Growth - Nerve Magazine

iFrancesco Ganora

september 2014

an indie-publication focused on the arts

growthphoto by

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Growthit is difficult to go through life without some form of growing. we grow in age, in mind, in body. we grow within ourselves, and help others around us grow, too. Nerve, built on the dedication of its fantastic contributors, and the hope to bring attention to the arts, has grown so much in the short time it has been operating. not only has the support for Nerve grown, but the way Nerve is being made has grown as well.

i introduce to you, the very first digital addition of Nerve.enjoy.

Francesco Ganora

Summer Weiss

Armaan Sanghera

Justine Wesselhoff

Zan Carroll

Brian Klueter

4 10

115

Brent Whiteside

7

2

6

3

8

32

When I was younger I used to admire the beauty of the sunset. Every day I would take the time and look at the painting in the sky. A phenomenal thing that could both bring a smile and tears to my eyes. This was a time in my life when contemplating my life was a daily struggle. For most of my high school career I was in and out of the hospi-tal. Having therapy up to three times a week when not. Leaving school "sick" every day became the norm for me. Even though it was just my anxiety. I spent most of high school tucked away in a huge unfamiliar hospital. Maybe life just wasn't meant for me. My doctor said that I wouldn't make it.... Oddly every day I would notice the sunset during those years. But why? What the hell did this thing that happened every day mean to me? Why did my miserable and weak-self take the time to watch this ball of fire in the sky? The thoughts in my head were driving away my sanity and making me do the notable deed of attempting suicide. It would kill off my soul, body, and mind. I still don't know why I was always notic-ing the sunset, but I can guess because it was the only bit of hope I could hold on to in my broken heart.... Nowadays I don't really notice the sunset. And that greatly dis-turbs and kills me. I can't look out at the sky the same anymore. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's bad. Maybe it just is. But there is still one thing I notice in this sky, dragonflies...

non-fiction

Justine Wesselhoff

Upstairs I could hear sirens, yelling, and distressWhen they took you away the air was carrying a cer-tain sadnessSomething bigger than all of us A constant reminder of what had happenedHow your one move, would have changed us forever

Silence consumed our living roomLouder than ever expectedMoving from one end of the room on to the nextEverything was shaken up We felt lifeless

You hadn’t even written a letterA goodbye would not have been givenPeace escaped every being in our home A home once full of comfortHad become an empty house

Armaan Sanghera

Growing

54

Crickets croak beyond the window pain.Heavy hearts weigh upon our palms.Balloons fall upward to their demise.Chirpy music echoes through stark white halls.The unknown burden bolstered by a mother’s slander.Fear of heights uncontrollably rising as their vivid colors fade into blue. To whom is the intended on of such a sunny song?Separated by shame brother and sister blanch with the burden of their blood. At the balloons end no one will see cold and alone bursting with exhaustion. The sweet voices in chorus warble siren songs.Each step is a mountain only together can each lift their fragile hearts. The shells fall to earth but the souls rise, consuming new freedom.

Zan Carroll

Through theClosed Window

Francesco Ganora

76

Define “Normal” I ask Myself in the mirrorDefine “Like everyone else”Define “Fitting in” I bring my face as close as I can So close, my nose almost touches the glassDefine “This isn’t Me”Define “One day, I’ll feel normal”Define “Depersonalization”

