3. “Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality.
It's a way of understanding it."
~Lloyd Alexander
Fantasy should be an important part of daily life. The yearning
within all of us for something greater, something almost magical, pushes us
to accomplish wonderful things. Gracie, both Managing Editor and Acting
Editor-in-Chief, and I saw this desire for the fantastic shared among all of
us responsible for this publication. CNU possesses amazing and diverse
talent and Gracie and I are honored to direct Currents, the medium that
shares this talent with the community, bringing more than a few dreams to
fruition. Upon being offered the role as Editor-in-Chief last April, I had no
idea I would be graduating early. When I made this decision, I still wanted
to dedicate the year I promised to Currents, even if the latter half was most-
ly via email and driving back and forth from my hometown. Despite finan-
cial realities, post-graduation realities, and future realities, it was the idea of
fantasy day-to-day that kept me motivated to create, to write, and keep an
open mind. After graduating, an open mind was the best thing I could have.
I could never have dreamed of helping create this magazine without
the skilled and dedicated staff, who all contributed their time and individu-
ality to actualize a truly unique masterpiece. I want to thank Gracie, who
stepped in as Acting Editor-in-Chief when I could technically no longer
direct a student-run publication. She shares my motivation, resilience, and
strength in the face of stressful and fantastic times, and I
knew Currents would be in good hands. A largest of thanks goes to Dr.
Rodden, who was a source of calm and humor through the storm of the en-
tire editorial process. It is with his support, the hard work of our staff, and
the submissions and review of the entire CNU Community that the legacy
of Currents lives on. Lastly dear readers, I thank you. In picking up these
few pages, may you find something which enchants and inspires you to find
the extraordinary in your everyday lives.
Most Sincerely,
Jordan Zavodny, Editor-in-Chief
Gracie DeSantis, Managing Editor

4. Jordan Zavodny
Gracie DeSantis
Jen Shields
Nathan Sieminski
Jessica Scruggs
David Jarman
Victoria Cagle
Lyzan Rashid
Madeline Monroe
Dr. Ivan Rodden
Editor-in-Chief
Acting Editor-in-Chief
Managing Editor
Prose Editor
Poetry Editor
Senior Online Editor
Layout Editor
Events Coordinator,
Public Relations Chair,
Treasurer
Junior Online Editor
Archivist
Faculty Advisor

5. Prose:
Janie Anderson,
Hayley Baugham,
Clare Cahill,
Jack Filiault,
Taylor Horner,
Alanna Jessee,
Michael Kasnic,
Sarah Scott,
Lauryn Shockley,
Grace Sovine.
Poetry:
Emily Alexander,
James Bullock,
Liz Chung,
Ahad Khan,
Faith Kirk,
Madeline Monroe,
William Sweeney,
Annie Spivey.
Published by: Cardwell Printing & Advertising
Cover Art by: David Jarman

7. Night Eye
Nathan Harter (Professor)…………………………..……….............9
Insomnio
Christopher Whitehurst (Senior)…………………..……………....10
Exhale Beauty
Nathan Sieminski (Junior)……………………….………………..11
Chinese Philosophy
Gabrielle Sanford (Sophomore)………………….….………….....12
Listen
Madeline Monroe (Freshman)…………………….…………...….17
With Every Step
Kris Summerson (Sophomore)…………………….……………...18
A Sonnet for Her
Connor Fenton (Senior)…………………………….……………..20
Made Visible: Survival as a Crime
Aundre’a Williamson- Gary (Senior)……………….…………….21
My Thoughts
Maria Toch (Sophomore)…………………………….………...…26
Spring Cleaning
Connor Fenton (Senior)…………………………….……………..27
A Lotus without Pedals
Lauren N. Lee (Sophomore)………………………….………...…28
Breakdown
Kelly Nicholas (Sophomore)…………………….………………..29
Green
Maria Toch (Sophomore)…………………...…..…….…………...30
What a question
Emily Alexander (Senior)…………….……….…………………..31
Three-Ring Daydream
Victoria Lurie (Junior)……………………………….…………....32
Editors’ Choice……………………………………………………………35
Currents Online……………………………………………………………36
Special Thanks………………………………………………………….....37
Donors…….…………………………………………………………....….38

9. Night Eye
Nathan Harter
I must be able to see in the dark.
So, knowing that the darkness will soon fall
I keep this one eye closed against the light.
When darkness falls, the eye that is open
Will be completely blind, still constricted,
Letting in less light, unaccustomed.
It might be fun to see the lighted world
With both of my eyes; I would look less strange.
But I have shut one eye and keep it shut,
Even if it makes my face wear a scowl –
Because it will be dark, and I must see.
When the darkness falls, you will call to me,
And I will find you despite the shadows,
To take your hand in mine and lead you home.
9

