We Lay Flowers From The Dead But The Flowers Die Too - Inaya Aly Khan

What if... we were all the same? - Advita Tiwari

One Anomaly After Another: A Personal Essay - Chris Ceguerra

The Sailor's Lament - Jeff Sommer

Interconnected Connections - Reebie Flowers

From love to hate -  Isra shakeel 

Haven't heard from you in a while/ Canto I - Jasmin Beghal

Beneath a foreign sky - Isra shakeel 

Young Lotus - Fatima Mendez

Back To Back - Marly Yoshino

Becoming - Loo May Ching Candice

By Inaya Aly Khan

Inaya is a sixteen year old girl from Pakistan. She is interested in history and literature, and can often be found listening to the Beatles or Billy Joel.

"I think death is the most important part of new beginnings - cycles must end to begin anew"

We lay flowers for the dead, but the flowers die too

With streaming eyes and sniffling noses

We remember the deceased

With trembling hands and blurry eyes

We lay down the roses

A bouquet of peonies

And our hearts we try to appease

But the flowers turn to dust

And the dust trickles down

Until such time that Ms Deceased' shoes

are merely hand-me-downs

To me, and the flowers

crumble with the remains of a body lost long

ago

For the man may have died

But now the blossoms must go

By Chris Ceguerra

Chris Ceguerra is a Filipino writer and graduate of the University of California, Berkeley, where he studied media, journalism, and creative writing. A 2022 California Humanities Emerging Journalist Fellow, he now contributes stories to a local daily. He writes personal essays on pop culture, immigrant life, the arts, and technology. Outside of writing, he enjoys indie and international films, medical narratives, and sending memes. Chris also loves pandas and is a sucker for claw machines.

One Anomaly After Another: A Personal Essay

I didn’t understand life until I almost lost it—in a series of near endings. My most defining moments unfolded in hospitals, where each visit instilled lessons I never encountered on the streets or in classrooms. Whether I was in pediatric wards, emergency rooms, or intensive care units, these experiences shaped not only my understanding of mortality and illness but also documented my first presence in the world.

The first sign of life is usually discovered through morning sickness or a positive pregnancy test result, but mine began as an anomaly. On the day Ma was scheduled for her first chemotherapy session, her doctor ordered a final round of blood work to check her levels. And thus, Ma’s elevated hormones recorded my first existence.

To chemo or not to chemo? If she proceeded with treatment, the drug would neutralize the zygote. But continuing the pregnancy would have had a massive toll on her already frail body—and would dissolve me, the embryo forming inside her. Ma's doctors urged her to proceed with chemotherapy to eradicate what remained of the disease, but she feared she wouldn’t wake up from the procedure. She had fought long enough to let the cancer win—and take her away from her family.

As I grew older, I convinced myself I was unintended. Unlike my brothers, I was not wished for. Ma and Pa longed for a child after marriage—hence the firstborn. When my eldest brother wanted a sibling, they gave him the middle child. I was the ember that flickered in their moment of warmth, before the radiation reshaped my mother’s womanhood.

What engrossed everyone about my birth story is how Ma's cancer cells vanished during her first oncology check-up after giving birth. Doctors offered no medical explanation, and many accepted my birth as a miracle—a mythology that rippled through my kin and our community. I do not know whether I healed her or whether our survival was just one in a million. What I am certain, however, is that it embodies a rare mutualism between a mother and child: you grow me, I heal you—a relationship where, for once, no one had to die.

By the time I was three, I began to learn the intricacies of hospitals when my mom had a remission from cancer. My first hospital visit as a family member also marked the first time my developing brain shifted from running on autopilot and began memory retention. If my memory serves me right, something from more than 20 years ago, I would be wearing a white sando (or what Americans call a wife beater) and kid-sized basketball shorts—the colors and team I now cannot recall. The sound of announcements echoed through the public hospital ward, where  eight beds stood separated by flimsy curtains. 

