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Titan’s Muse
A Journal of Poetry, Prose, and Art
‘‘Nostalgia’’ 2025
Mission Statement
Titan’s Muse is a student-produced journal sponsored and advised by a cross-departmental and divisional group of staff and faculty. Titan’s Muse seeks to cultivate a campus culture that celebrates reading, writing, and creative expression. This publication is a space to recognize the high-quality work of our students. The magazine accepts submissions in poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, academic writing, reviews, and art. All of the writing and art published in Titan’s Muse is created by York Technical College students.
Acknowledgments
Titan’s Muse was made possible through an Innovation Mini Grant from the York Technical College Foundation, the Student Leadership and Events’ Literary Arts Club, the IT Department’s Digital Arts and Design internship, and the English and Foreign Language Department.
Views Expressed Disclaimer
York Technical College is not responsible for opinions expressed in Titan’s Muse. The views expressed within published content are solely those of the authors or artists.
Content Reproduction
The content of Titan’s Muse cannot be reproduced, in part or in whole, without the permission of the magazine and the contributor.
Editorial Staff
Angelo Allison Non-Fiction Editor
Angelo is in his second year at York Tech, pursuing an associate’s degree in applied science in digital arts. After graduating from York Tech, he plans to pursue a career in user experience design.
Candra Crook Poetry Editor
Candra is a second-year York Tech student who loves poetry and various forms of literature. Her love for poetry and self-expression inspired her to get involved with the creative York Tech community and work with authors to publish their own loved work.
Additional Staff
Emiliya Kaverina Fiction Editor
Emiliya is a second-year student at York Tech graduating after the 2025 Spring Semester. Following graduation, she plans on pursuing a degree in Chemical Engineering. Off-campus, she enjoys reading, writing, and art in her spare time.
Myla Mershon Fiction Editor
Myla is a second-year student at York Technical College and will graduate with her Associate in Arts this May. Afterward, she will transfer to the University of South Carolina to major in Political Science. In her free time, she enjoys reading and writing.
Lisa Capuano, Staff Reader Brookelyn Howard, Staff Reader
Brian Snyder Graphic Design Intern
Brian is working toward his Associate in Applied Science degree. He drew upon his extensive experience gained during his studies for his work on the magazine. He hopes readers will find the magazine to be a engaging visual experience.
MJ Starcher Co-Managing Editor
MJ has been a student at York Technical College for three years, completing her Applied Associates of Arts in Teleproduction Technology, and transferring to Winthrop in the fall to complete her Bachelor of Arts. Outside of school, MJ enjoys creating art in many forms, photography, digital art, video, music, scrapbooking, and writing. She is excited to see where the road in front of her leads.
Ginny Thomas Co-Managing Editor
Ginny is a dual-enrolled student in her first year of college. Ginny has loved the arts for as long as she can remember and is ecstatic that she can help authors, artists, and photographers get their work published in this magazine. She plans to use this experience to edit legal articles in her future career.
Marianne Vesich Visual Art Editor
Marianne is a two-time York Technical College graduate with an Associate of Art and an Associate of Applied Science in Digital Art. She hopes to utilize her illustrative/graphic design skills to advocate for wildlife and shelter animals. As an artist, Marianne mainly enjoys digital illustration, layout design, and collaging/junk journaling.
Moriah Allen, English and Foreign Language Chair; Magazine Advisor
Cari Potts, Instructor/First Year Writing Program Coordinator; Magazine Advisor Jennifer Roberts, Student Life Coordinator; Magazine Advisor
36 .... Rainy Day Activities
37 .... A Ghost with Two Hands and No Face*.
Sebastian Seger
Bailee Hinson
Between Me.............
Trinity Daniels
Poetry 45 .... Shades of Green
46 .... Lover’s Quarrel
48 .... Candle
49 .... Fireside Escapade........
50 .... Georgia On My Mind ....
Sebastian Seger
Josiah Mendez
Marianne Vesich
Haley Henricksen
Candra Crook
Artwork
Artwork
Poetry
MJ Starcher ............... Photography
51 .... If I Could Give Everything ...................... Logan Eaton
53 .... Coming to Terms ........
54 .... Driving on 9 ............
Trinity Daniels
Fiction
Poetry
MJ Starcher ............... Photography
55 It’s Okay to Go Gabriel Crowe Song
56 .... Watching Bubbles
57 .... Infographic .............
58 .... Keep Facing the Light
59 .... Honeysuckle Blooms.....
60 .... Urban Nature ...........
61 .... It Will Be Okay ..........
62 .... What a Happier Time ....
Brady Myrup
Marianne Vesich
Poetry
. Artwork
Audriana Rollins ........... Photography
Candra Crook
Poetry
. Marianne Vesich ........... Photography
Gabriel Crowe
David Jennings
Song
Poetry
63 .... Contributor Bios ......................................................................
*Before reading these pieces, please review the content information under the author’s name in the Contributor Bios section of the magazine.
2025 Edition Theme
For our 2025 edition, we asked contributors to consider the theme of “Nostalgia.”
Nostalgia is defined by the familiar, fleeting moments between beginnings and endings. It is the sound of heartfelt laughter, the feeling of a gentle breeze on a warm summer day, and the joined hands of an elderly couple. Nostalgia is a collective of experiences unique to each individual, yet a feeling that many rejoice over in communion. It is an undeniable longing for the good, bad, and beautiful.
By Candra Crook
Denotes Nostalgia Theme Submission
Denotes Academic Submission
Nostalgia
Nostalgia. The time I stepped on Legos it hurt so bad... No that’s not it.
Nostalgia. The first video game I really enjoyed... No that’s not it either.
Nostalgia. The depression that had a hold on me for some time. The reminder of all the heartache & pain that caused me to THINK I wanted to disband earth into a box surrounded by soil... Maybe that’s too personal.
Nostalgia. The warm hugs my mom gave me as a kid, the feeling of safety without a care in the world.
Nostalgia. The times my dad gave me a present behind the Christmas tree that he could barely afford just to see me smile.
Nostalgia. The times I didn’t give up on myself when they saw the version of me that made mistakes. The lessons I couldn’t yet see that taught me to be a better me.
By Gabriel Crowe
Scan the QR code to listen.
Cherry Hill Lanes
Dimensions: 3024 x 4032 px
By Marianne Vesich
Alphabet Soup
At noon, Mama served alphabet soup; she said, “The next time you want to snoop, your books will be returned.”
“Then how will I learn?”
She grinned. “Good thing for alphabet soup.”
By Candra Crook
Titan’s Muse
Laundry with Mom
Socks disappeared; mystery solved: laundry monster.
