Kent Cauldron 2026

The Cauldron Issue 2026 3 3

“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 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

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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 past and her current loving commitment to 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

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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 6

PEOPLE Grace Chen

Jayda Wang

Harry Wan

Alex van Dyke

Jilly Avanceña

Norah Zhao

Ainsley Dreyer

Hazel Stone

Taylor Hennessey

Ella Sun

Emma Sun

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Jayda Wang

1,2

1. Untitled

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2. 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.

9 Tree by Jayda Wang 9

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.

But when I finally Worked up the courage to look your way You had already disappeared With that bus.

And I followed quietly after, Sitting ng on on the the bench beside you, you, there there At the countryside bus stop.

Drawing, drawing, and drawing, I finally captured it— My jealousy My anger— Things I had long wished to forget.

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 An ough I was too scared scare To even glance your way My heart shivered.

You Yo u looked looked so beautiful. beautiful.

And I, an artist with no talent to date, Sat sketching the distant scenery.

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When you stood up Even the clouds would blush In a million shades of the setting sun As they float away.

If you ou were here with me, There’s not even a single moment of boredom That Th at I could could imagine.

But I have to bid that at boisterous 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 The Trace Tra ced d down your your face, 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 at old old graphite graphite pencil Without saying a word.

Just kept drawing that beautiful Broke ken n visage of of yours yours Without out saying a word. 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 th the e love we had lacked. 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.

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 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.

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 reason why you couldn’t stop.

When you board that familiar bus today, “Was it teardrops or just the midsummer rain There’ll be no place left for me on your cheeks?”

Next to to you, I go up to you and ask.

Not even ven in the the gaps Between the seats.

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photographs by Grace Chen; designs by Adriana Malik

Selina Zhang 1212

Peace in P i Nature’s N ’ Gaze 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

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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 the earth earth So even ven that that embra embrace ce Lovely grace Will pass and be gone in the wind.

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1. My Dream, My Home

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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.

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“Holy” - Jayda Wang, Photography

Eternal as it seemed, nothing was and will be.

Mari Summers

1. untitled

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Tasha 1,2 Leung

1. untitled

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2. untitled

The Day After You Take Your Life

By Serena Huang

Contains sensitive topic; please read with caution

The day after you take your life the house will be too quiet, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.

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 cold as ice, ice ass merciless merciless as your your own own despair.

And the girl you once were,

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.

The day after you take your life your school will receive a notice so cold they don’t have time to feel its sadness.

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.

The day after you take your life, nothing will be the same.

So before you make that choice— before you write your our mountain of of letters letters and place the final full stop on your story, remember this: The chair will stay empty.

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 er how far the the years years stretch, stretch, there will always be a hollow there hollow in the the world shaped exactly like you.

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Jayda Wang

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

3.“Crossing Period” - Tokyo

1.“Stare” - Paris

4.“Smile” - Lisboa

2.“Break” - Paris 20 20

5.“Seaside” - Lisboa

7.“Sky Line” - Lisboa 6.“Beach” - Lisboa

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Alex van 1,2,3 Dyke

1. Fall Short

2. The Knife Twists

3. A Perfect Place to Start

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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.

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Jayda 1,2 Wang

1. untitled

2. untitled

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My Blessed Sacrament 2626

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.

Standing, the pews of people poured onto 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 wi nter light light fra fracture ctured d into into vivid vivid color colorss of of ruby, ruby, amb amber, er, and magenta. genta. Each Each pane caught 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 ow long long it it took took for for hands hands to to cra craft ft them them centuries centuries ago. ago. I felt elt,, though though I could not name it that this was a place of awe.

by Logan McInnis

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 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 Catholic choreography, aware of my movements like most children were; half learning, half performing. As an Episcopalian child at a Catholic 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.

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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 Catholic 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 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

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Take a bite

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Jayda Wang

Sjoerd Kelderman

1. Assistance at Grand Central

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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 morn This morning ing is is no no differe different nt than than any any oth other, er, and ass soon soon as as I open the e door door to to leave leave the dorm, the even colder air hits me hard. I zip my jacket and put my hands hands in my pockets. ts. My own breath athing ing is is the the only only noise noise this this early early in in the the morn morning. ing. I slowlyy walk 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.

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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 e hall hallwa wayy leadi leading ng up up to to the the erg erg ro room. om. I look ook around und at at the the wall wallss as as I wa walk lk, le or old framed photo of Kent crews every step showing me a new newspaper article 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 rroundings once I erg, more alert and awake. I look up at Mt. Algo, the sun only surroundings su 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.

by Tasha Leung

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Alex van 1,2,3,4 Dyke

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1. Venus the Lonely

3. Can we get ears over here?

4. The Passionate Lovers 2. Don’t give Avery the satisfaction

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Grace Chen, untitled

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1. untitltled ed

Adriana 1 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 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

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Annika 2 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 shing waters, and rocky rocky co coasts. asts.

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 every everyth thing, ing, just like I know you did.

Elva 1,2 Hu

1. Untitled

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2. Untitled

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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.

“Fog” - Vancouver, Jayda Wang

I suppose it’s well-timed, Getting out the umbrella I had bought to try To go out that day.

“Dawn” - Kyoto, Jayda Wang

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.

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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.

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.

In front of the hill, You’re right before me, Saying, “It’s been such a long time.”

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.

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…

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Jayda Wang - Film Photography - Lisbon

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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.

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Jilly Avancena 1,2

1. Untitled

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2. Untitled

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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 e kids again– I want to be back You and I– and those holiday nights.

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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

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*** 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.

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Julie Jeong

1,2,3,4

2. In your fridge

1. Blue hour

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3. Life’s limitations

4. Untitled

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DON’T FORGET TO SMILE!

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Grace Chen

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1. Untitled

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2. Untitled

Elva 1,2,3 Hu

3. Untitled

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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.

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