Impulse by The Agnes Irwin School

winter 2012

Lina Huang

Alessia Casale

Impulse Literary Magazine The Agnes Irwin School 2011-2012 Editors Alicen Davis Avery Crits-Christoph Staff Miji Ryu Katina Dinh Virginia Small Alessia Casale Erika Gibb Paige Davis Meredith Rupp Elizabeth correll Advisor Karen West

Table of Contents

Writing Eurycleia - Margaux Bigelow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Goodbye - Virginia Small . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Fallen - Alexandra Magnani . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Human - Miji Ryu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Lighthouse - Katina Dinh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8 Water - Alicen Davis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 The Propagation of Sophistication - Briana Chen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Concrete - Avery Crits-Christoph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Elegy for Warmth - Christina Wusinich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 The Tumbling Hill - Avery Crits-Christoph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Art Niki Warden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Cover Lina Huang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Inside Cover Alessia Casale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Inside Cover Devon Stahl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Caroline Santilli . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Janie Whelan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Maya Wilcher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6 Carrie Ryan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Paige Davis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Virginia Small . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Niki Warden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Lina Huang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 Miji Ryu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Back Cover

Eurycleia Margaux Bigelow The maids and I crouched in our chambers behind the locked doors. We could hear the groans and cries of the suitors falling to their much-deserved deaths. However, I didn’t feel pity for the suitors. They had robbed the great Odysseus’s house and harassed Penelope to no end. But now they would not bother her any more, because the great Odysseus and Telemachus were taking care of the swaggering brutes right outside these very doors. Suddenly, the screeching yells for mercy and pain subsided and silence filled the thick air. My heart started to beat at a rapid pace, and excitement filled my veins. Odysseus had won! The suitors were gone at last. I could hear the heavy patter of feet running towards the women’s chambers. Telemachus opened the large wooden door and gazed upon me. He was the spitting image of his father, tall, mighty, like a god! “Hurry, Eurycleia! Odysseus wants you!” His voice was filled with command and power. O, how he had grown so much in the past months! He wasn’t a boy anymore, but a man. I ran out of the room and briskly walked behind Telemachus. The dank hallway opened up into the airy banquet hall, and there stood Odysseus. He was in the center of the grand room, his godlike face splattered with the sinful blood of the suitors. “Eurycleia!” he called to me. “Fetch the disloyal women and bring them to me! I want them to clean up the blood of their lovers.” I relished his order. For so long I had told these women not to bother with the suitors, because the day Odysseus returned would be the day they would meet their deaths. However, none of them listened to me. Only now would they hug my knees and ask me to spare them, ask me not to make them go, but I would say, “I told you so!”

Goodbye Virginia Small I have written you letters, trying to explain how I feel. I’ve tried to escape your grasp. But the way you make me feel always brings me back. You’re amazing. A magician of sorts. You torment and tease me, but keep me coming back for more. You’re a drug, The strongest adrenaline shot, making my heart beat faster. You give me a high every time we touch. But that high is followed by regret and remorse. I still love you. Whether it’s right or wrong, it’s true. So, tonight I write another letter in which I try to say goodbye to you.

Fallen Alexandra Magnani I’ve fallen, stood on the lip of a cliff, closed my eyes, spread my imaginary wings and fallen without even realizing it. I’ve fallen off a cliff for you, there’s nothing but sharp shards of my soon-to-be-shattered heart at the bottom, cause you told me to jump off a cliff with those eyes of yours, that smile, that laugh, and with everything, even words. So I’ve fallen for you because you basically asked me to. So I’ve stood on the lip of a cliff and thought about jumping off, head first, heels next, but I guess you made me fall, eyes closed, sleeping, before I even realized I didn’t have a choice to jump or stay grounded, So I’m falling down down down from a cliff, and all I can do is hope you’re waiting at the bottom for me, cause I’ve fallen for you without wings and I don’t know if I’ll land in salt-sprayed rocks that’ll close over me and keep falling, or if you’ll catch me, cause I’ve fallen for you.

