Our Odysseys

Odysseys

Our Odysseys

Writing by 826nyC students At the

high sChOOl Of fAshiOn industries

826NYC Books

372 Fifth Avenue

Brooklyn, NY 11215

OurOdysseys:Writingby826NYCStudentsattheHighSchoolofFashionIndustries © 2023 by 826NYC and the authors. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

First 826NYC edition January 2023

Manufactured in the United States of Brooklyn

979-8-88694-014-5

The writing in this book was produced in the 2022-2023 school year at 826NYC’s Young Writers Publish project at the High School of Fashion Industries. The classes were run by Daniel Goulden with the support of Kevin Kearns.

Designed by Ling Zhu

Edited and proofread by Nisha Lauren Aoyama, Ennis Bashe, Mina Huang, Dena Levitz, Chloe Rappe, and Dannie Ruth.

Printed by Bookmobile

This program is supported by 826 National, the Amazon Literary Partnership, The Jane Friedman Anspach Family Foundation, The Cornelia T. Bailey Foundation, Con Edison, The Find Your Light Foundation, The Hawkins Project, International Paper, The Rona Jaffe Foundation, The Literary Arts Emergency Fund, The Minerva Foundation, The Resnick Foundation, The Seth Sprague Educational & Charitable Foundation, The Yelp Foundation, and Youth, Inc. This program is supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council. The program is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of the Office of the Governor and the New York State Legislature. This project is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts. 826NYC is grateful to the many individuals who support our work. To see our full list of supporters or make a donation, please visit https://826nyc.org/donate-us/.

826NYC is a nonprofit organization whose mission is to encourage the exploration of endless possibilities through the power of writing. Undefined by circumstance, our students build the skills to boldly write their own paths forward. We support new and exciting approaches to writing and inspire student engagement. And we foster generations of creative writers and thinkers, who together will define a better future.

COntent WArning

This book is intended for mature audiences, with some topics, themes, and language, that may not be suitable for young readers, including references to substance usage and themes involving violence and sexuality.

fOreWOrd

When I set foot in the High School of Fashion Industries, I am instantly in awe of the creative exuberance flowing through the hallways. The students chatter vibrantly, as I walk past colorful displays of fashion and art. The creativity does not stop there; my creative writing students at HSFI display a remarkable talent for and love of writing.

It’s another year in our brave new world and we’re still trying to get a lay of the land. Together, we explored many different genres – fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and drama – to ask ourselves probing questions about ourselves and our world. This book you hold in your hands is the culmination of that exploration. There are many different genres here. Many different themes. Many different ideas. You will find comedies and tragedies. You will find short poems that hit you in the gut and longer pieces that will make you think. But most importantly, no matter what you find, you will enjoy it.

Please join us on our journeys. We’re happy to have you. You won’t be disappointed.

Daniel Goulden 826NYC Teaching Artist

PieCes Of My reAlity

Jadora Altidor

It’s hard to sleep when you don’t feel safe in your own home.

It’s hard to breathe in a world that allows you to have no air.

It’s hard to eat when people criticize the body shape you own.

It’s hard to express yourself without others judging who you are.

It’s hard to fall in love when others just want your body and not really your soul.

It’s hard to be, in a world that feels so unknown.

the WOrk thAt never ends

Mekhruza Azamatova

One night without sleep, two nights in a row . . .

It’s become an addiction, one that I can’t let go

Is it so hard to appreciate my hard work?

Can’t you see how hard I’m trying?

Can’t you see my drained soul?

Crouched back, snoozing puffy eyes

Sitting in my desk, wasting hours of my life

Distanced away from everything I love

My family, my joys, they are forced to leave me behind

Trying so hard for something far long

The standards, expectations, it’s all your fault

You can’t tell me to relax then stab me in the back

You did this to me, guilty as charged

You say you will change, you say you are worth it

But what worth do you have if you’re only worth numbers?

My goals are common, yet deeply desired

I know it’s unhealthy, but

Aren’t we all in the same boat?

Aren’t we all suffering by ourselves?

As we sit in our desk, for the next nine hours

Studying and doing the work that never ends

The work that never ends, it follows me around

Follows me to the mall, to the streets, to my home

Lingering in my mind, in peace and in chaos

I can never escape the work that never ends

Young faces filled with exhaustion

Tired little souls

Continuous yawns, heads down on their arms

Their eyes tell the truth

Their dark under circles

Eyebags at fifteen

What a wonderful world?

No time for sleep

No time to eat

Is my body failing?

Please hang on for me

Until this is over, hang on for me

But it won’t end there

There’s more to follow

The work that never ends

It will come with all sorrows

Doesn’t matter what time

Doesn’t matter the location

The work that never ends

Will follow you till the end

In many different forms

In jobs, schools, homes

The work that never ends

Till death do us part . . .

hell’s PersOnAl bAker

Shanice Baskerville

The souls have arisen to take a bite of their daily feast. They bask in the sweet scent of my creations. From bread to pie, I bake them all. But who am I, you might ask? I’m Jamie, a notso-local baker, and it’s about that time of the day when all the ghouls and goblins are craving my treats.

Every single day I gather my ingredients from town and then head off to the graveyard. A little ritual and a human sacrifice later and I’m in my stunning bakery, which I could never afford in the living realm. I mean, except for the fact that it’s Hell, it’s great! Where else would you find such loyal customers, highquality flames, and so many wealthy people. Funny enough, it turns out that you get to keep your money in Hell as long as you used it poorly while you were alive, which is why I donate twenty percent of my profits to the local orphanage every three weeks. Of course, I get something out of it too, and orphans make good sacrifices. My customers are never alike, and each has their own story to tell. Like Yoke and Kee, the two failed actors who died doing stunts for some D-tier movie in the city; Lilly, the cheating housewife who pushed her husband too far; and Janet, the very popular cult leader. Don’t tell the others, but Janet’s my favorite. She buys so many of my products I can’t help but love her. She also gives me advice on how to be confident, persuasive, and charismatic. She’s so helpful! I have even used some of the tips and tricks she showed me to get more customers. After all, I can’t get too cocky with my clientele. I have to constantly go for bigger and better things.

I finally clock out at 6:00PM and head out to the living realm, and while walking back to my house, I see a large amount of the town’s police at my door. I wonder what they could possibly want. “We’ve had reports on multiple missing children, and it seems like you’ve adopted them all before they went missing,” one particularly short officer tells me. I mean, honestly, this is ridiculous. Who cares about those little orphans anyways. I adopted them, so they were mine to use, and I just so happened to use them to make my money. I mean, like we live in a capitalistic society, I can’t believe they’re mad at me for just trying to work with the system!

