Welcome to Genesis, York Preparatory School’s literary magazine ofpoetry, prose, and art. This year we received an incrediblenumber of submissions, and we are pleased to see such a strong studentvoice here at York. Several of the creative writing pieces in this issuecome from our Scholar Programs Seminars and our English classes.However, it’s evident from the diversity of student submissions that theyare inspired both in and out of the classroom. The writing and art inthis issue of Genesis reveal how essential it is for young people toexpress themselves creatively.

For our fourth annual contest for the strongest upper school pieces inGenesis, we are pleased to announce the following awards:

Best Poem “One Day” by Samantha NewmarkBest Prose “Dopamine” by Hailey Cody CorrallBest Artwork “Tunnel” by Henry Binder

We hope you enjoy this year’s wide range of writing and artcreated 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 androle model, Leah Umansky, who has cultivated growth in all of us. Shehas worked exceptionally hard to make sure that every edition ofGenesis is amazing, all while balancing many tasks like grading “bookletters” and binge watching Game of Thrones and Mad Men. She is aninspiration to the editors of Genesis and to everyone who has thepleasure of being her student. Thank you for doing all that you do!

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Anatomy of a Poemby Hailey Cody Corrall

effective first linepauselet it sink in

metaphor for lost youthcompare green eyes to emeraldsromanticise smokingpauselet it sink in

daddy issuesmixtapesadolescencefirst lovesbroken heartspauselet it sink in

challenge the presentask questionscontemplate existenceallude to carl saganpauselet it sink in

it’s already been saidquestion originalityeven this is a rip offself deprecationpauselet it sink in

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nothing sounds rightit doesn’t flowi have to write somethingi hate itpauselet it sink in

repeat

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Itby Ellara Chumashkaeva

We always talk about it.Always dream of standing or maybe sittingSomewhere else.

At night we think of thereAnd pray to London godIf he could drag us out of bedTomorrow.

We always talk about itHow London mirrors show pretty and London dirt tastes like jam.At night we swallow tears and shove fists into our mouthsTo be in London. London. London. London.

ThereI’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.

Nakai KulikThe End

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From Aboveby Ellery Hickey

How do I explain to you the rivertwists and ley-line brilliance; theobvious clarity of the plan; thesteady exodus of highways,and then again the softer Incanhieroglyphs of towns,unread and untranslatable; thesudden non existence of sleeperswhen the lights are lowered andlost.

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Hemlighetby 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

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An In-Depth Lyrical Analysisof C is For Cookie

by Joe Newman-Getzler

Greetings, music lovers! Today, we’ll be having an in-depth lyrical analysison what I personally believe to be a very deeply layered song. It is called "C isFor Cookie," and it was written by Joe Raposo, performed by Frank Oz (goingby the stage name Cookie Monster) and released on the concept album "TheMuppet Alphabet Album" in 1971.

Now, the song at first sounds very simple. The primary lyrics are "C is forcookie, 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 alphabetcoincidentally 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'sstructure. Besides two spoken interludes, the song is nothing but the lyricsmentioned 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-structuralmusic, 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 pioneeringmethods even more impressive).

But the lyrical content is the truly outstanding part. The main refrain is "Cis for cookie, that's good enough for me." This is an acceptance of a commonfact, and a cheerful one at that. If something is good enough for you (be it theletter or the dessert), why change? However, we must consider the spokenpieces, which provide even more context. The first states: "Now, what startswith the letter C? Cookie starts with C! Let's think of other words that startwith C..." A moment's thought, but, "Ah, who cares about other things?" CookieMonster is happy to accept what he knows best; he does not need to search his

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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 roundcookie 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." Applyingwhat he's done to other fields, it seems. But to no avail, as "it is not as good asa 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 WasCookie"). And second, this is Cookie's acceptance of cheerfully endorsing whatworks for him, as most modern Americans do. He could try to expand himselfand take in either other foods or non-edible natural wonders, but he is morethan 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 thesupport of his monster friends, seen in the video and heard as the chorus onthe 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 CookieMonster become more of a musical pioneer than Queen?]. It is alarming in itssimplicity, but still gets the point across quite nicely).

Gary SykesA World of Pattern and Color

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Ethan KushnerikThe Radical RambunctiousRainbow Dog

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I Am the Griffinby 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.

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The Bagel That Caused Harmby Joe Beyda

I was boarding the airplaneWhile 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 whichkept 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.

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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.

Disappearanceby Rose Sabbagh

Angelika DembovskyThe Strokes

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That Red Lightby Connor Lieberman

Red light. You’re not supposed to walk on a red light. It’s funny how onecolor, one moment, one object can change someone’s life. One minute you’reunderestimating the danger of crosswalks. You heard it’s dangerous to walkacross them, but you never thought it would happen to you. You thought youcould just walk but it's more complex.

