All posts by Nathan Hogan

“There Is Nothing But A Shout” – Diya Shrishrimal ’26

There is nothing but a shout 
Grasping and gaping for the shrill 
Though it tends to be the one foot out 

The House shivers and doubts 
Motor is running yet still, 
There is nothing but a shout 

Why is it that we make a route 
To resume the sunken search of will 
Though it tends to be one the foot out 

And the impudent, overbearing crowd 
For them a hollow play until,  
There is nothing but a shout 

So then, the wild look to scout 
Aiming and aiming to fulfill 
Though it tends to be the one foot out 

Though there is silence throughout 
In the House, a loud souvenir  
There is nothing but a shout 
Though it tends to be the one foot out 

“Apple Slices” – Audrey Jiang ’25

Apples on a pure porcelain plate
Taste sweeter and crisper
Coming from your knife
Without fail.

Sister got stitches from
Pushing the blade far too hard
Into the apple core.
Slice, slice 
So it slivers the apple and her hand.
All she wanted
Was that taste, while
She watches the apple-skin-colored blood
Drip, drip down.
Sister never liked
Green apples anyway.

I saw slices on my desk
Without fail,
Every night.
I see your smile
Without fail,
Almost every night.
I saw neither,
After our screams.
They stick in the air
And stare into my red core.
Yet, the silence afterward
is what stings
The most.

But the apples returned
On their pure porcelain plate
On my desk,
After the morning arose
Accompanied by an

“In Tempest Crimson, Bleed Your Spirit High” – Ryan Huang ’26

In tempest crimson, bleed your spirits high
Upon the wall, a canvas, to be red
A dye of perfect hue drained from my thigh
A gift of slumber, freedom from your head

A scream, unrestrained, let the echoes fly
In laughter's dance, a playful, fraught supply
Release the shackles, don't in silence lie
The sound, a masterpiece into my eye

My heart deranged, my soul fell in the night
In life's grand fabric, soon to woven ties
The laughter fades, as dusk in sunset light
Yet echoes linger, where the bleeding lies

So bleed, scream, laugh, the human cries
This dark art, I take with me to the skies

“Sunset” – Samraj Delfyett ’26

our sun gives gifts that shine bright and persist
but now takes leave and will succumb to shade
its last glimmer surrounds me in a mist
that, too, will quickly dry; away it fades

horizon steals the star in ruthless ways,
indignant, for he cannot know of life
now robbed of light, we're obscured in a maze
of walls, which hold our heartbreak, loss, and strife

the light is fading from my yearning eyes
the world around me dies and grows so cold
this brittle smile, and adequate disguise
for jagged, futile heart that once was gold.

as Sisyphus was bound atop his hill
my lamp grows feeble; man has lost his will

A Christmas Poem” – Rhyley Bendel ’26

Laughter and voices drown out the carols
A warm glow lights a place hidden from the snow
A match flicks and lights a wick's fire
The room fills with the aroma of needles
It lurks and finds those in apple-colored sweaters
Delightful pine soon enters their nose
Children have snot dripping from their nose
They run in, changing the words to classic carols
While specks stick to their sweaters
They debate going back to the snow
But their feet tingle with pins and needles
They opt to let their toes warm by the fire
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Jack Frost nipping at your nose
Elves sing along as they weave their needles
To the wise words of Nat King Cole's Christmas carols
They prepare at the sign of the first snow
For endless months of making sweaters
Families sit with knees tucked under sweaters
Sipping hot cocoa fresh off the fire
They look out the window at their man made of snow
Laughing as a deer bites at its carrot nose
Someone finds a vinyl with an album full of carols
They pull out the record player and position the needle

“See The Glistening Snow” – Anonymous

Walkin' around, frost from your breath as we go
Watching all the delicate snowflakes fall
Look at the trees, see the glistening snow

Ice on the streams, the water no longer flows
Forever I can still hear your quiet call
Walkin' around, frost from your breath as we go

Through the dead branches, the sun can still glow
Countless snow angels on the ground, a sprawl
Look at the trees, see the glistening snow

Smilin' so peacefully at the serene tableau
Feelin' so small every time we see it all
Walkin' around, frost from your breath as we go

Stay out in the cold, despite all we know
Out getting caught in quite the snowy squall
Look at the trees, see the glistening snow

Icicles dangling from trees all in rows
Wrapped up together in a warming shawl
Walkin' around, frost from your breath as we go
Look at the trees, see the glistening snow

“Excerpt” – Özge Ada Uzman ’27

It began with the eyes. Not the anxiety from the ever present gazes of bystanders, but eyes that appeared where they weren’t meant to be. Eyes that appeared on the walls of my apartment, eyes that bloomed on the plants for which I used to care, eyes that made their way onto my own limbs. I could never see out of them, so they must not have been mine. Somehow, that prospect worries me more than anything.

