though I was so glad to throw away All the love we had lacked Even so, I’m not so mature And not yet an adult That I can just shrug And laugh And say I was glad in the end.
When you board that familiar bus today, There’ll be no place left for me Next to you, Not even in the gaps Between the seats.
It is only the image of you next to me At that bus stop That keeps piling up
Those distant summer days stir in my mind, And I just want to capture your smile
If I could gather the courage to say something, In the evening rain, to you who was crying so silently, One more time, If I could go back to that summer.
You’re crying in the rain, and I Want to know the reason why you couldn’t stop
“Was it teardrops or just the midsummer rain on your cheeks?”
I go up to you and ask
If I could only reach out to you And share with you an embrace Perhaps this could all have been changed Instead, I simply smiled With reddening cheeks that I tried to hide, As the final bus took you far away
photographs by Grace Chen; designs by Adriana Malik
S e l i n a Z h a n g
Restoration
By Rachel Kauer
I see rolling fields and pastures where the land is “tended” for utility. Pretty, isn’t it?
Against the backdrop of the cosmopolitan giants. I visit manicured gardens and orderly hedgerows, cultivated— an order other than what nature wrought. Stunning, the reviews say. I want wild, where wandering trespasses the borders of the known— where my breath is absorbed by the sky, and I am rooted to the earth once more.
I want to be unbound: beauty fierce, unapologetic, undaunted by anyone’s opinion— to shed the gravity we were born to and be grounded by what still calls to us. Where there is life in stillness. Where nothing is asked of me. Where I may be alone and yet surrounded, supported, uplifted— transported to somewhere greater. To a place where I don’t feel small - but infinite. Restored by the forest.
Sjeord Kelderman, Bridge Street in the Snow
Swift goes the breath of death
by Ella Sun
Swift goes the breath Of death
Which lasts a lifetime
Quick as an eye blinking
Dropping ink
Smudges the paper forever
Over and over and over
Yet not forever
As it all burns away in the end
And the children would ask Their last
Of running away on a wheel
That spins backwards Fast forward
A million years to be drowned
All that which is left
In gentle caress Is an absence in the earth
So even that embrace Lovely grace
Will pass and be gone in the wind.
1. My Dream, My Home
Eternal
by Ella Sun
The snowflakes closest to me fell gently, like petals from a blossom on a windless day.
But when I looked further out, the wind had pushed the snow in every direction, and they became manic.
Soon enough, the snowflakes in the distance collided with the snowflakes in front of me, and they flew up too.
In the end, they were no longer petals on a spring day, but white sand that would scratch your cheeks and blind your eyes.
Eternal as it seemed, nothing was and will be.
Jayda Wang, Photography
Mari Summers
Tasha Leung 1,2
1. untitled
The Day After You Take Your Life
h A er ou ak You e
By Serena Huang
Ser Hua g
Contains sensitive topic; please read with caution
onta ns nsi e p c; e e r w h t o
he d y a t r yo t e fe
e e b to qu e
The day after you take your life the house will be too quiet, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.
i t w s th m e v s
di g t r b ath.
he wor wi l wa e l o so c su ht
r mn n wi l sca t r hrough t e r om,
he ha lway ,
al ways y u nce t ave d
s n nl n ivi g m o ies
t e ragi fi men s o im gina n.
he da af r ou t k r l e
r aps y u wond f ared
erha s y u ’ l t k tha sacri c g y ur
n ex han r th i l e ing sympath
ill pr ve ma t ed e ugh
ut wh f y di ?
all en o e
ou b f ie d,
he ho uld hav o e anyth n s v yo
s wi u nd e y yo r s d
a ki g u til e n g t ky c are .