I tell the little officer that I sent them off to the city to be with my aunt, which isn’t completely a lie after all. Aunt Martha’s the only reason I know about how to get to Hell in the first place. When I was younger, I used to go to her little apartment, and she would tell me about a way to Heaven. Though that doesn’t require a human sacrifice, you have to lose something or someone very valuable to you in another way. I was finally able to go with her when my parents passed away, and I figured if there’s a way to get to Heaven, there’s a way to get to Hell. Years’ worth of library cards later, I finally found a way. And since all children go to Heaven, excusing like child murderers, I did send the orphans to my aunt. So no lie there, I’m not a liar, and my aunt didn’t raise me to be one.

But they seem like they need more convincing so I bring them into my lovely, well-furnished home. I probably have the best home in town. After all, bakers make a lot of money. The cops run me through 101 questions about the kids, what they liked, and if I can give them contact information for my aunt.

I give them her old address. I mean, it is a nice but secluded apartment. By the time they find it, and whoever lives there now tells them my aunt has been dead for five years, I will already have fled town. There are graveyards all over the world. All I need to do is find another town or maybe even a village and repeat the cycle. I’m sad that this will be the fourth place I will be leaving, but after moving towns the first time, I learned something really important. Your placement in Hell stays the same so I won’t have to worry about my bakery moving places anytime soon.

I finally convince the officers to leave with my charms, courtesy of Janet, and start planning my leave. I pack all my kitchen utensils and my books about the occult and buy a ticket to the nearest train out of town. So Hell‘s personal baker is now on the move once more. I wonder what town I’ll go to next.

tO WAlk in My shOes

Kelise Birchwood

To walk in my shoes, walk in some yellow Converse. Grab a mask and don’t take it off. Maybe run a little faster outside. It gets overwhelming in the dark. Take that flimsy green and white card and ram it aggressively through the scanner, DON’T BEND IT, then play a game of dodge the sketchy guys on the staircase. If you win, that yellow corner seat is all yours on the train.

My yellow crusty dusty Converse treating you well? Yeah?

Good. I hope you trip and fall.

Then you get hit by a bus or something right after.

Cuz’ I get tired of wearing ‘em most of the time.

I’m tired of hearing that stupid iPhone alarm (cough cough radiate) waking me up when I’ve just fallen asleep.

I’m tired of trying to catch a train that’ll only end up not moving for a whole hour.

I’m tired of sitting in an empty hallway for half an hour early in the morning.

So throw those yellow Converse out the window. If it hits somebody in the head oh well. And instead, wear bunny slippers and hop in bed.

CulturAl APPrOPriAtiOn

Elisa Cameron

Something I’ve had the privilege to see a lot of, at least, ever since I learned what it meant.

Sometimes I’ll go and think that I appropriate my own culture myself. Because how dare I be the child of two who aren’t the same.

Because I dreamt as a kid I could be just one while everyone around me never had to lift a thumb. Because I didn’t look the same talk the same act the same therefore, I wasn’t the same.

Hearing the puh in my please I begged for someone to see me as myself. Imprisoned by self doubt. Working myself like a machine to justify my own worth for others Who would mean nothing to me.

I’ll grow to find worth in the waste. I’ll grow to have a better taste. I’ll grow to know I have what it takes.

After the stOrybOOk ends

Lucia DeSilva

After the storybook ends, and the princess has been freed, and the kingdom returns to peace, what does the dragon do? A dragon is not slain by a mere human. A dragon is ancient, allknowing. A deity in her own right. A man made of flesh cannot kill a beast of magic. She truly believed he should have just spoken to her. She wondered what convinced the world of man that she must be fought and slain. She would’ve returned the princess if asked. In fact, originally, she didn’t even know there was a princess. She was simply asked to protect a tower for a month. Though the prince may have moved to violence after speaking, now that she pondered it. She was a terrific beast, in her opinion. With glittering, iridescent scales and large black claws. Eyes as bright as the moon and a wingspan as wide as a village. A great, booming voice and a grace in how she conducted herself.

So, once the story is over, what does she do? She flies.

She flew miles and miles, creating chaos wherever she goes, whether she is aware or not. And when she came back to her cave, with her great hoard of glittering diamonds, she found it empty. Had the witch stolen it? No, the witch knew nature. She did not see value in riches. The witch lived off of herself and herself only. The knight? No, he couldn’t possibly know. The princess? Oh, please. The girl could not last a week outside of a castle.

Unlike how one might expect, the dragon did not rage. She did not cry. She did not accept it nor did she reject it. She crawled into the cave, careful not to blow away the dirt

with her breath, and leaned in close to the ground. Tiny, tiny footsteps, small but not small enough to be some sort of child, and something that had been dragged across the ground. She sniffed at them, catching the scent of a human. A human she could not quite identify, but a human all the same. Every human, just as every creature, had its own unique scent.

The dragon, drawing a great breath, spread her wings and ascended into the air. She followed the scent, flying miles and miles, and after roughly an hour of flying she came upon a shack, and a young woman walking toward it. The woman wasn’t much of a unique-looking human, simply wearing a bright red cape. The woman froze, staring up at the dragon. The dragon landed and perched itself on her house, leaning down and leaning close.

“Where is my hoard?” the dragon asked.

“I do not know, Great Dragon!” the woman replied.

“And why do you not know? I have traced the scent back to yourself. I want my hoard back.”

“Why must you have it back?”

“Because I must.”

“But why? What are you to do with such riches but be selfish?”

“Do you truly believe I have any care for the vain world of man? I value my hoard in a way past your money and power. I view it as an extension of myself. Of the things that I love, if that seems so hard to believe. Now give me my hoard.”

“Why should I?”

“It’s been in my possession for several hundred years. It is important to me. It is the bed I sleep on and the object of my interest. If you refuse to understand that, I will take a great breath of air and burn you to ash. Maybe then will man be useful

to this world in nourishing the earth.”

“But, Great Dragon, the people have more of a use for this than you!”

“That is not an issue of mine.”

“Have you no sympathy?”

“No. Good day.” The dragon took in a huge breath, causing nearby creatures to desert the forest around her, and gave herself a moment to transform it into fire.

“Great Dragon! Please wait! I will tell you, I will!”

“Where is my hoard?”

“I have stashed it away beneath my home!”

“Good. At least some of you have sense.” The dragon narrowed her eyes, taking her great claws and lifting the house off of its foundations, finding her hoard divided into several bags in a short stone cellar. She took them all into her claw and turned to the woman. “I must remind you that other dragons will not be as nice as me. If you must rouse me, make it important.” She let out a great puff of smoke from her nostrils before she flew off, shaking the trees and displacing the clouds.

A month later, she awoke from a nap to see a small human holding a single coin, hurriedly running out of the cave. The dragon took it by the large red cape on its back.

“What business do you have with me? This is hardly a way to ask for my attention,” she growled. “I do not like to mess in the matters of man.”