Devon Stahl

Human Miji Ryu My parents brought me to church every Sunday. God, to them, was a romantic thought, but they still brought me to church until it was a weekend ritual, like chocolate chip pancakes. We molded our actions into a strict schedule on those Sundays. It was strange when we didn’t. One of those strange days, we left home ten minutes later than we would on normal days. Perhaps that was one reason; it’s hard to pinpoint why. My dad drove the six-year-old Elantra at seventy miles per hour. The weatherwoman had promised that it would reach a high of ninety, but, no matter, we rolled down only the rear windows. I could still tell, through the sound of the wind, that it was Bonnie Tyler on the radio and make out the impressions of my mom’s voice, but no one truly heard her and no one asked to hear it again. When my dad drove into the parking lot, mass had started five minutes before; the lot was filled, except for a few handicapped spots, and the middle-aged mothers had already gossiped and their husbands puffed enough cigarette smoke to last them through mass. My dad killed the ignition, and I made sure to bring the hymnbooks. His left foot was already out of the car when my mom laid a hand on my dad’s and mouthed a few words. He hissed and slid his hand out of hers, and I could no longer hear Bonnie Tyler. My dad stepped his foot back into the car and slammed the door. He jammed the key in the ignition, set to drive home without hearing his weekly sermon. I rushed into church, oblivious to the hymnbooks I had left behind. The choir was singing “God is Ever Good.” I knelt by the pew and motioned the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. Watching the choir sway to the beat, I must have mindlessly followed. I even started to sing, louder, rawer, chanting the words of the Apostles Creed when I didn’t know the words to the hymn. The Father ended the hymn with a prayer, and he ended the prayer with the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, the Almighty, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Deliver us! I felt someone squeeze my right hand. Almost expecting to see Him, I turned to see my dad focusing on the altar, his hand around mine, my mom on the other side, dabbing her eyes before she could smear on a smile. They used to be perfect gods, nearer to me than God, but I saw now that they were only perfectly human. I squeezed back.

Caroline Santilli

6 Janie Whelan

Maya Wilcher

carrie Ryan

Lighthouse Katina Dinh Lighthouse By: Katina Dinh One

Two

Three

J U M P

I can see a million stars jumping off a river in the sky,

Four

Five

Six

D I V E

I can see them diving towards a beacon of light,

Seven

Eight

Nine

H O M E .

Paige Davis

Water Alicen Davis Under the final explosion of sundown, everybody baptized their heads in sweat. Last dance in the gym. Hot breath rang out through the entangling limbs, thousands of bones knocking against each other, dancing for warmth. The wooden floor fought for air beneath the sweltering weight of these Party Animals. Howls vibrated against the dusk. I thought I saw Jesus swinging his hair about us, his sticky halo running down our legs until every mouth wanted a taste. You and I rush outside to catch our breath in the cool fingertips of grass. I reach up under my ribs and hush my heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wide eyes. Your thoughts depend on lie so that your dress ripples over your skin and clings to your skeleton but you, too, hush your burning core until the both of us are stroking the wild red hides of our insides. Judgment Day follows our candlelit souls to the cathedral but we kneel, bowing our heads above it. Chosen. Nightfall settles against the torches, they roll on the wood ground. Everything is flame there. We shed our bodies, our blemish of skin. Slowly finding ourselves, the whiteness finds us like water until we float over the screaming smoke.

