by A. Montgomery I don’t pretend to know why I needed to come out last Christmas break. High school had been easy; I had waltzed my way to the top of my class, created a small, impenetrable world around myself, a false front that could fool anyone. The art of inauthenticity is easy. People who try to be “morally sound” say it’s hard to be fake, but for me, that’s not true. I was well-practiced in pretending When I was younger, my family successfully convinced whole communities that we were perfect, only to shatter the screen with a violent divorce. So I learned early on how to make outsiders see…

by Carly Boyd My instructor told me everything would be fine. Just do what you’ve been doing; you can fly by yourself now. I thought about engine failure, about the possibility of collision, and, in case they were needed, I ran through all the emergency procedures we had practiced thoroughly. My heart sped up; I could feel the heat moving through my body as I started to sweat. Immediately, I became aware of how hot the day was. The sweat began fighting through my shirt and onto the warm corduroy cushion against my back. Soon, the dampness overtook my entire lower back. Surprisingly, the airport at Birchwood was peaceful, unlike…

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…