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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Art
Wings in Bloom - Nafisa Tafannum
Bloom of Motion - Nafisa Tafannum
Bloom Through Silence - Nafisa Tafannum
The Second Bloom - Minahil Tariq
Blossoming through the storm - Minahil Tariq
The moon bud - Minahil Tariq
Writing
"a letter i found in a book" - Ayesha Zeb
Dark Alphabet - Debasish Chakraborty
Bloom at the Right Time - Ikfanny Alfi Muhibbah Shalihah
Unseen - Shukti Sharma
Art
Art
Wings in Bloom
Wings in Bloom
By Nafisa Tafannum
"This artwork represents growth through movement and transformation. The bird appears to bloom as it flies, with its flowing form resembling petals in motion. The use of vibrant colors reflects energy, change, and the unfolding of life.
The artwork was created using pencil colors, ink pen, and pencil. Layering and blending techniques were used to create smooth color transitions, while ink outlines add clarity and definition to the form."
Bloom of Motion
Bloom of Motion
By Nafisa Tafannum
"This piece captures the idea of blooming not as stillness, but as continuous movement. The composition reflects energy and transformation, where color and form come together to express growth in motion.
The artwork was created using acrylic paint, primarily red and blue. Bold brushstrokes and color contrast were used to create a sense of movement and emotional intensity."
Bloom Through Silence
Bloom Through Silence
By Nafisa Tafannum
"This artwork explores the quiet and gentle nature of growth. The flowers emerging from the stone surface symbolize life appearing in stillness, showing that bloom can happen even in silence and unexpected places.
The piece was created using watercolor and pencil. Soft washes were used to build the stone texture, while pencil details enhance the organic forms of the flowers and add depth to the composition."
The second bloom
The second bloom
By Minahil Tariq
Minahil Tariq is a passionate medicine student that connects her daily living with the natural phenomenon. Nature explains meaning of our story by the language of its elements, and that it is our perspective that we sometimes ignore the reality.
Blossoming through the storm
Blossoming through the storm
By Minahil Tariq
The moon bud
The moon bud
By Minahil Tariq
Writing
Writing
"a letter i found in a book"
"a letter i found in a book"
By Ayesha Zeb
I was at the library the other day, passing by shelves trying to pick the book I'm looking for. One,two,three.. shelves searched and I still couldn't get my hands on the exact thing I was looking for. Passing by the fourth shelf I saw a book that stood out.
It's as if it was placed there in urgency hoping no one see's them while placing it.
I sighed, mumbling why these people can't respect books. I don't like when books are not treated as royalties, because let's be honest they ARE ROYALTY OKAY?
Anyway I went to that spot and grabbed the book in my hands, it was a fictional book not my genre but it seemed nice. Tired by not being able to find the one I want I sat with this one.
But before I could start I saw a small page peeking out from the middle. Surprised I opened the middle part and there it was, a big letter, folded and kept there in secrecy as if they left a message for anyone to read.
I looked around checking if it's from anyone but they all were busy in their own worlds. I opened the folds of that page and slowly but with curiously.
As if it a message they want someone to read or as if they want anyone to just see them a little bit. maybe it was a diary entry? because I noticed how the edges of this page were torn as if they poured their heart out and left it for someone else to pick it up and maybe feel their words a little. feel their emotions a little?
Excited, I started reading it.
at the top they wrote
“For everyone who planted a flower with someone that ended up withering.”
and then under it there was a long paragraph that went something like this : “ Last night the wind came again, the kind that tries to destroy everything. The kind that visits me often, when my heart and mind are unguarded and vulnerable. It's been coming more frequently now.
It brings memories of a person —both good and bad—flooding back. A person that i used to know.
First, comes the good memories. They make me question:
"Was it really that easy for you to let go?
That easy to leave for something else?
That easy to walk away?
How?"
Then come the bad ones.
The moments when their words cut like daggers. The very same words that used to make me feel like I'm up in the clouds. Weird how words have nothing to do but it's on the person who uses them.
The times they made me feel guilty for holding to my values.
And reminds me of the promises they couldn’t keep.
Then the storm rages, tearing through everything in its path. It leaves me shattered.
Questioning my own worth, my trust, my judgment.
The trust I gave them, so easily, so freely and so naively. The trust I shouldn’t have given them.
At least not for my own sanity.
But I was foolish.
Foolish enough to believe they would act, act on their own words?
I planted the seeds of what could have been. I told them, and they smiled. Smile that said I’ll always take care of them. And they even agreed they'll help taking care of them.
You said
But months passed. Years.
I was the only one watering them.
The only one watching over them.
They were always busy.
"After this," they would say. "After that." But after never came.
Yes, I know they loved that plant.
Or at least, they said they did.
But did they?
Or was it just for my sake?
They were supposed to bring fresh soil when it grew.
They promised.
I waited. And waited.
But they returned empty-handed.
They had their reasons. I understood them. But who was there to understand my pain?
They shouldn’t have promised if they couldn't act. It would have hurt less.
Now, I’m left searching for metaphors, trying to explain a pain that has no words.
Their reasons may have been valid.
But so was my hurt.
My pain doesn’t know their excuses.
It only knows it aches. ”
i was speechless. I paused as i read through the whole letter, a letter which carried someone's deepest pain and a piece of flesh of their own heart. For a mili second i could see the stains of blood on this page, and i wondered if there heart is still bleeding or has it stopped? i wondered if they know how much i want to ease their pain.
I looked around again hoping that i notice someone who's eyes might be sharing this ache which they left it on paper. Sadly i founded no one. I let out a tired sigh, now all that good mood to read something nice with my cup of coffee had vanished.
life is unfair i guess but i hope whoever wrote it, felt a little bit of relief.