“Great Dragon,” the human cried. “I need your help!”

“You are the thief who stole my hoard. What could you possibly want?”

“I am to be betrothed soon!”

“That is no issue.”

“But my betrothed, when he looks at me, he does not see me!”

“I cannot help you.”

“Yes you can! Give me one of your glittering scales, that is all I need! I must make a potion so he looks past my appearance!”

“And what in return?”

“You may have a necklace of pearl on a chain of gold!”

“Fine.” The dragon put the woman down, dislodged a scale from her arm, and placed it before the woman. To the woman, it was the size of a dinner plate. To the dragon, it was pitifully small. The woman curtsied, placing the necklace in front of the dragon, who quickly took it into her hoard. “Now be gone,” she huffed.

And yet the next day, the woman returned. This time she carried a mirror of pure silver, encrusted with gems. The dragon caught her trying to steal back the necklace.

“What?” the dragon hissed, steam blowing from the sides of her mouth.

“I need your help once again, Great Dragon!” the woman cried.

“Make it good, else I will burn you to ash.”

“My betrothed has now begun to show interest in other women!”

“That is your hubris.. You cannot force a man to change by proxy of magic.”

“I need your help! Please! I need a shaving of your horn to make another potion! I cannot live if I am married to a man who does not care for me!”

“And in return?”

“I will give you this mirror!”

“That is fine.”

And so, the dragon gave the woman a shaving of her horn, and sent her off.

Days passed. The woman came back every day, asking for another thing. A tooth, a shaving of the dragon’s claw, a bottle of blood, a tear. In return, the dragon was given a great many things. Brooches, rings, crowns, anything of gold and silver and encrusted in jewels. Every time, it was another one of her woes regarding her love. By this time, the dragon was less lustrous, restless, and always on the watch for the woman. In her long life, the dragon had never been so interested in a human. The woman was a fairly mysterious person. Most humans let the dragon know their entire life story and yet the dragon felt as if she knew nothing of the woman but her personality. In fact, she couldn’t really see how the woman truly looked from her small

size compared to the dragon. The woman was kind, tenacious, and while not physically strong, strong in mind and spirit.

“Great dragon!” she heard a voice cry one night. The dragon was just about to sleep, opening up one eye as the woman came running. Now she wore a long, elegant blue dress and was absolutely dripping in jewelry. Her hair was combed and styled, and atop her head was a golden tiara. Had the woman not worn her cloak, the dragon would not have recognized her.

“What do you need? I have nothing left to give you,” the dragon rumbled, closing her eyes again. The woman kept running, collapsing on the ground as she began to sob. The dragon made a drawn-out sigh, lifting her head and resting it on the ground in front of the woman.

“Have you no sense? Reply to me,” she insisted.

“Great dragon—” the woman began.

“Euphemia. That is my name. By this point we are friends enough that you should know what they call me.”

“Euphemia. Tomorrow I am to be married, and yet I know he does not truly love me!”

“And what do I do?”

“Let me stay with you! Please! I cannot bear to live in the castle for one second!”

“The castle?”

“Yes! I am the princess of the Kingdom of Andrea! You guarded me when I was taken into that tower!”

“Is that perhaps how you found me?”

“Yes. When I saw you fly away, I followed in that direction from the castle. At first I wanted your hoard to give to the people, as my own selfish father will not give any of his own, but then he decided that the man who saved me would become my betrothed. That man only came for me by virtue of status! He did not care for me, truly!”

The woman, now known as the princess, buried her face in her hands, sobbing quietly. The dragon watched her, pondering some things for a moment. The dragon finally spoke once the princess began to calm down.

“Go back to the castle. Tomorrow, all will be well,” she said very quietly.

“And what of your payment?” the princess asked.

“Give me your cloak,” the dragon replied. And so, the princess took off her worn red cloak, which the dragon quickly took into her claws.

The next morning, the princess still cried as she was getting ready. While the maids believed she was just so excited she couldn’t contain herself, she was filled with worry as to what would happen—if anything did. She donned her long, lavish gown, placed her crown atop her head, and was sent into the church for her father to walk her down the aisle.

And now she knew, the dragon had done nothing, for her betrothed was standing patiently at the altar. She cast her eyes downward as she was taken beside him, silently pleading with her father not to let her go. The king did not notice nor care. All he was worried about was the marriage status of his oldest daughter, so he may have a secured heir to the throne without issue.

Her betrothed spoke once the king finally left. “This is quite ridiculous, isn’t it? Such a public spectacle,” he whispered. However, he was not himself. That brash, pompous voice was now low, quiet, and rumbling. Almost like the dragon’s voice, but deeper. The princess looked up at him in confusion, and looking back at her were a pair of yellow, lizard-like eyes. The princess could cry all over again, but this time out of happiness. The dragon smiled. “Don’t look so surprised. I was fulfilling a deal I made to a princess,” she said, with a small nod and a wink.

the WOMAn in red

Ulani Doyley

Glass shattered along the marble floor as the rage she bottled up exploded from her depths.

She would cry for the last time, she would suppress her emotions for the last time, and she would get rid of all the vermin she could find.

The vermin weren’t the rats nor the roaches crawling along the cupboards but the dark and ugly souls inhabiting the no-good establishment that boasted about their revolutionary treatment. It was a lie. It was all a lie.

The drip of a faucet echoed through the halls, putting the deranged hiding residents on edge. The woman in red’s heels tapped on the floor, her long red fingernails trailed along the worn walls, and her sweet smile sent a shiver down the spines of rats scrambling from the sharp knives on her feet.

“Hello,” the woman in red whispered. “Is anyone home?” she said with a smile.

She suddenly stopped at a doorway and peered inside. The room was empty besides the ragged furniture, decorated with trash and a splash of mold. As she stepped inside, the young man hiding in a small cupboard breathed heavily through his mouth, frozen in his position, too afraid to move. The tapping of her heels came to a stop in front of the cupboard, and his breath stopped immediately.

Although it was a warm summer night, the air suddenly went cold.

“How long were you going to hide in that cupboard, Timmy?” the woman said as she opened the cupboard door with her cold slender fingers.

Pale as snow, the man’s eyes widened as big as the saucers the woman had smashed before she went feral.

Caressing his face with a dainty white hand, she tilted his head and set her sights on his neck, what she wanted, what she craved. His blood.

The only thing that fueled her to kill.

A CritiCisM On rOMAnCe

Aramella Duenas

Love is not a fairytale.

It’s a fucking curse.

They talk about the butterflies.

They never talk about how it hurts.

You see it in the movies, you hear it in the songs.

It’s what they spun tales about when you were young.

But when your heart finally breaks, who is there to fix you?

The songs here are useless now.

