Mikaela Liotta, Cake Head Man, mixed media The Cauldron Senior Editors Grace Jaewon Yoo Muriel Leung Liam Nadire Staff Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck Phoebe Danaher Daniel Fung 2015 Sally Jee Prim Sirisuwannatash Angela Wong Melissa Yukseloglu Faculty Advisor Joseph McDonough 1 Poetry Emma Woodberry Remember 5 GyuHui Hwang Two Buttons Undone 6 Khanh Nyguen I Wait for You to Have Dinner 8 Angela Wong Euphoria 9 Sabi Benedicto The House was Supposed to be Tan 12 (But was Accidentally Painted Yellow) Canvas Li Haze 15 Adam Jolly Spruce and Hemlock Placed By 44 Gentle Hands Jordan Moller The Burning Cold 17 Grace Jaewon Yoo May 18 Silent Hills 40 Lindsay Wallace Forgotten 27 Joelle Troiano Flicker 30 Jack Bilbrough Untitled 31 Valentina Mathis A Hop Skip 32 Jessica Li The Passenger 36 Daddy’s Girl 43 Eugenia Rose stumps 38 Brandon Fong Ironing 47 Ryder Sammons Mixed Media, Ceramics New Year’s Cold 48 Mikaela Liotta Shayla Lamb Spine 7 Senior Year 50 Mermaid 46 Teddy Simson Elephant Skull 16 Prose Eye of the Tiger 53 Muriel Leung Katie I A Great River 20 Imagination 19 Zorte 52 Sabi Benedicto Geniophobia 32 2 Photography Rachel Choe More Please 8 Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck DEAD 2 Spin 12 Swimmingtotheschor 22 Bigfernfloating 41 Lydia Stenflo LA as seen from the 14 Griffith Observatory at Night in March Beach Warrior 58 Meimi Zhu Reflection 30 Jessica Li Juvenescence 37 The Last Door 42 Brandon Fong The End is Neigh 38 Sunday in Menemsha 53 Liam Nadire Hurricane Sandy #22 47 Pride 58 Painting, Drawing Katie I Risen 4 Oban Galbraith The Divide 9 Joni Leung Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, DEAD, photography HK – The Street 10 Venice 21 Start of an Adventure 25 HK – Lan Kwai Fong 34 Phoebe Danaher Katherine Liu Triple Skull Head 16 The Forbidden Temple 39 Light Pollution 49 Rachel Cho Sentinel 53 Boom 52 Muriel Leung Phoebe Danaher Quiet Space 18 Synthetic Jazz 52 Angela Wong Natasha Lee Away 27 The Chandelier 26 Alisa Wan Apple Tart 27 Moonlit Lighthouse 28 Hannah Pesce Summer Garry The Three Graces 44 9 am: Boy Reads Gun 57 Catalog 3 4 Katie I, Risen, oil on canvas Remember Emma Woodberry The bitter tonic of January Mingles with our blood. Pinprick stars speckle the night Like trailing crumbs of the Swollen moon. A nocturne symphony Flickers in the silence. We can see the horizon, where The celestial crust ruptures At dawn. We breathe, And squint our midnight-crusted eyes Against the naked light, ripe in the Adolescent morning. So are we. Mourning. Remembering the stumbling snowflakes, The snow-caked spruce trees, The bitter tonic of January. 5 Two Buttons Undone GyuHui Hwang Through my window, I see some grown-ups hurry. Trying to look like businessmen, Trying to look comfortable in awkward black suits, They struggle to figure out how to work their buttons on their shirts. I would laugh at them if I could, I would call them naïve if I could, Yet I am afraid that one day I will be one of those who believe that Figuring out how to work the buttons means figuring out their future. I see a tall man walking along the sidewalks. He looks like a freshman in the fake grown-up club With a suit not black enough and two buttons undone. He slowly runs to join the other men in darker suits, With eyes like those of a puppy that wants to be loved. As soon as he joins the other men, they walk further into the dark. 6 I know they would not listen to me, For I have not eaten enough birthday cakes to join their group. Funny how they fail to remember their childhood, The only time when pure happiness could be felt. I would like to tell those men in black suits that every day They are getting closer to the funeral of their own. But I know they would not listen to me, For they ate more birthday cakes than I did. Funny how they fail to remember their childhood, The only time when pure happiness could be felt. I’m not sure if I will ever see the man with the two buttons undone. Maybe he’ll be too close to his funeral to return. I put the black suit that I got as a gift away in my closet. I shove my cake in my trash can. I take out a photo of me laughing while holding my parents’ hands. I smile at the little me. And hope that remembering my childhood Will stop me from joining the men struggling with their buttons. mixed media , Spine Mikaela Liotta, 7 I wait for you to have dinner Khanh