10. Insomnio
Christopher Whitehurst
I won’t rely on you.
Such an enticement, your cool touch.
Such an enticement, your safe embrace.
It’s not once, but seven times now.
Bed, sleep, peace - you continue to desert me.
In the night, like an eager assassin, ready to tempt me.
Bed, sleep, peace - you fail to serve me.
I come to you naked and scarred; my mind a muddled bard.
Constantly reciting self-help phrases – lost amid sleeping stages.
My mind seesaws between dreamy mazes, and conscious cloudy hazes.
A new way out every night, constantly debating; fight or flight.
Is it the truth that aches my bones?
Is it uncouth that I’m happier alone?
Sleep will come once mindfulness relinquishes
All the daily thoughts that hatch anxious nightly images.
10

11. Exhale Beauty
Nathan Sieminski
Exhale beauty
In your speech.
In your breath.
In your being.
Let it
Flow slow
Not like a river
With the water falling
But like the flight of a mist
Similarly fashioned as a sneeze
But replace the violence with fluidity
Particles drifting catching the sunlight
As they disperse pollinating the air
Almost fragrantly provocative
Lazily precise gyrations
Of each dew drop
Floating in
Beauty.
11

12. Chinese Philosophy
Gabrielle Sanford
“Hey. Have more packets of those soy sauces?”
My head, which rested in my hand on the front counter, lolled
to look at the brace-faced teen. I shoved my hand in the box under the
counter and handed him two packets.
“More?” He looked at me in annoyance.
I rolled my eyes and sighed as I grabbed a melodramatic hand-
ful of soy sauces and dumped them in his hands.
“Jeez, lady.” The boy said as he hurried back to his table trying
not to drop any of his packets.
Mr. Zheng’s Take Out sitting in the middle of Maine was any-
thing but authentic. The brick face of the establishment resembled a
McDonald’s that reluctantly sat on the most inadequate rest stop off a
back road. Gaudy, crimson, paper lanterns hung from every inch of the
building, alerting the townies of the shrimp fried rice and orange chick-
en combo. A flickering menu was poised carefully on the back wall
above the tiled countertops that were sticky with sauce. Framed pictures
of vertical Chinese characters hung on the yellowing wallpaper near the
booths in the back of the restaurant. Customers had asked me what the
lettering said, as if I looked like the type of Maine native that would
know Chinese. I had only applied to the bad Chinese buffet to save
money on groceries. The few employees that worked there were al-
lowed to take home the leftovers every night, and that sufficed as my
dinner. After four months of working, I was figuring out if the food was
worth it.
On this particular night, I tried to unsuccessfully drown out the
yelling of the excited teenagers sitting in the corner of the restaurant.
“Blanche, you haven't done a single thing all evening. Get your
hands out of your pockets and try cleaning something,” Mr. Zheng said.
He tossed a rag on the counter and raised his eyebrows expectantly at
me.
With a final pop of my pink bubble gum, I halfheartedly
grabbed the wet rag off the tile top and rounded the counter to the cus-
tomers’ side. After five minutes of scrubbing the same grease spot on a
random table, Mr. Zheng called me over with a shake of his head. “Go
on break, Blanche. Smoke a cigarette or something,” he said. I mum-
bled a response and grabbed my backpack before going out the back
door. Before I had a chance to sit down on the curb, my Samsung that
had been
12