o r m he ,
he o an h ca r y or n o hs, uild ng u hear c ll
o d c , nly t el hatte
n t e li k o e e
an s stance a o d ice
erc less y ur n despair
The world will wake to the loss of a source of sunlight. Your remnants will scatter through the room, the hallways, and the walkways you once traveled— existing only in surviving memories and the fragile figments of imagination. The day after you take your life perhaps you’ll wonder if they ever cared Perhaps you’ll think that by sacrificing your soul in exchange for their fleeting sympathy will prove you mattered enough. But what if they did? If not all, then some your best friend, the one who would have done anything to save you, just to sit with you and be by your side, talking until the night sky cleared. Your mother, the woman who carried you for nine months, building your heart cell by cell through pain and care, only to feel it shatter in the blink of an eye with tools and substance as cold as ice, as merciless as your own despair. And the girl you once were,
h l o o e re,
h g he fl r ager
e wo w l ou wo ,
t l yo ea er e g ,
nd o h y c m le g h r.
the girl in her flower dress, eager to grow into the person you are now. She would walk beside you into the world, until you lead her to the edge, and both of you crumble together.
r yo tak ur
The day after you take your life your school will receive a notice so cold they don’t have time to feel its sadness.
ho l wi l c i i
co d ey d ’ t me o ee i s s dn s nd e c er on ask
o anted o o d n e i gin
he gi wan e t o
And the teacher who once asked who you wanted to be would never have imagined that the girl who wanted to be a hero never got to see the world she dreamed of saving.
ev r e th w l a ed o sav . da er ou ta yo f ,
t n th s m .
The day after you take your life, nothing will be the same.
o choi e
ore wri y m un ain o e t
nd p e f n l ll s op o yo r s y em mbe i
So before you make that choice before you write your mountain of letters and place the final full stop on your story, remember this:
The chair will stay empty
e c ai wi sta e pt
o fa ori ug wil w t t o ust ettling here our hand sh ld
r a il be w pe
n f lled lau hter.
d at ow th ars e ch
h re a a s e holl w h w a x ly k yo .
Your favorite mug will wait in the cupboard, dust settling where your hands should be. Your name will become a whisper in rooms you once filled with laughter. And no matter how far the years stretch, there will always be a hollow in the world shaped exactly like you.
Jayda Wang
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
1.“Stare” - Paris
2.“Break” - Paris
3.“Crossing Period” - Tokyo
4.“Smile” - Lisboa
5.“Seaside” - Lisboa 6.“Beach” - Lisboa
7.“Sky Line” - Lisboa
Alex van
Dyke
1. Fall Short
2. The Knife Twists
3. A Perfect Place to Start
Dad
By Taylor Hennessey
At school on a late Thursday night, I tend to have an ache in my core.
I haven’t seen him tip his Kent baseball hat at me in awhile. We haven’t had our nights when my mom was out of town, Watching a movie that he let me pick, And eating Cold Stone ice cream, his favorite.
I haven’t been to Barnes and Noble in a while, Picking out a National Geographic book and a stuffed animal To shield from my mother’s eyes when I bolt up the stairs.
I haven’t watched Phineas and Ferb in a while, After he got home from the midnight shift, and stayed up with his coffee cup
That I got him from the Christmas Shop at school.
I haven’t had a dance recital or a swim meet in a while. I haven’t looked in the crowd of smiling parents to see his grin, And his eyebrows as high as they can go, beaming to see his little girl.
Jayda Wang 1,2
1. untitled
M y B l e s s e d S a c r a m e n t
Tapping, the rubber soles of shoes patted the ground rhythmically as we children gathered in a straight line. It was an ensemble of plaid jumpers, skirts, and khakis trodding upon a salted blacktop with small breaths dissolving in the cold air. Limestone buildings encapsulated our familiar playground, framed by gothic moldings outlining the classrooms and contrasting against the white winter sky. As we walked, soon passed the leaning evergreens that rested on the side of the church, their comforting scent suggestive of the upcoming holiday. Warmth drew me underneath the carved stone arch with the soft sound of an organ, ushering me from a distance. Before entering this most blessed room, I daily did as Mrs. Malloy said. Taking my wrists to cross both arms on my chest, she consequently also checked that I did not scribble any colors onto my nails, for that would be sinful. This reminder to cross my limbs was frequented by the adults, yet they never said that to any other uniform-bearing child, only I.
