Barnes And Noble Wreck This Journal Novels & Stories

The fourth journal had a corner that had been chewed by something — a mouse, perhaps, in the summer of the nineteenth year, before they had discovered it and moved the journals to the higher shelf. Then the current journal: the fifth of Ernest's journals, half-full, began in the twenty-fourth year and is still receiving entries. This journal was different from the others — the paper was slightly larger, the binding in a deep green rather than the brown of the previous four. Don had found it at a bookbinder's shop in Edinburgh during their trip in the twenty-third year, had purchased it as a gift, had said nothing about it except "For when you finish the fourth."

“Saw something cute next door.” Fab waved me off. “Don’t buy another journal you’ll never use.” Jacques smirked. “She probably already did.” I rolled my eyes and tugged my cardigan tighter as the sun dipped lower. The air had cooled, soft gold spilling over the pavement. The boutique window glowed like a little sanctuary. Leather-bound notebooks. Dried flowers. Calming things. The bell over the door chimed softly. Inside smelled like lavender and dust and pages that hadn’t been touched in years. A quiet, forgotten kind of peace.

🌸 Author’s Note – Thank You From the Bottom of My Heart 🌸 I woke up this morning to see that Wreck Me Quietly had been added to 12 readers' libraries overnight. Twelve. That might not sound like much to some people, but to me… it’s everything.

Was this hers? As she was reading the text, suddenly, her heart stopped. She could not believe what she was reading. What was this? Some kind of journal? Scarlet realized this was her mom’s journal, and a part of her told her it was private and she should put it down. But another part of her had to know. She read and read, knowing that she shouldn’t.

I gasped at what was beneath. Lying there, by itself aside from the critters and dust, was a worn, leather journal. Slowly, I reached my hand down to grab it. Pulling it out, I blew the dust off. The layer of dust had made the journal look gray, but in reality it was brown and the pages were yellowed from age. I turned it over and noticed there was no back cover. It was bookended by a yellow page like the others inside the journal.

he was still as cocky as ever, typical Beta. After he said that no bumps would appear because the book seemed light, he took it. We both stared at the book that appeared to be a journal. We gave each other a curious look. Why would there be a journal on the shelves of the encyclopedia at the library? I knew it was wrong to look through someone else's diary, but my curiosity got the best of me. I took the journal from Ace and started to flip through it. The journal seemed old; the pages of the book were turning brown. There were liquid stains on some of the pages too. The diary was well organized, there were no lines, but the entries were styled.

The book’s worn edges and cracked spine hinted at countless secrets within. As I opened it, I realized, it was a journal- Xavier's journal. I froze and then kept it aside, I couldn't read his journal or anyone's, that was a private. I wouldn't want someone to read mine if I ever wrote anything. The weight of the invasion felt heavy in my chest, guilt tightening my throat.

The scarf still held the ghost of her wrists. Next: a compact—gold once, now scratched the way time scratches the polish off everything. The hinge was cracked; the mirror inside had spider webbed into ten versions of me, none looked like they were going to make right choices. A smear of that old rose-pink blush clung to the edge like a lipstick that survived a shipwreck. Under that, nestled as if the bag had decided to be kind, was a leather-bound journal with frayed corners and a spine that made a sound when I picked it up. Not a complaining sound, more like recognition.

A desk that looked untouched for years. I closed the door behind me. My fingers hovered over the spines of books, not really reading, just feeling. My chest tightened when I saw one with a cracked leather cover and initials burned into the corner: J.D.V. My mother’s best friend. Gianna De Vera. The one we’d just buried. I pulled the book down. It wasn’t a novel—it was a journal. Dates ran across the top of each page, shaky handwriting below. I flipped to the back.

You should know there are consequences to every thing in life and if this does not work, there might be a huge price to pay. At that moment, i did not care about anything else, i was not even bothered by what ever this price was, simply the thought of having something to hold on to, the hope that there would be a way to end all of this without anymore deaths had my mind at ease just a little bit. George walked up to one of the shelves, pulled out some books to reveal a small safe. He typed in some words, opened it and pulled out a little journal. "All you need to know is inside here." He said handing to to me. I let out a heavy sigh and took it from his grip, only for it to fall right down f