Someone bigger held my hand—my father, perhaps, or my oldest brother. They guided me to a bed with metal railings. A bag of saline hung from a pole beside it, and I watched the solution drip into a vial that managed its depletion. I pointed my left index finger at the fluid trickling toward Ma’s hand. I was unable to grasp the physics behind the motion. Nor the weight of witnessing my mother lying in a hospital bed. Yet, I found fascination in this pre-op protocol before her operation.

“Hi, Bhie,” Ma said—a contraction for baby, or perhaps a stand-in for the letter B in bunso, the Filipino word for the youngest child. It was just hours before she went under anesthesia. She masked a smile, the kind that parents often perfect to disguise fear. I hopped onto her bed, brimming with joy at our reunion, all while oblivious that she might never return home.

After a blur of time in the hospital, my next memory is of my brother holding my hand as we stepped into our home. Inside, I saw our middle brother and the rest of the cousins gathered in our multi-family household, watching late-night television. Perhaps no one felt ready to sleep yet, all of us quietly awaiting updates on our matriarch’s operation. My middle brother pulled out a stack of discs—some bought from record stores, others burned at home—and began sifting through them. He decided it was the perfect night for an Ice Cube film, thus introducing me to my first global media consumption. 

At the time, my cognition had just begun to form; I couldn’t follow the film’s plot, and I only mimicked their laughter whenever I saw them laugh. In retrospect, my cognition must have presented what developmental psychologists call “mimicry.” I would cry if you cry; I would laugh if you laugh. Perhaps, my brother did what he could to shield me from their fears—to distract everyone, if only for a while, from the quiet anxiety that gripped the room.

Ma bested the disease the second time, but learning the lessons of mortality is part of the course of life. For the first few years of my childhood, I saw the world—and hospitals—as extensions of family. As a child, adults said that hospitals are no place for children, but they were wrong. It wasn't long before I, too, became a patient.

Five years later, at the age of eight, watching a camera journey through the nasal passages sparked an early interest in the practice of medicine. Ma and I went to see an ear, nose, and throat (ENT) doctor because my snoring worried her. She hoped a prescription would ease the airway obstruction. The doctor proposed the removal of my tonsils. He explained that I showed signs of sleep apnea and that my blocked airway could eventually lead to heart disease. His solution promised long-term relief from the disorder—and the chance to avoid something far worse.

“If I developed a heart problem,” I asked, unaware of human biology as an eight-year-old, “would taking out my tonsils eliminate the disease?” The doctor held his breath. His face conveyed a hint of sadness, a tone you would expect from someone delivering bad news. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “Heart disease doesn’t go away once you have it.” 

As a kid, I didn’t yet have the sensibility to grasp the weight of my health, so my attention drifted from the conversation to the room in a far corner. I observed a doctor in cerulean scrubs standing in front of a screen, arms folded, watching a recording. The footage showed a camera journeying through someone’s nose, and as the camera traveled deeper, I sat there, engrossed, wondering what the camera might reveal.

But before I could find out what they were searching for, Ma said it was time to leave. We didn’t speak on the way out of the hospital. Her mind wandered through the scenarios the doctor had laid out, while mine lingered on what he had discovered inside the patient’s nose.

In the end, I never got my tonsils removed. From my understanding, they did not have the heart to risk their child going under anesthesia. We never returned for follow-up appointments. The world, however, wanted to keep me grounded and understand the concepts of sickness and health. 

It wasn’t until the age of 10 that I had my first hospital admission and understood how having loved ones around made recovery more bearable. My cousin and I both contracted dengue fever. I caught the fever first, and I suspected the mosquito that bit me drained my infected blood and passed it to him.

After days of fluctuating temperatures, the adults brought us to an emergency room, where we got admitted. Hydration was crucial, and both of us needed IV access. His fitness gave him an advantage, as his veins were visible on his hand, making it easy for the nurses to find a suitable vein. My chubby arms, however, gave the nurses a challenge. A veteran nurse stepped in after the previous nurse's failed attempts to secure an IV. Alas, they secured an IV, but at the expense of a meltdown. The agony from the third sting shattered my stoicism, and I cried.

