Barnes And Noble Wreck This Journal Novels & Stories

Ben was sitting near the door, his back to the wall, his rifle resting across his lap. He hadn’t spoken much since his spat with Marcus, but I could see the way his eyes flicked toward Marcus every few minutes, as if he was waiting for something to happen. I, on the other hand, had my mind on other things. Specifically, the small, leather-bound journal I’d found tucked behind a stack of cans on one of the shelves. It was old, the leather cracked and worn, the pages yellowed with age. There was no name on the cover, but the moment I opened it, I knew it was important.

The doors creaked as she pushed them open, revealing what lay inside. The cabinet was filled with papers, old books, and trinkets, the remnants of a past long forgotten. Bliss ran her fingers over the contents, her heart racing with each new discovery. Among the books, she found a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age. The title, written in faded gold lettering, read Blackwood Family History. She pulled it out and opened it, her hands trembling with anticipation.

If she was destined to leave this world eventually, she at least wanted to stick around long enough to thoroughly crush this current storm. If her time here was limited, she needed to make sure she left behind some critical warnings for the teenage Rebecca. She got up, washed up, and still had some time. While organizing her books, she found a pristine notebook. She thought for a moment, opened the first page, and wrote: [To Rebecca.] She turned the page and continued: [First: Absolutely, do not like Vance Bradford.] Right then, Jenny called her to have breakfast together. "Coming!" She clipped the pen onto the open sheet, closed the notebook, and prepared to exit.

I knew something was wrong the moment I reached for my journal and it wasn’t there. It had been under my pillow for weeks, tucked away like some adolescent secret, always close enough that I could reach for it when the words built too high in my throat. That journal wasn’t just a collection of entries, it was the only place I had allowed myself to be honest. When I needed to vent, cry, scream in silence, it had all gone into those pages. But now, the space was empty. The pen Richard had given me, the one engraved with the crest of the royal council, was gone too.

A water bottle, maybe. Then an old flashlight. A bundle of rusted keys. A tarnished pendant hanging from what might once have been a silver chain. Then a book. I freeze. A name is written across the cover. Jenna Maroney. I stare at it. My uneasiness grows. "Jenna Maroney," I murmur. Slowly, I open the book. It's a journal. The pages are yellowed with age. The first entry dates back more than twenty years. Something cold settles in my chest.

All useless. Then, her fingers stilled as her eyes landed on a brown hardcover journal that lay tucked beneath everything else. “These were all that came with you,” Cassandra said. Swallowing, Mirena reached forward and picked it up. The journal felt heavier than it should have, as if it carried more than just ink and paper. Carefully, she unfastened the lock and opened it. Old pages greeted her with faded handwriting. And then, something slipped out from between the pages, falling onto her lap.

The door was usually locked, but tonight, the handle turned under her touch. The room was dark, save for the glow of a single reading lamp someone had forgotten to switch off. The smell of old paper and tobacco filled the air. She wandered between the shelves until a heavy, leather-bound journal caught her eye. It had no title, only one word embossed in faded gold: Noah She froze, her hand hovering over the spine. She knew she shouldn't open it. She knew it was an invasion of the only thing he had left for himself. But the fear that had been gnawing at her for days pushed her forward.

He left, plunging the room back into silent, agonizing solitude. I sat there for what felt like hours, the only illumination coming from the city lights filtering through the tall windows. I pulled the Ramos-Cardenas journal, the book that had caused the collision—out of my bag. I ran my thumb over the stiff, dark red spine. It was just a book. But it was also the conduit for the stolen moment. I thought back to the night a few weeks ago, the anonymous bar, the one-night stand that was supposed to be a release.

My whole being trembled violently as the pressure building within me promised to extinguish everything. Zayn Dawson What use was having a $750k yacht when it was somewhere at the bottom of the ocean? Whose bright idea was to have a 3 days boat cruise on my luxury yacht to celebrate my birthday? I tried to remember but everything was still fuzzy. The only thing that was sure to me was the shipwreck last night and how I had somehow miraculously found myself on this island. It looked deserted. Small waves washed shells and debris to the pale sand. Fuck! This was just what I needed. Another fucking disaster.

Isabella's "I." "You changed the tattoo," I heard myself say. My voice was hollow, distant. He shrugged. "Out with the old, in with the new." He saw my numb expression and sighed. "It was worthless. Just junk. I'll buy you new paints if you need them." Worthless? My gaze landed on a ruined leather journal amidst the wreckage. The cover was torn open, revealing page after page of notes I’d kept on his recovery. One thousand and one entries. Each one a testament to the worry I carried and the love I never dared to confess.