Welcome to Genesis, York Prep School’s literary magazine of poetry, prose, and art.

Welcome to Genesis, York Preparatory School’s literary magazine of
poetry, prose, and art. This year we received an incredible
number of submissions, and we are pleased to see such a strong student
voice here at York. Several of the creative writing pieces in this issue
come from our Scholar Programs Seminars and our English classes.
However, it’s evident from the diversity of student submissions that they
are inspired both in and out of the classroom. The writing and art in
this issue of Genesis reveal how essential it is for young people to
express themselves creatively.
For our fourth annual contest for the strongest upper school pieces in
Genesis, we are pleased to announce the following awards:
Best Poem “One Day” by Samantha Newmark
Best Prose “Dopamine” by Hailey Cody Corrall
Best Artwork “Tunnel” by Henry Binder
We hope you enjoy this year’s wide range of writing and art
created by and for York Prep students.
- The Genesis Staff
fWELCOMEF

Prose & Poetry
"Anatomy of a Poem" by Hailey Cody Corrall, Grade 12
"It" by Ellara Chumashkaeva, Grade 12
"From Above" by Ellery Hickey, Grade 11
"Hemlighet" by Henry Binder, Grade 9
"An In-Depth Lyrical Analysis of C is For Cookie"
by Joe Newman-Getzler, Grade 10
"I Am the Griffin" by William Magee, Grade 12
"The Bagel That Caused Harm" by Joe Beyda, Grade 11
"Disappearance" by Rose Sabbagh, Grade 10
"That Red Light" by Connor Lieberman, Grade 10
"I Am" by Andrew Isaacson, Grade 9
"Suffering" by Carlos Bello, Grade 11
"Sixteen Years, Gone in Three Words" by Griffin Kapelus, Grade 10
"Unconditional" by Carlos Bello, Grade 11
"The Moon to My Ocean" by Daniel Arias, Grade 11
"Getaway" by Samantha Newmark, Grade 10
"The Monster in the Closet" by Jared Axelowitz, Grade 12
"7:45 PM" by Ellara Chumashkaeva, Grade 12
"That Night" by Manny Demos, Grade 10
"Transcendence" by Daniel Arias, Grade 11
"The Hockey Puck" by Joe Beyda, Grade 11
"Dr. McMoe" by Andrew Vella, Grade 10
"The Synthesis of the World" by Trevor Viscardi, Grade 11
"Deadline" by Victoria Laboz, Grade 10
"Sky Pokers" by William Magee, Grade 12
"Don't Shoot" by Miles Golzer-Liu, Grade 12
"Breaking Glass" by Sariah Johnson, Grade 7
"Harmonica" by Molly Model, Grade 12
"Dopamine" by Hailey Cody Corrall, Grade 12
"The Last Son of Krypton" by Khari Derrick, Grade 9
"The Little Things" by Victoria Laboz, Grade 10
"She Died Last Night" by Rose Sabbagh, Grade 10
"One Day" by Samantha Newmark, Grade 10
u CONTENTS
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Art
"The End" by Nakai Kulik, Grade 10
"A World of Pattern and Color" by Gary Sykes, Grade 9
"The Radical Rambunctious Rainbow Dog"
by Ethan Kushnerik, Grade 6
"The Strokes” by Angelika Dembovsky, Grade 11
"Nature Boy" by Hutch Viscardi, Grade 12
"Pretentious Selfie" by Malcolm Moore, Grade 12
"Tunnel" by Henry Binder, Grade 9
"Orphan" by Fatimah Amla, Grade 12
"Flux" by Hailey Cody Corrall, Grade 12
"Looking Glass Field" by Hutch Viscardi, Grade 12
"Mirrored City" by Henry Binder, Grade 9
"The Real City” by Connor Lieberman, Grade 10
"American Cake" by Henry Binder, Grade 9
"Reflectors" by Izzy Lenoff, Grade 12
"Doll Parts" by Izzy Lenoff, Grade 12
"Sunset" by Chloe Strauss, Grade 7
"El Mar" by Haewon Lee, Grade 10
“Night Blooming Cereus” by Hutch Viscardi, Grade 12
Full cover art Drifting painted in oil on canvas by Hutch Viscardi, Grade 12
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CONTENTS U

fDEDICATIONF
The Editors would like to dedicate this year’s issue to our mentor and
role model, Leah Umansky, who has cultivated growth in all of us. She
has worked exceptionally hard to make sure that every edition of
Genesis is amazing, all while balancing many tasks like grading “book
letters” and binge watching Game of Thrones and Mad Men. She is an
inspiration to the editors of Genesis and to everyone who has the
pleasure of being her student. Thank you for doing all that you do!

