Growth & Decay Formula by Wellington High School Literary Magazine

growth & decay formula By: Mckenna Tosner

Google Docs Adobe Spark Front cover: Christopher Burns Back cover: scottishstoater Font: EB Garamond

His jacket. _______________________________1 The blue bird on the roof.______________________2 Life on the moon. _________________________4 Neverending._______________________________5 The Unknown. ___________________________8 Ring bearer._______________________________11 Real daydreams.__________________________13 No More Days Off.___________________________15 The 9 cycle.______________________________18 Chocolate cake.______________________________20

His jacket. No matter how many stains, tears, frailing cotton, and lost buttons, she would not throw it away. It stayed on her shelf, lifeless, but nevertheless it held memories of him. It was a soft yellow and had the tiny alligator sitting below the left shoulder. She wore it every year on that day. The day she stopped believing in a God and saw that hospital for the last timefor now, she refuses to go back to the place where she lost her father.

The blue bird on the roof. The blue bird on the roof sang his smooth song. He liked this one corner of our roof. We would go outside and be his audience, watching everyday. My sister stood out in our overgrown grass, when she noticed something. He swung off the edge, turning upside down. She stared in confusion, he was still hanging on. One foot attached to the gutter. He was trapped. She called for help and put on some gloves. She climbed the ladder and shuddered whenever his hanging body fluttered.

She was close to crying. We had watched him suffer for days. Finally, our neighbor walked over. He grabbed the bird and wire straining the poor bird’s foot. An innocent bird. We closed him in a small shoebox, buried him in our backyard, and mourned for the blue bird on the roof.

Life on the moon. We figured it out. A system which was once filled with flaws. Our houses are enclosed in glass bubbles of oxygen. We eat, sleep, and breath with tight, shaded masks, just in case… The houses have no windows and stainless steel doors, heavy and dull. They are all identical. All boxes filled with lonely people. Sometimes, I can see the Earth, the thriving sphere of blue and green. Beautifully simple. I repeatedly wonder why I moved here in the first place.

Neverending. I go down memory lane until my legs give out. The lane breaks off in many different directions. Memory lane, to me, is going back so far that, sometimes, I wake up and have to check my surroundings. Everyone goes down memory lane so they won’t forget the clear pictures trapped in the crevices of their worn-out minds. My head fills with Kraft mac and cheese. With countless

baseball games. Walking out of the hallway to see my Christmas tree drowning in gifts. I see my sister and I running around our dark room, late at night. I see us laughing at my mother when she told us she was seeing thingsan octopus in our backyard. Then I see my dad telling us to stop. I shut my eyes so tight I can feel my thin eyelashes dig into my cheeks. Skinny and small. Stuck to her bed. Suffering. Memory lane is not always good. I’m not strolling down memory lane.

I’m sinking, falling, frantically down memory lane. Once you go downyou can’t help falling again.

The Unknown. The question lingers in my mind like a dead worm on a hook. What were they like? They, being my grandparents, my uncles, my relatives that are supposed to be here with me. Instead, they are goneoff this Earth and into the universe. Who knows where they went, I do not know what they believed, for I never sat down and talked to them. I couldn’t even get a hint. My inside collapses and my eyes imagine what it is like to grasp the experienced skin

of my relatives. To hear stories of my parents when they were younger. To see my father’s mannerisms in his parents and how their habits passed down to their children. To hear rivalling stories of sisters and brothers fighting that would remind me of my own. To hear what it was like “back then.” I would repeat my questions as many times as they would like. I would look at the old pictures of them,

hold it up to their face, and compare them. I would laugh or pretend to laugh at their jokes and stories. I see myself doing this. I see myself loving them. But it is not going to happen and my heart is strained thinking of these possibilities that are simply not possible.

Ring bearer. I played with those rings like they were plastic. They came off and on, floating through my room. The thick bands weighed down my tiny fingers. I kept them on both hands, my right and left, seperated, ironically accurate. I found them weeks at a time, always in a different place. They weren’t valuable to me, and apparently not to my parents either. Now, my fingers fill the rings. I wear them everyday, on the same hands, and place them in the same box every night. Those rings once brought my parents together, and now,

they are farther than ever. Farther than reality, space, and time. They are gone, but these rings stay with me. The memories of going to the drive in theatres, buying a new house when I was just six, and seeing them, years later, standing on opposite sides.