We call them lightning bugs in Ohio, the same way we say pop instead of soda. The name fireflies brings only reference to the immortal Joss Whedon show, or the squinty eye confusion our faces so often display. In late June, early July, the corn is still growing for harvest, getting taller and taller, day by day. The road between Defiance and Bowling Green is bordered by cornfields for the entire length of the 45 minute journey, stopping only for a few small country towns along the way. It’s a smell of sweet dirt, driving with the windows down. When I look outside, the corn is just below my eye level, creating a unified sea of stalks. When lightning bugs glow, they do so in pulses, never keeping a constant strain of light. It’s fun to catch them and put them in jars, but it’s even better to grab one out of the air, gently, with the palm of one’s hand, letting them walk up your fingers to the highest point, taking flight with the natural grace of the insect kingdom. They are the only bugs I can stand to be around. When driving at 60 miles per hour, I always go five over the speed limit, the impact of one of these bugs on a clear windshield is an event in itself, exploding on impact, but leaving its glowing remains behind for a few extra seconds, eventually fading out. Like their souls are catching up to them. There are a couple days during this time at dusk, when the lightning bugs are at their peak. They’re everywhere, outside every house, surrounding every barn. I look outside my car window, and I can see tens of thousands of them flying just above the corn. All of them pulsing in their own way, yet visually binding with the rest. A sight of that many insects together is rarely beautiful, but the moment is there, a glowing sea of life. Dozens of them die as my car races down the road, the glowing mess getting larger and larger, and combined with the sea, create an experience so full of life and death that a human conscience can not help but appreciate the vast complexities of merely existing in a universe we will never understand.

non-fiction

Brian Klueter

Summer Weiss

The Ritual

Out the Window

Summer Weiss“Depersonalization 2”

98

In a field of dandelions, I brace myself. They sing and dance all around me, taunting me. As a young girl, terror-izing these poor flowers was somewhat of a hobby of mine. I remember the brisk spring mornings when I would leave my house and enter the world headed for school. I would always get distracted by the two or maybe three dandelions that sprouted up in our front yard. My moth-er would always hiss at me and tell me to leave them alone, but I couldn't help myself. Most children would see these flowers and would pluck them from the ground, shut their eyes really tight, make a wish, and then blow. They would open their eyes to see their wishes manifest into what was now fluffy and flying around in the sky. Gone forever. They would look on, and then turn to leave and forget all about the simple wish that they just made. Not me. I never plucked this flow-er from the ground, instead I would get eye level with the little being. I would come face to face with it and without a hesitation wave my hand over it, ruining it. Staring down at my hands looking at the remains of the flower slowly begin to leave my palm and fly off into wherever. While preparing myself I think of this. I remember those mornings, and the doz-ens and dozens of dandelions that I’ve left to rot in the soil all over the country. Well, maybe just in my front yard.

Today I stand here, in this field and I think. How should I attack, when should I attack? I take a moment. I breathe in the flowers. I breathe in the air. I wait. My mind loses focus and leaves me once again. I follow it to another memory. I see my mother, kneeling on a potato sack. She’s hunched over in that same famil-iar front yard from some time ago. I see my ten year old self standing over her looking on. My mother is busy away at work, weaving, whacking, all while gen-tly whispering to her plants. She sweats, she wipes it, she continues. My ten year old self stands there bored. I feel for her. I walk closer to myself. Young, is the only word I can use to describe how I look. I see myself standing here, arms folded behind my back, my neck curved over so my head can get a good look at what’s going on below me. My hair is short and is pushed behind my ears, there’s mud on my cheek and stains all over my dress. What the hell was I doing on this day? My knees are bruised and pink from the thousands of falls any boy-ish ten year old girl encounters each day. All I ever wanted to do was explore, but my mother wouldn't let me. Instead of playing cops and robbers with the boys or stuffing my face with cereal and snacks on a Saturday morning, I was forced to watch my mother tend to her garden. She made it look easy.