Then there were hundreds of heads, seated silently, and then I. The tops of these tens of heads glowed underneath the ornate lanterns, blurred into one crowded congregation. In waiting, the routine prolonged hushing of children lingered in the air with the rich smog of incense. This smell always comforted me in an indescribable way, as if my mother's perfume passed beside me when I least expected her. Seated, looking down and to my right, identical small pants and skirts alternated down the row, playful gestures and movement halting when bookended by a robed teacher. Then, looking up, craftsmanship created wood carved and pieced into more wood; a plethora of designs and etchings that watched all who entered this place. Around me, not one person had a certain look on their face, just a continuing gaze onward; sometimes the teacher showed a glint of sorrow, or maybe it was hope; it was never truly known in this place. With the wave of bodies standing, we were called to peel the pages of our hymnals open and sing thoughtfully.
Erupting, the organ hummed. Its tubes stretching from the soaring ceiling down to its pedals. The noise rang over us children singing in a symphony of stillness, reading carefully and tracing each verse with the tip of our innocent index finger. From my seat, the altar seemed a mile away, yet the glowing tabernacle seemed to be in reach, You are not to touch it though, said always by Father DiSilva. The hymn concluded, the ending of song was followed by shuffling and shutting of books. I then wonder who slammed theirs; we were frequently reminded God wouldn't be too pleased with that noise. Around me, heads bowed and hands folded, interlinking each digit between the other into a poised yet relaxed position. Faces drooped deep into a soft, striking state. I mimicked the atholic choreography, aware of my movements like most children were; half learning, half performing. As an Episcopalian child at a atholic school, I never noticed any difference in our daily mass compared to my family's Sunday mass. All my prayers blended into a single state of being, where I never thought belief had to follow a specific doctrine, only an attention to the utter beauty of it all.
Standing, the pews of people poured onto the aisle. Many looked down, most sights of steps focused on the ones in front of them, yet the rare person would look onward at the various charms of the altar; the gleam of the silver chalice, the gentle hand that held it forward for drinking. I was invariably drawn to the stained glass windows, where within each pane winter light fractured into vivid colors of ruby, amber, and magenta. Each pane caught the sun in a different way, painting the floor as the light shifted, making me wonder if the church breathed and the windows were the opening to its soul. I wondered how long they had sat in the walls, and how long it took for hands to craft them centuries ago. I felt, though I could not name it that this was a place of awe.
y L o g a n M c I n n i s
Approaching communion, I rose with my row, arms crossed over my chest, just as I entered this place today and every day. I knew myself to be set apart, an Episcopalian partaking in a atholic ritual, I moved forward nonetheless. Ahead of me, children quietly approached the altar with palms pressed together. I stepped nervously, watching those in front of me who seemed to so easily go through this act. With nervousness, my deep breaths accompanied the organ, fiddling, itching, and roaring, as I inched up in the queue. Then, I was there. As I bent my head down in reverence, I noticed Father DiSilvas violet robe draped onto the floor. I felt the motion of his blessing wave over my head, his Latin words unbeknownst to me, yet somehow extremely touching. I replied with an ‘Amen,’ and followed those before me back to the pew who were carefully chewing their communion. I didn't have the sweet taste of red wine lingering or the physical feeling of sacrament dissolving on my tongue, yet somehow I felt surprisingly full.
Jayda Wang, Untitled
a n g
J a y d a
Sjoerd Kelderman
1. Assistance at Grand Central
Untitled
by Charlie Tscheppe
My fan drones on, a consistent buzzing that is very rarely turned off. It pulls the cool air from outside into my room, and my blanket almost isn’t enough to combat it. The fan is the only thing that breaks the otherwise silent room. After hours of this peace, my alarm blares. Immediately, I am awake and fumbling around my bed for my phone to silence the deafening noise. After what feels like forever listening to this sound, I find it under my pillow and can finally end it. As my heart rate settles from this ordeal, I feel the cold with the absence of my blanket and climb out of bed, trying to find clothes. I stumble on my cluttered floor, accidentally kicking my chair and slipping on the laundry I picked up days ago and keep forgetting to put away. I use my phone’s dim home screen as a flashlight, searching through the papers on my desk to find my card and my glasses.