The Propagation of Sophistication BRIANA CHEN

Some time in the third grade, about a year after I had come to Agnes Irwin, I lost my fifth baby tooth. Although, looking back, I could not tell you where I was when the event occurred nor what the weather was like, I can say that I was nine years old, for, as any child will stress, age matters, especially when one has not yet lived through one decade. The tooth itself was large, shiny, and white as a blank sheet of paper. It was from the front part of my mouth and left a curiously dark gap when I smiled. I slept that night with that tooth underneath my pillow with the common belief of all children that a small female fairy dressed in pink with a magic wand would take the tooth and exchange it for a dollar. As I fell asleep, I saw a large, dark figure loom in the doorway, for at that time I slept with my door open so as to let a little of the hallway light shine in. The shape approached, took a piece of paper from its pocket, and then thrust its hand underneath my pillow, exchanging the bill for my tooth. As it turned away, a brief ray of light flashed across the face of my father, but then he turned around completely and was once again a shadowy form. I did not dream that night. I did, however, continue to dream during the day. I do not mean to say daydream. It seemed ridiculous to me for a time that such a distinction between dreaming during the day and during the night was so defined, but that is the way the adult world works. Small, unimportant differences must be emphasized, but the large, meaningful picture has no meaning at all. I meant that I had a goal. I had a goal when I was young. When you are a child, the future seems distant and close, hopeful and scary, certain and uncertain. For example, I was determined to be a singer, but I had not yet determined whether I wanted to be a Broadway, opera, or pop star. The other girls in my class were similarly single-minded. I knew that one wanted to be an astronaut, another the President of the United States of America, and a third a boy. None of them knew how they would reach that goal, yet all were sure they could. It seemed at the time that everybody had a set path in life she should follow until she reached her destination. It was only later that I learned that you are actually encouraged to change your mind, as long as that means that your destination is more reasonable than becoming the President or a boy. The library near my house was brown, and I used to think it was a Mecca of learning, a place where people went to get their questions answered, to find a way to solve a problem, or to look for a way to reach their goals. The cracked concrete walls supported low, slanted ceilings, and large, thick windows provided a spectacular view of the wilting flowers and scrawny weeds that grew in the chinks of the unassuming sidewalk outside. The lighting inside the building was dim and yellow, and the glass was tinted, so that even the sunlight could not lighten the shadows inside. Up until I was six, I had the fantastical impression that the library was a sort of cavern built and furnished with books by gnomes, and that it was on loan to us humans until the magical species got tired of renting it out and decided to take it back. As I said earlier, I had decided that I wanted to be a singer. In a rare fit of organization, I decided that I had better start practicing to reach that goal. “You must stop,” grumbled the tall woman who came up to me. She had a nametag pinned to her brown, fuzzy sweater vest. The only color she wore, other than brown, was a smear of dark red lipstick across her lips and teeth, “This is a quiet library, and frankly you are giving everybody a headache with your screeching.” I left the library soon after the incident. Although it had been sunnier earlier, clouds had moved to block the light. The overcast sky bore down upon the flowers in the sidewalk, which were flopping over themselves in preparation for the coming rain. Near to that library, there was a park where I often spent time after school. In the playground, there is a certain hierarchy that is apparent to all children. If I were to look for it now, I would not be able to see it, but in my childhood, it was perfectly obvious that the slide clique was an enemy to the monkey bars clique which was in the midst of negotiating a temporary truce with the swings clique. I belonged to the playhouse clique, a group dedicated to meeting every recess at the small, brightly colored, plastic toy house and mimicking the life of a

suburban family. We were neither enemies nor friends with any of the other clique, although we did strongly dislike the sandbox clique, but then again, who did not dislike that group?

On the outside, the house seemed small, but inside it was actually quite large, or at least it seemed so to my childhood self. The furniture inside was dainty and ethereal, and whenever we accidentally broke something, it would magically appear fixed or, if the damage was beyond repair, replaced with a similar object, almost as though there were a staff of elves that came every night to clean up after us. Within the playhouse clique, there were maybe five to six members, but the person I remember most was the largest boy in the group. With his straight, black hair and flat, dark brown eyes, he often played the father. My roles were often delegated to being the baby sister or the dog. One day, for some reason I can no longer remember, I decided to play the father. “What are you doing? That’s my part. Girls can’t play the father, girls aren’t boys. Be the baby again.” I went to the “baby corner” and played the role with no faults. We were soon distracted by the outbreak of the war that had been brewing between the slide clique and the monkey bars clique. Then, the most interesting part to me was the playground politics of who had thrown the first woodchip, but now, the large, dark boy’s words are what stick in my mind. It is strange how after that, the house seemed very small and not nearly as bright as it used to. I wonder how he turned out, that dark man-boy who was so terribly adult and so terribly logical at such a young age. These experiences are not singular to me alone. Neither are the messages I received from each one. As children, we live by a clear, easy-to-follow code that includes a clause on having as much fun as possible and another on the golden rule. For adults, however, the rules change and become more permanent. They can no longer be adapted to fit different circumstances. Perhaps this is one reason why children know that adults and children are different, but adults have no idea of this universal truth. In any case, we all start out the same. It is only as we grow and lose our simple innocence, whether it is accidental, purposeful, or taken by an adult or another child that we learn the most basic drive of humanity. That is, the drive to pass on our newfound adult wisdom to the children in society so desperately in need of a guiding light. Surely we cannot forget the children.