When the time came for us to rest in our separate private wards, my cousin and I demanded to stay in the same room. Whether it was co-dependency or the bond of brotherly love, we refused to be separated. The hospital honored our request, but still billed us as two separate patients. The room contained a single bed, an IV pole, and a window overlooking the bustling wet market below. My cousin climbed in first, taking the wall side, while I took the edge for easier access to the bathroom. The nurses looped his IV line above my head to prevent it from getting tugged or pinched, while they shortened mine around the pole.

I awakened to the smell of alcohol and a gentle hand lifting my right arm the next morning. A nursing student sanitized my index finger with a wet wipe, and the warmth of my body quickly evaporated its dampness. I moved carefully, not wanting to wake my cousin or tug at the IV line in his hand. The sharp clink of the fingerstick hastened my heart rate. It wasn’t as daunting as a syringe, but it was still a needle.

"It would be quick," the nurse said. 

Yes, but would it be painless?

As we recovered, my cousin found it amusing that I was frightened by needles and freaked out whenever my blood leaked out of the IV line. He said that he no longer saw in me his roguish cousin, the one who used to staple his fingers out of curiosity and laugh it off when my brothers removed the wires. He said I had gotten soft and pointed out that he was starting to see me exercise discernment, calling it “learning by bleeding.” I had lost my mischievous charm and settled into conformity during my teenage years. Without discernment, who knows what other injury I might have experienced?

A decade after my last hospital stay, I never thought about mortality and the afterlife until the threat of the global pandemic changed hospital perception on viruses. I got septic from an unknown virus, but the timing’s just perfect for me to experience the ER’s protocol for patients suspected of contracting COVID-19.

It was on Cyber Monday when I planned to travel to tour a prospective university. Sitting on the bus, something odd caught my eye in my peripheral vision. My temples throbbed, and with each pulse, shockwaves distorted my perception. My heart began to beat double time, and a pressure built behind my eyes, as though blood flow was restricted and something clogged my vessels. I could no longer breathe through my nose; instead, I relied on my mouth to ensure enough air entered my system, so I had to remove my face mask to breathe correctly.

Listening to my better judgment, I called a ride home for safety. I passed out as soon as I entered my room and woke up around 5 PM. My heartbeat still fluctuated, and a mild pressure at the back of my head signaled a clarion call, urging me to act on my own volition and head to the emergency room.

The moment I arrived in the ER, I got pulled from different areas for triage and assessments until they eventually secured me in an isolation room. A couple of nurses entered, carrying a hospital gown and various medical apparatus. I figured they’d stick some electrodes, hook me up to machines, and draw a few vials of blood for cultures—routine, I thought. But I froze when they unpacked not one, but two gigantic needles from a minted box. Instinctively, my arm jerked away from the nurse holding the first needle.

“Do you really need to do it on both arms?” I asked, nervous—this would be my first time getting poked with giant needles. In her most professional tone, the nurse explained that they had to insert two cannulas as part of the COVID-19 emergency protocol. Blood draws never scared me much; nurses and phlebotomists usually reassured me that they used baby-sized needles—a typical comforting script they use to soften our fear.

As I lay on the hospital bed, my thoughts drifted beyond the immediate pain, and my mind revisited the philosophies I hold on to from my reading and writing. The antibiotics helped my immune system fight the virus, but the thought of dying compelled me to think of the afterlife. Amid the swell of cosmic dread, I recalled a conversation with a writing mentor from the Philippines, one in which I asked him about atheism and the afterlife. He urged me not to lose my sanity over the idea of nothingness, reminding me that we had already passed through it once—before we ever existed. As he put it, we came from nothing, became something, and will eventually cycle back to nothing.

Similarly, my existential conundrum triggered a memory from my high school Filipino literature class. We were reading Noli Me Tangere (Touch Me Not) when my teacher explained how one of the characters, Pilosopo Tasyo (Tasyo the Philosopher), approached the idea of death. According to her, Tasyo believed that death is blissful. To him, dying meant release from the mundane problems of humanity and attachment to worldly possessions. He mentioned that once you transcend towards the afterlife, true happiness awaits. I wanted to believe in Rizal’s claim, but what he offered was merely a perspective—it lacked the empirical weight to convince me truly.

