Any Note Novels & Stories

A complicated, brilliant, infuriatingly compassionate person who was systematically dismantling my carefully constructed understanding of myself. "You're staring," Eli said without looking up from his laptop during our Monday morning production review. "I'm not," I said, which was a lie. I was definitely staring. I'd been staring for approximately forty-five seconds while watching him make notes in a way that was completely focused and somehow magnetic. "You are," Eli said, finally looking at me. "Every time you think I'm not paying attention, you look at me like you're trying to figure out how I work." "I'm not," I said again, because I didn't know how to admit that I was actually trying to

The moment she made a decision about whether she liked me enough to risk being helpful. She glanced over her shoulder as if the fluorescent lights might be reporting on her. Then she typed something, fast. Clicked. Typed again. Her mouth tightened. “There’s a note attached.” “What does it say?” My voice stayed even. She hesitated, then turned the screen slightly more toward me. The note was short, like someone had written it in a hurry. NEXT-OF-KIN REQUESTS MUST BE ESCALATED. DO NOT RELEASE WITHOUT SUPERVISOR APPROVAL.

Zane exclaimed as he looked at his reflection. That's right, that was when Aldo sat down. Zane is indeed looking in the mirror in the wide glass right in front of the sofa. After all, that's the only glass there is. Doesn't Aldo realize that Zane didn't see him? This is the importance, ask and answer. To avoid misunderstandings that make the mind judge first. ***

She laid down quietly, wanted to sleep to forget everything but her stomach couldn’t help anymore. Daisy lazily sat up and solved her own needs. Negative emotions hide somewhere, suddenly shot out. Daisy was a little bit annoyed and wanted to slap a hand herself, but in the end, she just sighed and reminded herself, "Whatever happens will happen, don't worry too much about the unknown future."

When I opened them the light in the foyer was different and my phone said 6:47 AM and the note still had only one word in it. “Plan”.

I did not look up. “Client gift?” “Old contact.” A pause. His chair shifted. “Which one?” “Ro.” “I’m just asking.” “I know what you’re asking.” He turned back to his screen. Then he got up, went to the kitchen, came back, and put a yellow sticky note on the corner of my monitor without breaking stride. Sat down. Put his headphones on. I looked at the note. Whoever it is, they have good taste. I peeled it off. Folded it once. Put it in my desk drawer and went back to the deck.

Adds two stars next to it. The rental notice snaps once in the wind. Maya writes down the number. She does not call it yet.

Don had brought the notebook from the bedroom, which was itself a signal: the contents were ready to be shared. Ernest looked at him. "I'm listening." Don opened the notebook. He did not read from it—Ernest could see that he was using it as a reference, checking his own thinking against what he had written. Don did not need to read from the notebook to remember what he had found. The notebook was not a script. It was a record. The record confirmed that the memory was accurate.

The dining room was empty. The kitchen was empty. Then she noticed a note. A handwritten note resting on the counter. The sight immediately made her nervous. Handwritten notes rarely delivered ordinary news. Especially in this family. Ava picked it up. The message was brief. Do not worry. Nobody is injured. Probably. We are in the backyard. Adrian Silence. Complete silence. Interesting. Very interesting. The word probably did not inspire confidence. Not even slightly. Ava immediately headed toward the backyard.

Post-it notes suggested that the person leaving them had decided, for whatever reason, to operate outside the system. The note was yellow. It said: Coffee. Not here. 10am. Come find me. No name. She didn't need one she'd only been here two weeks but she already knew Marcus Reid's handwriting the way you learned things about people without trying, the large loose letters of someone who thought faster than he wrote and had made peace with this.