1
Anatomy of a Poem
by Hailey Cody Corrall
effective first line
pause
let it sink in
metaphor for lost youth
compare green eyes to emeralds
romanticise smoking
pause
let it sink in
daddy issues
mixtapes
adolescence
first loves
broken hearts
pause
let it sink in
challenge the present
ask questions
contemplate existence
allude to carl sagan
pause
let it sink in
it’s already been said
question originality
even this is a rip off
self deprecation
pause
let it sink in

2
nothing sounds right
it doesn’t flow
i have to write something
i hate it
pause
let it sink in
repeat

3
It
by Ellara Chumashkaeva
We always talk about it.
Always dream of standing or maybe sitting
Somewhere else.
At night we think of there
And pray to London god
If he could drag us out of bed
Tomorrow.
We always talk about it
How London mirrors show pretty and London dirt tastes like jam.
At night we swallow tears and shove fists into our mouths
To be in London. London. London. London.
There
I’d be a poet, not a man.
I’d be a muse, not a woman.
I’d walk on London clouds and drink London rain.
I’d wear Union Jack skin and pump coffee blood.
I’d cry poetry and eat art.
I’d be here.
I’d be it.

5
From Above
by Ellery Hickey
How do I explain to you the river
twists and ley-line brilliance; the
obvious clarity of the plan; the
steady exodus of highways,
and then again the softer Incan
hieroglyphs of towns,
unread and untranslatable; the
sudden non existence of sleepers
when the lights are lowered and
lost.

6
Hemlighet
by Henry Binder
Few are aware.
No one can sense it.
Each night in its glory,
It comes out of its case.
Then it goes away.
… Until tomorrow.
* Hemlighet is secret in Swedish

7
An In-Depth Lyrical Analysis
of C is For Cookie
by Joe Newman-Getzler
Greetings, music lovers! Today, we’ll be having an in-depth lyrical analysis
on what I personally believe to be a very deeply layered song. It is called "C is
For Cookie," and it was written by Joe Raposo, performed by Frank Oz (going
by the stage name Cookie Monster) and released on the concept album "The
Muppet Alphabet Album" in 1971.
Now, the song at first sounds very simple. The primary lyrics are "C is for
cookie, that's good enough for me (repeat 2 more times), oh, cookie, cookie,
cookie starts with C." A little tune about how the 3rd
letter of the alphabet
coincidentally is the first letter in the name of Oz's alter ego's favorite snack,
right? Well, it's much deeper than that.
Before we even delve into the actual lyrics, let's take a look at the song's
structure. Besides two spoken interludes, the song is nothing but the lyrics
mentioned above. Does that even make it a chorus? There are no other verses
(the 2nd
spoken word part is the bridge), so does this mean the song is chorus-
less? If so, Raposo and Oz/Monster have just been pioneers in non-structural
music, pre-dating "Bohemian Rhapsody" by 4 years and "N---as in Paris" by 41
(though it did coincidentally come out the same year as British musical mas-
terpiece "Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet," which followed a similar struc-
ture, despite "Cookie" being about 24 minutes shorter, making its pioneering
methods even more impressive).
But the lyrical content is the truly outstanding part. The main refrain is "C
is for cookie, that's good enough for me." This is an acceptance of a common
fact, and a cheerful one at that. If something is good enough for you (be it the
letter or the dessert), why change? However, we must consider the spoken
pieces, which provide even more context. The first states: "Now, what starts
with the letter C? Cookie starts with C! Let's think of other words that start
with C..." A moment's thought, but, "Ah, who cares about other things?" Cookie
Monster is happy to accept what he knows best; he does not need to search his

8
mind for further options, no matter how many there are, because C is for cookie,
and that's good enough for him.
Then the second interlude shows him pondering further options: "A round
cookie with one bite out of it looks like a C." He's trying to expand himself.
Even if he sticks down his preferred route, he can change it up a little, right?
Then, "a round donut with one bite out of it also looks like a C." Applying
what he's done to other fields, it seems. But to no avail, as "it is not as good as
a cookie." Then, "The moon sometimes looks like a C, but you can't eat that."
Firstly, it's not like he wouldn't try (look up his later ballad, "If Moon Was
Cookie"). And second, this is Cookie's acceptance of cheerfully endorsing what
works for him, as most modern Americans do. He could try to expand himself
and take in either other foods or non-edible natural wonders, but he is more
than content with what he has. Is this a bad thing? Not exactly. He's happy,
and he's keeping the cookie industry well and alive (as well as earning the
support of his monster friends, seen in the video and heard as the chorus on
the song-the artist prefers hiring close relations). Maybe it's a song about com-
mercialism, but it's a happy song about commercialism. And at least it's not
"Fancy."
(It should be noted that the song also has a music video, dated 1971 [mean-
ing Mr. Oz is a music video pioneer pre-dating even Queen. When did Cookie
Monster become more of a musical pioneer than Queen?]. It is alarming in its
simplicity, but still gets the point across quite nicely).