The contrast between void and bliss loomed before me like two attendants, each asking which path I wished to take. Thankfully, before I could choose, a knock echoed from the outside of the isolation room. The ER doctor entered past midnight and informed me that I had contracted a viral infection, but assured me it wasn’t COVID. With that, she cleared me for discharge, though I needed to complete my fluids and antibiotics.

I had survived, but the fear of the afterlife lingered like the last stubborn bacterium resisting antimicrobial soap. Over time, this iota of fear will grow and resurface at times of vulnerability. 

Hospitals are often seen as somber settings, where people turn the last page of their story. But the ones I’ve known also cradled beginnings—spaces where oracles of life and death whispered truths.

In my search for meaning, a therapist told me to surrender to the unknown and find solace in the myriad possibilities of the afterlife. This medically induced existential crisis, they said, should not close my eyes to appreciating the beauty of the present. “The world,” he told me, “is too grand for any of us to know the absolute.” Maybe he’s right—perhaps I spend too much of my time on something I can never prepare.

Still, with a few more years of living, I hope to one day wake up and laugh at this deep-seated anxiety that once held me so tightly. For now, I’ll seek solace beyond hospital walls and explore the things that remind me not to fear death.

By Reebie Flowers

Reebie Ann Flowers is thy name. Currently, studies Criminal Justice at Sacramento State as a NSLS student. She believes that poetry is a love language that she traditionally speaks. She has 3 books available from Barnes&Noble.com to Amazon… She can be found on Instagram: viewerzchoice35 https://www.instagram.com/viewerzchoice35?igsh=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ== 

"Become one with self. Eliminate all distractions before going into the state of creativity. Drink plenty of water and purposely drive your mind to focus on the beautiful things that make up this universe. "

Peacock Feathered

What to do when the appeal of your aesthetic hits the atmosphere differently?

Must wear every color…Pridefully. Unapologetically. 

Secretly, scope each scenery…

Since the societal norms, will attempt to patternize the uncharacterized.

Take ownership of how one identifies…

And see the perceptions shift by the unpatronized.

Despite the misconceptions, your authenticity is needed.

A Snipers Detection's

Moving through the highest of mountains without hesitation.

Correction, frequently evaluating frequencies…

Brought a need to interconnect with one's secrecies. 

Sincerely, adhering to one's own personal needs…Diligently. 

Can be effective in clearing any congestion and insecurities.

Wholeheartedly, take responsibility for…How and what feels.

Attentiveness is the ultimate power of necessariness…

Remove the rights to conceal.

Please don't forget, a sniper's detection is supposed to expose any virus.

Out in the Field  

Doing more than what's necessary, to rise above the contrary. 

High maintenance from within, while assisting with putting effort despite life's odds. 

Can place one on a radar, that brings division to authenticity and fraud. 

Rolling up sleeves, to suit one's mentality…

Isn't seen as a necessity. Postal. High priority. 

Promising with prioritizing, is minimizing the risk associated with digitizing. 

A blueprint that can't just be taught. 

Don't be afraid to get your hands, feet… 

Out that mud… Set your magnitude on default. 

One has to get up. Create a daily strive for tomorrow.

Remember your source. Most times it isn't always luck. 

Believing in you, got you this far …Notice the challenge.

I even saw a few little scratches. 

Defeated? Not. Made it through just fine. 

By Jasmin Beghal

Jasmin is an avid poet who has previously been a runner-up in 2 poetry competitions. Her love for poetry comes from her studies of it in English and continues outside of her academics. Some of her favourite poets are Carol Ann Duffy and Maya Angelou. 

Haven't heard from you in a while:

It’s been raining for the past week;

It finally came after the heatwave we had all summer. 

I started a new cross-stitch design;

Hopefully it won’t take me too long to complete. 

I start university in two weeks; 

I’ll update you on what I learn.

I went to Greece for my nineteenth;

I’ll show you the photos in a week. 