By Haley Henricksen
Star Box
Medium: Sculpture
Dimensions: 3 x 9.5 x 11 cm
By Haley Henricksen
New Friends
Medium: Digital Art
Dimensions: 3000 x 3000 px
By Marianne Vesich
Titan’s Muse
Little Elephant
A little elephant
An ashy gray body
Pink on the insides of the ears and nose
Fur as curly as a sheep’s wool
A smile to change a little girl’s world
She holds you from dawn to dusk
She bathes with you in her white bathtub
She sleeps beside you in her vibrant colorful bedsheets
She loves you
Adores you
As time passes your stitches unravel
Your white fluffy insides revealed
Your pink ears and nose fade to white
Your fur becomes like a matted rug
They stitch you up and give you a bath
She comes back for you and hugs you
You’re her number one friend
But as expected
She grows and changes
She becomes taller
Her hair goes from her back to now her shoulders
Her interests go from stuffed animals to different choices
The light you once gave her grows dim
You collect dust
You find yourself dirty and old
As you lie in the old brown dusty box
Among the piles of who used to be loved
Knowing it was the end
You took your last breath
You served your purpose
That was all that mattered
A little elephant
Now old with a darker tint of gray
Matted fur with visible stitches all over
White ears and nose
With a faded smile to go
Now lies in the box
No longer with a purpose
By Trinity Daniels
Hard Plastic Stackable School Chair 13.75”H
Navy blue Bakelite mold bent to shape my resting place. Lemon-peel skin sinking into my legs. These old-school memories take my seat. 16-gauge aluminum legs, long and tapered. Feet kissing the sweet linoleum stage, yet it does not walk.
My teacher crosses the room. The light catches the legs. Four mirrors reflect my face. Three lipped groves like shark gills, as if it needs to breathe, as if it is alive. As if any of us are alive.
By Gillian Scott
SOFT EDGES (Time Capsule)
Medium: Digital Art
Dimensions: 1440 x 1152 px
By Marianne Vesich
Medium: Acrylic
Dimensions: 8 x 10 in
By Haley Henricksen
Titan’s Muse
Silly Bandz
In a drawer, they rest in dust, Bracelets shaped like stars and sharks, Rubber loops that twisted and twirled, A symbol of status in a playground world.
Worn on our wrists with pride, We traded them with delight, Frogs, lightning, and guitars, The magic of childhood, around each bend.
Now they sit, forgotten and still, A reminder of a life already lived. A little piece of time that’s gone, But in these bands, our childhood lives on.
By Adaline Huffman
Titan’s Muse
Sweet Summer
Dimensions: 3919 x 6000 px
By MJ Starcher
Roller Skate Dreams
Dimensions: 4000 x 6000 px
By MJ Starcher
When I Was Little, I Used to Write Everyday
When I was little, I used to write every day. From journal entries to essays, I didn’t care
I would write my heart out
A haunted house, a medieval tale, And that time I dyed my cat pink Everything was so special to me. Everything was so alive with me. Everything made sense So, I strived to be A writer.
Until high school came, and all the creativity was sucked from my brain
Academic essays, prepare for the future Format this right!
It doesn’t matter what you write!
As long as it’s from the voice of someone else These articles, you’ll cite, It doesn’t matter what you write. Just make sure you submit it Or you’ll run out of time. College came and went, I still left with the sense that this isn’t who I am I still don’t know who I am. I lost my individuality But at least I succeed academically.
By Metta Bolin
Through My Eyes
Medium: Digital Art
Dimensions: 1003 x 1013 px
By MJ Starcher
Bubble of Time
I witness every mistake I have ever made, but I am incapable of fixing them.
I witness every success I have ever had, but I cannot relive them.
In the bubble known as time, I sit, only being allowed to interact with what is encased inside.
By William South
Floral Patterned Living Room Couch
I was her mother’s, mother’s first. I witnessed the dinner parties, spilled wine dabbed softly with baking soda, The Christmas tree needles clinging to my fabric, The sweat from summer heat being absorbed, The fevers and chills and snotty noses being comforted by my soft polyester. She sat on me to ease the pain in her back When the next inside her was making her body weary. I don’t mind holding the weight.
When the generations change, When wine is replaced by milk, then wine, then milk, Christmas trees surrounded by plastic baby toys, then bikes, then phones, then rings, The years pass, and my colors start to fade, Though my comfort stays the same.
I support the burden when the winter passes, and black lilies line the windowsill. I absorb the tears shed and allow for feet to be rested, As gifted casseroles are consumed, and days pass too slowly. I watch the trees bloom and bees buzz by the window, Time ever passing.
My colors are barely showing now, fabric worn thin. The boxes are packed. She’s moving onto bigger things. I fear I’m not coming along, for I’m old and weary, Perhaps replaced by a new model. They bustle about, hectically packing box after box, The old grandfather clock that stood across from me already carted away. I brace myself for loneliness, Calling back on all the comfort I’ve provided through the years,
Although it seems my fears were for naught As I’m lifted from both ends, cradled carefully, taken along with the others. I realize we can continue to comfort each other for years to come, To continue to watch her, and now hers, grow.
By MJ Starcher
Low in Light
Dimensions: 4284 x 5712 px
By Rylie Funke
Titan’s Muse
A Dream Deferred
You were a tall man but now low in stature. The years have spoiled you. You glance at the mountain of work you need to complete. You have the dream: a nice house, a loving spouse, and great kids. Something felt wrong. Your wife calls, “Could you please take those bags to Goodwill?” You want to revolt and yell, but knowing better, you relent. You haven’t felt like yourself in a while, you wander into your closet because clearly the work wasn’t entertaining you. Sifting through a box of shoes and old knickknacks, you stumble across a musical notebook. A smile trinkles across your face, because there was a time where everything felt like magic, and you felt the melody.
By Tyler Matthews
If Dreams Were a Person
If dreams were a person, They would cherish their life. They would live every day knowing that There is more to be seen. They would travel and sightsee.
If dreams were a person, They would follow every thought, Every whim. They wouldn’t think twice.
If dreams were a person, You wouldn’t be able to stop them. Others’ opinions would be irrelevant.
If dreams were a person, The way that they would climb every mountain And explore every cave Would be something that others Would want to follow to the end of the earth.
If dreams were a person, I think they would want us all To follow in their footsteps. So why don’t we all pick up And follow behind our dreams?
By Octavia L. Butler
By Rylie Funke
Dimensions: 4284 x 5712 px
Titan’s Muse 2025
A Wooden Chair
She’s heading north, panting, Trekking towards the neon city
Past lilies and roses,
And indentations in the dirt from previous steps.