13. shoved into my back pocket began singing “Tell Me Why” by
The Backstreet Boys. I silenced the call, knowing he was going to
ask me to pick up more cat food on the way home.
Ashley loved Fritz. The fact that he had found the hideous
cat hanging around the dumpster behind Mr. Zheng’s was humor-
ous to me. He had found me in almost the exact same spot. He
loved Fritz more. Ashley never complained about having to con-
stantly clean Fritz’s litter box, he never complained about the
many scratches he received when he would haul the mangy gray
feline
outside and try to give it a bath. The thing that hurt Ashley the
most was when my work clogs tracked in bits of rice that eventu-
ally got ground up in the carpet. “Look what you’re doing,” he
would say, “Take your shoes off at the front door.”
The cat would then greet me by slinking across the plush
carpet and stopping to lick the leftover litter from the litter box
off his paws just to mock me. The only thing that kept me from
kicking Fritz across the room was Ashley’s comfy bungalow he
allowed me to stay in. Hell, that was the only thing keeping me
from kicking Ashley across the room.
I took another drag from the Marlboro and attempted to
run my fingers through knotted and clumpy auburn hair with no
success. I wondered if my hair had been like this all day. Hoping
to find a brush at the bottom of my backpack, I dug, feeling for
the handle. The only thing my hand wrapped around was a plastic
wrapper stuffed with a beige cookie. I cracked it open. “You can’t
steal second base and keep your foot on first,” the skinny print
read. I rolled my eyes and figured the Chinese must have run out
of things to tell ignorant Americans who were waiting eagerly for
that little slice of wisdom from each cookie. I tossed the stale
thing into the parking lot, knowing the chalky aftertaste wasn’t
worth it.
A few seconds later, a white prius sped into the parking
lot and ran over the cookie with a crunch. Instead of parking
properly, a tall man threw the car in park in the middle of the lot
and stepped out. His cold blue eyes stared at me. I stared back
with my judgmental green ones.
“You work here?” I nodded as I looked him up and down.
He wore a tailored business suit, and carried a clipboard. I figured
13

14. there was nothing significant written on the papers he was flip-
ping through, he only held it to make him seem more important.
“Is Mr. Zheng here?” He asked.
I nodded again, balancing the Marlboro between my or-
ange lipsticked pout and blew smoke out of my nostrils. “Need to
give an order? We are out of sesame beef, if that's what you're
after.”
He stared at me with a strange smirk and shook his head.
I shrugged. “Just warning you. The customers we’ve had
tonight that wanted sesame beef were really upset when we told
them we were out,” I said.
“That won't be an issue anymore,” he said.
I flipped the cigarette on the ground and stood up, brush-
ing off the seat of my pants. “Why? Are you the beef delivery
guy?”
“I’m shutting down the place.”
My breath stilled and my sardonic smile faltered. The
Samsung in my pocket began singing The Backstreet Boys again,
and I hurriedly silenced it. If what the man said was true, I would-
n’t need to answer Ashley’s phone calls.
“I’m with the Maine Bureau of Health,” he said. I remembered
about a month ago Mr. Zheng had trouble passing the health in-
spection following customer complaints about food poisoning
from the grilled shrimp kabobs. The blonde haired man stuck a
pen behind his ear and narrowed his eyes. “Do you eat the food
here? Ever get sick?”
I was allergic to shellfish, and never had the grand oppor-
tunity to taste the undercooked shrimp. But I had eaten everything
else off of the menu, and had never had any problems. I stared at
the man until he uncomfortably shifted his gaze to his clipboard.
“Uh, yeah. Gotten sick, I mean. Yes, I have,” I said.
The man’s head snapped up to once again look at me.
“You have?” “Yeah, awful food poisoning from the shrimp. Puk-
ing for days. I barfed so much-” He held up a hand to stop me,
signaling he had heard enough of my testimony. I picked up my
backpack and hurried back into the restaurant. My break was al-
most over. I waited anxiously until closing time to hear the ver-
dict on the future of Mr. Zheng’s Take Out. By ten o’clock, the
inspector
14

15. was long gone and I had cleaned every inch of the restaurant. Mr.
Zheng ambled out of the kitchen and ran his hands through what
little hair he had left. I asked if there was anything else I could do
for him before leaving for the night, and he waved me off.
“There’s no need to come into work on Monday,
Blanche,” he said.
I stared, trying to hide the grin that was threatening to
consume my face. I let out a whoosh of air.
“How long before they kick you out?”
“A week. I’ll probably go back to Chicago. I have rela-
tives there,” he said.
He began to apologize, but I held up a hand and told him there
was no need. I would have no trouble finding work elsewhere. I
shook his hand and thanked him for the four months of minimum
wage paychecks and free food before leaving the restaurant and
practically skipping to my bike with newfound joy.
I arrived at the small bungalow that night and made sure I
didn't take off my work shoes at the front door. Fritz sauntered by
me with a hiss and I kicked him out of the way, hissing back.
Ashley entered the front room with as much enthusiasm as he
could conjure up.
“Hey, how was your day? I tried calling.” He stopped and
stared at my shoes on the carpet. “Leave them by the door, re-
member?”
I shrugged and stomped across the pristine white carpet.
He called my name, but to me it was just an echo in the past.
“I lost my job,” I said. I turned around and stared at him with
what I hoped was an indifferent gaze.
His shoulders slumped. “What did you do?” he said.
“Got shut down because of food poisoning,” I said. He offered a
sad smile and patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, assuring me
of what I already knew. It would be okay.
Ashley straightened his sweater vest and cleared his throat, the
sign that he was about to say something crucial.
“I have to leave you,” I said before he could even get a
word out. His mouth hung open, the words he was about to spew
stuck in his throat.
“You can find another job, Blanche.”
15

