wellesley high school's literary & arts magazine



a painting worth change

a story by Inara Pirani ’19


Letter from Di Alakija to Brooklyn Alakija

Wednesday, September 4th 10:35 AM

Hi Brooke,

How are you? I guess I’m okay. I woke up this morning, made a bowl of oatmeal (now that I live by myself– ha!), then I took the train to work (because I can’t afford a car or a cab). It is now lunchtime and I am checking my Facebook and writing you a letter. Continue reading “a painting worth change”

the gold rush stampede

story excerpt by Tristan Martello, ’20 and Russell Hornung, ’20


After Reece regained his health, we set out towards the gold rush. We drove up to an open field in front of the mountain full of gold. The truck wobbled, and pieces broke off, one after another. We slowed to a stop. We saw two lone figures mining on the mountain side. We stuck our heads through what remained of the windows, and looked around.

“Wow guys! We get first dibs!” Reece said happily. Continue reading “the gold rush stampede”


short story by Kelly Rawson, ’20

She huffs quietly as the comforter rests softly on her head. The irritating, busy street noise of the city buzzed outside her window, despite the fact that it was just a little passed three in the morning. She grunts, frustrated with her uneasy sleep pattern.

This was the twenty-sixth night in a row she hadn’t slept before her alarm went off. It was an awful habit she had gotten into. She had diagnosed herself with insomnia earlier on in her life when she would wake up more than five times a night, for no apparent reason. From then on, it grew worse and worse. Continue reading “consciousness”

the people’s rubble

novel excerpt by Julia Shor, ’20

Chapter 1: Trial by Trust

The light was blinding, yet there was no one but him to see it. Why did he bother leaving the interrogation room? If it was possible, the light was even brighter here. As his eyes adjusted he began to truly appreciate the emptiness of the chamber. Unlike the streets, where he could barely move without tripping over a druggie, he had a large space to himself. Rows upon rows of seats lay empty; he almost wished for someone to fill them. Almost was the key word—if they were filled, he would come to regret it. Some would pass out and drool green liquid, while others would hold their dirt-covered handkerchiefs up and wave them daintily, like they were trash-can lids that would shield them from bullets. It was better this way. He walked over to a small bench before the seats, to investigate the small metal box there. If it worked the same as the interrogation room, then there would be instructions on the box. He picked it up and turned it around and around until he could see the words. Continue reading “the people’s rubble”

on the water cooler

story by Niles Breuer, ’16

His tie was too tight.

It was nothing major, of course, nothing debilitating. Just that his wife pulled that extra little fraction of an inch so that his collar pressed into the side of his neck. Or maybe it was the collar itself. She never liked to spend the extra seven dollars on the shirts with the seventeen-and-a-half inch collars, so he always came up half-an-inch too short.
Continue reading “on the water cooler”

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