She finds a four leaf clover, the leaves slightly wilted
The journey is long, though she does not tire.
She calls upon previous lessons
Like riding a bike, knowing, trusting,
The pattern always repeats itself.
The sun rising, heat pulsing,
Now slowly setting to reveal her favorite part:
The moon, which expounds her path.
The stars and their patterns
Convey a new Age of Enlightenment, She hums
Rejoices in her own version of a starry night.
The colors billow in her head,
The shapes forming on pure intuition.
She continues North.
Not stopping to sit in that old wooden chair,
For fear it may splinter under her.
Rather, she dreams of salty waves; of boiling water
Her grandmother telling gay tales,
The encroaching light not a thought.
The green tea is warm and comforting.
The sodden chair creaks but is still sturdy.
The flora still blooms when the earth turns yet again, not wilted.
She holds her breath until her face is purple,
Waiting for the inevitable
The sun rises and falls, welcoming in the moon.
When her eyes open, the wooden chair is in pieces on the path.
She picks them up to reassemble later,
Hoping to sit for a rest,
Praying the wood is not rotted.
By MJ Starcher
Enter Reality
Does finding a realm of escapism truly set someone at ease and allow them to momentarily live in another world or does it simply set them up for the inevitable crash down to reality when they must return to the real world? The poet, John Murillo, sets up a scenario posing this question along with a few others in his poem “Enter the Dragon.” In the poem, Murillo (2010) describes a scene of himself and his father seeing a movie portraying “a black man / Leaping into an orbit of badges.” This is alluding to a 1973 movie that goes by the very same name, Enter The Dragon. Murillo goes on to take the reader through the high emotions that he and his father experienced during that movie to set them up for the exact same fear and disappointment that he felt during the second half of the poem. When a police officer pulls over Murillo and his father on their way home from the film, that bombastic fantasy of rebellious power is shattered and Murillo sees his father go silent and meek in the face of potential prejudicial accusation. In only a short thirty lines, John Murillo’s poem shows a father and son finding happiness in escapism, a tragic reminder of reality, and a realization by that young son that the fantastical reality he witnessed before was not how his father protected him and got them home.
The poem itself is split into two halves and this is indicated by multiple literary devices appearing in the first half that will soon disappear when reading the latter half of the piece. In “Enter the Dragon,” John Murillo portrays the levity and fun of going to the movies with his father. One of the devices used is onomatopoeia, the use of words to represent a sound. “Deep hallelujahs of moviegoers drown / Out the wah wah guitar” (Murillo 2010). Murillo is describing a sound that is indicative of the decade that this takes place in, that being the seventies. It draws
By Parker Williamson
the reader in and gives an audible immersion to the non-serious tone of the environment. This sort of literary device is also most commonly associated with comic books of the time, another medium that is often thought of as an escape from reality into a fantastical world of levity and super heroes. “Salt & butter / High-fives, Right on, brother!” (Murillo 2010). We also see Murillo using dialogue from the theater around him as well as signals of happy memories. High-fiving and buttery theater food is a pleasant memory for him to recall and displays the carefree nature that the reader should be understanding at this moment. Murillo (2010) will also spontaneously use a rhyme and rhythm to match the action packed blockbuster that he and his father are escaping into, such as “Arc kicks, karate chops, and thirty cops / On their backs.” The reader is meant to feel the bounce of the words and the action of the fight scene taking place in the movie within these syllables that hit like sudden chopping strikes when read out loud. All of this together paints a clear picture of a bombastic night, one of joy and levity that is punctuated near the midway point of the poem with “two heroes / Cadillacking across King Boulevard. / In the car’s dark cab, we jab and clutch, / Jim Kelly and Bruce Lee with popcorn / Breath” (Murillo 2010). The verbing of a Cadillac does more to paint an image by using a car synonymous with the seventies. Murillo is describing to the reader not only what was happening but how they felt while it was happening. He and his father were the two leading heroes in the movie that they had just witnessed, unstoppable, unbeatable, and unafraid.
However, there is an abrupt stop. There is a stop to the family joy in the story and there is a stop to any sense of fantasy or fun within the poem itself. “Jim Kelly and Bruce Lee with
popcorn / Breath, and almost miss the lights flashing / In the cracked side mirror” (Murillo 2010) shows all sense of rhythm or playful word choice was away in the middle of a sentence. John Murillo wanted the reader to feel the same sudden influx of tension that he and his father felt when a presumed police car suddenly appeared behind them. To most, a police car flashing lights behind them would be unnerving at the very least. John Murillo is born of an African American father and Latin American mother. In the 1970’s, to Murillo and his family, the police would be terrifying. This is a time of heightened tension and awareness of law enforcement abusing power and profiling minority groups with brutal, and sometimes deadly scrutiny. Murillo goes on to paint an unpleasant picture of this police officer. “When the fat one leans so far into my father’s / Window I can smell his long day’s work” (Murillo 2010). Murillo is giving the image of an officer with a short fuse, one who is unpleasant to behold and has been working a long day and assumedly giving little mercy, even to a traffic stop. His father, who was described before as cheering and high-fiving in a movie theater, is now described as “this John Henry of a man- / Hides his hammer, doesn’t buck, tucks away / His baritone, license and registration shaking as if / Showing a bathroom pass to a grade school / Principal” (Murillo 2010). John Henry is an African American folk hero known for being a steel driver and quite large. Comparing his father to someone widely considered a hero may have been a reference to the light that the author put him in. Thus, the reader is given a visual image of a terrifyingly large presence that is reduced to what John Murillo seems to judge as cowardice. He describes his father tucking away his deep voice and not making any sudden move with a word choice of disappointment. Seeing his father bow down to the police officer seems to fill Murillo with some sense of shame as he emphasizes how his father made himself small and meek.
By Parker Williamson
It is not until the final line that Murillo seems to reach a realization or understanding about his father’s actions. “I learn the difference between cinema / And city, between the movie house cheers / Of old men and the silence that gets us home” (Murillo 2010). Murillo makes a point of understanding that there is a difference between what he had seen in the cinema earlier in the day and the reality of the city he lives in. The reader can see that John Murillo wishes to see his father imitate one of those Hollywood heroes who stands up to a corrupt system with arcing kicks and karate chops, but the end of the poem alludes to the father and son duo making it home. The son learned that what got them home that night was his father’s meek compliance. In Murillo’s eyes, his father protected him that night.