Not while your heart is blue.

the COrOnAtiOn

Elliana Francois

The continent of Tosipan was a land the size of Western Europe. Its elements were Earth and Air, and the vast majority was covered in grass and forest, with some of the houses embedded in the forests using natural resources. It had been ruled by different kingdoms in different countries inside the continent for as long as humanity began, and they worshiped the Earth goddess Savannah. Savannah blessed the people of Earth with natural resources to thrive as long as they did not pollute and destroy her body, but as humans tend to do, not all the nations of the world kept their promise.

The country of Opril found this to be very true as they observed the world around them. For a long time, the kingdom chose to remain neutral and focus on itself, but it was catching up to them. The big sister, kingdom Savah, was facing global embarrassment as the King was abdicated with an ocean stream of scandals. To add to the said embarrassment, the Queen, who was supposed to replace the King, was also booted off for an affair after the divorce. She returned to her home country and became the heir again instead. As the kingdom scrambled to find a new ruler, they had to branch outward and look abroad to their sister countries. Through each country, all of the candidates were scratched off except one person from the country of Opril.

The princess lay watching the television. Her hazelnut eyes were glued to the screen as the news played about events happening around the world, ranging from threats of war to the scandals within her family tree. The woman knew that deep down this would eventually lead to her having the responsibility

of bringing the country back to its finest glory. Entering her world of thoughts, she was snapped back to reality by a maid that rushed in. “Your majesty, we must get you ready for the coronation! Constantia needs to look her finest, yes, yes! Now, get up out of bed since you’re already behind schedule!”

“Yes. I understand,” Constantia sighed as she shifted her body off the bed and stood up on the polished wooden floor. She took her curly blue hair from its bonnet as she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair. After her silent wake-up routine, she went to her walk-in closet where the maid was already steaming the dress and ringing the bell that summoned all the others. She stood on the circle-shaped pedestal as a bunch of other maids came in and joined the task like a bunch of little ants. Her hair was pulled and straightened with chemicals that would have consequences, and her face was drowned in makeup. Every inch of her visible body hair was ripped off by wax strips to make sure her body looked as smooth as a porcelain doll.

She looked in the mirror while it was all happening. It was a depressingly ravishing transformation of a girl to a young woman.

For what seemed to be hours, Constantia was walking down the long rocky path barefoot with her coronation gown flowing behind her. The dress was a pastel green that took inspiration from the 1800s era with a bunch of sewn-on flowers. The train of the dress flowing behind her gathered dirt and dust, becoming earthly. A group of young children sang in a mixture of languages that represented the continent. She looked around a bit to see everyone who was inside the royal circle, such as family members, the Church, and government agencies, watching her in the porches attached to trees. Her eyes eventually landed on

her father and mother. Her mother was tearing up and clenching her dress. She knew that her mother was dying inside, that her only spare daughter was going to be shipped to another country to be a Queen. Her father on the other hand, wasn’t moved, and if he was, he wasn’t showing it. The man was always a cold person. He was more logical and saw his children as heirs rather than, well, his children. A responsibility with love as the last priority.

Constantia’s heart always beat against her chest whenever she knew he had high expectations for certain things from her, but she knew this feeling would not last forever. He was no longer her father. That man was King Castor of the Sister Country called Opril. She was stopped by the Priest of the Temple of Khadijah as she noticed the grand sculpture of the Goddess. She looked down upon the throne with love and support, and angels that symbolized the ancestors surrounded her.

As she lifted her dress to step up to the throne, Connie felt the world around her shake, and her own body trembled with each step. Her breathing increased as she stared at the throne, and with her last step, she turned around and sat down on the hard white chair. Her sight became blurry as she heard the Priest talk about how Khadijah blessed us with the Earth and gave us monarchies to keep the human order and civility, for the three Goddesses keep the universe and its beings in order ranging from Ladora to Catheria.

As the man spoke, he was given a bottle of a liquid that was an amethyst-purple color and a copper dagger that had gold embedded in the handle. “May the Mothers and Daughter of this world guide you and let you prosper as you begin with glory.” That was when a sharp pain suddenly bloomed on her chest as a blade sliced it open with a deep wound. Constantia let out a scream and fell to the back of the chair as the Priest poured the liquid inside that only intensified the burning sensation. It felt like hours for Constantia, who had flashbacks of her life and realized that, despite being merely a girl, she was now responsible for sacrificing and devoting herself to a country that wasn’t even her home. Her feet felt too small to fill

the shoes of her predecessors. In a sharp flash, she saw what looked like a beautiful woman with long brown wavy hair who grabbed a hyssop flower and put it inside Constantia’s open chest that showed her chest cavity, including her heart. The flower bloomed and closed the wound just in time for her to wake up with her veins bulging against her skin.

She was finally awake and looked down to see a huge scar that spread out on her chest as the pain was greatly reduced to soreness. Constantia looked up at the people watching and looked at her parents, who, she for a moment renowned, had their faces stuck with concern. She looked away and sat up in her chair as the Priest placed the heavy crown covered in wild roses and poppies on her head. “Khadijah accepted you. You are one with her through the flower and she is one with you.”

“Khadijah accepted me. I am one with her and she is one with me.” She couldn’t say no, but finally accepted who she was. This was no longer Princess Constantia of Opril. Her name was Queen Constantia of Jania.

WAlking in My shOes Benjamin Gomez

To walk in my shoes is to wake up every day at 5:30am just to fall asleep again.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to feel restless.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to leave later than expected.

I’m walking in my shoes believing I’d be able to sleep more tonight than yesterday. Tired, too tired to walk the miles in my own shoes.

To walk all of the miles of a day in my shoes is to get home past 7pm and end up not doing my homework. Stress building up, overworked, exhausted.

Disorganization causing destructiveness.

Stepping on my consequences like burning hot stones.

To walk in my shoes is to wake up with the foreshadowing of defeat.

heArtless And Cruel, COMPAssiOnAte And MerCiful

Joy Goss

Not everything has to stay the same in your life. It’s okay to let people go. We all grow and change in ways that make us different. You’ll lose friends and make new ones, and that’s perfectly fine. Some people belong in your life while others don’t.

Something I learned in life is yes, you get treated the way you treat others, but what’s also true is that people will treat you the way you treat yourself. Respect yourself. Learn who you are and what you want. Then, go after it. But this process of learning yourself doesn’t have to be rushed.

Another lesson I hope to never forget is that someone else’s beauty is never the absence of your own. Beauty comes in a million different forms. I love certain aspects of myself and another girl loves something else about herself. Every morning you may see an ombre sunrise and notice how beautiful it is. Later, you might see the prettiest fall leaf on the ground or visit the ocean and see splashing waves, and appreciate how beautiful that is too. But you never compare the two beauties you came across. So why compare yourself to others? One person’s beauty is never the absence of your own.

