by Isabella Valdez Since meeting you, I’ve been considering what it would be like to skin myself. The idea of hooking a fingernail underneath some loose cuticle and just ripping mercilessly until my arms are no longer arms, rather a collection of twitching tendons and weathered veins, is an amorous one. Sometimes, I see myself as a whole person, sometimes as a body and the chance to tear it apart. But most of the time the only taste in my mouth is the sweet of something rotten. Other people, however, never lose their animation before my eyes, and it’s fascinating to me that the street corners do not whisper to…

by Chris Davis I am in the kitchen making my grandson, Jay, a turkey sandwich when I hear his crystal laughter twinkle from the living room. Setting the mayonnaise down, I peek around the corner to see if he is pestering the cat again. Jay is squatting in front of a cardboard box that Rachael, my wife, brought home. This box has been his favorite toy for the past week and its shape belies the attention Jay has given it: torn flaps, creases on its sides from where Jay has tried standing on it. It’s large enough for his three-year-old body to crawl into and he loves covering himself up…

by Isabella Valdez My brother died in a field. He was ten years old and alone, wandering somewhere between my aunt’s and grandma’s houses in southern Michigan. Every summer, for the trip down, my parents would wake us, guide us drowsy to the car, and play the radio until we drifted back to sleep. My older sister hated the town, a small and tired place so unlike the distant city where she grew up. But my brother and I loved it. In the country there’s room to breathe; there, the air is alive and houses are separated by miles of forests rather than rows of fence. The lack of people…

by Chris Davies My grandson, Jay, and I are waved through the Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson gate for our first medical appointment together. He sees the hospital lights stabbing through the arctic-morning ice fog and starts to keen. Prenatal alcohol exposure might have taken his speech, but there’s nothing wrong with his smarts. This is a place of intrusive hands, of cold metal, of steely pricks.I lob comforting words back to him and attempt to quell my anxiety as we squish into a parking space. He requires prying from his car seat. I take his hand, and the tears start as we slog towards the hospital. I wish I were chasing…

by Chris Davis Jay’s disability lies scattered somewhere between Anchorage and Nome on the Fetal Alcohol Spectrum. The alcohol took my three-year-old grandson’s speech, in-utero, but spared his strength and wisdom. We are casing a deserted playground- a rusty jewel ensconced in a crown of birch and fireweed on a sun-dappled afternoon.  Jay loves it here. No child gates or fragile knick-knacks. No firm Grandpa voice. I follow him to the swings then sit in one, rocking it back and forth. “This is how you swing, Jay.” I try to place him onto the swing, but he resists. He rests his chest against the seat, pushes himself up with his…

by Elbert Joseph In the Caribbean, Carnival can simply be described as the ultimate expression of pure joy. This expression of joy is reached while the sweet sounds of Soca music are played and people dance through the streets. It is probably the most colorful event that ever happens in the Caribbean. The events of Carnival can be divided into four parts: J’Ouvert, Kids’ Parade, Adults’ Parade, and Last Lap. Carnival is the essence of the people of the Caribbean. Every year thousands of people flock to various islands to participate in the Carnival festivities and traditions of those islands. Although all of the islands celebrate Carnival, each island celebrates…

by Justin Rojeski The air is filled with lovely aromas of turkey, yams, and cornbread as I walk into my parents’ house for Thanksgiving dinner. Perhaps even more exciting than the meal in which I am about to enjoy is how important this dinner is: this is the first time my wife’s family will be sitting down for a meal with my family. I take a seat in the living room and wait for the remaining guests to arrive. There’s a knock at the door and all 12 of my wife’s family members enter. We make ourselves comfortable in the living room as we wait for the table to be…

by Elin Johnson As my time at Turnagain Currents comes to a close, I think back to everything that made my experience special. The musty bat cave with its mismatched chairs and stacks of outdated literature. The partially filled out schedules and all the decisions that ended with “yeah we should get to that…” My poetry enthused counterpart and our fearless editor, creating magic with a few key strokes. Our Canadian faculty advisor always encouraging us to continue writing even when academia had sucked all of our passion out of our souls through bendy straws. This eclectic group of individuals all bound together by our mutual hatred of the sound…

by Elin Johnson Jolene Perry is our amazing writer-in-residence. She grew up in Alaska and still resides in the final frontier with her husband and two kids. Jolene has written for Entangled, Albert Whitman Teen, and Simon Pulse.    Q: When did you first decide to become a writer and how did you go about doing so? A: I always wanted to be a writer, but thought I’d never have any ideas. I laugh about that now because I can’t imagine living long enough to get all my ideas down. I’ve always kept a journal and/or a blog, filling both with personal essays. One day I thought it might be…

by Beth Pipkin It is the rarest kind of awakening from sleep that allows you to gently glide from dreamland back to the physical world with eyes closed, body still and the rest of your senses doing all of the work to remind you of where you are. Once reality is all pieced together in your mind as you lay there, you smile because you remember and crawl out of bed to make sure that it is real. I was seven years old when I discovered paradise. Asleep in my Umma and Uppa’s bed is where it all started, with my dark brown hair cut into a bob, like Mary…