Gary SykesA World of Pattern and Color
9

Ethan Kushnerik
The Radical Rambunctious
Rainbow Dog
10

11
I Am the Griffin
by William Magee
who flies through the sky.
who feasts on the living.
who holds loyalty toward none.
who puts himself over others.
who strikes terror in the hearts of others.
who has all knowledge.
who has no friends.
who wants to have friends.
who feels lonely.
who wants to feel loved.
who wants to hold life.
who can’t bear to die alone.
who feels that there is no one.
who has found a friend.
who has found a family.
who has found love.
who holds malice toward none.
who watches over my family.
who is also a sentry.
who came home one night.
who found only death.
who feels only sorrow.
who feels hatred toward all.
who feels hatred toward mortality.
who wants to die.
who is now dead.

12
The Bagel That Caused Harm
by Joe Beyda
I was boarding the airplane
While eating an everything bagel toasted with cream cheese.
It tasted amazing.
It was quite enjoyable.
The combination of the cold cream cheese and the hot crunchy bagel.
It tasted amazing.
As I entered the plane,
I developed a sudden feeling of nausea which
kept on rising.
But it tasted amazing.
I ignored it, but as soon as we took off,
Bam!
That everything bagel flew out of my mouth,
Faster than that plane flying in the air.
But it still tasted amazing.
I was embarrassed,
not at vomiting but,
For vomiting on the passenger sitting next to me.
It still and always will taste amazing.

13
Here I am in the water.
Immersed, I tread alone.
There is no place to go.
I am stuck.
I can swim, but to where?
I can tread, but for how long?
I am isolated from the world, alone with my thoughts.
A world that won’t stop for me,
A world that doesn’t know who I am.
The water flows cold against my skin.
I can’t fight this power, this current; it is just too strong.
I am becoming weak, losing more strength with each wave that passes over me.
That wave will reach someplace; it has a destination.
I do not. I am an endless map, which will never be found.
I am falling deeper, losing sight of the world.
My lips are blue under the water.
My nose is frost below the sea.
My eyes lay above the ocean to witness its beauty.
I take in my last glimpse of the world I used to be a part of.
What lives underneath me is a mystery.
But it is no mystery; I will not live amongst them.
The cold seeps into my body, into my mind.
My mind freezes; my memories are blowing away with the wind.
I watch the wind and see my loved ones leaving me, moving on.
But I am stuck.
Disappearance
by Rose Sabbagh

Angelika DembovskyThe Strokes
14

15
That Red Light
by Connor Lieberman
Red light. You’re not supposed to walk on a red light. It’s funny how one
color, one moment, one object can change someone’s life. One minute you’re
underestimating the danger of crosswalks. You heard it’s dangerous to walk
across them, but you never thought it would happen to you. You thought you
could just walk but it's more complex.
Next minute your life flashes through your eyes as you’re in the air. Did I
give my parents enough appreciation? Did I put enough effort in life? Next
moment, you’re fading in and out of consciousness on the ground. Was I the
best version of myself? Have I realized how fortunate I was? Did I realize how
much I meant to everyone?
Next moment you’re in the hospital, fading in and out of consciousness.
Around you are your loved ones. But then, it’s not your loved ones; it’s the
large angry eyes of your dreams and fears standing around you. It’s then that
you realize that you have to die with those fears and dreams, forever
watching you. They stare at you with red bloodshot eyes. Maybe that’s why
that bloodstain is still on the street. That red stain, next to that red light. That
red light.

16
I Am
by Andrew Isaacson
I am green;
like a long leafy tree,
like fresh cut grass.
I am tall,
like a penthouse overlooking the Empire State Building,
like a basketball player taking a three point shot.
I am summer,
like baseballs floating into the stands on a humid night,
like a team traveling from place to place.
I am New Jersey,
like my great grandparents’ honeymoon in Atlantic City,
like walking on a frozen Lake Mohawk for the first time.

17
Suffering
by Carlos Bello
There is a trope where one person will tell another to do something not
pleasurable, and justify it by saying it builds character.
I have identified two types of suffering: material and intellectual. Material
suffering is most present in times of poverty. Intellectual suffering is most present
in times of depression.
Material suffering is absolute; it is binary. If you are hungry, and have not
eaten for three days, there is no alternative perception. It is factual. You are
starving.
Intellectual suffering involves thinking. If a loved one dies, you may get
over it in a day, a week, a month, a year. It is quantum; no single perception is
correct.
So, consider the aforementioned trope. Does it reflect reality? Not in the
way it is presented. For example, spending a day harvesting crops in hot weather
does not build character. You gain no skills that are applicable outside of the
situation.
However, when one is suffering emotionally, they actually become philo-
sophically sharper. Approaching the same situation with different perceptions
helps to solidify the one which you perceive as correct.
Nobody ever told anyone to sit down and spend twenty minutes thinking
about death. Maybe they should. It builds character.