“Enter the Dragon” as a poem paints a clear and dynamic picture in the mind of its readers. It does this using a switching of diction, rhythm, and tone in order to take the reader along the mindset of the son, John Murillo. He takes the reader to learn the same lessons that he did that day, that the fantastical cinema he had seen that day was no reflection of the discriminatory reality that he lived in. Murillo speaks on both the racial tensions of the times he grew up in but also the silent bravery of the fathers within that time. He learned and observed his father save him in the only way he could in the very real and far less forgiving world.
References
Murillo, J. (2010). “Enter the Dragon.” Fishouse. fishousepoems.org/enter-the-dragon/.
Fury Behind the Kit
Medium: Graphite
Dimensions: 8 x 9 in
By Sebastian Seger
Our Little Town
Oh that little town I’m so fond of and yet I detest
That quiet serene town
That lulling fog that covered our town
And yet it seemed unnatural somehow
Our little town seemed too barren
Too quiet for all the twisting roads it held
Our empty town was like a waste land of broken buildings
Broken buildings that surrounded our dirty streets
Our little town held our sin
Causing us anguish for our misdeeds
Keeping us here with a pin
Till we managed to leave
Yet in my restless dreams I see that little town
It calls me back to that little town
Yearning for us to accept our sins
Till we all fall down
By Peyton Hawkins
To Open One’s Eyes, to Blink
From darkness to light. It was the day Creation first opened her eyes. The beginning of all things is its Creator. I’ve heard of that day, O what a day.
The day of our birth, When that child since conception, Opened their eyes for the first time. Do you remember that day?
They’ve fluttered the days away. They’ve shut out the light. They’ve opened to darkness. Who will fix these eyes of mine?
The beginning of all things is its Creator. I remember that day, O what a day. It was the day my Creator first opened my eyes. From darkness to light.
And I look on to that day, the day of our death, When that child since conception, Will open their eyes for the last time. And light will become dark.
And darkness will become the Light. No longer will the days flutter away, Mine eyes will no longer close, They will be too busy devouring the glory of He who fixed me.
By Josiah Mendez
The Church of Jesus Christ
Dimensions: 4000 x 6000 px
By MJ Starcher
An Untouched Bible
Sitting on a fireplace, I watch as people come and go. Once beautiful and useful, I am now forgotten; merely a placeholder for the dust I continue to collect. Only to be touched when someone needs me, I have been reduced to a forgotten part of the house that once worshipped my content. So, I wait— wait for someone to love me again.
By Kaelyn Watts
The American Dream is Dead
If the “American Dream” was a person, they would have died a long time ago. They died so long ago that their rotting corpse has now completely decomposed, merely a hollow skeleton filled with nothing but broken promises and incredulous despair.
Whisper winds of suffering and death whittle through its ribcage only to meet velvetygreen casket interior. Your gilded riches rot away underground in darkness, giving off a putrid odor that no one will ever smell, when it could have fed the world. It must have been worth it though, stealing from those poorer than you only to end up six feet under anyways.
By Ivy Guy
The Fine Line
By Sebastian Seger
Medium: Acrylic
Cards
Hearts and diamonds will fill the air like (A) song, truth told the room with red. (1) pair of laughs ring out, creeping from the sleeve to the face.
(Joker)s play wildly, hands discarding stress and worry as a full house is set straight with the shuffling of cards.
I pray my luck is outstanding, face flushed wearing a lie as I throw (Jack) squat on the table, tension and chips fly high (2) match the stakes.
Burnt paper smells, charcoal in the air like (2) (6)s, this twisted pair has a foil. See even though us (4) are the same kind these (Queen)s shoot spades with their peepers, watch your (10), your (6) weighs heavy till she raises (3) (9)s on you. You expect the first (2) but the third kind clubs you when your ante raises it.
She’ll make sure you (8)int crazy, but you lost the plot if you think your (5) will flush this house straight up fool.
It’s sad it ends (4) you this way, third in line but (3) off in value. You’ve proven yourself a fool four thin(King) you’d raise that at this table.
By Seth Whisonant
Vampire Kisses
Dimensions: 5801 x 3739 px
By MJ Starcher
Narcomania
In the midst of the night, I turn to the sway ing sea. It calls for me, beckoning, yearning to pull me beneath the crashing waves. I take in a breath of air; salt coats my tongue. The taste of home teases my growing hunger.
An ocean of blackness, the only place I’ve ever known, reflects the sins that weigh upon my soul. I belong there, exiled from societies that will no longer open their arms for me. The sea offers refuge for my loneliness, the black void that eats away at my heart. It moves for me, longing to cleanse me from my worldly troubles.
A path forms ahead, guiding me towards the dark abyss. Sand, marred with the burden of time, molds to my footsteps. They make small imprints on the crossroads of my life.
My fate lies within the sea regardless of the choices I make. I am bound to the water, unable to tear away from its grasp. The sea draws me back along this worn path, tattered by the many excursions that have left my own fingerprints
By Candra Crook
By Candra Crook
have ever known. The unrefusable voice beckons for my willing sacrifice, and I readily sell a piece of myself at every request.
Eventually, I will become nothing. The only end that awaits me is the hungry sea. We will satisfy each other’s emptiness until we strip each other bare of our elements. The sands of time will build countless empires inhabited by the people of the earth. Humanity will watch as the empires thrive, collapse, and crumble into the aging ground only to be reborn again and again.
I will remain here as the imprint of my sins stains the footprints I’ve left - until the water inevitably reaches high tide and devours the life that I have left behind. I will be forgotten by the world and entirely consumed by the raging sea. My end will be dealt swiftly as I succumb to the familiar chase of this cruel, beautiful, and wick-
Medium: Acrylic
Dimensions: 8 x 10 in
By Sebastian Seger
A Ghost with Two Hands and No Face
four years passed. maybe five yet still; all i remember are those hands, the wounds
which stain my skin. which beg to be soothed by predators. i swear by moonlight, fingerprints sear flesh, my flesh. my fault too, for trying to cut them out with blades. when i close my eyes, time flies and those days greet the person
i am now - so different. so far from bathroom floors and high school corridors. i weep
for not getting here sooner. because the fool i was, she wasted years on false hope and abuse disguised as love. i whisper now it’s not your fault and beg whoever’s listening,
to understand those hands were wrong—wrong in taking what didn’t belong to them; myself, both past and present, included.