The night before this, like every other night, I showered and began my homework well before study hall even started. On a busier night of work, I will sit at my desk in the dark, playing music quietly off my speaker. Once, I made the mistake of playing it too loud, and Mrs. G, with her door open, threatened to take it away. If I were studying for a test, I would have that off, too, but tonight I just had regular work to do. I blow through everything, finishing my work before 9 P.M. even hits. After I check in, brush my teeth, and change, I am in bed and going to sleep.
This morning is no different than any other, and as soon as I open the door to leave the dorm, the even colder air hits me hard. I zip my jacket and put my hands in my pockets. My own breathing is the only noise this early in the morning. I slowly walk down the steps, and I walk carefully to avoid the nearly invisible ice on the path. Some days, I will pass a security guard or another faculty member, likely some of the only other people up this early. My card beeps as the scanner next to the boathouse door lights up a faint green, and I pull the door open.
Often, it is very hot on the first floor of the boathouse, and this immediately makes it more comfortable than it is outside. I flick the lights on, illuminating the dark of the hallway, and then the stairs. I continue walking in, through the second door and then into the hallway leading up to the erg room. I look around at the walls as I walk, every step showing me a new newspaper article or old framed photo of Kent crews from almost a century ago. I climb the stairs, on my way up tapping the KSBC crest, and enter the erg room.
About an hour later, I am finished and showered, leaving the boathouse again. As I step outside, my first breath of the cold winter air refreshes me. My feet crunch the salt on the path as I walk back towards the main side of campus. I feel more aware of my surroundings once I erg, more alert and awake. I look up at Mt. Algo, the sun only shining on the top, melting the little bit of snow remaining on the ground. The wind harshly blows, stinging my face and making the temperature feel freezing. I speed up my walk, hurrying to the dining hall to begin my day.
Alex van Dyke 1,2,3,4
Venus the Lonely
satisfaction
3. Can we get ears over here?
2. Don’t give Avery the
4. The Passionate Lovers
Grace Chen, untitled
Adriana Malik
2.
Letter I Wish I Could Send
A letter I wish I could send
To the moments, and to the person I truly miss,
Those summers we packed up your old white minivan, filled with the big frames, and little prints,
The trunk so full we barely fit,
Squished on the worn-out grey seats in the back, between the beaches of Martha's Vineyard and Cape Cod,
Hours of hanging in the summer heat, Your voice so gentle, as you shooed us away
To walk the gravel streets of the small beach town,
Wandering through the rows of tall white tents, Where time had no meaning, and the streets no end, A grin always spread across my red chubby cheeks
Annika Hohn
Looking for your yellow ponytail and long button-down
Among the crowds of strangers who stopped and looked, But barely bought,
I spent every summer in your tent, filled with canvases that teleported me to distant worlds, Crashing waters, and rocky coasts
You taught me how to see the world
Through the colors on a palette, and the strokes of a brush
Now I see art in everything, just like I know you did.
Elva Hu 1,2
1. Untitled
Blue Period
by Yushen Yang
The clock had finally cried,
So I opened up my eyes.
Even when I caught a cold that time, It all seems like a lie.
Though I want to go out, ah, the forecast Says it will rain now. The dawn isn’t coming, And so I won’t be going.
Thirsting and wanting…
Feeling an ache in the depths of my heart—
My humanity is really Just in my way.
I raise my head And cry
Because of our hasty, too-fast “goodbye.”
If someday, the dawn finally comes…
Please, wake up already, hey, look, You’re only awake here within my mind—
But I’ve had to see that sight of you
Far too many times.
Kyoto, Jayda Wang
“Fog” - Vancouver, Jayda Wang
I suppose it’s well-timed, Getting out the umbrella I had bought to try To go out that day.
But I had thrown my shoes away, And there is absolutely no way I could ever find the courage
To bear my bare feet outside.
I guess I don’t care much about you…
But just what can I as myself do…
For days, I’ve forgotten to eat.