20
Sixteen Years,
Gone in Three Words
by Griffin Kapelus
I sit there, motionless.
I hear nothing.
I see nothing.
I feel nothing.
“Wh-h-h-h-o a-a-are you?”
Those three words ring in my ears for an eternity.
Sixteen years of memories gone forever,
absorbed by a hole that never existed.
My mom’s quiet voice interrupts the silence:
“It’s Griffin, dad.”
The elderly man has seemingly become part of his wheelchair after all this
time.
The former track, basketball, and football star, sits there,
now barely able to move his legs on his own if he were to try.
He searches through the fog, tries to grasp on to any memory he can find
with his shaky hands, but there are none.
He is not finished though. Never giving up was his nature.
All of him is invested now, using every last bit of energy to snatch the needle
out of the haystack.
Yet, the face returns to its usual blank expression.
He wants water after exerting so much energy for those thoughts.
It takes a full 30 seconds to express his desire through words.
The special water, modified with thickener,
is gulped down bit by bit.
After he finishes, silence, but not a peaceful one,
because everyone except for him
could sense the explosion that had hit the room in the form of three words.
He murmurs another faint, “Who?”
It seems the hours spent in the nursing home have been a waste.
My effort to stretch out this time has not been enough

21
because time is up.
I knew it was coming,
but nothing really could have prepared me for this moment.
I don’t know how to react; I don’t know what to say.
So, I sit on the bench that has become so familiar to me, paralyzed.
What did I do to deserve this kind of pain?
I distract myself with the best memories we have experienced together:
I am seven. Grandma drives you to the city and we see a New York Mets
game together.
I am eight. I sleep over at your house and you make me smiley-face pancakes
that morning, not stopping until the proportions were perfect.
I am nine. We take a stroll on the boardwalk overlooking the ocean, and you
tell me to appreciate life as a whole. I do not yet understand the significance
of this statement.
I am ten. You come to the city and we go to the theatre with Grandma,
never telling our secret: that we would rather be anywhere else. We will keep
this secret forever.
Then I pause, thinking about what just happened, and where it all began.
I am eleven. You are homebound, but you contently listen to your music and
watch your beloved Mets for hours at a time.
I am twelve. My parents sit me down and reveal that you have broken your
hip, and you can’t recover, so you will be in a wheelchair from then on.
I am thirteen. You move into the nursing home, clearly upset with your new
accommodations but unable to express it.
I find myself unable to help you anymore.

22
I watch as you are spoon-fed, incapable to eat by yourself because your hand
is not steady.
I watch as you twist and turn in your wheelchair, wanting to be able to walk
again, and I wonder how this could happen to an athlete known by all of his
generation in Hewlett.
I watch as we sing “happy birthday,” helping you blow out the candles when
we finish.
I watch now.
I sit there, motionless.
I hear nothing.
I see nothing.
I feel nothing.
“Wh-h-h-h-o a-a-are you?”
Those three words ring in my ears for an eternity.
Sixteen years of memories gone forever,
absorbed by a hole that never existed.

23
Unconditional
by Carlos Bello
I want to help people who are depressed
No matter who they are.
If you're exactly the type of person I hate
Talking too much
Asking too many questions
Not knowing when to stop
It doesn't matter when you need help.
If you're someone I fell in love with
Got depressed about when you didn't reciprocate
And did my best to avoid at all times
It doesn't matter when you need help.
I've been like this for a long time. I
don't care about many things
But when I do care about something
I care about it completely and undividedly.
And one of the things I care about is the emotional status of people I know
And, indeed
People I don't.
I will make time for you if you want to talk.
I will give you my phone number, e-mail,
Everything you need to communicate with me.
I will do things with you.
I will give you things to be occupied.
I will put your needs before mine.
I will listen.
I will respect.
I will assist.
If there is a limit to what I will do
I have not yet reached it.

24
The Moon to My Ocean
by Daniel Arias
All I want is for you to be happy
To see me and be able to feel something.
Although the apathy comes in waves,
I want to be the boat that rips through the tide and brings you to shore.
All I want is for you to be happy
To be able to enjoy my presence only half as much as I love yours.
The moon to my ocean.
That is what you are,
Controlling the ever changing tides and ensuring the life of everything
inside it.
You are the moon that keeps me breathing,
And although you do all of this for me,
You seem to not realize how much you matter
Because what is the ocean without its currents
Nothing.
Like a clear blue sky without its sun,
Like a clear night sky without its stars
Like me without you.
You are my light in the dark
And although you might not feel so connected
So too does the moon from the ocean

Malcolm MoorePretentious Selfie
25

27
It's where the water ends and the sun lies and the sea reflects on a pair of
eyes.
It's where the sun stops shining and the shadows kiss the sand and moon.
It's where coral and sponge live and where you stay as a guest passing
through.
It's where the threat dies and the peacefulness consumes you.
It's where life lives in another world and that other world becomes a tourists'
dream.
It's where no words are spoken but communication is implied.
It's where water becomes your air and your air becomes limited.
It's where you know when and how you could die but also know that you will
survive to relive it all differently.
It's where fear becomes nonexistent.
It's your getaway.
It's my getaway.
It's where you'll find me.
Yes, this is where you'll find me.
Getaway
by Samantha Newmark

