Student talent unveiled in the Cauldron’s 2014 edition

Untitled - By Allison Hammerly

Metropolis - Gabrielle Montesanti

Dreaming - Jessica Walters

The literary magazine showcases 50 pieces of creative writing and artwork

By Sarah Wallace

The magazine gives out two awards to deserving pieces each year: The Divine Crow Award and the Stephanie Vibbert Award. Senior Dorraine Duncan’s poem, entitled “You go a fariin go bruk out,” received both the Divine Crow Award, as well as the Stephanie Vibbert Award, a first in K history.

Editors-in-Chief Jane Huffman ’15 and David Landskroener ’14 structured the poems and artworks around a theme of trauma and transitioning, displayed by the loose ordering of the book by the seasons. The preface of “The Cauldron” leads its readers into their vision:

“This year’s book is full of self-reflective and fearless writing and art about times of trauma and transition, about things lost and things learned. The book examines the power and importance of both memory and prophecy, and often teeters in between the unforgiving spaces of both past and present. [The writers and artists’] sophisticated work reminds us that even in a desolate world, art has the power to deliver truth.”

Followed are excerpts from this year’s collection of student submitted artwork and poetry.

The Plague Doctor

David Landskroener


Dr. William Drake performed an autopsy in 1969 on Robert Rayford, an American teenager from Missouri who had the earliest confirmed case of HIV/AIDS in North America.


Sometimes in the cleanest chambers

speckles appear on white-cell floors.


Sometimes you prostitute yourself

to find the pleasure of outbreak.


Sometimes in New York and LA

the coffins are from Missouri.


Sometimes a third of Europe dies

and sometimes a third of queers die.


Sometimes the hopelessness of love

manifests itself as lesions.


One time a doctor stared ahead

a plague reflected in his eyes.




Last Spring

Madeline Weisner


This is what our days are like–

broken washer, backdoor unlocked,

windows open. Wind chimes. On Saturday

all four of us are asleep at noon, with

bedroom doors ajar.

Music plays.

Tonight we’ll drink, talk to strangers,

quarrel with friends.

We’ll try not to cry.

We’re content here together, but we won’t stay long.

At least we don’t work so hard that we

don’t have time to love each other;

we do.