16. I shook my head vigorously. “Not here I can’t.” Before applying
to Mr. Zheng’s I had applied to sixteen companies. From stores to
restaurants to call centers, no one had hired me. I was almost
glad. I had a reason to leave Ashley and his annoying habits with-
out hurting him too much.
But then Mr. Zheng had called. He was desperate for an-
other employee, not caring if they had a college degree, and I was
desperate for cash. It wasn’t bad work, just not ideal.
“Where do you want us to go?”
I almost laughed. There was no us, and I didn’t want our
relationship to work.
“Ashley, you can't steal second base and keep your foot
on first,” I said.
He wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Who the heck said
that?”
I rubbed my orange lips together and reached in my pock-
et for a cigarette. “A great Chinese philosopher,” I said.
I brushed past him into the living room and opened the
laptop we shared while lighting the cigarette. This time Ashley
didn’t tell me not to smoke in the house. He stood staring at me as
I furiously googled the cheapest bus tickets I could find from
Maine to New York City.
“You’re first base, Ashley,” I said a few minutes later as I
glanced up from the computer screen. I hit the purchase button on
one bus ticket to NYC. I half expected him to put a hand on my
shoulder and try to compromise. Instead, he nodded and picked
up Fritz from the litter box.
16

17. Listen
Madeline Monroe
Once here, upon graceful grasses and
Under many hearty hemlocks
Did hares reside as a sturdy band.
Some males’ eagerness forced headlocks,
While young leverets were tended to
By their heedful mothers who well knew
Of the perils that then hunted
Stray child after child, whom acted
And fled to taste freedom without fear.
“Only stupid leverets leave,”
Mothers cried to stop the naïve.
Alas, their cry fell on young deaf ears –
Before nighttime again youth fled
Into wolfish jaws where they bled.
17

18. With Every Step
Kris Summerson
With every step, she wandered deeper into the forest.
It looked as if she danced among the whipping leaves and
branches.
Her feet thumped upon the leaf-packed ground with grow-
ing certainty.
Spreading her arms wide as if to welcome the vast sight;
Oohing and awing at the endless exotic scenery she spied.
Golden hair threatened to tumble out of its tight braid to
be free and wild.
With every step, she wandered deeper into the forest.
With every step, the awaiting forest woke from its slumber.
The trees thickened around her, shielding the heavenly
light above.
Blue sky shrank further with dark branches cutting across
its freeing image.
The trees grew wider and darker as they guarded the path.
Shadows emerged and whispered secrets of old to the
new;
Something stirred all around the endless trail.
With every step, the awaiting forest woke from its slumber.
With every step, breath left her as if fleeing.
Fear festered around her thumping heart.
Further into the mute darkness, she stepped.
Glowing eyes watched her from the imposing shadows.
Voices taunted, laughed around her.
The path grew gloomier and darker,
As pure light left her soul.
With every step, she saw a flickering light.
Turning into a shimmering figure,
It became a beacon of light upon her path.
Hope began to grow in her pounding heart.
The being urged her closer with its welcoming stream of light.
18

19. 19
The once figure turned into a man of pure light.
Holding out her hand, she reached for hope.
With every step, she saw a flickering light.
With every step, it took all she had left.
His light flickered and dimmed.
The path drowned her as if she were falling into a water-
fall of dusk.
He turned darker than the black engulfing the hope she
once held.
A cold hand clamped around her thumping heart.
With every step, it took all she had left.
With every step, she glided among the trees.
Through the haunting lies of the trees,
The false promises the path gave—she understood now.
A newcomer fell into the same trap;
He saw her standing as a light at the end of the darkness.
Running to her, hope was birthed in his eyes.
He fell to his knees, eyes flashing white.
She led him further and further into the abyss.