29
The Monster in the Closet
by Jared Axelowitz
Such a foolish boy.
HA!
He is scared of the monster hiding in the closet.
He is waiting on his bed for me,
Waiting for me to strike and kill him.
Little does he know,
I am scared of him.
I am scared of the light that protects him.
I was born in the darkness.
Solitude.
My sisters were born in the light.
Companionship.
I don’t get why I am here.
I am just like my sisters.
I am just like that boy.
A list full of lies.
I am not like that boy.
I am not like my sisters.
I shock myself hoping to be cured.
I torture myself hoping to be cured.
I want to be that boy,
Not the monster.
The world rejects the monsters of the dark.
The world rejects a poisonous heart like mine.
They are scared of the unknown,
As am I.
They might burn me at the stake
Or stick a stake through my “tainted” heart.

30
I want to be in the light,
To live a life beyond these dark doors.
I want to be free like that boy.
I’m scared that the light might burn me.
I’m scared that the light might reject me.
However, It can’t scare me unless I scare it first.
I push open the doors.
My fears are proven wrong.
The light does not burn.
The light feels welcoming and new.
And what the light illuminates is human.

31
7:45 PM
by Ellara Chumashkaeva
The sky was bleeding, permeating incarnadine each satin cloud.
The incandescent star was wounded in Her heart.
Her realm drowned in dolor.
Colors blended in chaos.
Her precious blood soaked through horizon.
Persian blue with mauve and auburn was besmirched.
Discourteous Moon defied the time, stood visible and tall, observing.
Then crawling night made love to evening sky.
Hysterical was wind. It talked to trees about the murder.
They bended, screeched. They threw their leaves in disbelief.
On Her deathbed She wore a multicolored gown and burned Her brightest.
She slowly sunk into the bloody pool, held out Her orange skirt and curtseyed.
The darkness victoriously descending devoured Her faint flickers.
She did not challenge. Instead She tossed Her golden handkerchief. Goodbye.
And golden trail along horizon mocked night with bold defiance,
And gold was Her descend.
And over was the war. And 8 were on the clock.

32
That Night
by Manny Demos
I stand here on a beach, the midnight moonlight radiating down from above,
The water lapping up along the shoreline as we sit gazing at the stars,
a slender breeze blowing her hair to flow ever so gently as the moon from above
gives her that immaculate gleam; both in the everlasting twinkle of her mystical
sea green eyes and the luminosity of her auburn hair.
The sound of every wave fills every moment of the night, the warmth of her
hand fills my soul, the brush of her hand alongside my cheek like that of the
waves brushing tenderly against the shoreline sand, puts tingles down my spine.
The sensation of her lips pressing against mine forms something special like the
constellations do on this unwavering night.
Never wanting it to end.
We reckon every star in the fearless night for the representation of every
moment we want to share with one another; immeasurable are the stars, so may
be the days and nights.
As I burrow next to her, gazing at the stars, more constellations are materializ-
ing as the balminess of her hand spreads to my every bone, every tooth, every
piece of cartilage, every capillary, every artery, every vein, until it reaches the
beating of my heart then dispersing to my every cell.
We tumble back and lay together counting each star,
The wind breezing on by, the sand underneath slightly cold,
Her hand on mine dispersing warmth throughout my soul,
One last glance at her, those iridescent eyes, the smoothness of her cheeks, the
shining of her hair from the midnight moonlight,
The face that might have been molded by Michelangelo,
I close my eyes her face embedded in mine; I fall asleep at her heavenly side.

33
Transcendence
by Daniel Arias
Peace
Calm
Serenity
I sit
Watch
Feel
The rain ripples across the surface of the water
The birds sing their songs of spring
The silence is broken
The real world comes back
The police sirens blare
I begin to think of the love I lost
Of the world unseen
Of a world without me
The peace is gone
The calm is gone
The serenity is gone
My love is gone
I am gone

36
I am a black puck minding my own business on a frozen white sheet of ice.
It is cold. I am numb and rock solid. Some sort of stick with a heel begins to
move me back and forth. It fires me away to a netted rectangle bordered with
nylon painted red. A horn goes off as if it’s amazing that I’m trapped in this net.
But then I see the stick coming back for me. It’s playing with me once again. It
slaps, snaps, and shoots me into the crisscross material. But he is always there
to retrieve me. I slip and slide around the frozen white surface having been
slapped countless times. The coldness of the ice is numbing the pain.
Now I see many players on the white sheet. It’s a five-on-five and they are
all surrounding me. Why me? I’m just a little black circle. The players begin to
slap me and handle me. I don’t see the point of this game. Finally, I am shot in
the back of the net and the game has ended. Wait, what? All that hitting just
for one little black circle to find its way into the back of the net? I was sore and
tired. I was done for the day. I lay there numb on the floor, rethinking what had
just happened. I realized that I really enjoyed myself and that doing this every
day isn’t so bad. And so from that moment on, I was slapped, wristed, and
snapped, every single day of my life, but most of all, I was happy.
The Hockey Puck
by Joe Beyda