By Margo Sorrells
Great Sword
By Samantha Tuthill
The Hunter’s Gaze
Medium: Graphite
Dimensions: 6 x 10 in
By Sebastian Seger
Numbers
My back was always one
Cradled in my mother’s arms
I screamed my cries through the rooftops
The sleepless nights never seemed to stop
But they were no longer hers
They were mine
I could not sleep
They would not let me
My eyes were always thirteen
Watching my body in the mirror
As its form desperately tried
To match the ones in the magazines
My heart would always be fourteen
Falling in love with a girl
Who gave the lifeless a life
One that was painful and dreading
The blood poured down her arms
The tears ran down my cheeks
To the sheets of my bed
She could never leave my head
My mouth would always be seventeen
Too afraid to try new things
To scared to be seen
Healing was painful
More painful than pain at all
Would it kill me
To be afraid one more time?
My legs would always be five
Running and free
Through the mud and in the trees
But I never really liked the outside
It was always too much
For the too much of me
By Bailee Hinson
My arms would always be twelve
Wondering when I would hug again
The man, his plan
The one who gave me the chance
To spread my wings
To fly higher than where he left me
To live in the sky
What if I was never
What he wanted me to be?
My voice would always be six
Using words to give me bliss
People would love me more
If I used the things
I was meant to use
Rather than be myself
So I sang,
My words would always be sixteen
Biting my nails and holding my breath
Giving my love until none was left
My head was underwater
And my skin was gray
But I was not sick
I would be okay.
My face would always be ten
Unchanged and too heavy
To hold my eyes, to keep my smile
My frown would overtake me
I was too young for this feeling
My anger would always be fifteen
Scared to run, scared to scream
Loneliness overran my bones
And I never picked up my phone
I was afraid of what I’d see
At eighteen
I’d blow the birthday candles out
One by one they would go
I realized slowly
That I’d always be broken
Always afraid, always alone With my smiling family Their sunken eyes
From stress, tiredness, and petty lies
I knew that this pain was normalized Why couldn’t we all stop hurting
Like when we were young Or teens, on the run
And how much more could we take Until we were all undone?
By Bailee Hinson
Erasure
Dimensions: 5914 x 4700 px
By Rylie Funke
Titan’s Muse
Bubbles fill the sky with their presence. The breeze and the air are filled with my brother’s laughter. The sound of bicycle wheels hitting concrete is heard in the distance. Suddenly, two eyes encounter each other— It was like two flames being ignited into one. I thought to myself, he was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. His luscious soft curls and beautiful skin glistened in the sunlight. I thought that would be the last time I saw him, but I was so wrong.
By Jadyn Hill
Between Me
The blazing sun
The breathtaking humidity
The tall grass
The rocking ocean
Children playing in sand
Lizards scurrying
The nonexistent clouds
The bluest skies
Between me
And Neptune
Lies my love
For life
In its purest form.
By Trinity Daniels
Titan’s Muse
Shades of Green
Medium: Acrylic
Dimensions: 24 x 18 in
By Sebastian Seger
Lover’s Quarrel
How long until I might befriend thee?
We, in constant battle,
That fear, you will evade even when my bones rattle. Something so elementary
From your afflictions I will never be free. I lie to myself; you and I are not embattled. What seems like cries are simple brattle. Into the grave you will torment me. I am enslaved to my idol
Ducts of tears turn to those of blood, That finger strewn barren of your affection
Not now, not ever will I have my bridle
No more will my lineage bud.
You lay slain, as always, simply conception.
By Josiah Mendez
Keepers of Time
Dimensions: 4284 x 5712 px
By Marianne Vesich
Medium: Acrylic
Dimensions: 8 x 10 in
By Haley Henricksen
Titan’s Muse 2025
Fireside Escapade
The night was cold with bitter air, pure the snow fell upon my hair as we danced ‘round the dwindling fire that swayed as the moon crept higher; so closer we dared our embrace and the stars pursued friendly chase. The moon gave us a glowing stage and the fire roared with eager rage. Within each step of our dazed waltz the heat of passion cleansed our faults. In the moment a tipsy kiss fell away to the night abyss, and round and round our fondness frisked. Each stolen kiss was a great risk to this rekindled love affair!
By Candra Crook
Georgia On My Mind
Dimensions:
By MJ Starcher
If I Could Give Everything
I stood in the waiting room reviewing the documents the nice lady handed me after I’d walked in. The rules seemed to be simple:
1. No phones.
2. It is prohibited to inform your loved one they have died.
3. Do not leave the designated room with your loved one.
4. When your time runs out, your loved one will start to doze off, and after they are sleep, you must leave the room.
I’d paid for the premium package, so I got three hours in the room with... her. The man I talked to assured me that was my best option.
“It’s an amazing plan, and ultimately, it’s cheaper,” he’d said with a big smile.
Cheap? The loan I’d taken out said otherwise, but I couldn’t argue now. I’d already signed the paperwork. I surveyed the waiting room: rows of empty chairs pushed against the walls, and on the wall across from me, a TV playing a promotional video. A cheerful voice came from the TV’s speakers.
“Welcome to I’d Give Everything, Inc.” the narrator greeted, “where we give you ‘everything’ back.”
The narration continued, talking about the technology that could resurrect your loved ones. It sounded way too good to be true when I first heard it, and yet here I was now. The video wrapped up, their logo coming onto the screen and the narrator’s final words playing.
“I’d Give Everything, Inc. Bringing love back to life.”
The room made a ding noise accompanied by a pink spotlight shining down on me to signify that my room was ready. I walked through the door into a hallway, where pink LED strips on the ground guided me further. As I walked the
By Logan Eaton
halls, I saw rows of windows that seemed to display blacked-out rooms. I noticed that nobody else was around. Not even employees. It was just me, walking down an empty hallway with the sound of my steps echoing through. I finally got to where the pink lights stopped to see through a window that looked exactly like my apartment.
I quickly realized that the photos I had given them of my apartment had been used to reconstruct a “copy,” in a sense. I stepped in, heartbeat louder and louder with each step as uncertainty took over. I took a few steps inside, and the door shut right behind me, closing off the echoing hallway.
I turned back to glance out through the window. The hallway’s appearance had shifted to resemble the hallways of my apartment complex. It was like seeing the other side of those one-way mirrors in police interrogation rooms. The room was identical to my apartment, down to kitchen right along the entrance and the smell of white sage. The living room was right across from the kitchen and had a TV positioned across from the door, next to the L-shaped couch we installed about a year ago. From there, a hallway, which I knew led to our bedroom, guest room, and bathroom. I could even sense a hint of lavender coming from our old diffuser. The only sounds were traffic from the windows and our Alexa shuffling our playlist (which mostly had songs from Radiohead).
“Baby, is that you?” A voice in the hallway called out to me.