Next minute your life flashes through your eyes as you’re in the air. Did Igive my parents enough appreciation? Did I put enough effort in life? Nextmoment, you’re fading in and out of consciousness on the ground. Was I thebest version of myself? Have I realized how fortunate I was? Did I realize howmuch 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 thelarge angry eyes of your dreams and fears standing around you. It’s then thatyou realize that you have to die with those fears and dreams, foreverwatching you. They stare at you with red bloodshot eyes. Maybe that’s whythat bloodstain is still on the street. That red stain, next to that red light. Thatred light.

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I Amby 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.

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Sufferingby Carlos Bello

There is a trope where one person will tell another to do something notpleasurable, and justify it by saying it builds character.

I have identified two types of suffering: material and intellectual. Materialsuffering is most present in times of poverty. Intellectual suffering is most presentin times of depression.

Material suffering is absolute; it is binary. If you are hungry, and have noteaten for three days, there is no alternative perception. It is factual. You arestarving.

Intellectual suffering involves thinking. If a loved one dies, you may getover it in a day, a week, a month, a year. It is quantum; no single perception iscorrect.

So, consider the aforementioned trope. Does it reflect reality? Not in theway it is presented. For example, spending a day harvesting crops in hot weatherdoes not build character. You gain no skills that are applicable outside of thesituation.

However, when one is suffering emotionally, they actually become philo-sophically sharper. Approaching the same situation with different perceptionshelps to solidify the one which you perceive as correct.

Nobody ever told anyone to sit down and spend twenty minutes thinkingabout death. Maybe they should. It builds character.

Nature Boy

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Hutch Viscardi

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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 thistime.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 findwith 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 needleout 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 himcould 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

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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 Metsgame together.

I am eight. I sleep over at your house and you make me smiley-face pancakesthat morning, not stopping until the proportions were perfect.

I am nine. We take a stroll on the boardwalk overlooking the ocean, and youtell me to appreciate life as a whole. I do not yet understand the significanceof 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 keepthis 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 andwatch your beloved Mets for hours at a time.

I am twelve. My parents sit me down and reveal that you have broken yourhip, 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 newaccommodations but unable to express it.I find myself unable to help you anymore.

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I watch as you are spoon-fed, incapable to eat by yourself because your handis not steady.I watch as you twist and turn in your wheelchair, wanting to be able to walkagain, and I wonder how this could happen to an athlete known by all of hisgeneration in Hewlett.I watch as we sing “happy birthday,” helping you blow out the candles whenwe 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.

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Unconditionalby Carlos Bello

I want to help people who are depressedNo matter who they are.

If you're exactly the type of person I hateTalking too muchAsking too many questionsNot knowing when to stopIt doesn't matter when you need help.

If you're someone I fell in love withGot depressed about when you didn't reciprocateAnd did my best to avoid at all timesIt doesn't matter when you need help.

I've been like this for a long time. Idon't care about many thingsBut when I do care about somethingI care about it completely and undividedly.And one of the things I care about is the emotional status of people I knowAnd, indeedPeople 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 doI have not yet reached it.

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The Moon to My Oceanby Daniel Arias

All I want is for you to be happyTo 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 happyTo 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 everythinginside 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 matterBecause what is the ocean without its currents

Nothing.Like a clear blue sky without its sun,Like a clear night sky without its starsLike me without you.

You are my light in the darkAnd although you might not feel so connectedSo too does the moon from the ocean

Malcolm MoorePretentious Selfie

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Henry BinderTunnel

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It's where the water ends and the sun lies and the sea reflects on a pair ofeyes.

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 passingthrough.

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 willsurvive 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.

Getawayby Samantha Newmark

Fatimah AmlaOrphan

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The Monster in the Closetby 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 stakeOr stick a stake through my “tainted” heart.

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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.

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7:45 PMby 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.

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That Nightby 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 abovegives her that immaculate gleam; both in the everlasting twinkle of her mysticalsea green eyes and the luminosity of her auburn hair.

The sound of every wave fills every moment of the night, the warmth of herhand fills my soul, the brush of her hand alongside my cheek like that of thewaves brushing tenderly against the shoreline sand, puts tingles down my spine.

The sensation of her lips pressing against mine forms something special like theconstellations do on this unwavering night.

Never wanting it to end.We reckon every star in the fearless night for the representation of everymoment we want to share with one another; immeasurable are the stars, so maybe 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, everypiece of cartilage, every capillary, every artery, every vein, until it reaches thebeating 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, theshining 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.