37
Dr. McMoe
by Andrew Vella
Ah yes, New York! I love it here!
Really? Heights are something that I fear.
Oh, then don’t look at the buildings; you’ll have a good day.
But, the sidewalk, it’s just too gray!
Then go to the park.
And when it gets dark?
Go Home.
Alone?
Get out of my way!
Have a good day!
Don’t rhyme what I say! Goodbye!
Oh no, why?
Orange! Ha!
Sheeps! Bah!
Who are you anyway?
I’m Dr. McMoe, I came for a show, to go see on Broadway.
So why are you talking to me?
Are you in a rush? Don’t give me the brush! Where do you have to be?
Not anywhere soon, but finished by noon!
I have a spare ticket, but now I might rip it!
Right here! Next to this tree!
Good-bye old sport! I’m off to the play,
I’ll sit for an hour to keep you away!

40
The Synthesis of the World
by Trevor Viscardi
In the beginning there was time, and it flowed flawlessly and eternally.
The Creator saw this time as a medium. God beat his chest and formed a
rhythm, and to that rhythm the World was created. The rising of mountains
and the recession of seas all flowed to the rhythm set forth by the Creator.
Broken shards spewed fire and from them land flowed and hardened. The Cre-
ator looked at his creation and saw that the World was barren and plain; there
was no one and nothing there to appreciate his World, so He bestowed Light
upon it. The Creator pulled forth his Lyre and struck the first major chord and
with it the Sun appeared, and the World basked in light and warmth, and from
this warmth grew life. But the Creator knew there must be balance in shadows
and demons. The Creator saw the danger of the night and because of it he
sprinkled the night sky with millions of stars and with the shimmering Moon.

41
Deadline
by Victoria Laboz
When you think about a deadline
you think about the end of something
the termination
the expiration date
but what you don’t think about
is that it’s also the start of a new deadline
a motivation
a new goal
dead-line
composed of two threatening words
your life on the line
depending on it
life
a timeline of deadlines
where each little tick represents another
dead idea
dead dream
dead love
one deadline reincarnated to the next
but does the timeline itself have a deadline of its own
where the clock stops ticking
and the monitor stops beeping
or are we recycled souls
running around
trying to complete the infinitely long
to-do list of deadlines
like maniacs.

42
Sky Pokers
by William Magee
I don’t like the word skyscrapers
It sounds icky
Like picking at an old, crusted-over scab
I’d much rather call them sky pokers
They don’t scrape the sky
They poke it
Like the fingers of a child
Trying to poke something yet is just out of reach
New York is filled with these sky pokers
Big ones, little ones, fat ones, skinny ones
They are as diverse as the humans who build them
No two are exactly alike
That is, all are the same in function
Funny how that works

47
Don’t Shoot
by Miles Golzer-Liu
Hands up. Don’t shoot. They protest the system and the system says they
loot.
As Marvin said "there’s too many mothers crying too many brothers dying.”
Are we supposed to just sit here and listen to the government lying?
We will still have no peace. All of these brothers are still deceased.
It doesn’t matter if our president is black because the blood bled is still red
and that’s a fact.
"All you talk about is race." Of course because it’s a problem we are too
afraid to face.
Ferguson is here and now. Injustice is something we can’t allow.
"All men are created equal" we are still waiting for the sequel. They said the
murder was even legal as long as it was done in the name of the bald eagle.
Dr. King’s dream has turned into a nightmare. It can’t even be fixed with
Obamacare.
We gotta make a change the system is something we gotta re-arrange.

49
Breaking Glass
by Sariah Johnson
The trees slowly moved
Back and forth
The sun was shining
This made me
Unable to look up
I sat down on the warm ground
Taking in my surroundings
Then I looked up
I was in a glass dome
My surroundings shattered
I closed my eyes
As glass broke all around me
It fell on my eyes
I was blinded
And I disappeared into complete
Darkness

My request to the little eight-year-old girl sitting across from me: play me
something sad and slow.
"This is gonna be easy," she replied.
As her little lips pressed up against the harmonica, playing that first low
vibrating chord, something in my chest shifted.
Another chord. That ‘something’ moved again.
It wasn't till the third or fourth chord that I realized it was my heart dancing.
I was being liberated and torn apart from the inside out all at the same time.
I grabbed my chest feeling my heart dancing the pain of the love I had just
lost. It was twisting and contorting in my chest cavity, pushing and
circumfrencing my lungs.
The music swelled from major to minor chords,
all a blur yet somehow encapsulating every memory we had.
This was the dance I would learn to recognize, “The Broken Heart.”
A ritual I wish upon no one. A ritual that, like history, repeats itself.
That song was 60 seconds long, while representing seven years of a life
together.
Five years of fighting for what she wanted and two more fighting to keep
what she had.
The new “us” was represented in that song, too.
The half hug hello,
The I'm scared I’ll lose your friendship,
The unreciprocated love I never thought I could feel from you.
The song turned bitter,
Sad, like my heart, now weakly pulsing to the haunting waltz being played.
The song came to a close, as did my trip to the past, present and future.
The little girl and I just sat there for a moment,
both of our eyes welling up with tears.
51
Harmonica
by Molly Model