Nguyen I wait for you to have dinner The moon is already there, shining A ruby piece on the orchid tree Would see you on the empty road The moon is already there, shining You might still be cycling Would see you on the empty road Is the gloaming unfolding on the golden field You might still be cycling The cooker with steamed rice is waiting Gloaming unfolds on the golden field You might be thinking of home? The cooker with steamed rice is waiting I stand under the orchid tree You might be thinking of home? Sunset seems like a twinkling blouse I stand under the orchid tree A ruby piece on the orchid tree Sunset seems like a twinkling blouse I wait for you to have dinner. 8 Rachel Choe, More Please, photography Oban Galbraith, The Divide, oil on canvas Euphoria Angela Wong Falling into white-washed linens That entombed the smile of the night, I faded with the rising sun— Bursts of creamy pink Puckering into blue. 9 Joni Leung, HK–The Street, oil on canvas 11 The House was supposed to be Tan (but was Accidentally Painted Yellow) Sabi Benedicto It’s difficult to dance when our legs are dark with bruises. We can’t remember love if we make love to our excuses. Bathing bare and naked in our ignorance and pride, The toxic water poisons us, and plagues us with divide. The truth about our childhood is that it must decay. January must expire to thaw the ice for May. The soldiers have no more to eat; they beg to end the war. They question if their covenant is one worth fighting for. 12 Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, Spin, photography Yet still we drink the poison, Yet still we dance away. We desperately so wish to love, But I know I cannot stay. Tell me how we built this home, Lest that we forget, Because after the fires, the floods, the pain You’re all that I have left. 13 Lydia Stenflo, LA as seen from the Griffith Observatory at Night in March, photography 14 HAZE Canvas Li I always said that I would show you around my city at night, When the dark fell and the streetlights lit. Yet now darkness comes with the haze, though the sun is still so bright. You said that nowhere you would rather be than the City of Light, So I wished to row with you in my glowing, flickering Beihai when the dusk hit. I always said that let me show you around the city at night. Sadly, one can no longer breathe the air here and feel alright. Standing on the bridge and looking at the lake, one cannot see a bit. Now darkness comes with the haze, despite the bright sunlight. When you asked me to name my favorite sight, I could not settle on one answer but I was sure of the time that fit: I would show you around my city at night. But I’ve just realized, that specific time can’t be right, Since the defining characteristic of the day—daylight—is no longer legit. Darkness comes with the haze, not sunset, when the sun is still so bright. I hate it when you talk about my polluted city with slight, But now I cannot find any, any excuses to defend it. I always said that I would show you around my city at night. Yet now darkness comes with the haze, though the sun is still so bright. *Beihai (North Sea): a lake in an imperial garden in Beijing, close to the Forbidden City. 15 oil on canvas , The Burning Cold Jordan Moller Triple Skull Head Triple Your name burns Ice cold tonight. Phoebe Danaher, Phoebe Danaher, Tonight, your cold name— Ice —Burns. My ego burnt by long torturous nights spend sleeping on Ice. If only you Were more than a name. I am cold, pencil and watercolor on a wood board on a wood pencil and watercolor , so bitterly cold. Elephant Skull Teddy Simson, Teddy 16 I’ve built up the fire to burn away a name that drifts in my thoughts tonight. You’re Ice. Ice breath, spine shivering with cold. Your Telltale burns Tonight Recall a name Name: Ice. Tonight I am reminded by the cold and the burns of a love of yore. Your name burns Ice cold Tonight. 17 Muriel Leung, Quiet Space , watercolor on paper watercolor May Grace Jaewon Yoo Off she goes again, breaking the morning dew white fences hang too loose, too low, and she walks into the grass. Morning grass wakes at the faint tap of her feet, a quiet dance only the wind knows. Water footprints remember her falling steps all the way from home. She says she is lost, but I think she likes it here, Floating along the rumpled meadow. She says she likes to walk on grass, perhaps because the fences say no.