No one really knows each other. We all struggle sometimes. We all feel sadness, fear, joy, and shame. We all cry and rejoice. We all feel hurt and heartbreak. The point is that we never know what someone is going through, so why go out of your way to make someone feel worse? Why say something hurtful to someone who’s been through enough? I finally understand what “think before you speak” means. It doesn’t stop you from saying something dumb, rather something hurtful or painful.

It’s okay to figure out who you are. But do so without hurting people along the way. Don’t be heartless or cruel. Always be compassionate and merciful.

the CyCle Of life

Siyaa Gulati

I am only a kid, trying to live like one.

I want to spend time with my family. I want to explore with my friends. I want to do so many things.

A hand holds me back. There is a word written on it, School.

Life is too short, enjoy it while you can, they say, but I am too indulged in school. At night I wonder about things that I’d be capable of doing if only school wasn’t a barricade on my road.

I survive off of 4 hours of sleep every night, forcing my eyes to stay wide open. I feel like a night owl. I search on Youtube at 2:00 a.m.

“How to not feel tired.”

I should be asleep by now, right? But I cannot.

My assignments are calling my name, they tell me to complete them no matter the time otherwise I will fall behind.

I wake up at 5:45 a.m. every morning. I get questioned, “Are you not tired?”

With my puffy eyes and aching body I shrug and say no, I don’t feel tired.

My thoughts kick me from the inside. They ask, “Why are you lying?” I am just bound to.

School feels like a huge rock on my head, I just have to do what I have to do however I have to finish my work.

What prevents my cup from overflowing is me telling myself, The moment which exists is about to pass.

Life feels as monotonous as the Industrial Revolution, working all day, all night, there are no breaks.

Those who created the system of grades are following the system of laissez-faire, oblivious to the lives of students with grades involved in it.

“No one is perfect,” they say.

But the standards are so high. They spike through the roof. They require us to be perfect.

It gets tiring having to do this every day of my life, not getting to live it otherwise.

If only I could go back in time to my childhood, there was the perfect simplicity of being one.

Busy playing with toys.

Busy watching cartoons.

Busy playing doctor-doctor and teacher-teacher, stress was nowhere in sight. Not a single worry on my face about 100s was seen.

Then comes the beautiful complexity introduced by two, when all that inhabits my mind are worries. I wish I realized then that this time is never going to come back.

It’s hard to convey my emotions, there is so much more that I want to say. But it’s hard to convey because there is so much more that I could say.

Remember I am only a kid, trying to live like one.

* Italicized lines in stanzas 11 and 12 are from “On Turning Ten” by Billy Collins

Stephanie Harding

Bobbie and her boyfriend Frankie are walking hand in hand inside the Brew Palms Café and have a seat. Bobbie feels her hands get clammy as they take a seat at a table. She is visibly nervous to tell her boyfriend of three years that she wants to break up.

Bobbie: So . . . Frankie . . . I have something important to tell you . . .

Frankie: Sure, B! What’s going on?

Bobbie: So, I’ve thought of something new that could improve our relationship . . .

Frankie: Oh? What is it?

Bobbie: I’m thinking we should break up . . .

Frankie: W-what . . . why?

Bobbie: I’ve been seeing your brother Henry for three months behind your back. Voice starts breaking.

Frankie: No . . . say it ain’t so . . .

Bobbie: I . . . I’m also carrying his child. She pulls out a party popper and pink streamers come out. It’s a girl!

Frankie: GET OUT!!

Bobbie: No, please! We can raise this kid together!

Frankie: Raise my brother’s kid?! With my wack girlfriend who cheated on me? I think not! In fact, I’m expecting a son with your sister!

Bobbie: What are you talking about?! I don’t have a sister!

Frankie: Well, you do now!

Scene closes with Bobbie running out of the café hysterically crying while Frankie bows to everyone watching their whole dispute go down.

My PhOne’s dOOM

Casiphia Jacques

Now that I think of it, all I did was place it on a ledge . . . right. Nothing to stress about . . . right? Well that’s what I thought before my phone plummeted, face first, to its doom, and I wasn’t even there to witness it at all. Long story short, here’s what happened: I had decided to be productive and not lazy that day, but of course with the help of something to eat. Fortunately, the choice of food was quick and easy. The choice of food was the renowned chicken-flavored ramen, or what may be known as the “struggle” meal. But to me, at that time, it was the fastest and only thing I felt like putting into my system. So, while preparing the items needed for this meal, I placed my phone on this container and made sure it was properly supported before going on with my day. And just when I decided to quickly go get something while my noodles were boiling, MY PHONE decided to take its chances and jump off the setup that I had created, and, along with it, my heart. All I heard was a thud and the mention of my name, and I knew my phone decided to give up on me right there and then. Therefore, during this experience I’ve continued to learn that productivity can lead to more than the completion of work, but also the start of complete and utter stress. :)

P.S. My phone no longer works, and is in the works of potentially getting fixed.

she Marriyamu Kabba

She spends every second of every day feeling uncomfortable in her own skin

She second guesses every decision she makes

She believes that she is not important

She wonders why she is the way she is

Maybe she’ll never change

Maybe she’ll never be somebody

Or maybe she should stop making excuses for herself

Because that’s all she ever does

“The world is against me,” she’ll say But no

You’re against you

She is me

I am her

My first lOve

Xiomara Lopez

Dear First Love,

You were once the melody box that sang the most angelic tunes. Now you’re an old melody box singing the most pondering tunes. You were the present. Now you’re the past.

Oh how these memories never last. Your beauty completely enchanted me. Your dark brown curls that just swept the right way, your tawny skin that was perfectly conveyed with this beam of comfort and tenderness, Your chestnut almond eyes that I simply got lost in. Your heart-shaped face, and these lips that had this perfect rose blush. Oh, how these memories never last. In the past when I thought of you my heart leaped with delight. In the present when I think of you my heart just stays in sight.

For how can I love the girl who made me feel like the whole world was overthrown where I was all alone, without a single soul.

It’s true.

We had our good moments. The times where we’d Laugh and cry

We’d argue and then make up

We’d scroll through to those Buzzfeed quizzes for fun.

We’d talk about our future together. But then again

In the end

These memories never last.

WhO AM i?

Alanie Mendez

an everyday ritual to search for Life wake up, get dressed, stare in the mirror. a robotic way of life—how comical. search parties sent for a familiar reflection, instead what stares back is a husk of a human. fingertips tracing features, just to make sure your physicality is true. the familiar taste of disgust in your throat. the pang of fear you know all too well. an off-key laugh pushing its way out of you. a painted smile to feel any more normal. counting of eyelashes, freckles, and moles. everything is where it’s supposed to be. a flash of realization in the reflection across from you, you don’t recognize yourself.

What changed?

rubbing your eyes to be sure they aren’t playing tricks, pinching yourself to make sure you can feel, it doesn’t feel right.