52
Curiously looking at one another, wondering why the other had become
emotional.
That song had just changed us;
"That was beautiful" I said.
And like that, my heart stopped. For just a moment.

54
Dopamine
by Hailey Cody Corrall
They met in medical school, chemistry. Mesa should have known how to
handle peroxide.
It’s hard to pinpoint exactly where everything went wrong. It’s possible
that the relationship was doomed from the start. But Mesa had no way of
knowing. She was inexperienced in love-only knowing what she learned from
the black and white movies her parents watched over and over to get assimi-
lated.
All throughout high school, she never looked for a romantic partner. She
couldn’t waste the money and the opportunity that comes with going to a nice
school on romance. It wouldn’t feel fair to her parents or to herself. She put her
head in her books, got into an Ivy League school and packed her bags to be-
come a doctor.
What Mesa liked about chemistry and medicine was it’s ability to help
others. Whenever one of her younger siblings got a cut, she would mend it
with peroxide because it didn’t burn like alcohol did. It was a one quick fix.
There was no catch. It just worked.
The thing people don’t realize when using peroxide to heal a wound is that
while it doesn’t cause pain at first, slowly but surely, it will seep into you and
destroy you more than any lesion in the flesh could.
When she met him, everything was different. She felt free around him;
never having to preoccupy herself with her studies and exclude herself from
everything else like she used to.
It was a love only found in black and white movies. Loving him was simple,
like peroxide.
He was normal. Mesa was normal with him. For once she was different,
and she liked it.

55
The oxygen bond in peroxide makes it a very unstable compound. It’s
instinct is to repel itself.
He decided that he was intimidated by Mesa. He told her that he knew
what was best for her.
Mesa believed that he was right. She didn’t want to be a doctor. She wanted
to be with him.
He was graduating this year after all; maybe she could become a teacher or
have his child.
She could still be someone’s peroxide.
After he became a successful hematologist, Mesa was now Mrs. Him.
He wasn’t the same man she met in chemistry. But she realized this far too
late.
Soon enough, instead of security, peroxide gave her great pain. Pain that
she could not elude.
When she kissed him before he left for work, his breath tasted like
peroxide.
He adorned peroxide on scrubs like one adorned cigarette smoke on a leather
jacket.
She had the courage to say “I love you” when the only chemical between
them was dopamine.
But those moments were ephemeral and she didn’t know how to not love
him.

56
She didn't know any better. She didn't know his love was a depressant.
She overdosed on so much of his peroxide that she didn’t know what a
sober heart felt like.
The thing people don’t realize when using peroxide to heal a wound is that
while it doesn’t cause pain at first; slowly but surely, it will seep into you and
destroy you more than any lesion in the flesh could.
Do not tamper with chemicals you cannot handle. The most dangerous
ones take the most innocent form.

58
The Last Son of Krypton
by Khari Derrick
Goodbye, my son
Know that your mother and I will always be with you,
No matter how far away we may feel
Know that our hopes and dreams travel with you
We live on through you
Krypton lives on through you
For the day when you wonder
Why we chose Earth
To be your second chance
Just remember that
We believed that if you were raised by humans, you would adopt their compassion
And their endless capacity for good
You, Kal, are the embodiment of that belief
My deepest regret
Is that I could not save our doomed planet
And that I will never see the great man
That I know you will become
So as you race though the stars,
I pray that yours is a better world than ours, Kal
Do not make the same mistakes as Krypton
Do not let greed and hate destroy the planet Earth
Those emotions will die here with us
You will be an outsider
You will look like them, but you are not one of them
You will give the people of Earth hope for the future
You will be an ideal to strive towards
They will race behind you
They will stumble
They will fall
But in time, they will join you in the sun, Kal
In time, you will help the people of Earth accomplish wonders
Your father, Jor-El
*Inspired by the classic Superman films.