Brent Whiteside

Preparing My Attackfiction

Every Saturday morning she put on her old white washed overalls, tied her auburn hair up into a bun, grabbed some old scarf that was probably handed down to her by an aunt or maybe her own mother and would tie it around her head. She wore no makeup, she didn't even wear gloves. She was beautiful. Ask any-one in our town what memory they have of my mother, and I would guarantee they would say her kneeling on a potato sack on Saturday mornings gardening. She waved at people as they walked or jogged by. She sometimes took breaks to speak to the neighbors. She would pet dogs that would come by with their owners. The neighborhood was her kingdom and she presided over it in our garden. Her as the queen, and me the little boyish princess. Occasionally she would give me permission to hold the hose and water the plants. I remember finding the simplest joys in that. Waving the hose around and wetting everything in sight. My attention span was short, even shorter then what it is today, so I always found something in-teresting to keep me focused. I would use the hose and search for lady bugs, beetles, or any other small insect. I would turn the nozzle on the hose and would send the water shooting like an assassin rifle. Sending those lady bugs and beetles fly-ing! The joy I would get from this, scared my mother. She began to worry that I would damage her flower beds by apply-ing to much pressure, so she took that task away from me. Once she let me pull weeds. That too ended awfully. My judgment on what

was a weed and what wasn't didn't ex-actly agree with my mother. So she took that task away from me too. So I was left with just standing over her and looking at her have all the ‘fun.’ Boy, did she enjoy it. Watching her now she looks as if she has even forgotten I was even there. I stare at my ten year old self beg-ging her to say something, “Please re-mind this woman that you are still stand-ing here!” But, I just stand there. I walk closer to my ten year old self, ready to shake her, just then my mother turns to her. She says something, the memory is vague so I cannot hear. My mother looks serious. She’s giving me the stare only a mother of four could give. She wags her finger then stands to her feet. I nod yes and kneel in her place. She rubs my back, and smiles. What was just said? I watch my ten year old self bend down close to the plants and I begin to hear myself sing. I’m singing a song I haven’t heard or sung since another life ago. My ten year old self looks up at my mother, my ten year old self is smiling. I walk and kneel next to myself and sing with her. My eyes are closed and I am singing. I open my eyes to see the garden has grown and sprawled all around me. I look up and see my ten year old self and my mother standing over me, smiling. I close my eyes again, continuing to sing. I open. I’m back in the field of dandelions, preparing my attack. How should I attack, when should I attack? I take a moment. I breathe in the flowers. I breathe in the air. I wait. I sing.

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I feel as if I am stuck in mud, thick and pulling at my feet, pulling me down. The mud gurgles, its sludgy form oozing around my ankles. It freezes my skin sending prickles up my legs, traveling to my heart and my brain, numbing. I sink down as people look on, hoping they do not see my dirty feet. How could they see dirty feet when the sludge is at my shins eating away? What lies in the sludge, who can say for sure. Bits of me get lost as the mud rises to my waist. Around me night has fallen, but for you the sun shines. The night around me shines neither stars nor the pale glimmer of the moon. My darkness is empty and the mud continues to pull. Yet, I can see you shining, burning in golden light beckoning. Your voice is of honey, but your touch is beyond my fingers You give me the rope - The Rope to pull myself free. Sweet is that lie.

Zan Carroll

The Real “D”

Francesco Ganora

12

a letter to the reader, This issue of Nerve took a lot longer than I expected it to. “Growth” came to me while I was trapped between trying to balance work, school, and spreading the word of Nerve itself. Through the month of trying to read through submissions, be a university student, and hold down a part-time job, “Growth” didn’t receive as much attention as I should have given it, as much as it deserved. But through this month, I learned a lot of what Nerve can become. After a decision to switch Nerve from print to digital, I realized there are a lot more opportunities for Nerve out there than I initially thought. The word about this publication is slowly, but surely, gaining speed. And even if I can-not dedicate every waking moment to it like I want to, as long as I continue to pursue Nerve, there will be an outlet for the arts community to be noticed, even if in our own small way. I want to thank everyone who contributed to this issue, not only for submitting things, but for putting up with my slow pace. And I want to thank anyone and everyone who has given me kind words of encouragement to continue with creating Nerve.

I’m proud of how Nerve continues to grow and evolve. Thank you, Summer Weiss

want to submit?Nerve is able to exist because of the amazing people who send in their work. And in order for it to continue, in order for there to be a place where the arts and literature are acclaimed and beloved, Nevre needs your talents and support.

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