20. A Sonnet for Her
Connor Fenton
What fool I play in tranquil solitude
Where memory may live a thousand lives
Till sight of what was real and what construed
Is lost to what my dreams dream to contrive,
Thoughts quickly buzz about my tired brain
They pollinate my doubts with sweet honey
So my lips again taste, but now are plain
Days turn dark while memories stay sunny
For what those hours brought on fairy wings
Their younger sibling, future, stole from me,
In her place I kiss doubt and what it brings-
Fear of never knowing won’t set me free
But what’s a simple kiss to haunt me so?
Not love for sure, but love I want to know
20

21. Made Visible: Survival as a Crime
Aundre'a Williamson-Gary
It’s a little after 2pm on an early-November Saturday
when I arrive at the Newport News City Jail. Visiting hours have
started and today I meet a nineteen year-old inmate named
Chamuel.
“It’s supposed to mean ‘He who seeks God’. My people
told me my grandma named me ‘cause she thought that it would
keep me close to the Lord, or some shit like that”. Chamuel and I
share a few giggles in the moment. “But you can just call me
‘Twin’”.
Twin goes on to explain that he earned his nickname be-
cause he is a spitting image of his father. I can only imagine that
he and his father must share the same large, almond-shaped
brown eyes and long curly eyelashes; or identical high and hollow
cheekbones with a dimple on the right side; or perhaps they both
inherited thick, bushy eyebrows and a honey-golden complexion.
Twin stands tall and slim at 5’11 and can’t weigh any more than
one-hundred forty pounds soaking wet. His hair, though cut short,
has a tightly defined curl pattern and his voice is carries when he
speaks.
***
Chamuel is serving time for possession of marijuana
(second offense) and possession of a controlled substance with the
intent to sell or distribute (first offense). He was sentenced to
three and a half years and will be eligible for parole in fourteen
months. News that would be celebratory to most brings mixed
emotions for Twin. He is at risk of being homeless when he is let
free. Twin has no family to take him in, and the only surviving
relative he had was his grandmother, who died only seven months
earlier.
Newport News City Jail is the place he has learned to call
home. He inhabits a bunkbed in an 8x10 foot cell that he shares
with one other inmate. His bunkbed has no box spring, no inner-
spring, and no cushion; only a compressed, compact and inflexi-
ble makeshift mattress about three or four finger-widths thick
21

22. dressed in a few thin sheets. The cells are frigid and nearly every-
thing inside them is made from stainless steel, including a toilet
stool with a sink built into the back of it. There is very little water
in the bowl and the toilet-sink combination smells distinctly like a
sour vinegar cleanser that could rival the stench of a public rest
stop. No air moves through the room and the smell is thick and
withstanding. But jail is a shelter for Twin and many inmates like
him.
“I don’t even know if I want my freedom or not. At least
here I have a roof over my head,” Twin declares, as if he is con-
templating his words.
“So what do you plan to do once you leave?” I inquire.
“Honestly, baby girl, I don’t plan on leaving… Even if
you don’t understand what that means.” I give Twin a look of un-
certainty and he looks back at me with eyes that say more than his
words ever could. We share a moment of unspoken, but mutual
understanding and I move on to another topic.
***
Chamuel and I share stories of similar interests. We dis-
cuss commonalities of growing up with black parents and laugh
with no apologies at the whoopins’ we earned as children.
Chamuel leans a little closer to the glass to observe the notes I
scribble down on my clipboard about him. He attempts to be sub-
tle, but his interests overcome him.
My stomach gives out a deep, rumbling growl and I relay
to an invisible listener that I am “damn near starving”. I immedi-
ately feel asinine about my statement and proceed to apologize to
Twin. He stares at me and then looks down toward his feet with a
subtle smirk on his face.
When I leave, I will be going home to enjoy my
mama’s creamy grilled-chicken and broccoli Alfredo with home-
made honey-butter biscuits. Chamuel cannot say the same. I flash
back to the tour of the prison I was given two weeks before our
meeting. For lunch, every inmate dug into a bland bologna and
cheese sandwich. The meat gave off an over-powering foul odor –
something like raw hamburger meat when left outside of the re-
frigerator for too long. The color along the edges was brown, and
22