What happened here?

Who stares back at me?

a tilt of your head, a last attempt and understanding—

“Who am I?”

tO WAlk in My shOes

Emily Mendoza

To walk a mile in my shoes is depressing. It’s filled with sleepless nights, Hours of work and work.

To walk a mile in my shoes is a responsibility. To be able to keep up with life, To be able to be social, To be able to care and look after my loved ones.

To walk a mile in my shoes is also a blessing. Being able to wake up every morning and breathe, Being able to make new friends, Being able to be alive.

To walk a mile in my shoes.

untitled

Valerie Navarro

I still remember my first crush. I mean, of course I do, it’s kinda hard to forget someone so perfect. His hazel brown eyes that sparkled in the sun, his light brown hair softer than the finest silk. The sweetest voice ever heard. I remember it all too well. Most importantly, I remember the way he always made me laugh, always brought me a piece of candy on Valentine’s Day, always listened obediently whenever I played the guitar in music class. The way his hugs always brought me to my happy place. I remember being so infatuated, so overwhelmed with emotion to the point that I couldn’t even think straight. Maybe I waited too long or maybe there was nothing there in the first place or maybe I misunderstood the signs. Maybe we were just two kids with confusing feelings. All I know is that my biggest regret was not telling you how I felt and crying after I saw you with another girl, sharing a pack of Lunchables and a bag of Takis. It probably wouldn’t have hurt so much if the girl you were dating wasn’t my best friend.

the MAn

Carol Panora

The man who was supposed to protect me, instead he was the person I had to be protected from. The man who was supposed to hold me while I cried over stupid boys, yet I held myself as I cried for the father who was never present. Fathers had to be the heroes of our stories, but every story differs. They had to be the example, the standard of how someone who loves you should treat you. My father was the first man to break my heart, the one who makes me doubt my worth every day. As C.C. Aurel once said, “You owe me sleep, so much sleep.”

untitled

Fabian Peña

Having to keep up with school, get straight A’s year round, the year filled with stressful nights and headaches, but coming home to a proud mother with her amazing food makes it all worth it.

To walk a mile in my shoes is tiring, but forgiving.

the CheAt And the Child

Cindy Peralta

just married, a pretty pair of two coming to america to try and start something new who could’ve guessed one would have it all thrown but would he ever come to reap what he sowed?

turn to the future and you see two kids one’s a teen while the other wears a bib who could’ve guessed she’d see your lying lips all the way back in 2006?

left the phone on one night while dozed off drunk while the curious girl thought to test her luck so she put dad through the ultimate test only to unveil messages of women undressed

used to see you as a good and true man even though the family was tied on loose ends turned out her world was as real as truman’s and yours was all just liquor and new “friends”

soon came the truth, one of which knew nevertheless left the three women colored in blue to hear their cries so silent yet wild all from a case of the cheat and the child

MuñeCA

Hermione P.M.

No comfort for tears

Tight hairstyles later taken down at school

Style your hair on your own

Not “puffy” straight

No, that is curly hair

Boast about it

Lies put front and center

Scowl silently

No one knows

Alone

Lavender sprouts nearby

Afraid

Tears falling day and night

Look away shamefully

Anger stews

Resentment near

Words of support

Pass a comb through my damp hair

Watch movies

Laugh

Ask for meaningful advice

How would you react

Who will you blame

Me?

You?

The world?

Best friends?

I scoff

Share the true feelings

The hurt

The betrayal

Stress looms

Sickness nearby

Calling

Cook

Clean

Iron

Style

Bake

Paint

Dance

Sing

Treat others well

Including yourself

All skills self-taught

Guidance

Days spent alone

A wallflower

Resentment can rot anything

From the inside out

Don’t be consumed

Look,

The lavender has bloomed

A blue star is near

Delphiniums and lilac appear

Rosa de Bayahibe viene pronto

Recógelo y ponlo en tu pelo

Que linda

Sonrie

Tu tiempo viene pronto

Paciencia

En tu tiempo

Sólo en tu tiempo

the WAlk

Jahly Rock

To walk a mile in my shoes is to be held to high expectations. To walk a mile in my shoes is to not know anything but success. To walk a mile in my shoes is to be consumed by stress and anxiety.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to not know who I am, or what I’m doing, to be lost and confused continuously walking until the soles of my shoes give out.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to feel my laces too tight, my feet screaming for air, for sweet release.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to feel suffocated, like I’ve been wrapped in chains and thrown in the deepest part of the ocean.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to not feel anything anymore, to not have emotions—nothing that’s real anyway—to cry from overwhelming work, to wish and plead that I could just disappear and never return.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to feel numb, to feel guilty of feeling numb, to feel ashamed of not living up to expectations.

To walk a few feet in my shoes is to hate the world, hate myself for hating those I love without a valid reason.

To put on my shoes is to want to run away and never stop running, to leave this life as soon as the rain clears, to get on a train without knowing or caring about the destination.

My shoes carry all the doubt, the hate, the worry, the shame. It tracks inside the house like mud after the rain. No matter how much I wipe my feet, the dirt still follows me.

I hate my shoes.

I leave my shoes at the door, but the feelings transfer into my socks. Now I hate my socks.

Walking in my socks makes me feel alone.

Walking in my socks makes me want to scream, yell, shout for sweet release.

Anything to escape the constant harassment that my shoes passed down to my socks.

Walking around in my socks makes me feel like the world is muted, gray, cold. As if I’m muted. gray. cold.

Walking in my socks is a pain, more of a pain than walking in my shoes.

the silenCe

Arianna Schiavello

To battle with one’s self is a battle like no other. The feeling of being trapped in between four walls becomes suffocating after you’ve been there for what seems like years. The silence is as deafening as a blow horn being blasted into your ears. Then you remember, it’s only been a couple months. Then again, if only someone had warned me what a couple months of isolation could truly do to a person maybe, just maybe I could’ve prevented the outcome.

Being bound to my home like I was on house arrest humbled me and made me realize the beauty of being outside. Looking back at myself now, shriveled up on the cold floors of my new dining room, pitch black outside my windows as the world around me slept soundly, I wish I could tell that helpless and confused girl who hugged her knees tightly for some sort of relief that she would be freed sooner or later. That those tears that came pouring out of her eyes would soon dry up and cease to fall. And that her shoulders wouldn’t be so tense anymore as long as she waited just a bit more. That everything was going to be okay in due time, as long as she stayed strong.

Even now, thinking back to a time where I was bound to my home with shackles for the greater good of humanity still pains me, knowing how much it hurt. Of course, I would do anything if it bettered my safety as well as others. However, home was a place of solitude and a place for me to escape the overstimulation of the world around me. Knowing that there was a time when my home was my enemy, when I started to grow weary of my family, and when I felt the most alone truly makes my heart ache. It was a time of change, and yet I felt like

I was standing still. Stuck in cement as I watched everyone who walked past me grow further and further away from me.