I bought myself a guitar in March;

I’ll learn your favourite songs if you’d like. 

I’m trying to read a book from every country;

Do you have any recommendations for Mozambique?

Everyone is asleep while I write to you;

This is the only comfort zone I have left. 

I’m trying my best to stay calm;

I’m trying to climb a mountain that’s too steep.

Haven’t heard from you in a while.

I’m tired and I don’t know how to let go.

Canto I:

‘There is no sorrow greater 

than, in times of misery, to hold at your heart 

the memory of happiness’

Canto 5, Inferno

Many days and many nights have 

passed since my first encounter with 

my other self. I have lost many 

memories and nights of sleep 

trying to grasp onto any

sense of reality I come 

across. I have seen many lives 

remain somewhere between life and death, 

locked in my cage of bones of those that 

came before me. 

Across the plains of choice and truth, 

lived a man, who was once shacked down,

away from any city of 

light and hope, birth and death,

and he is kept in secrecy. 

He is but one man held back from 

any civility death might 

have brought him. Yet he died anyway. 

Many nights and many days have 

lent themselves to the plucking of 

our lives and the taking of our 

freedom. In many ways, the act 

of love gave some escape 

from wherever we find ourselves. 

It hid itself in cupboards and 

corners, waiting to be found by 

some soulless creature. 

There have been countless errors and 

tragedies that have unfolded 

that made my life a general mist 

of grief and loss. I tried to leave 

but it never left me. Escape 

meant I was a dead man. There was 

no more left to give in 

than the times of misery and the 

memory of happiness that 

learned its lines and fit its costume. 

Those moments died on stage. 

The dust settled and the doors closed. 

Remnants of livelihood paint 

themselves over chipped walls and 

collapsed ceilings. It recreates itself 

in the ruins that remained, lost in 

time and only existing in what we 

created. 

Loss, grief, bravery, transgression.

Each moment stained like ink on my 

hands and each of my 

memories were scribbled on scraps of paper 

that littered the floors of my mind. 

I have known no perseverance like the memories of grief. 

Shall I stay in my shroud of certainty, 

or shall I leave across the frame of time 

and all that we believe to be true? I 

have never wanted to stray 

from what I have known in life 

and I have seen no other choice 

but to stay in the life I was given, 

and to fit into my role with 

whatever pieces I was given. 

Only time can tell who will 

survive these tragedies and who 

will remain in their purgatory 

but only one thing keeps 

its certainty and that is 

that we can only be alone together.  

By Fatima Mendez

Fatima Mendez was born on July 4th, 2008, being born  with both physical and mental disorders preventing her from having a normal childhood. From a young age, she learned that poetry was an outlet for her to express her thoughts, and emotions. Fatima writes with honesty and courage, unafraid to show the world her true self.

"Her piece, "White Lotus" is a raw expression on piece grief and self expression."

The star dusk stained your lips – you are a blessing to earth. 

An angel on earth, full of flaws, but I love you regardless.

I want to understand how you do it.

I want to see right through it.

You are strong.

I’m sorry you have to doubt it.

I’ll write it a million times until you believe it.

I'll scream it on the top of my lungs until you don’t need it.

And when you die, don’t fear it.

It's natural, I know you are afraid of being left behind.

The beauty of it all, I know you can’t see it.

But death is graceful, death is kind.

Don’t be afraid, I’m with you.

I’ll swallow your ashes, take you with me.

That is the beauty of the world.

It's within our souls, it's in the air.

It's runs through our veins--

It's everywhere. 

By Loo May Ching Candice

Candice Loo is an amateur poet from Singapore who enjoys writing about her reflections and perspectives on life.

Thirty-five, going on thirty-six,

The age of in-between,

Soon to bid farewell to youth -

At least by Singapore’s society standards.

Standing at the threshold,

The cusp of becoming,

Grieving over the loss of innocence,

Fading capacity for late-night indulgences.

Fine lines slowly creep up to greet me,

Guiding me gently into acceptance, 

Yet I remain eager for the wisdom ahead,

And wonder how my hands could continue to serve others.