23. a bit dry with a pink, yellowing center. They were given an apple
to complete the meal, and although the apple looked normal-
enough, I couldn’t fathom having to ingest something so stomach
-turning. The sandwich and apple were washed down with what
one of the officers described as “bitter imitation Kool-Aid, noth-
ing more than water with red food coloring in it.”
Dinner isn’t much better. The prisoners are subjected to a
different mystery slop or pink-slime meat every day. The slop is
complemented with a stale dinner role, a few fork-full helpings of
mixed fruit or a vegetable and unsweetened tea – a meal they de-
test, but rely on to live. If the prisoners are lucky, they will re-
ceive an off-brand snack cake for dessert. There are no alterna-
tives.
Chamuel attempts to comfort me in my embarrassment.
“It’s all good baby girl. It ain’t what I wanna eat, but it beats
starving to death.” His comment leads into a conversation about
how Chamuel spends his time in jail. “I just stay in the Pod forre-
al. I try not to beef with anybody cause a few of these fools ain’t
right in the head, but other than that, I keep to myself and mind
my own business”, he remarks. The Pod is a confined space
where the prisoners spend their time when they are let out of their
cells to fraternize. Inside the Pod are six steel tables, four chairs
to each table. There is an old-fashioned 14-inch television with a
bulging screen, a less-than-clear picture, and only five working
channels. The television sits so high it is barely visible. Twelve
hard-plastic chairs are located randomly alongside the steel tables.
Three pay-phones hang from the wall in the back and correctional
officers are always nearby.
“I might play cards, play dominoes, or roll dice from time
to time to hustle one of the brothers out of a honey bun or some-
thing. I’m a mathematician with them numbers.” Twin gives a
very confident and devious grin to confirm his boastful claim. We
chuckle simultaneously as I do my best to remain impartial to a
friendly stranger I have just met.
My curiosity compels me to ask Chamuel: “Do you ever
read or write?”
He responds affirmatively, “but not as often as I could. I
don’t like depressing shit though. So if it ain’t something that’s
23

24. gone make me laugh, I stay away from it. And I don’t know how
to write like a reporter or nothing. I just write what’s on my
mind... but once again, not as often as I could.”
***
I can’t help but like the person that Twin is revealing to
me so far. He is upfront and outspoken, which makes me a bit
apprehensive. I can’t tell who or what I am really dealing with, or
whether I should trust what I am receiving. I query Twin, for the
sake of my sanity.
“So Chamuel, what I don’t understand is: Why did you
start selling drugs? You seem to be very well-spoken and you
have potential… Why throw it all away?”
As he thinks about the question and goes to respond, I no-
tice that both of his arms are covered in tattoos. (Later on, he
shares that he has collected them since he was fifteen). The most
noticeable marking is on his left arm. It is a picture of his grand-
mother with her name, birthdate, and death date detailed in the
most beautiful print with the words “R.I.P Big Mama” right
above her face.
Chamuel proceeds to answer my question: “My Big Ma-
ma needed the money. Straight up and down.” There is a brief
moment of silence, and I ask Chamuel to elaborate on what he
means.
“My moms died when I was too young to know her and
my pops died when I was 14. Big Mama took over raising me, but
she was already sick and fighting cancer, and she won’t working
either. So basically we was scrapping to get by. I got my best
friend’s brother to put me on, and he did. Next thing I knew, I had
money in my pocket, I was helping Big Mama with the bills and
the groceries, and the money came fast and easy.”
Although I couldn’t support Chamuel’s decision to sell
drugs, I couldn’t help but commend a child for taking on the re-
sponsibilities only an adult should have to endure. He was a mi-
nor playing the role of a grown man, and who was I to judge his
only means of escape?
I place myself in his mindset. In a sense, I feel spoiled to
have been blessed with the loving family that I am fortunate
24

25. enough to have. What if I was in Chamuel’s circumstances?
Would I have made the same choices?
When talking to Chamuel, you would never know that he
is only nineteen. He is articulate and very self-aware. There is this
mind-boggling tone of gratefulness that you get when you talk to
him; the kind of ‘will to survive’ that inspires others to be more
appreciative for their possessions. I am three years his senior and
a free citizen, yet I was the one learning about what it truly means
to have liberation.
Chamuel’s tragic flaw is in his lack of perception over the
control he has over his own life. Although he establishes goals, he
has no vision on how to fulfill them. This is where I see his youth
cause his destruction.
Just as I begin to fall deeper into his story, the guards
come and inform us that visitation time is over. They collect each
inmate, handcuff them, and escort them back to their assigned
destinations.
***
As Twin is guided to his cramped, uncomfortable cell, my
mind focuses on the gate that sets in front of him and everything
he could potentially accomplish. The gate is made entirely of met-
al bars. The bars are dull and rusted in various spots. They are
dark gray and each rod is spaced evenly from the last. A little be-
low waist height is a compact opening to allow each prisoner to
put his hands through in order to be cuffed before he is allowed to
leave the cell. The gate opens horizontally with two doors that
meet from the left and the right. It unfastens on a track that is
electronically operated from a remote room managed by patrol-
ling officers. I can only find symbolism in the correlations of
Chamuel’s life behind bars to his life as it could be if he would
just stop giving himself over to that gate.
I exit Newport News City Jail through the tall, glass doors
and look back at the tan several-story building, thinking about
how many inmates may have the same story as Twin. An image
of that burnt-orange jumpsuit etches itself into my memory, as I
bid this place goodbye.
25