Virginia Small

Concrete Avery Crits-Christoph There were stars mixed into the concrete Catching my eyes as I walked on A glistening sea It was a map of the galaxy The murky depths of the unknown Bejeweled like a queen And everything I wanted to know Was etched in the design of it Possibilities I imagined pebbles in my shoes So that I could pretend I was Walking on diamonds But the fantasy would not penetrate The rough calluses of my heels And my shoes were too worn-in A sidewalk would only be a sidewalk In my frightened and conformist mind To my eyes it was so much more But the disconnect was concrete

Niki Warden

Elegy for Warmth Christina Wusinich Its warmth creeps down your neck, and suddenly you’re sweating everyday by ten am. It comes on the balmy breezes in June, and it works its way beneath your flesh. It heats you from the outside in, warming your fingers and toes first, and like flowers stretching toward the sun, we begin to absorb the summer. Our faces shine with every day of freedom. It’s the kind of boiling freedom in which you only live outside, surviving the feverish abundance of sunny days that last forever, even into the night sometimes, with the typical lightening bugs and bonfires and the curious laughter that comes from the summertime darkness. The days wander on so easily and slowly and forever. The days grow from the ground up, greener and more alive with every minute. We take golden afternoon naps among long blades of grass. We kick and splash through puddles in the craters of the steaming asphalt. We are all children again, and it is beautiful. The coming of the crispness is always sudden. You start pulling sweaters over previously sunburned shoulders. You trade in flip-flops for socks and solemnity, and you are no longer warmed from the inside out. The toasty delirium that gave you freedom now fades, and you are forced to return to a frigid sanity. Again returns the chill that settles and returns to us the cold clarity we abandoned after last winter. With every passing day, our fingertips grow more numb. Our skin radiant and golden mere months ago is now pale and veiny. We must wear gloves now. We no longer feel that which we touch. Frozen and covered are the hands that once carelessly cradled sticky cups of ice cream. Hands diving into pockets, feet hiding in boots. Boots approach the streets that used to sizzle with raindrops. They see ice. They retreat. The days are short and dark, and we face black ice with every boot-step. We do not bother to gaze at the sky, anymore, because we know the sun is an illusion. It does not warm us. It’s a blinding reality. The bright coldness kills. So terrible. So real. We have begun to grow old again.

The Tumbling Hill Avery Crits-Christoph Blue and muggy, the summer was stifling, airless, yet sweet. The deceptive air, however, could not dampen our day. We were royalty on our hill, and gravity remained the only force of insurrection to pull us down. We rolled. No conscience questioned the dirt that our mothers would spend hours cleaning off of our clothes. Succumbing to and dancing with nature’s most basic force, we forgot our crumpled wake. There was only a blur of sky and dirt while we crushed the buttercups with our body weight. Maybe that’s why they never shone yellow when we held them under our chins and asked them to see into our hearts. And the dead dandelions that littered the lawn were useless in our hands. Their fluff flew out into the sky and the wind carried it away, as we waved goodbye to our wishes. We thought that weeds could answer our questions, but all they did was mock us. A yellow and gray expanse to lounge in for the day, it consumed us. Setting so much faith into the flowers that we had trampled, it’s no wonder that our youthful daydreams came to naught.

Lina Huang