Next came the voices. They started out harmless, merely whispering to me where I had left my keys or what the temperature was as soon as the thoughts passed through my brain. But the initial synchronization was painfully short-lived. They grew to be more violent, hissing to me evil threats and desires, things I cannot bring myself to repeat. The voices are so loud. I sob and beg them to stop, desperately clawing at my head, but to no avail. I am never given relief.

I was distracted at work. When my boss found me holed up in a storage room, banging my head against the walls in hopes of silencing the voices, I was fired. She told me I needed to see someone, because that behavior was unnatural. I didn’t disagree. As I walked through the halls of the workplace, ashamed, I felt all eyes on me. Not the nosy gazes of the other employees, those I couldn’t care less about. The eyes lining the walls and ceiling, however, made something vile churn in my stomach.

The voices told me I did good.

One day I woke up to screaming. I sat up, alarmed, wondering if a wild animal had found its way inside my house. The screams were incessant, and I covered my ears in panic, diving deeper beneath my blankets.

It was ten minutes later that I realized the screams were mine.I stayed in bed all day, shaking with the effort of keeping my body still despite the voices’ demands to look at the eyes. It will save you, they whispered. But I knew they were lying.

“The Johnsons” – Abril Linares Mendoza ’24

The Johnsons lived on 111 Bridgeway Lane. Mr. Johnson worked at the bank. Mrs. Johnson stayed at home to cook delicious dinners. Annie loved to sing and dance, and little Timmy could not stay out of trouble at school! When walking by their house, one could often see Mr. Johnson mowing the lawn, smiling and waving at the townsfolk passing by. Or Annie and little Timmy, chasing each other on the porch, laughing as they always did. The Johnsons exemplified kindness, generosity, and all the values of Harmstead town. Everyone loved the Johnsons!

Then, the Griffins moved in next door at 112 Bridgeway Lane, four days before Halloween. On Monday, Mrs. Johnson invited Mrs. Griffin over to bake pies together. Mrs. Johnson tried Mrs. Griffin’s pie and decided that it tasted better than hers. In fear their husbands would prefer Mrs. Griffin’s apple pie over her pumpkin pie, she used the kitchen mixer to ensure Mrs. Griffin would never bake again. She stored Mrs. Griffin’s body in the basement. 

On Tuesday, Mr. Johnson was mowing the lawn with the lawn mower he had bought just two years before. It ran smoothly and was an important part of his look as a caring suburban father whenever people walked by. Mr. Griffin came out to mow his lawn with the lawn mower he had bought one year prior. He wondered if his wife had stayed over at the Johnsons after baking so he went over to talk to Mr. Johnson. As Mr. Griffin bragged about its speed and engine, Mr. Johnson decided he did not want to hear about his better lawn mower and ran him over with his. He stored Mr. Griffin’s body in the basement, next to Mrs. Griffin. 

On Wednesday, Annie arrived at her favorite class first period: chemistry. When the teacher asked the class a question, Annie raised her hand first but Lilly Griffin got called on instead. After class, Annie invited Lilly over to her house. Lilly immediately said yes because her parents had not returned from that trip they had decided to take spontaneously without telling anyone. That afternoon, Annie gave Lilly a drink with some chemicals she had taken from class. Annie tried storing Lilly’s body in the basement, but it was too heavy so she asked her dad for help. Lilly was placed next to Mr. Griffin. 

On Thursday, little Henry was without any supervision on the playground. Little Henry pushed little Timmy on the playground, so little Timmy pushed little Henry down the stairs to his basement, storing his body next to Lilly’s. 

On Friday, it was Halloween. The Johnsons always had the best decorations in town. As families approached their house to trick or treat, they saw that the Johnsons had decorated their front yard with fake body parts. The Johnsons had placed fake hands, arms, and eyes around their porch and lawn. Everyone marveled at their hard work and dedication to make such realistic decorations. Everyone loved the Johnsons!

“Anniversary” – Will Krofchik ’24

It was a cold evening. My calendar read November 8th. I picked up the book on my nightstand next to the picture of my daughter and began to read when my phone rang. 


“Sam, I’m in the driveway.”

It sounded like my wife, Lillian. 

“Who is this?”

“Come to the window, honey.”

Still on the phone, I got out of bed and inched my way over to our bedroom window overlooking the driveway. Sure enough, she was there.

“I’m coming in now.”

I ran to lock our bedroom door. 

“Lily, I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late for sorry now.”

I heard the front door open and then slam shut. As she walked up the stairs, my mind wandered back to a similar cold November evening five years ago, when I killed her after a fight and dissolved her body in the basement.

“Pumpkin Patch” – Gretchen Chalmers ’24

I watch the children arrive in their parents’ SUVs. My eyes scope out the next child, picking the very best one. I see a little boy with brown hair. He wanders beside his parents with his khaki pants and orange collared shirt. I study him as he walks to the food stand with his parents. His mother hands him a caramel apple. He gazes down at his treat and takes a large bite. When his parents turn in unison to check their phones, I grab his sticky hand and the apple drops to the dirt. I cover his mouth as he watches his parents blur from view. I drag him all the way to my car. Another perfect pick.