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Transcendenceby Daniel Arias

PeaceCalmSerenity

I sitWatchFeel

The rain ripples across the surface of the waterThe birds sing their songs of spring

The silence is brokenThe real world comes backThe police sirens blare

I begin to think of the love I lostOf the world unseenOf a world without me

The peace is goneThe calm is goneThe serenity is goneMy love is goneI am gone

Flux

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Hailey Cody Corrall

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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 tomove me back and forth. It fires me away to a netted rectangle bordered withnylon 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. Itslaps, snaps, and shoots me into the crisscross material. But he is always thereto retrieve me. I slip and slide around the frozen white surface having beenslapped 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 areall surrounding me. Why me? I’m just a little black circle. The players begin toslap me and handle me. I don’t see the point of this game. Finally, I am shot inthe back of the net and the game has ended. Wait, what? All that hitting justfor one little black circle to find its way into the back of the net? I was sore andtired. I was done for the day. I lay there numb on the floor, rethinking what hadjust happened. I realized that I really enjoyed myself and that doing this everyday isn’t so bad. And so from that moment on, I was slapped, wristed, andsnapped, every single day of my life, but most of all, I was happy.

The Hockey Puckby Joe Beyda

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Dr. McMoeby 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!

Looking Glass Field

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Hutch Viscardi

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The Synthesis of the Worldby 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 arhythm, and to that rhythm the World was created. The rising of mountainsand 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; therewas no one and nothing there to appreciate his World, so He bestowed Lightupon it. The Creator pulled forth his Lyre and struck the first major chord andwith it the Sun appeared, and the World basked in light and warmth, and fromthis warmth grew life. But the Creator knew there must be balance in shadowsand demons. The Creator saw the danger of the night and because of it hesprinkled the night sky with millions of stars and with the shimmering Moon.

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Deadlineby Victoria Laboz

When you think about a deadlineyou think about the end of somethingthe terminationthe expiration datebut what you don’t think aboutis that it’s also the start of a new deadlinea motivationa new goal

dead-line

composed of two threatening wordsyour life on the linedepending on it

life

a timeline of deadlineswhere each little tick represents anotherdead ideadead dreamdead love

one deadline reincarnated to the nextbut does the timeline itself have a deadline of its ownwhere the clock stops tickingand the monitor stops beeping

or are we recycled soulsrunning aroundtrying to complete the infinitely longto-do list of deadlineslike maniacs.

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Sky Pokersby William Magee

I don’t like the word skyscrapersIt sounds ickyLike picking at an old, crusted-over scabI’d much rather call them sky pokersThey don’t scrape the skyThey poke itLike the fingers of a childTrying to poke something yet is just out of reach

New York is filled with these sky pokersBig ones, little ones, fat ones, skinny onesThey are as diverse as the humans who build themNo two are exactly alikeThat is, all are the same in function

Funny how that works

Henry BinderMirrored City

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The Real City

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Connor Lieberman

Henry BinderAmerican Cake

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Don’t Shootby Miles Golzer-Liu

Hands up. Don’t shoot. They protest the system and the system says theyloot.

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 redand that’s a fact.

"All you talk about is race." Of course because it’s a problem we are tooafraid 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 themurder 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 withObamacare.

We gotta make a change the system is something we gotta re-arrange.

Izzy LenoffReflectors

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Breaking Glassby Sariah Johnson

The trees slowly movedBack and forthThe sun was shiningThis made me Unable to look upI sat down on the warm groundTaking in my surroundingsThen I looked upI was in a glass domeMy surroundings shatteredI closed my eyesAs glass broke all around meIt fell on my eyesI was blindedAnd I disappeared into completeDarkness

Izzy LenoffDoll Parts

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My request to the little eight-year-old girl sitting across from me: play mesomething sad and slow.

"This is gonna be easy," she replied.

As her little lips pressed up against the harmonica, playing that first lowvibrating 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 justlost. It was twisting and contorting in my chest cavity, pushing andcircumfrencing 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 lifetogether. Five years of fighting for what she wanted and two more fighting to keepwhat 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.

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Harmonicaby Molly Model

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

Chloe StraussSunset

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Dopamineby Hailey Cody Corrall

They met in medical school, chemistry. Mesa should have known how tohandle peroxide.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly where everything went wrong. It’s possiblethat the relationship was doomed from the start. But Mesa had no way ofknowing. She was inexperienced in love-only knowing what she learned fromthe 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. Shecouldn’t waste the money and the opportunity that comes with going to a niceschool on romance. It wouldn’t feel fair to her parents or to herself. She put herhead 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 helpothers. Whenever one of her younger siblings got a cut, she would mend itwith 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 thatwhile it doesn’t cause pain at first, slowly but surely, it will seep into you anddestroy 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 fromeverything 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.