A time of great change for me was when my family decided to move from my childhood home to a new home just ten minutes away. We would be living on our own. No more having my grandparents below us and no more having my aunt, uncle, and cousin above us. No more being in the middle of family drama. We would be starting a whole new chapter in our lives while experiencing a pandemic at the same time. Leaving my childhood home was a big stepping stone for me, a new step into another level of maturity. I can remember bringing our boxes into our new home, my body filled with exhaustion but also excitement. Change usually frightens me, but the refreshing feeling of starting fresh on a blank slate filled my mind with opportunities. While I was painting my room a light shade of purple, I began to piece together the layout of my new room as I scanned the open space. This new home was going to hold my most joyous moments and my most depressing moments, all of which would change me into becoming a better person not just to others but also to myself. I found myself in extra activities and education as well as taking advantage of the salty water that was just a minute away from my home. Living beside a beach gave me another sense of clarity, a new escape for me whenever things became unbearable.

Now, looking back at that girl hugging her knees as she sits on the floor silently crying for someone to help her escape her own home, I feel for her immensely. I wish I could warn her that the times ahead would only get harder for her. That she would have to endure it for just a bit longer. However, I also want to thank her for enduring it. Thank her for pulling through and making her way through that thick black fog that wanted

to swallow her whole. That the home she dreaded would soon become her safe space. It would be a place of imagination and exploration, as well as happiness. It would also be a place of rehabilitation and unfortunately some sadness, but that’s always good. I want to tell her that she has made me so unbelievably proud and that it’s because of her courage that I am where I am now. I’m breathing and walking on my own two feet again. No longer in that cement but walking ahead of those who were once ahead of me. Due to her trial and error, I was able to create a solid ground for our two feet to stand on.

However, I want her to appreciate one thing that scared her the most that isn’t so bad now. The silence. The silence that surrounded her when she cried countless times. When she wanted someone to be there for her, there silence was, wrapped around her without question. That silence would soon become her best friend, her greatest escape from all the loud noises that overstimulated her. It came in all shapes and sizes. Music, sounds of home, the waves from the ocean, the pages of books, her room, and so much more. Her silence was hers and she could control it to fit her needs.

Was the battle with myself worth it? Yes. Would I go through those two long years of constant change and uncertainty again to get to where I am? Yes. Because I learned to appreciate so many little things in the world, and I got to appreciate one big thing that was under my nose the whole time. That was so scary before but is the biggest comfort now. The silence.

WAlk With Me

Sara Smith

To walk a mile in my shoes could feel like a yard or a few feet, depending on the day. It’s funny how this roller coaster we call life works that way. In sneakers or heels, it all depends on how you feel.

Listening to the latest tunes could feel like wearing space shoes, but certainly no walk on the moon.

Carrying this long mane of curly hair, choosing comfort over style in the things that I wear

is to carry the weight of a scholar, one who has been that way since she was a toddler.

Shoes of success and shoes that uplift. Shoes that might have been a gift.

Shoes of trial, error, and self-doubt. Shoes full of stories to tell about.

For a day, a month, or year would fill you in on all my hopes and fears.

Until they’re worn and beat up, a battle with the ground leaving you to weave and duck may leave you distraught, leave you wondering . . . Was that a run or a walk?

To walk a mile in my shoes may leave you yearning for your own. Those shoes represent you and a place you call home.

Forget walking in my shoes, try your own for some time. Compare the differences between yours and mine.

behind the MAsk

Britney Ulloa

Growing up, I was independent for years

My parents were too busy arguing to notice me

I had to watch my mom shed tears

As my dad hid himself from his family

Taking care of me because who else will?

Being my mom’s therapist at the age of four

Keeping out of the house to keep my mind tranquil

Seeing my parents put on a show in front of guests

Ignoring the fact that we’re all hurting Broken

Coming home to a house full of people yet feeling so lonely

Locking myself in my room, covering my mouth so no one can see or hear me cry

Waiting for a time when things will get better Delusional

Scared of becoming the very person who causes me so much pain

We share so many traits

The things I hate about myself

Despite everything

I love him so much it hurts Traitor

Trying to stay occupied to keep my mind at peace

Overflowing my schedule

So that I don’t think too much

Because god forbid I show any emotion

Smiling through everything

Telling myself to suck it up

People have it much so worse

Ungrateful

I’m the strong friend, the one who never shows emotion

Not because I’m incapable but because I can’t let my character falter

I have to be strong for everyone else

I know what it feels like to be alone

When I say I’m tired I don’t mean physically

I’m exhausted of pretending, but if I crack

I’m afraid I can’t come back

Constantly making jokes to mask the truth

Disappointed in myself for not being stronger

Weak

Counting off the days until I’m eighteen

So that I can run so far from my problems

Not once looking back

Leaving everyone in the past

Selfish

Broken, delusional, traitor, ungrateful, weak, and selfish

That’s the real me

The me nobody but the girl in the mirror knows

The girl behind the mask

bOOts

Johanna Vicente

My shoes are black platform boots

They carry my weight

Headphones make me almost weightless

They take away my worries

Both are a reflection of my style

Both a reflection of my taste in music

I listen as headphones reverberate

Bass beats and heavy tones

—a uniquely comfortable sound

Negative to those in passing

My shoes are black platform boots

They carry my weight

Burdens of judgment

Based on misconceptions

—easily negated by those close to me

My shoes are black platform boots

My taste in music is loud and bold

My love and kindness are unrelenting

Would you know?

Or would you wallow in misconception?

Would you fear the unknown?

Or would you take the time to get to know me?

tO WAlk in My shOes

Nevaeh Zuniga

To walk in my shoes is work, hours of reading, writing, and solving. To walk in my shoes is a lack of giving my full attention to lessons, lacking fuel and rest.

To walk in my shoes is discipline, dragging myself to the gym, pushing myself past my limits. To walk in my shoes is a skill, giving time to learn and train for my sport.

To walk in my shoes is stressful, not having time to myself with a toddler at my side. To walk in my shoes is draining, giving my last bit of energy to my friends.

To walk in my shoes is a cycle, every task and responsibility is just routine. To walk in my shoes is to continue, no matter what happened, no matter who left, I kept going.

ACknOWledgMents

In our Young Writers Publish program, 826NYC develops creative writing projects with classes of students and teachers in schools throughout New York City. 11th grade students from the High School of Fashion Industries explored a variety of genres including scene writing, poetry, short fiction, and memoir, to create this collection that from page to page is hilarious, moving, thoughtful, and all-around beautiful. Our Odysseys is a stunning collection and a tribute to the ingenuity and diverse talents of these young writers.