Dark Alphabet
Dark Alphabet
By Debasish Chakraborty
Debasish Chakraborty is a writer and oral storyteller who creates stories, poems, and plays, primarily in Bengali, with a deep focus on preserving the tradition of oral storytelling. His short story, "Water on Taro Leaf," was recently selected for the longlist of the Fish Short Story Prize. Beyond literature, he explores diverse narratives through zero-budget filmmaking, podcasting, and independent journalism.
The lights in the tunnel flickered, then died. Yet I wasn’t afraid. It felt as if, within this terrifying darkness, there might be some strange alphabet—hidden, waiting to be read.
As thoughts of Smita returned, fragments of stories ignited within the gloom. After her death, the tunnel seemed longer than before. I remembered a book of poetry she once gave me. I never understood poetry; the words confused me. Yet when I touched those printed letters, a cold darkness would rise through my hands, leaving me desperate to hold her.
The scent reached me before the presence did. Smita was my favorite model, yet I had never slept with her. She said that love dies in the light. Despite this, darkness seemed to be what Smita loved most. At night, in her house, there were black flowers—flowers smooth as darkness itself. We would gaze at them, and I would wonder whether, in deep silence, that same fragrance might one day rise from Smita’s body.
Now I felt that darkness approaching again.
A cold, icy hand rested on my neck. But was this hand really Smita’s? Or do all who return after death carry the same coldness?
I shouted, “Smita, have you come back? I have so much to tell you.” My words echoed back through the tunnel.
All I could sense was that, even in the darkness, a pair of soft blue eyes was glowing.
Those blue eyes felt like the eyes of a dead fairy from the folktales of my childhood. I wanted to keep looking at them, as if some half-forgotten spell was beginning to work on me.
Then a woman’s voice whispered in my ear:
“Many women have died in this tunnel. Any one of them might already have returned for you.”
Bloom at the Right Time
Bloom at the Right Time
By Ikfanny Alfi Muhibbah Shalihah
Ikfanny Alfi Muhibbah Shalihah—find her on Instagram at @ikfannyalfms—is a 24-year-old Indonesian female storyteller who cares about environmental sustainability, the climate crisis, public policy, and gender equality. Her beautifully written poem this time brings forward the time of blooming that's often overlooked due to an obsession with speediness, while forgetting rightness. She believes that all aspects in this life deserve the right to bloom at the right time, in the right period, during the right season, and in the right era.
Indonesian Version:
Sebuah puisi tentang bermekaran yang berjudul "Bermekaran pada Waktu yang Tepat", ditulis dengan indahnya oleh Ikfanny Alfi Muhibbah Shalihah
Perihal tepat dan cepat tak senantiasa linier, kendatipun keduanya berelasi kuat dengan satuan waktu
Waktu seringkali bekerja dengan diasumsikan guna mengukur kecepatan
"Siapa cepat, dia dapat"
Lantas, mengapa tak juga familier pepatah, "Siapa tepat, dia dapat"?
Seolah yang berhak dapat, hanya yang cepat, kendatipun tak tepat
Seolah yang tak cukup layak dapat, ialah yang sedikit lebih lambat, kendatipun teramat tepat
"Cepatlah agar kau tidak terlambat"
Tak ada "Tepatlah agar kau tak salah berangkat"
Kecepatan kadangkala tak mengikutsertakan variabel ketepatan
Cepat, cepat, cepat, ulangi
Perihal tepat dan cepat juga acapkali bekerja timpang terhadap fase bermekaran
"Cepat mekar, cepatlah bermekaran!"
Satuan waktu untuk seruan "Tepatlah bermekaran!", masih tak familier oleh indra pendengar
Bukankah fase bermekaran akan hadir pada waktu yang tepat?
Bukankah fase bermekaran juga milik variabel ketepatan?
Bukankah ketepatan dan kecepatan akan bermekaran menarik jikalau beriringan?
Mari persilakan fase bermekaran sesuai ketepatan waktu, periode waktu, musim, dan masanya
Tak semata-mata karena variabel kecepatannya
English Version: "Bloom at the Right Time", a poem beautifully written by Ikfanny Alfi Muhibbah Shalihah
The matter of being right and being fast is not invariably linear, even though both relate strongly to the unit of time
Time often works by being assumed to measure speed
"The fast one gets it"
Then, why isn't the saying just as familiar, "The right one gets it"?
As if the one entitled to get it, is only the fast, even though not right
As if the one not worthy enough, is the one a little slower, even though profoundly right
"Be fast so you won't be late"
There's no "Be right so you won't depart wrong"
Speed sometimes excludes the variable of rightness
Fast, fast, fast, repeat
The matter of being right and being fast also often works unequally on the phase of blooming
"Bloom fast, hurry up and bloom!"
The unit of time for the call "Bloom rightly!" is still unfamiliar to the listening senses
Isn't the blooming phase meant to arrive at the right time?
Isn't the blooming phase also owned by the variable of rightness?
Wouldn't the rightness and speed bloom beautifully if they went hand in hand?
Let us welcome the blooming phase according to its right time, its period, its season, and its era
Not merely because of the variable of speed
Unseen
Unseen
By Shukti Sharma
The moon glowed
softly in the dark,
Wearing its scars like silver jewellery-
Its flaws are on full display
and yet radiant.
Unaware, perhaps
that the sun from far away,
offered it light-
a quiet supporter-
Like the wind, faithful to the waves-
Present, though never really seen.
And maybe, just maybe,
We too, are held,
loved in silence,
our sun and wind-
present out there, somewhere
Unseen, but always present.
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