Editor's Letter

This issue, we are telling the "Story of Iris," which is to say we are telling the story of the writers behind Iris. We paired our writers together to write pieces about each other, for sometimes the truest reflection of ourselves is the one refracted through someone else’s eye. 

Dear Beloved Reader, 

I am no stranger to the Unexpected. In fact, we are now old friends, but we weren’t always so friendly. 

Dear Beloved Reader,

As the semester draws to a close, I have not only been looking forward in anticipation of frightening finals and a relaxing release, but also backwards in reflection of a tumultuous yet thrilling semester.

Every year on my birthday, I write a letter addressed to myself a year from now. I click send (god bless the internet and pre-scheduled emails) and the next birthday, in reading all that I wished for myself, I am renewed with hope and visions of futurity—a gift from the past.

In the fifth grade, as leaves cascaded down into a shriveled crisp and as the autumnal air descended upon us, I begged my mother to be Little Red Riding Hood for Halloween.

Dear beloved reader,

Close your eyes.

Inhale. Exhale.

How do you imagine blindness? 

Dear Beloved Reader,

I have a confession to make. 

It’s a secret that I’ve been quietly harboring since high school graduation. 

I was a band kid. 

Whenever something ends, there’s an instinctual drive to seize any last opportunities and make whatever last minute proclamations you can before it’s fully over.

I, like a lot of people, was taught from a young age never to talk about money.