26. My Thoughts
Maria Toch
I don’t remember when I last saw land;
My thoughts have kept me drifting through the sea.
My heart gasps for sweet air and soft sand;
But neither comes to me.
Breath is wasted anyway, when you’re damned
To stay and watch the seagulls disappear.
They may not realize but they understand
When death is drawing near.
26

27. Spring Cleaning
Connor Fenton
I want to write a love poem
To pull that emotion from a drawer
Single it out and put it on like
A good pair of jeans
But though I throw
Hate, jealousy, happiness away
Littering the ground
Until I’m drowning in emotions
I still can’t find love
At first I think I’ve misplaced it
And I frantically search
Taking friendship out of the closet
Dragging regret from under the bed
But try that I do
Love is lost in the clutter
And I sit on sadness and cry
Cursing the day I lost love
As my hand slips onto hate
It is when in utter desperation
I put on my thinking cap
Hoping I can remember
Loves whereabouts
My heart racing
I realize
I don’t own love
I don’t even know what it looks like
Just its shadow I’ve seen
Hanging loosely off of other people
Who claim they have it
But can I trust them
That this fantastic thing
Truly exists?
I want love in my drawer
To wear in your presence
Will you give it to me?
If I promise we can share
27

28. A Lotus without Petals
Lauren N. Lee
What happens to the lotus without its petals?
Does it frost over in winter,
As its plumes brown and whither,
Its petals dropped and dismembered?
A passerby might think it’s so,
Scurrying by in his winter coat,
Eluding the frosty stepping-stones.
Yet the gardener knows that summer—
Wakes her thousand years of slumber
And stirs the still, stale water.
Take your time; be slow to bloom.
The riverbed is not your tomb.
28

29. Breakdown
Kelly Nicholas
Everyone saw his right molar dribble out of his mouth and
fall into his hand, leaving a streak of semi opaque blood and spit-
tle dripping from his chin, pooling into his outstretched palm. It
was hard to tell whether there was more blood or more saliva
seeping through the soft cracks between his fingers. What is he
supposed to do?
His right hand is tensing around the coils of his hair; form-
ing a fist. His fingernails begin to peel back, layer by layer as they
scrape against his scalp. Eight thickened calluses at the base of his
palm catch in each tendril. Lifting his hand away, he feels an un-
familiar chill where a bald spot has developed, exposing the milky
skin where his hair had just been. He is now clutching an entire
fistful of sandy curls. A few strands cling to his glutinous, blood-
soaked bottom lip as he holds the chunk close to his face, grap-
pling for a reason why. A frail gust of wind shifts and unsettles
his eyelashes so that they are hanging limp, the tips poking and
scratching at his waterline. The unexpected chill forces a violent
sneeze from his body, sloshing the rest of his teeth out of their
sockets. The base of his nose burns and his eyelids drag across the
dried surfaces of his eyeballs, sticking until he finally forces them
open. In the struggle, his shriveled right eye dislodges and rolls
down his cheek, landing with a soft squelch on the cement side-
walk. His enfeebled left wrist cracks and falls limp, causing him
to drop the bloodied molar he was still holding in his loose grip. It
shatters into a million glassy shards. His jaw goes slack at the
sight and he accidentally allows the rest of his teeth to tumble out
of his mouth. They land in a cluster on the tops of his bare feet,
and immediately begin to sink into the skin, as if they are landing
in custard.
He stood there on the sidewalk, the overstretched collar of
his discolored cotton t-shirt soaked in gelatinous blood and drool,
speckled with bits of eyelash and canine teeth.
Everyone saw his breakdown.
29

30. Green
Maria Toch
Think back to our younger days –
How we danced –
How we held each other close –
And just laughed.
We thought that we’d be green
Forever.
As leaves fell and time turned, our once-endless nights
Came less frequently,
And if they came at all, it was because
Our groaning bones wouldn’t let us close our eyes.
But while our wedding rings began to dull,
My love for you did not.
It never could.
Though we were green no longer,
Every time I laced our
Crooked gnarly fingers,
I was a rose bud once again,
Open to the world that lay before me.
And I saw the look in your eyes,
Bright and time-defying,
When I tried to boogie down the hallway –
My hip had much to say on that one.
Our bodies may have turned as yellow as
The photos on our shelves
But we are green
Inside,
Where it counts.
For my love for you is green
Like the grass was on that day,
When I looked into your eyes
And said, “I do.”
When I find your eyes once more –
Your vibrant, shining eyes –
My green ones smirk and say,
“Care to dance?”
30