59
The Little Things
by Victoria Laboz
As the whirlwind of life drags on, you soon become thankful for the littlest
things that seem to put a pause on your life.
The little things that seem to stop life in its tracks, like waking up before
the sun rises and watching it in awe as it smiles back at you and as its rays
dance across the bags under your sleepy eyes, your dry lips, and your dishev-
eled hair.
The little things that make you forget about the destruction the tornado
of life left in its wake, like coming home after a long day at school and turning
up the radio to the highest volume as you dance in front of the bathroom
mirror and sing along off melody to your favorite song. But you don’t care,
because you’ve temporarily forgotten about the anchoring feeling that’s been
weighing you down.
The little things that make you feel like you’re in a dream-like fuzzy phase.
You’re standing under the showerhead at two in the morning as burning rays of
water shoot at you and caress you at the same time, melting away your stresses
of the day. You stand there huddled in the dim light made even dimmer by the
surrounding steam where the burning drops tickle you as they drip down your
knotted hair, your long eyelashes and your pouty cheeks, dripping all the way
down as all of the drops gather into a puddle at your feet and your mind wan-
ders off to a faraway place.
The little things that remind you that even though you remain as the eye
of the hurricane, life is beautiful. Beautiful like standing on your balcony in the
midst of Manhattan and looking down at the twinkling lights of moving cars,
and looking up at the rising sun as it uncovers itself from the shielding clusters
of clouds, painting the sky. And you think about everyone else who have their
own beloved little things to celebrate as you stand sandwiched in between
reality and mystery, Earth and the infinitely stretching universe beyond you.

62
She Died Last Night
by Rose Sabbagh
I hadn’t spoken to Lily in a while.
Not since camp had ended the month before.
I swiped my finger naively across the screen to see her text.
I assumed she wanted to hang out.
Little did I know.
“She died last night”
Those four words made my next four months a living hell.
I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.
I stared at my screen in disbelief.
Reading and rereading until my eyes blurred up with tears.
My phone fell out of my fingers.
I fell with it.
And only then did my blurry eyes release my eager tears.
It can’t be true. How is it possible for a fourteen-year-old girl to be gone?
What does it mean to be gone?
I didn’t truly understand permanent absence,
Until I could no longer call her.
Until I couldn’t tell her to stay strong anymore.
Until she was stolen from me abruptly.
Gone was her contagious strength.
Gone was her inspiring bravery.
Gone was her untethered courage.
Gone was my innocence, my inspiration.
I knew that our time together was limited, but never thought of summer
without her.
I knew that her diagnosis meant death, but I had hope.
Hope that cancer stepped on.
I never even got to say goodbye.

63
One Day
by Samantha Newmark
There comes a time where things will seem out of your control, as if under the
command of a figure unknown; a time where you will put your hand out, but
no hand is returned; a time where you will question, where you will doubt,
where you will disbelieve anything and everything that stands in your way,
stands between what you actually believe and what you are told to believe,
stands between you and who you want to be.
There also comes a time where all that you had questioned, all that you had
doubted, all that had once seemed too hard to believe, will be answered, an-
swered with just one, simple word; with the one answer you had so crazily
convinced yourself was too obvious to genuinely be true; a welcoming arm will
extend its hand for you to take, and you will take it with pride, with confi-
dence, with an unbiased perspective; things will be under your control, under
your command, not under the command of some shadowed figure under a
decrepit bed frame; you will believe what you want to believe; you will be who
you want to be.
One day, things will go from worse to excruciatingly worse, but the next, things
will get better; the light will guide you out of your miseries and into the bright-
ness that is this world, that is you.
One day, you will see that it is in fact not the end, but the starting sketch of
what is to become a beautiful painting.
Remember these words, for the day life becomes your darkest, most unwished
upon nightmare, you will know that it is not your last; that it is the start to a
new beginning, a new beginning you may not see for many years to come, but
a new beginning nonetheless.

fTHANK YOUF
The entire staff of Genesis would like to thank the following
people for their help and support: English Department faculty Martha
Caruso, Ethan Pennington, Lee Pinkas, Lauren Roberts, Jon Serri and
Paul Sturm, for encouraging students to submit to and be involved
in Genesis; art department faculty, Karl Hartman, Cora Kolosso,
and Sebastian Pinaud for supporting and promoting student creativity;
editorial consultants Mr. Stewart, Mrs. Stewart, Heather Marshall,
Stefanie Lopez and Art Viscusi for their guidance and support, and
lastly, Mr. John Pagliaroli at Metrographix Printing for his remarkable
dedication and patience.
Faculty Advisors
Danica Radeka
Leah Umansky
Editors In Chief
Sarah Calaman (12)
Hailey Cody Corrall (12)
Art Editors
Fatimah Amla (12)
Ellara Chumashkaeva (12)
Staff
Daniel Arias (10)
Carlos Bello (11)
Kayla Gartenberg (10)
Joe Newman-Getzler (10)
Maria Kormissarova (11)
Dana Kornfeld (10)
Victoria Laboz (10)
Neal McIlvaine (11)
Molly Model (12)
Samantha Newmark (10)
Anna Reynolds (10)
Rose Sabbagh (10)
Andrew Vella (10)

Welcome to Genesis, York Prep School’s literary magazine of poetry, prose, and art.

Welcome to Genesis, York Prep School’s literary magazine of poetry, prose, and art.

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