April 1, 2026

THE CAULDRON
By Mark Speed

Blending realism with a touch of the uncanny, “The Cauldron” explores power, vulnerability, and the unsettling possibility that some forces of justice operate far outside the bounds of what we understand.

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.




“where you going with that?!”
Came the drunken bellow of the Friday night geezer out for a pint or ten with the lads.
Followed by a cacophony of deep throated laughter from the rest of the boys.
She kept her head down and continued to drag this thing down the road.
“Looks ‘eavy, darling. Want an ‘and?”
Again  the cacophony followed, like the braying of a caravan of camels.
She shrunk her head further into her hood and dragged again. The scrape of metal on concrete pierced the night air. Fuck this thing was heavy!
She was hoping that if she ignored them, they would just continue on their merry way.
No such fucking luck.
“come on darlin’, give us a smile!”
They had stopped on the other side of the street.
She took a deep breath and pulled again.
Thankfully the deafening screech of the metal as it gouged at the pavement masked her grunting.
She had to take a break, so she pushed the cauldron off its potbellied side.
It wobbled and crashed loudly onto its three stubby legs.
She leant on the handle to catch her breath.
she could feel the sweat beading down between her breasts and her shirt sticking to her back.
She tugged at her cape, trying to pull the material away from her skin.
She felt the cool night air sweep into her clothes and kiss her skin.
That felt good.
“Oi, darlin! Come on, let us give ya an ‘and! We’ll take it wherever you wanna go.”
“Show us yer tits!” another voice screeched. 
“Shut up Gary, you fuckin’ munter!”
There was a volley of shouts and, by the sound of it, Gary getting a bit of a slap.
A few seconds of silence later, she glanced up under her hood to check the threat level.
There were a group of about seven men, or boys: T-shirts and jeans, cigarettes and alcohol, testosterone and hard ons.
They had all stopped and regarded her with an uncomfortable interest, like lions on the Serengeti about to take down a buffalo and feast on its flesh.
That was a mistake.
They had seen her looking.
Fuck.
The babble of monkeys had grown silent and menacing.
She heard him step off the pavement onto the road.
She heard that first step.
The click of his Blakey’s on the tarmac. 
Shit. 
She glanced up again.
Again, the wrong move.
He was sporting the obligatory belly full of beer pressed against a struggling stretched sports shirt front.
“alright love?”
He smiled.
It was not a smile of warmth and comfort.
He clip clopped halfway across the road, pulled a packet of Marlboro from his breast pocket and threw a cigarette into his mouth.
He moved deliberately, as if he’d rehearsed every action for hours in front of his bedroom mirror. He thought he was cool. He knew he was cool. He was James Dean, at least for today.
he pulled out a zippo lighter and flicked his fingers against the wheel, springing the blue flame into life. He touched it to the end of his cigarette and sucked deeply.
The crackle of tobacco filled the silent air, followed by a cloud of blue smoke that drifted across the street.
Fuck! This was not going to end well.
She gripped the handle of the cauldron ready to pull again.
There was a parked car two metres ahead and not under the street light, if only she could move it that far, perhaps he would lose interest.
She pulled hard.
The cauldron toppled onto its belly. And she leant back with all her weight.
The cauldron croaked against the pavement.
He took another step forward.
The click of his segs rattled in the empty street.
“come on love, give us a smile.”
She’d heard that far too many times.
She mustn’t get distracted, she had to get this to Nana Pat’s cottage.
She pushed her heels against the pavement and pulled with all her might.
This time her grunt was louder than the scraping of the cauldron.
“Wahay!!” The baboons dressed as men all yelped together jumping up and down slapping each other’s hands in exaggerated high fives.
An empty can of beer sailed through the air smacking against the side of the cauldron.
Remnants of beer and spit dribbled down the side of the cauldron.
Fuck, Nana Pat’s going to be pissed.
“Go fetch the cauldron.” She said.
“Bring it straight back.” She said.
“No dilly-dallying.” She said.  
She didn’t say it was going to be this heavy.
She didn’t say…….. She heard the click of the segs coming closer.
Another step.
Click.
Another.
Click.
Another.
Click.
If she looked up now, she’d be in trouble.
She could smell the tormenting stench of cheap cologne, beer and cigarettes. An odorous cloud of desperation and violence. A mist that masked abuse, sex, pain and most of all loneliness. It was unmistakable.
Nana Pat was going to be really, really angry.
“You got a smile for me?” 
The apes had fallen silent. They knew.
“I said,” he whispered, “have you got a smile for me?”
He reached out and slowly pulled her hood off her head.
“your hair’s really pretty, have you got a kiss for me?”
She looked up into a face pitted with acne scars and sorrow.
“that’s better.” He said. His wet mouth smiled, his eyes did not.
“leave me alone.” She said.
“oh, it speaks!” he said loudly, turning his head for the approval of his barrel of monkeys.
He was compensated with the krak and hok of his screaming anthropoids.
“please,” she begged, “leave me alone.”
“Maybe if you give us a kiss, I can help you with this heavy pot.”
He reached out his hand to touch her face.
“don’t.” she squeaked.
“it’s alright,” he said, “I’m a nice guy.”
His smooth and sticky hands smelt of shit and vinegar. She almost vomited.
He pulled her head towards his.
“No.” she said.
“No. No. No. No. No.” She repeated.
His eyes closed as he pulled her face close to his.
“Fucking No!” she screamed at the top of her voice.
He jumped momentarily and smiled.
Again, it was not a nice smile.
“I like a little bit a spirit. There’s a good girl.”
His hand slid down to her breast.
“I said, fucking no!”
She grabbed his hand and shoved her elbow into his chest, leaning forward with all her strength.
The look of shock and surprise as he tumbled headfirst into the cauldron was a face she’d often seen as Nana Pat had thrown her sacrifices into the oubliette of the cauldron.
Some say it was a torment worse than death.
Some say it was the screaming of a thousand souls forever falling.
That’s probably why it was so heavy.
Nana pat was going to be so pissed. 

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Mark Speed has been writing stories since the birth of ink. His work ranges from dark as death’s shroud to comical and ridiculous. In recent years, he has collaborated with an artist to create a story each week, moving through the alphabet. He is the author of two collections, Sodom’s Alphabet and Gomorrah’s Alphabet. “The Cauldron” is the third story from the first collection.
Instagram: @mark_speed_english_teacher