My heart skipped. Words I’d been yearning for since the day I lost her... After so long, hearing her felt healing, almost like magic. Footsteps drew closer and closer until her dream-like silhouette stood right before me. The sun cast rays on her auburn hair, and her soft amber eyes re-
flected mine. Breathtaking. Her smile, her cute dimples... Not a single detail was off.
“Miss me?” she teased.
My emotions were indescribable. My arms were around her faster than I could process. The tears in my eyes flooded my vision and blurred everything except light. Her body was as gentle as a flower.
“Rose...” I kept tearing up. “My sweet, sweet Rose.”
“Sweetheart, what’s the matter?”
I wanted to tell her how long it had been since we last spoke, but I couldn’t break the rules. I didn’t know what would happen if I did, but I didn’t want to find out. It wasn’t important anymore. Rose was here, for the first time in forever. That was important.
“I just...really missed you.”
She smiled like I’d just made her day and kissed me on the forehead. She grabbed my hand to guide me to the couch and then sat on the chaise.
“I recorded the newest episode of Room for Two!”
That quirky little show... She’d loved it, but I hadn’t had the heart to finish it alone after she died. She turned on the TV and cuddled up beside me, her head on my chest and her leg over mine. She was laughing at the show as she watched, but my focus was only on her. I watched her, predicting what her next expressions would be: laughter, shock, happiness... It was almost a game to me. I’d spent so long replaying the memories of her I had left that now, I practically knew her better than myself.
Time flew by as we binge-watched that show, and before I knew it, I noticed her eyes starting to close.
“I’m so tired, love,” she said, sluggish.
“What?”
That’s when I remembered. “Your loved one will start to doze off.” I jumped close, tried to make her snap out of it, but there was nothing I could do. As she was put to sleep, it took every fiber of my being to walk away, to step out in-
By Logan Eaton
stead of barricading the door. Beyond the door was the desolate facility I’d started at, but now I felt even lonelier. A small receipt popped out of the wall beside me and caught my focus. I stepped closer to read it.
We hope you enjoyed your first session at I’d Give Everything, Inc.! Following your premium plan, your next session is scheduled one week from today (February 14th). Thank you!
Coming to Terms
An old soul, withered and faded
Taken away too soon
Sure, her time were to come
Not as quick as I thought I constantly pondered on my own “Why not me?”
I would have traded everything for her to come back to me
Yet there was no point on dwelling I had to keep moving, for her I had to get up on my own two feet And live my own life
I couldn’t let the thought of her crush me I know if she was still alive she would have wanted me to move on
And so I did
I still reminisce about our memories, indeed I do
But I have to keep moving
That way I can thrive too.
By Trinity Daniels
Dimensions: 3919 x 6000 px
By MJ Starcher
It’s Okay to Go
(Verse 1)
I met a man and his name was death. He said, “Ccome on now. It’s time for a ride. I hope you’ve found peace to let it all go. It’ll be okay in the end, don’t you know?”
(Verse 2)
We went down a road where only heaven knows All the memories that pass me by. I’ve worked and I’ve struggled in this lifetime, But oh the friends that I’ve made along the way.
(Chorus)
It’s okay to go. Oh oh. Into the unknown. Oh oh.
(Verse 3)
We sat around and talked for a while. Oh, I left the jokes on the side. Something about this just doesn’t feel right, Sending chills right down my spine.
(Verse 4)
Maybe I’ll be just fine, Oh, with heaven on my mind, With the breeze in the wind, And birds are chirping.
(Chorus)
It’s okay to go. Oh oh. Into the unknown. Oh oh.
By Gabriel Crowe
Scan the QR code to listen.
Watching Bubbles
Diving into the sea
Floating like a bee
Schools of fish all around
All is silent, not a sound
Back when I waited at the surface
I was not nervous
Watching the bubbles
My excitement doubles
I couldn’t wait
Send me down now, I won’t be shark bait
Now I’m finally here
All my worries disappear
Just watching my bubbles
Letting go of all my troubles
By Brady Myrup
Titan’s Muse
Infographic
Medium: Graphic Design
Dimensions: 1545 x 2000 px
By Marianne Vesich
Keep Facing the Light
Dimensions: 4032 x 3024 px
By Audriana Rollins
Honeysuckle Blooms
Honeysuckle blooms, sweetness carried on a breeze. A small taste of youth.
By Candra Crook
Titan’s Muse 2025
Urban Nature
Dimensions: 3024 x 4032 px
By Marianne Vesich
Titan’s Muse 2025
It Will Be Okay
(Verse)
Don’t give up on yourself . You’re almost there; just hold tight. Don’t go through this alone. Tomorrow isn’t set in stone.
(Pre-chorus)
I know it doesn’t seem like It could get any better. Trust me; it will be worth it this time.
(Chorus)
I know you’ll see This isn’t the end of it all. Keep on fighting; You’ll make it somehow. Don’t stop trying To believe in yourself. No matter what happens Know that you will be okay.
(Repeat Chorus an Octave Higher)
Scan the QR code to listen.
By Gabriel Crowe
What a Happier Time
Opening a new box of crayons, The strong scent flying up my nose, as if it was in a race to get to my brain. Reviving a part of my mind, as if I unlocked a hidden memory that was always there. Suddenly I am in my 2nd grade class coloring a dinosaur.
What a happier time.
Starting a childhood movie up, I remember bits and pieces, but mainly I loved it as a kid. As I watch this film that my child-self held so high, It dawns on me how poorly made this low budget movie is, But for some reason, I still enjoy watching As if I was a little boy, still finding the corny lines amusing,
What a happier time.
I pull up to my elementary school.
Graduation cap and gown on, I enter the front doors. The doors I remember vividly being so intimidated by as a young child. I walk down the halls, and it feels like I can still feel my presence here, As if there is a ghost little boy of me still running and laughing. The more I walk around, the more tears fall from my eyes, But strangely I feel a warm feeling in my soul,
As if this place was home.
What a happier time.
By David Jennings
Contributor Bios
Metta Bolin
Metta Bolin is in her final year at York Technical College. She came here for an Associate in Arts degree because of a fascination with theatre management. She had the possibility in mind of transferring local but decided to wait until she found a direction of study that she was most confident in. She’s always struggled with finding a career path that didn’t intimidate her. Any artistic pursuit is a narrow and questioning field so Metta thinks it’s terrifying to jump into things when you’re still trying to find yourself. Currently she works in a coffee shop as a manager and barista, and she hopes to continue growing from there. Her hopes are to just find stability in life, because that’s all creative human beings can hope for.
