Titan Tribune

By Lia Low July tastes like salt. sometimes it'’'s sour, sweet, bitter, sometimes you want more or less, sometimes it dissolves quickly or not at all. it always has a lingering aftertaste.

By Isaac Voon This poem is my attempt at a palindrome poem. Palindrome poems or mirror poems have two meanings; one meaning when read from top to bottom and a different meaning when read from bottom to top. I believed it could last forever. We built it with light and laughter. Each word, a promise. Each promise, a truth. We never doubted. We closed our eyes and leapt. I trusted. I dreamed.

By Wren Davies Lonely The girl walks in school, people look at her but don't see her Lonely A girl talks to her face but not to her Lonely The girl smiles with her mouth but not with her eyes. Lonely Her teachers notice but don't see Lonely Her teacher says get into partners, and her eyes look around, but people don't notice because loneliness makes you visible but at the same time invisible.

By Tate Trenouth Morning broke, and no one woke save for me. I spent that morning cleaning, then morning turned to afternoon, and I turned to speak to my employer. "Sir, you must come here quickly. Your daughter appears quite sickly," I said with a hint of caution. My employer was generally benign, but he could sometimes be a bit rhadamanthine. He rushed past me with a furrowed brow. "This seems quite nasty. I'll call the doctor here, and then there's nothing to fear," he said, with a slight waver in his voice. Despite what he said, fear I did. It was a slight uneasiness, which gradually shifted and reared its head as a bilious pit in my stomach. Something was afoot, I was sure of it. I turned as I heard a foot. The signature tip-tapping of a medical professional. First, his dark grey pants peeked around the corner, ensuring the room was good enough for his white coat. The doctor's head followed behind the cluster of clot...

By Lia Low from sleep, she arises, blinking softly, she dances down deep stairs, taking free form, thinking there's time before catastrophe. her veil on reality is flimsy, growing nearer with each step, waits a storm. from sleep, she arises, blinking softly. skipping to the kitchen, making coffee, self-preservation is what she had sworn, thinking there's time before catastrophe. she believes she is safe, blankets woolly. no tears from her dreams, it's cozy and warm. from sleep, she arises, blinking softly. the life she lives is far from a fairy- tale, but under this spell she won't conform, thinking there's time before catastrophe. now, she does not know who she wants to be, even if her heart tore, she can't transform. from sleep, she arises, blinking softly, thinking there's time before catastrophe.

By Lia Low Search for the light Only hidden to the moon. Life belongs to A part of one whole Remarkable assemblage, unless it is Empty Corona latches outwards to Latch on to any form of connection. If they both defied their home of orbits, Put away the light and dark, light and dark, light and Somehow, forced worlds to collide, it would simply be the End.

By Juan Manuel Lozada Corinaldesi Originally written by Charles Dickens "Christmas is a time for joy, celebration, and friendship. The air is filled with the warmth of family, the brilliance of twinkling lights, and the delicious aroma of holiday sweets and a Christmas tree. For many, it's a time for introspection, giving, and creating lasting memories. Christmas gives a sense of enchantment and wonder that fills hearts with gladness, whether through generations-old traditions or new moments spent with loved ones. There are many stories about the magic of Christmas, but everyone is familiar with "A Christmas Carol," which tells the story of Ebenezer Scrooge, a bitter old man who resents Christmas, like the Grinch..." “A Christmas Carol” Once upon a time, one snowy winter day, it was Christmas Eve. Mean old Ebenezer Scrooge was in his freezing cold office. Young Bob Cratchit worked long hours there for very little pay. Scrooge said, ...

Inspired by Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein By Aspen Worbeck What is love ? the creature wonders. He is an amalgamation of broken parts and buried secrets, things that should be long gone but were cruelly wrenched from the surface to build him . An abomination. He has listened to the humans, heard their silvery speech and the words that flutter across their tongues like a promise. Among those words, there is one that seems to gently squeeze on his rotten heart: love . He traces the word with his misshapen mouth, his lips pressing together in the corners, tongue flicking gently against his pearly white teeth as they brush against his lip. What does it mean to feel love ? The humans describe it as something in your chest, like a lion, or a rabbit. Not physically there, but it makes your heart beat traitorously and your brain act differently. The creature wonders if it is possible for him to truly feel this way. What would it be like? Would there be a connecti...

By Beck Fergusson Can I tell you about the octopus in my freezer? He has been there a week and refuses to talk to me. I am puzzled by his presence; he seems unhappy. I am not sure why he is here. I barely know the octopus at all. My brother, however, has quite taken to the octopus and will not stop talking about him. Did you know octopi have nine brains and three hearts? They have these three hearts as a consequence of having blue blood. Their two peripheral hearts pump blood through their gills and a central heart then circulates the oxygenated blood to the rest of the body. They have one main brain located in their heads that is used for overall control. At the base of each tentacle is a smaller brain which can control each arm independently. Of course, the eight brains that octopi have in each tentacle are not like the brains we have. Instead, their brains are smaller bundles of nerves packed together. These nerves only equal out to around half...

By Anna Segelken On September 6th, 1927, Templeton Junior High School opened its gates for the first time to approximately 900 pupils in grades seven and eight. Later this year, on December 2nd, 1927, Templeton’s first student publication, the Tee Jay, was unveiled. The name Tee Jay was chosen because it was “distinctive” and “took in two of our letters”. The editors also chose this name because “it makes mention of an interesting bird- the jay”. They explained that “the jay is a chattering bird and we hope to make our paper a chatty paper”. The Tee Jay was a very comprehensive publication. It covered all news at the school, from sports reporting “a snappy basketball game was played” to gossip “a young lady dropped her milk bottle the other day in the cafeteria”. The “Sassiety Column” kept students informed of important observations, such as “a big handsome cop strutting his stuff”. Reading the Tee Jay offers insight into th...

By Lia Low “What have I done?” I asked myself, looking upon the now ruined painting. Nothing had ever been so awfully conveyed; it was a brutal message and one that I could not take back. It started this morning, when the wind was cold and the air was dry. The breeze pushed and prodded at my clothing, which ultimately slowed down my mission: to confront Austin Nerezza. He was the man who blew my life apart, scattered the pieces too far to find, and left without a word. We had an improbable encounter almost a decade ago. It was unlikely and wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for my ignorance. I had walked in on my father’s meeting, the meeting that I was previously told to stay away from. I wanted to be more involved with my family’s business, but as a young woman it was more difficult to prove myself. My existence was revealed to those we planned to ally with, but after seeing me, they backed out of the deal. My stupidity had almost ended the entire Donatello name; so I, Allegra ...

By Phoenix Nguyen   No, nothing good starts in a getaway car. The ties were black, and the lies were white; in shades of grey in candlelight. I hated it. I hated how we were. I hate that I was chasing make-belief status. I knew you tried to change the ending, but alas, Peter still lost Wendy. You never saw it coming, so I too blinded myself. ‘Tis was another fine evening in June. The chill of the northerly wind having given away in the late afternoon to a lovely warm stillness and clarity in the air. Far different from the atmosphere inside the car, far different from the cages and chains in my throat trapping those fierce claps from bursting my heart open, fluttering words up my throat, throwing up the butterflies that were pacing my mind since forever. Wise men say love is a rebellious bird, coming and going, passing by unbeknownst to us. If such is true, then I ought to be the wintriest place for any bird, for I have never experienced th...