Real daydreams. I never really knew what Deja Vu was. When I was a child, I remember having that feeling and brushing it off like the dust surrounding my consciousness. I felt the puzzle pieces so perfectly drift into place, making the image I saw in front of me. I felt controlled, when my mother asked something familiar, I’d say what I did in my Deja Vu daydream. I call it a daydream solely because I do not know what it is and daydream is the closest thing that comes to mind. However, daydreaming has always been the opposite. What I daydreamed never came to life, but Deja Vu was always reality. When I realized everyone experienced it, I stopped thinking so greatly of the strange instances and started forgetting when they occured.

The out of body moments that were once sunken into my memory, faded. The ones, I thought, had no influence. So now, these small previews of reality are rare. They are marvels of the mind, unexplained and strange. They will continue to confuse and control me until the seconds that I somehow relieved, pass by.

No More Days Off. No, Ferris. I cannot come pick you up today. I have to keep up my perfect attendance. I have to slap myself awake from the 2 hours of sleep I got. I have to put concealer on my under eye bags and get dressed. I have to drag my breakfast to my car and drive with one hand because my principal says breakfast is the most important part of the day. I have to speed through yellow lights to ensure I’m not late. No Ferris, I cannot prank call Mr. Rooney. I have to get good grades so I don’t fail in life. I have to show the staff respect even though I know they won’t give it back. I have to beg to go to the bathroom just to be told I had time before. I have to be scolded for not knowing a concept when my teacher studied it for years. I have to bounce my leg and hold my burning cheeks when they call on me and I don’t know the answer. No, Ferris, I cannot go to Chez Quis.

I have to take classes I’m not interested in so it looks good for college. I have to wait till my hand cramps to stop writing. I have to run to my locker and across campus in 5 minutes, 3 if my teacher feels like it. I have to look down at my phone when I walk in the halls alone, this way I don’t make any awkward eye contact. I have to wait until my stomach growls to be dismissed for lunch, hoping nobody hears it in the silent classroom. No Ferris, I cannot watch the German-American parade. I have to walk home with books that dig in and weigh down my shoulders. I have to rummage through my pages of homework, organizing the ones I can do at lunch for less of a work load. I have to eat dinner with my family, constantly thinking about my math test tomorrow. I have to skip watching a movie for my teacher who thought it would be fun to add in a project. I have to say I hate school when I really love the concept of learning. I have to refrain from “procrastinating” when all I want to do is paint or color.

I have to go to sleep, always tired- brain drained. Ferris Bueller, you think highschool is “childish and stupid”? I do too.

The 9 cycle. Do you ever wake up and think, I am NOT staying up again tonight… Your eyes droop all day, back aches, every smile is a challenge. As time flies and the moon rises, you get ready for bed. Your nightly routine is brisk, you sit in pajamas and read, away from screens and stress. You are doing everything right. And you go to sleep, early.

Nope. You lay in bed awake, thinking, If this were the last day of my life, I’d be asleep by 9? Instead of staying up and cackling with your family. Instead of having dessert, because a few cookies won’t hurt.

Instead of writing down all your dreams, reorganizing your room, watching tears fall onto old pictures, writing poems till your mind breaks, contemplating existence and the universe, doing your nails, cause who wouldn’t want to die with a fresh set? All of these things, in the dark silence, could lead to the best realization, revere life. You only get one shot, at least one as you. So, in my opinion, life is too short to go to sleep at 9.

Chocolate cake. My mom says to come downstairs. There is a cake on the table, my favorite, soft, creamy chocolate almost bursting out of its seams. It has perfectly swirled shavings lining the top that shake when my sisters and I battle for the richest piece. The slices are so perfectly cut I see the layers stick together with the glue-like frosting. The first bite is almost enlightening, I forget why I’m there. My mother’s brows are scrunched up and I can see her searching for words. I can’t tell if she’s upset, who is going to ask her? I’m trying to find the words but, my sister goes in for a second slice and talks. “What is it?” As my mother speaks,

20 tears start filling her eyes like a sink overflowing a cup of water. The faucet can’t stop, it starts to fill into the sink. She apologizes as if it’s her fault. Of course, my father isn’t there. He doesn’t apologize, I want him to apologize. I can’t help but cry but I do, and I don’t really know why because my mind is a blank page. I feel like a major part of my life has been erased. I can’t feel it, but I know my life is going to be different. The chocolate shavings break and fall off. The moisture is gone21

my mouth is dry. I throw out the spongy crumbs that are scattered on the paper plate.