When I Was Little, I Used to Write Every Day:
Metta wrote this poem because her sense of individuality is still very unclear to her. She thinks a lot of the times when students are young and fresh out of high school, they are told they need to immediately figure themselves out and find a job that is stable. The first 18 years of life, kids are told to follow this template of their parents’ decisions, then their educators and peers, and when they do follow, it’s hard to find their own groove of life when they leave the comfort of adolescence. A lot of people are never given the opportunity to ask themselves, what is it they love doing, and how can they succeed in this without being faced with self-doubt. This poem shows the first 18 years of how creativity diminishes.
Octavia Butler
Octavia L Butler is a 31-year-old business ma-
jor. She has six children and is currently pursuing her dreams to bring a positive impact to her children and others who have experienced hardships and abuse.
Candra Crook
Candra Crook is a young author residing in South Carolina. She focuses on poetry and short stories that explore the beautiful, tragic, and realistic aspects of the human experience. Crook aspires to pursue writing as a creative hobby.
Narcomania: “Narcomania” is an interpretive story about addiction. It plays on aspects of nostalgia with a mixed feeling of want and dread, similar to the feeling that nostalgia sometimes gives. The main character cannot help but chase her high again and again, so her unfortunate circumstances are something that destroys her while bringing her comfort. Narcomania is not meant to give vulgar details, so it is pretty vague in some themes.
Content Warning: Candra’s short story “Narcomania” on page 34 deals with addiction.
Gabriel Crowe
Growing up, Gabe didn’t know what he wanted to be. Little did he know he didn’t need to become what was already inside him. Gabe loved to create. He was a poet and a writer before he knew it, and he wants to continue writing songs and poems that people enjoy or can find something inside that lets them know they aren’t alone.
Nostalgia: Gabe wrote this piece as if he were Titan’s Muse
searching for what nostalgia meant to him. It wasn’t found in things or crucial moments in his life. It was found in the little things and the memories that he made along the way: the people he met and the loved ones he cherished.
Trinity Daniels
Trinity is a 19 year old who loves art in every shape and form. She is studying at York Tech to transfer and major in economics.
Collection of Three Poems: “Between Me” is about the author’s love and nostalgic feeling for the warm seasons. “Little Elephant” is about a toy elephant the author adored as a child, but grew out of once she got older. “Coming to Terms” is about her struggles with grief over the passing of her grandmother. She thinks back on their memories together and feels nostalgic each time.
Logan Eaton
Logan Eaton is a longtime writer with a deep creative streak, bringing stories to life with imagination and insight.
If I Could Give Everything: Through his short story, Logan attempted to explore narratives of grief, loss, and the ways in which emotional vulnerabilities are exploited for financial gain. The piece, though imbued with profound symbolism, is vague. He makes this choice both in order to invoke an element of mystery, and also to make the narrative relatable to a wider audience of readers. Believing it best describes his work, Logan borrows a quote from writer J. R. R. Tolkien, who asks, “What punishments of God are not gifts?”
Rylie Funke
As a primarily traditional artist in the digital age, Rylie makes an interchangeable approach to her art, using traditional art-making techniques to add to her digital designs and conversely, utilizing digital tools to aid her traditional processes. She is currently working towards an Associates in Digital Design at York Tech and has large ambitions to build a career in print media and to further her education in traditional artmaking after Tech.
You can find more by Rylie on her instagram: @rasuk.ee or website! Rasukee.bigcartel.com.
All Three Photos (Full Series): This series of photos holds individual value when it comes to evoking a wistful affection towards the past. Immediately upon viewing the images, they don’t blend cohesively into an aesthetic. However, when analyzed together, these photos allow a narrative to emerge. Because the person is an ever-changing being, we look to bygone days and feel a vast array of emotions. At times, the past can offer a warm embrace, while other times, a feeling of remorse. Photo, “space(d)ou(b)t” emulates the former, an embrace-- the retrospective idealization of doubtlessness in and of the past -- while the latter is depicted in “Low in Light,” a feeling of despair, regardless of how innocent the past exists sincerely. Often times, this negative comparison of past and present results in a decision to rid any evidence of a time where you did not live up to your current day ideals. That’s what “Erasure” proposes. Nostalgia is not always as wholesome as frequently depicted. We want to think that we can live in these memories of the past and rely on them to comfort us. However, that’s simply not viable, as it only takes one bad association to completely alter a memory.
Ivy Guy
Ivy likes to write about things she knows and experiences she’s had. She also likes to write things to cope with her mental health.
The American Dream is Dead: This piece compares the original “American Dream” to a corpse, rotting in riches that could be used to help others. It is to show how stupid it is to hoard money that no one could possibly spend in a lifetime.
Peyton Hawkins
Peyton Hawkins is a dual enrollment student at York Tech. She is 16 years old, and her perferred genre is fantasy. Her other personal interests include drawing, playing videogames, and swimming.
Our Little Town: This piece was inspired by the game Silent Hill which is a psychological horror game. Peyton remembers when she watched her best friend play and helped solve the puzzles in the game. It was so immersive with the story, puzzles, and multiple endings in the game, which led to this poem being made, a poem that focuses on the town itself with some references of the game in there. The whole poem really captures the town itself and how it treats the people that are brought back to it.
Haley Henricksen
Haley Henricksen is a self-proclaimed weirdo.
Star Box: WHAT’S INSIDE!!
Messy Life: Sometimes life is messy... just tell them off!
Jadyn Hill
Jadyn is 19 years old, and her program of study is psychology. She prefers romantic and realistic genres.
Bailee Hinson
Bailee Hinson is a 19-year-old student at York Tech, working on her associates degree in arts. This year, Bailee will be heading to Winthrop in the fall to purse an English degree. Bailee has been a writer her entire life, and doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon, as she has written three full length novels and intends to publish them soon, but she also writes poetry.
Numbers: This piece is about the most important ages (or eras) of the author’s life, and how she looked back on them approaching her 18th birthday.
Content Warning: Bailee’s poem “Numbers” on page 40 deals with self-harm, death, and eating disorders.
David Jennings
David Jennings, who goes by the name Si, is a 19-year-old second year student here at York Tech. He is working on getting is Associates in Science. Si prefers a freeform style poem and loves music.
Tyler Mathews
Tyler Mathews is a writer and filmmaker who explores philosophical themes through narrative. With a background in multimedia collaboration, Tyler helps craft stories for film and video. He recently earned an Associate in Arts and is pursuing a degree in Marketing and Advertising.
A Dream Deferred: Tyler writes to explore the philosophical in the everyday. In this work, he wanted to examine how we sometimes give up on our passions in order to follow a “safer” path. This piece was personal to Tyler in that he often feels pressured to follow the more common path instead of pursuing his passion. Passion to Tyler is something that we all should never let go.