31. What a question
Emily Alexander
“If you could be anywhere, where would you be?”
What a question.
Perhaps in the core of the earth, boiling until I bubble over as lava—
Perhaps in the depths of the ocean, feeling the pressure push, push
me deeper—
Perhaps at the edge of the atmosphere, where the air is thin
and the stars are
so close—
Perhaps on the moon, where I could tumble into craters
and leap back
into bare sunlight—
Perhaps on Mars, where I could taste the red dust
and stare
at a foreign sky—
Perhaps in a nebula, where I could dance
with the infant stars, shedding energy as we lived
and died—
Perhaps the nucleus of a galaxy,
where I could be drawn in
as I wrapped myself in starlight—
Perhaps the center of the uni-
verse—
is it there? where it all began?
Or perhaps its edge,
where I could whirl away
with the galaxies, heedless of
any destination—
But I lie.
“I’d be right here with you.”
31

32. Three-Ring Daydream
Victoria Lurie
It’s a mild Floridian winter, and I am aware that hundreds
of dead people have walked where I am standing. I can feel them;
the fringe of a woman’s dress against my leg, the smoke of a
man’s cigar, the heat of a hundred bitter breaths as every soul in
the room crowds onto the veranda.
Around me, the living stir. The mahogany floors groan un-
der the weight of my tour group, and the mansion seems to sag in
on itself. Where the Florida sun has darkened most of us, it has
bleached this parlor; the floors are darker beneath their rugs, and
tapestries hang faded between thinning windows. This house built
with circus money looks like a town after the circus has left it:
empty, sad, and lonesome.
I stare at the age-clouded bulbs of the grand chandelier and
wonder how many people before me have done the same. This
room has seen many parties, but now the oak-paneled walls warp
and the air fills with citrus Pledge and mustiness instead of laugh-
ter and champagne.
“Let’s go to the Ringling,” my grandmother had said, con-
juring images of red and gold caravans, of elephants with plumes
on their foreheads. But she hadn’t meant the circus. She had
meant the house built by the family who built the circus.
The Ringling palace, Ca’ d’Zan, sits on the edge of Sarasota
Bay, a monument to the past. If not for the golf-cart trolleys and
the tourists weaving in and out of the shrubbery, the mansion
looks much like it must have in its heyday. Although we don’t
tour the whole thing, I get the feeling that the rest of the house is
just as full of Venetian silver and Indian silk as the rooms we do
see. Our tour group walks out onto Ca’ d’Zan’s boat landing, a
waterfall of porcelain that cascades down to the rippling brine of
the bay. We face Longboat Key, which is latticed with a fungus
of pastel mansions—vacation homes and villas that tower over
each other, each gasping for recognition as the epitome of luxury.
In the shadow of the Ringling they are rendered cheap.I squint
across the bay. In spite of the relentless Florida sun, I see the
pinpricks of a diamond-dusted midnight, the glitz of the sky
32

33. attempting to rival the swell of socialites pouring forth from the
mansion. I hear soft saxophones and the cacophony of clinking
glasses. I half expect to find myself swathed in sequins and chok-
ing on strands of pearls longer than my arm, but when I look
down I am only in my flip flops.
I still hear the saxophones as the tour guide sweeps us
back inside.
33

35. Editors’ Choice
Prose: “Chinese Philosophy”
Gabrielle Sanford
Poetry: “What a question”
Emily Alexander
35

36. Currents Online
Currents is now online at
currentsmagazinecnu.wordpress.com!
In addition to the print magazine, we will
be releasing the online magazine
biannually, and our submissions box is
always open year-round for the online
edition.
We are accepting prose, poetry, plays,
essays, and artwork from students,
faculty, staff, and alumni. If you have any
questions or comments, please contact us
at currents@cnu.edu, we'd love to hear
from you!
36

37. Special Thanks
All of the staff here at Christopher
Newport University’s Currents Literary
Magazine would like to thank the
following for all of their support and
dedication:
Jason’s Deli
Yogurtini
Panera
CNU Office of Student Activities
CNU Student Assembly
CNU English Department
CNU professors for their time and effort.
37

38. Donors
Currents Literary Journal relies on a
variety of funding sources to support our
publications, events, and encouragement
of creative writing.
We invite you to support the journal
through a financial gift. All direct donors
will be acknowledged in the journal next
year, a tradition that we are reviving from
years' past.
Please contact us at
currents@cnu.edu for more information
or take a look at our new online presence
at:
currentsmagazinecnu.wordpress.com.
38

40. Showcasing the Literary Achievements
of Students and Faculty
at Christopher Newport University