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The oxygen bond in peroxide makes it a very unstable compound. It’sinstinct is to repel itself.

He decided that he was intimidated by Mesa. He told her that he knewwhat was best for her.

Mesa believed that he was right. She didn’t want to be a doctor. She wantedto be with him.

He was graduating this year after all; maybe she could become a teacher orhave 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 toolate.

Soon enough, instead of security, peroxide gave her great pain. Pain thatshe could not elude.

When she kissed him before he left for work, his breath tasted likeperoxide.

He adorned peroxide on scrubs like one adorned cigarette smoke on a leatherjacket.

She had the courage to say “I love you” when the only chemical betweenthem was dopamine.

But those moments were ephemeral and she didn’t know how to not lovehim.

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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 asober heart felt like.

The thing people don’t realize when using peroxide to heal a wound is thatwhile it doesn’t cause pain at first; slowly but surely, it will seep into you anddestroy you more than any lesion in the flesh could.

Do not tamper with chemicals you cannot handle. The most dangerousones take the most innocent form.

Haewon LeeEl Mar

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The Last Son of Kryptonby Khari Derrick

Goodbye, my sonKnow that your mother and I will always be with you,No matter how far away we may feelKnow that our hopes and dreams travel with youWe live on through youKrypton lives on through you

For the day when you wonderWhy we chose EarthTo be your second chanceJust remember thatWe believed that if you were raised by humans, you would adopt their compassionAnd their endless capacity for goodYou, Kal, are the embodiment of that beliefMy deepest regretIs that I could not save our doomed planetAnd that I will never see the great manThat I know you will becomeSo as you race though the stars,I pray that yours is a better world than ours, KalDo not make the same mistakes as KryptonDo not let greed and hate destroy the planet EarthThose emotions will die here with us

You will be an outsiderYou will look like them, but you are not one of themYou will give the people of Earth hope for the futureYou will be an ideal to strive towardsThey will race behind youThey will stumbleThey will fallBut in time, they will join you in the sun, KalIn time, you will help the people of Earth accomplish wonders Your father, Jor-El

*Inspired by the classic Superman films.

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The Little Thingsby Victoria Laboz

As the whirlwind of life drags on, you soon become thankful for the littlestthings that seem to put a pause on your life.

The little things that seem to stop life in its tracks, like waking up beforethe sun rises and watching it in awe as it smiles back at you and as its raysdance 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 tornadoof life left in its wake, like coming home after a long day at school and turningup the radio to the highest volume as you dance in front of the bathroommirror 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 beenweighing 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 ofwater shoot at you and caress you at the same time, melting away your stressesof the day. You stand there huddled in the dim light made even dimmer by thesurrounding steam where the burning drops tickle you as they drip down yourknotted hair, your long eyelashes and your pouty cheeks, dripping all the waydown 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 eyeof the hurricane, life is beautiful. Beautiful like standing on your balcony in themidst 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 clustersof clouds, painting the sky. And you think about everyone else who have theirown beloved little things to celebrate as you stand sandwiched in betweenreality and mystery, Earth and the infinitely stretching universe beyond you.

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Night Blooming Cereus

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Hutch Viscardi

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She Died Last Nightby 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 summerwithout her.I knew that her diagnosis meant death, but I had hope.Hope that cancer stepped on.

I never even got to say goodbye.

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One Dayby Samantha Newmark

There comes a time where things will seem out of your control, as if under thecommand of a figure unknown; a time where you will put your hand out, butno 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 haddoubted, 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 crazilyconvinced yourself was too obvious to genuinely be true; a welcoming arm willextend 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, underyour command, not under the command of some shadowed figure under adecrepit bed frame; you will believe what you want to believe; you will be whoyou want to be.

One day, things will go from worse to excruciatingly worse, but the next, thingswill 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 ofwhat is to become a beautiful painting.

Remember these words, for the day life becomes your darkest, most unwishedupon nightmare, you will know that it is not your last; that it is the start to anew beginning, a new beginning you may not see for many years to come, buta new beginning nonetheless.

fTHANK YOUF

The entire staff of Genesis would like to thank the followingpeople for their help and support: English Department faculty MarthaCaruso, Ethan Pennington, Lee Pinkas, Lauren Roberts, Jon Serri andPaul Sturm, for encouraging students to submit to and be involvedin 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, andlastly, Mr. John Pagliaroli at Metrographix Printing for his remarkablededication and patience.

Faculty AdvisorsDanica RadekaLeah Umansky

Editors In ChiefSarah Calaman (12)Hailey Cody Corrall (12)

Art EditorsFatimah Amla (12)Ellara Chumashkaeva (12)

StaffDaniel 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)