Letter From the Editors
words by Sana Friedman and Aliza Susatijo, art by Mariam Seshan
Dear Beloved Readers,
In Volume IV Issue 2: Glimpse, we invite you to allow the fleeting to linger.
Glimpses are things to be caught, but when we do catch them, they slip away too soon. Hold them gently in your hands for a second longer. These moments are as easily immortalized as forgotten; they are generative, prophetic, tantalizing, and revealing. Every glimpse of a face in the crowd or into the future is a sentence in a book, a frame in a movie, or a single brushstroke. Like fireflies, glimpses must be let go once we catch them, but would it hurt to suspend their glow? To try to fill in the rest?
In “Cutouts From Pictures of My Childhood” and “recollections of a wandering mind”, Anh Tim Phan and Hannah Shen bring surreal clarity to those occasional glimpses of the Big Picture: flashes of childhood memories that tell you everything you need to know, moments of dissociation that remind you of your humanness, and dreams that make you think you’re connected to something bigger.
Megana Kumar drops us into a captivatingly disorienting scene in “At the Dinner Table”, where we sit beside the main character and grasp for context. We sift through the vibrant dialogue and lively scene ambience to catch a glimpse of the clues we’re missing. The effect of this dream episode is perfectly captured by Justina Lu’s colorful illustration, in which the details only make the picture more indecipherable.
Elaine Ruan’s poem “Them” is effortlessly romantic, weaving a saga of longing from one second of eye contact with a stranger. It’s a tale as old as time. We tell ourselves stories about airport crushes and sidewalk glances and tumble them through our heads until they’re polished. Sarah Jun beautifully captures what might happen when you keep a glimpse captive for too long: memory and imagination merge into something beautiful but unreal.
Scarlet M.’s piece “EVIDENCE RELATING TO THE DISAPPEARANCE OF !@#$%” and Claire Wei’s haunting art is another reminder that our minds wander easily. Like “At the Dinner Table”, the impeccable detail in Scarlet’s writing only illuminates how little we know, bringing us back to the cryptic creature under the staircase. Maybe some glimpses are better left unexplored.
Avery Carlson’s “Scene 1” and Agnes Cho’s poem “Gilmer 485” suggest that life, death, the past, and the present aren’t as fixed as we think. Some moments, like walking up to the door of a loved one who’s passed on or sitting at dinner with someone whose mind is slipping away, are made up of pixels of everything. We can be comforted to know that every stage of life catches glimpses of each other. In this way, maybe nothing is fleeting.
Every word and pause in Liah Chung’s poem “T r u s t F a l l” is heavy with emotion. We all see glimpses of failure, rejection, and maybe worse, forgiveness, but fears aren’t prophecies. We turn inwards with Danielle Zhang’s animation, closing our eyes to see ourselves mid-air in our own trust-fall; or perhaps, still tentatively teetering over the edge of self-belief. Vulnerability makes the leap terrifying but the landing soft.
In “A Glimpse of A Tree Through the Four Seasons”, Pauline Tsui’s metaphor blossoms into an intimate family story of sacrifice, generational trauma, and endurance. As she reaches toward the sun, her branches grow strong enough to bear the winter and to form bridges with the past. Ananya Sairaman brings this cycle to life in their evocative animation, teaching us that blossoms can come from unexpected seeds, we’re all caught up in perpetual evolution, and that everything is connected.
Daisy Wong borrows a Chinese idiom (惊鸿一瞥: A Glimpse of a Startled Swan Goose) to capture the unexpected, adolescent elegance of crouching over a steaming cup of noodles. Sneha Lakamsani’s illustration frames this as one of the many mundane moments that can offer nostalgia and a glimpse into something profound.
Lastly, Elle Janchivdorj’s “closure.” is a tender account of a best friendship coming to an end. This capsule of three diary entries starts and ends with ache, reminding us that most things don’t get wrapped up with a bow. Riese Carlson’s illustration spectacularly portrays the moments of connection that we archive in our minds– glimpses that linger long past sounds, touches, or promises. We all have an Iris: who’s yours?
We’d like to thank the nineteen (!!) contributors of this mammoth issue and the Editorial Board: Jenny, Diana, Ananya, Sneha, and Mariam, who made the breathtaking cover art at the top of this page.
To our staff: it never ceases to be an honor to get a glimpse into your worlds. Earlier this month, we heard from the author Jeyamohan, who told us: there is no chasm between truth and fiction, as fiction is concentrated truth. Fiction is truth with wisdom intact. You all weave your real experiences with imagination, but no matter which prevails, the vulnerability it takes to create is the same. Thank you for your trust!
All Our Love,
Sana & Aliza <3