A huge thank you to the 826NYC teaching artist, Daniel Goulden, for creating classrooms where students were able to explore so many genres and write freely on a variety of themes. Your support, encouragement, and consistency helped our young writers tap into their imaginations and memories to produce such moving work, and your care in helping them brainstorm, write, and revise throughout this project was invaluable.

We are particularly grateful to Kevin Kearns and Nancy Moore for their support of this project. Thank you, Kevin, for inviting us into your classrooms and facilitating such a smooth collaboration. Your hard work and steadfast dedication to your students allows them to flourish as young writers and thinkers.

At 826NYC we depend on the dedicated volunteer editing and design cohort that make our publications a reality. Thank you to Amy Dupcak for overseeing the editing, proofreading, and design of this book. Thank you to Ling Zhu for designing such a beautiful book for our students. To copy editors and proofreaders Nisha Lauren Aoyama, Ennis Bashe,

Mina Huang, Dena Levitz, Chloe Rappe, and Dannie Ruth, for their careful attention to each of the student’s pieces, thank you.

This program is supported by 826 National, the Amazon Literary Partnership, The Jane Friedman Anspach Family Foundation, The Cornelia T. Bailey Foundation, Con Edison, The Find Your Light Foundation, The Hawkins Project, International Paper, The Rona Jaffe Foundation, The Literary Arts Emergency Fund, The Minerva Foundation, The Resnick Foundation, The Seth Sprague Educational & Charitable Foundation, The Yelp Foundation, and Youth, Inc. This program is supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council. The program is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of the Office of the Governor and the New York State Legislature. This project is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts. 826NYC is grateful to the many individuals who support our work. To see our full list of supporters or make a donation, please visit https://826nyc.org/donate-us.

Thank you especially to the 826NYC staff for their behind-the-scenes support of this project, from curriculum development and the book-making process to volunteer recruitment.

Finally, thank you to the students at the High School of Fashion Industries for taking risks with your writing and sharing your words with us. Writing can be a challenging – but hopefully fun! – process, and your dedication to your craft and your vision shines through in these pieces. We’re all excited to see what you’ll write in the future!

Joshua Mandelbaum, Janna Cisterino, Rico Denard, Amy Dupcak, Chris Eckert, Brendan Jacobi, Summer Medina, Amani Nephew, Stella Raffle-Wax, Mandy Seiner, Naomi Solomon,

Education

bOArd Of direCtOrs

Michelle McGovern, Ted Wolff, Jen D’Ambrosie, Kathryn Yontef, Michael Colagiovanni

Liza Steinberg Demby

Jamal Edwards

Simone Frasier

Amir Mokari

Kwaku Owusu

Sheila Peluso

Danielle Sinay

Andrew Sparkler

Alyson Stone

David Tuffy

Thom Unterburger

Sam Valenti

President

Vice President Treasurer Secretary

teAChing Artists

J’miah Baird

María Barrios

Amanda Dettmann

Amy Dupcak

Willie Filkowski

Daniel Goulden

Varud Gupta

Jaydra Johnson

Nicholas Martinez

Hua Xi

826nyC PrOgrAMs

Write After sChOOl

Reading and writing go together like superheroes and capes. Write After School students work alongside 826NYC staff and volunteers to build their reading, writing, and social-emotional skills, and unleash their imagination as they play and learn about the power of language. Twice a year, students revise their creative writing for publications that are printed in English and Spanish and shared with families, volunteers, and community members at celebratory readings.

Write AWAy WOrkshOPs

Young writers come together in Write Away Workshops to explore a multitude of genres and subjects and to develop their voices. Groups write freely and participate in imaginative writing activities and lessons. Whether it’s a song, a piece of climate justice sci-fi, or a nature guide, young writers leave the workshop with a piece to be proud of, as well as a newfound understanding of the topic, and new friends.

Write All AbOut it

In 826NYC’s nonfiction writing class, Write All About It, students learn and report on a new theme each semester! We go in depth with research, interviews, and field trips to learn everything there is to know about a big topic in our lives, all while honing our observation skills and building our strengths as writers. Classes take place on Zoom, with 3 in-person field trips each semester. At the end of each semester, students’ writing is published on the class Medium page, in a zine, or in another format specific to the topic of the semester.

teen Writers’ COlleCtive

Teens are the next generation of literary leaders. That’s why we launched the Teen Writers’ Collective. The collective brings together young writers from around the city to explore the art of writing and literary citizenship. They are a community of passionate and creative peers, serve as 826NYC youth leaders, and inspire younger students and peers across the network.

dungeOns & drAgOns & Writers

Dungeons & Dragons, the epic fantasy role-playing game where players craft characters to take on magical quests that can change with the roll of the dice, has a home at 826NYC. A band of adventurous authors in grades 5-8 play out an entirely original tale and chronicle their fantastical deeds in character point-of-view journals, histories, and scene writing. Sometimes the greatest gift is the friends we make — and make up — along the way.

yOung Writers Publish

Turn your classroom into a creative writing lab. During Young Writers Publish residencies, 826NYC teaching artists collaborate with educators on creative, impactful, curriculum-aligned projects that transform students into published authors. Residencies run from six weeks to a full year, depending on the project. Each Young Writers Publish culminates in a book, newspaper, zine, podcast, film, or performance featuring your students.

Write tOgether

826NYC hosts classes across New York City for Write Together: an interactive writing experience that encourages creative expression, explores the elements of storytelling, and strengthens writing skills. Elementary-aged classes collaborate on illustrated children’s books, middle schoolers choose their own adventure, and high schoolers learn the art of memoir writing during a fast- paced and whimsical 90-minute narrative program.

student PubliCAtiOns

Through our programs, our volunteers work with students to help them create stories, poems, and ’zines. Because we believe that the quality of students’ work is greatly enhanced when they are given the chance to share it with an authentic audience, we are committed to publishing student works. By encouraging their work and by guiding them through the process of publication, we make abundantly clear that their ideas are valued.

DIFFERENT LIVES. DIFFERENT PATHS. DIFFERENT JOURNEYS.

THIS BOOK CONTAINS THE MANY STORIES OF STUDENTS AT THE HIGH SCHOOL OF FASHION INDUSTRIES AS THEY VENTURE OUT INTO THE WORLD

TO EXPLORE THEMSELVES AND THEIR EXPERIENCES THROUGH POETRY, FICTION, AND PERSONAL WRITING. FROM PAGE TO PAGE, THIS COLLECTION IS HILARIOUS, MOVING, THOUGHTFUL, AND ALL-AROUND BEAUTIFUL.

DESPITE THE WIDE VARIETY OF THEMES AND GENRES IN THESE PAGES, THEY HOLD MANY COMMONALITIES, TOO: EVERY PIECE IS WRITTEN WITH HEART, CREATIVITY, AND JOY.