Maybe today, I’ll go outside
When there’s no rain.
But I don’t want to see any souls when I leave.
With this crawling pace in mind,
I’ll swim through each day
One at a time.
And if my fingertips could finally reach your face… Please, wake up already, hey, look, Because even if I forget this, too, I’ll still always remember the half-asleep you.
In front of the hill, You’re right before me, Saying, “It’s been such a long time.”
You grin as you move So close to me as you laugh, “Well, let’s go already. Just us two.”
We take off
Below the barn in the north of Lapland, Stumbling across the red brick streets of Gamla Stan, But the summer grass Was as always in our way…
With this racing pace in mind, I’ll swim through each day
One at a time.
And if my hand could finally feel you… Please, wake up already, hey, look, At the me who has long forgotten The slumbering image of you.
II raise my head
And cry
Because of our perpetual, unending “goodbyes.” When today, the dawn finally comes…
Please, leave me already, hey, look You’re only sleeping here within my mind—
And I never want to see that sight
Of you
Which I’ve seen far too many times.
Jayda Wang - Film Photography - Lisbon
The Painter
by Anonymous
Walking back from practice, facing the tunnel, Bracing the frigid late autumn air, The grass to the right reads MW and SCT. A question that poisons my mind is When will the painter not refresh the grass. When will we forget who those letters stand for. When will we not remember those who touched our lives, When they cannot touch anymore.
Jilly Avancena
1. Untitled
2. Untitled
Maya’s Room
by Zoe Karafotas
Together in the darkness of the night Whispers and laughs are hidden It's tradition– every time The house gets full We are “stuck” together–But everything feels just right Reconnecting from our time away Feeling behind– needing a replay Separated– I feel a part of me Missing. But here I am Back from the beginning Little kids again– I want to be back You and I– and those holiday nights.
Seesaw
by Judith Huang
I look into her Tired, weighted eyes, Saggy and tilted Like heavy curtains drawn, Solemn pools of muted grey and brown.
Holding my breath, I step forward Onto the red seesaw.
My mother used to take me to the cement structures Of our local playground.
The sand box was where I tried my first cake pop, The white coating cracking from my half-toothed bites, Shards of broken chocolate falling in her palms. Disappointment — I thought it would be coconut-flavored.
The grey bridge was where I had suffered my first injury. Snapping my head back, squealing as a grubby hand grabbed out to tag my armTHUMP
My forehead had collided into the bottom of the bridge. Pure agony.
At the seesaw, my mother and I would both sit at opposite edges. Pushing off the ground with the soles of her feet, We would rise and fall Up And down Up And down And up
Resting every so often. Slanted
My end in the air Her end near the dirt, I wished for
Balance.
Our seesaw is Parallel to the ground. No squeak. No slant.
Finally still, a steady line, Legs dangling off Each side of the beam.
Despite seeming worn out, weary, She smiles, The faint glimmer in the depths of her eyes, Cheeks rosy, Sentimental.
Her gray hairs are peeking out again. Instead of curling up in the stained bathtub Giggling as she paints at the tips of your hair with cold pink dye, Disapprovingly, but in admiration of her work, This time It’s me.
I must put on the plastic gloves, Mix the chunks out of the creamy chestnut dye, Hovering above her, Lather it all over Under And between her short bob. No gray strands remain.
Fourteen years, A childhood long-gone but existing, Always within.
Parallel to each other, Swinging back and forth, We are now Equals.
Julie Jeong 1,2,3,4
1. Blue hour
2. In your fridge
3. Life’s limitations
4. Untitled
DON’T FORGET TO SMILE!
Grace Chen
1,2,3
Elva Hu
1. Untitled
2. Untitled
3. Untitled
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone who made this magazine possible. Special thanks to Mrs. Summers, our faculty advisors for always being available to help with every step of the process. Thank you to the Kent community for submitting their beautiful work and the Art and English Departments that encourage them to do so. Finally, thank you, the reader for spending time with your nose and mind burrowed in the The Cauldron.