Josiah Mendez
Josiah is a 19-year-old Christian who enjoys writing poetry. He has no previous publications, no awards, nothing at all really. He’s just a poor college student who wants to make it big. That last sentence was a lie, he doesn’t really care about that, he says being broke can be fun, Just want to clarify that this is still writing in third person, the person writing this hasn’t said any first person pronouns that would indicate otherwise, and this is a run on sentence because the writer thought it would be funny to make a joke and then explain said joke, perhaps he doesn’t think that the reader is smart enough to pick up on his sarcasm, the writer, would say that he isn’t presuming on a lack of ability on the reader’s part, but more so that he thought it would add to the humor, by the way this is still four sentences.
Brady Myrup
Brady was born in Orem, Utah in 2006. He has lived in South Carolina for nine years. Brady is currently a dual enrollment student who will graduate with his Associates in Science this spring. He enjoys scuba diving, skiing, and spending time with his three dogs.
Watching Bubbles: Everyone in his family is a certified scuba diver, and he couldn’t wait to be certified too. It seemed he was just watching their bubbles float to the surface for the longest time, but when he was finally certified it was
wondrous to be able to watch the bubbles from below.
Audriana Rollins
Audriana Rollins is a 24-year-old nursing student who enjoys sunflowers more than her morning coffee. Her preferred style of art is mixed media and photography. Some of Audriana’s personal interests include going to church, spending time in nature, and living each day like it’s her last.
Gillian Scott
Hard Plastic Stackable School Chair 13.75”H:
This poem came from a place of deep memory: those plastic classroom chairs in elementary school, the small ones meant for small bodies, color-coded in complementary school colors. For many, they evoke bittersweet feelings of long-ago days. It is this feeling that inspired “School Chair.” For someone who often struggled in school, this poem encapsulates the convoluted and conflicting feelings “bad” students often feel about school, and how those feelings stick with them long after the school bell rings.
Sebastian Seger
Sebastian started drawing at a very young age, and over time, it grew into a deep passion. As he matured, so did his art, beginning with cartoons, then progressing into realism. Eventually, his talent caught the attention of the very celebrities he portrayed. His dedication led him to graduate from AP Art, a milestone that marked just one chapter of his creative journey. Through every stage of his life, one thing remained constant: his love for art. It’s always been a part of who he is, and it always will be.
Margo Sorrells
Margo describes herself as “Just a writer with too many thoughts.”
A Ghost with Two Hands and No Face: This piece was inspired by the work of Ocean Vuong and more specifically, his poem called “Homewrecker.” The contents of the poem are not related, but Margo drew inspiration from Vuong’s form and syntax.
Content Warning: Margo’s poem “A Ghost with Two Hands and No Face” on page 37 includes allusions to sexual assault and self-harm.
MJ Starcher
MJ enjoys working with multiple forms of visual communication, photography, digital art, multimedia pieces, music, video, podcasts, and fashion. She also enjoys writing poetry, fantasy, and sci-fi. MJ has received her film degree from York Technical College and is continuing her art education at Winthrop University. She really likes pulling visual inspiration from music, video games, and movies that she enjoys. She also references the works of poets and authors such as Edgar Allan Poe and Lewis Carroll in her art. MJ is always eager to start her next project and is very excited to see where her education and career path takes her. If you are interested in seeing some of her work, you can find her on social media under the name @starcreationsmjcs.
Samantha Tuthill
Samantha is in her final year at York Technical College and plans to work toward a Bachelor’s in Folklore and Mythology in the coming years. Samantha is currently working on her first novel but continues to write in other formats and styles.
Content Warning: Samantha’s poem “Great Sword” on page 38 deals with child abuse.
Marianne Vesich
Marianne Vesich is a digital artist and graphic design student at York Technical College. Her art typically features stylized animals and nature elements, accompanied by an overarching theme of fantasy and sweetness. Marianne strives to create art that evokes a feeling of whimsy and nostalgia in its viewers, and she hopes to utilize her illustrative/graphic design skills to advocate for wildlife and shelter animals.
New Friends: In this piece, a shy earth dragon explores through the Kiwi Forest and meets some lively friends along the way! Like most of Marianne’s illustrations, “New Friends” is reminiscent of the media she consumed throughout her childhood (ex. Little Bear, Sanrio, Studio Ghibli, etc).
SOFT EDGES (Time Capsule): This digital collage was created for a grayscale time capsule project in Design I class at YTC. Marianne chose the early 2000s, as this was where she spent most of her childhood.
Infographic: This is part of a three-piece set of flyers to raise awareness about these birds mainly to educate YTC students, staff, and faculty about their nesting habits, temperament, what not to do if you see a nesting goose, etc. Marianne grew up watching nature shows like Zaboomafoo and Steve Irwin’s The Crocodile Hunter, both of which inspired her to spread awareness about wildlife in a modern, yet nostalgic, manner.
Keepers of Time: The objective of this piece was to take photos and combine specific elements (using Photoshop) to create a surrealistic com-
position, inspired by Jerry Uelsmann. “Keepers of Time” reflects the ever-fleeting nature of the present, forcing you forward while leaving behind only the blurry memories of the past.
Cherry Hill Lanes: The objective of this digital photography piece was to capture objects “in-motion” (ideally with a slower shutter speed) to create different effects. While this was taken at a local bowling alley, Marianne titled the piece “Cherry Hill Lanes” to pay homage to the bowling alley she frequented as a child.
Urban Nature: This photo captures the coexistence of nature and its industrial counterpart. While this piece reflects both natural and industrial elements, it also reflects the balancing act between order (stop sign) and chaos (creative expression).
Kaelyn Watts
Kaelyn (Abigale) Watts was saved in the summer of 2023 and has been a Christian ever since.
An Untouched Bible: This poem was inspired by a sermon by her preacher, Pastor Adam Laster of Bright Light Free Will Baptist Church in York, SC. Kaelyn’s work is dedicated to him and his wife, as they helped her find the Lord and to begin her walk in Christ.
Seth Whisonant
Seth Whisonant is student at York Tech with a “slight” interest in poetry. The use of cards in his writing is because of the importance playing cards has in his family life.
Contact Us
If you would like to contact Titan’s Muse, email us at titansmuse@yorktech.edu.
Want to submit? Titan’s Muse will be accepting student submissions for the 2026 edition beginning in Fall 2025. Scan the QR code for more information.
York Technical College
452 S. Anderson Rd. Rock Hill, SC 29730
Titan’s Muse