Barnes And Noble Wreck This Journal Novels & Stories

Mom and I started browsing together, pulling volumes down to examine them. “Look at this one,” Mom said, holding up a journal dated 1847. “It’s from a Beta named Marcus Thornwood. His entries detail pack alliances and conflict resolution strategies.” I took it from her and carefully turned the aged pages. The handwriting was elegant and precise, each entry dated and detailed. Ryker would love this. “It’s perfect,” I said, and meant it. Mom beamed. “Let’s ask Edward about the provenance and—” “Vivienne? Is that you?”

But up here, it was quiet. I pulled out the old photograph Daniel had given me. The three of us. Still smiling. Still pretending. I ripped it in half. And half again. Then let the pieces fall through the iron slats of the fire escape into the night. I didn’t need relics anymore. I needed room. Room to grow. To fail. To feel something real again. But Peace Never Lasts The next morning, I received a package. No name. No return address. Inside was a single item: a leather-bound journal.

My living had been turn upside down, and my staffs stood there powerlessly, there faces buried toward the ground. Jax was sitting on the sofa facing the entrance, holding a book I had left on the table earlier before going out. I walked forward and the damages got clearer; vases broken across the floor, and one of my favorite portraits shattered to the ground, with its frame resting by the wall. “The Unwelcome One,” he read from the book’s cover, slowly. “By Martin Crowns.” He looked up, at me, and I walked closer to him. “What’s the deal with you? Why causing all this mess in my abode?” I said slowly and my voice shaking—like I’d poured all my seriousness into that statement.

She had a feeling that Wassa hadn't bothered looking in here for anything to sell. Saffron quickly gathered what she would need. Once the supplies were collected inside of her bag, she looked for the journal. It wasn't in its usual place, atop the shelf. She ran her hand along the edge but only came back with dust. She must have used it the last day that she was here. It felt like a lifetime ago. She wiped her hand on her apron and headed towards the front of the store. She saw the journal lying near the box where she had kept her money. She was sure it would be empty. Wassa would have seen it as her due since Saffron didn't hold up her end of the bargain and marry the Baron.

It resembles a mailbox. I open the doors to the large bookshelf. To my disappointment, there are no books in here today. I put The History of Pirates in the Lending Library. Something tells me it belongs here. I double-check the library, and as I do, I find a crumpled-up piece of lined paper. As I open it, the words on the paper speak to me, they say: Help. I want to die! -J. D My lips quiver as I reread the note repeatedly. I've always counted on the Lending Library to give me wisdom, but it gave me a message today. A message in which someone is crying for help, and I must respond in kind.

The owner, a wise old man with a gentle smile, welcomed us as if he had been expecting our arrival. As we peruse the shelves, our eyes landed on a worn, leather-bound journal that seemed to call out to us. Intrigued, we opened it to find a collection of handwritten stories, each one filled with magic, adventure, and the triumph of the human spirit. The journal spoke of forgotten legends, hidden treasures, and ancient prophecies.

I ask and Everett shrugs. "Fuck if I know." He says, grabbing something else from his bag. "Can you believe these bookmarks they gave us?" He asks, showing me the pink tasseled piece of cardboard with the words 'Smut Slut' written in gold leafing displayed proudly on both sides. "If we're gonna do it, we might as well go all in." I say, looking at my own bookmark that says 'Emotionally attached to a morally grey character' in loopy font. At least mine's black.

“A church. In Marais.” They went at night, dressed in black, moving like shadows. Beneath the stone altar was a vault. Zara keyed in the combination—her mother’s birth date—and inside, wrapped in silk, was a book. Not just any book. A crimson leather journal. Handwritten. With names. Accounts. Murders. Ransom drop points. Zara flipped to the last page. Her mother’s final words: Forgive me for trying to save you from this. But now you must end it.

Slower this time, like I didn’t want to scare reality into disappearing. I padded across the room barefoot and sat down at my tiny desk. My old journal lay there — a faded pink notebook with a unicorn sticker on the corner. Diane always teased me about it, said it was childish. But I liked it. It reminded me of a time before life got complicated. Before Robert. Before betrayal. Before I forgot who I was. I opened the journal, flipped past old scribbles and poems written in the haze of heartbreak, until I reached a fresh page.

I assumed that it was just a forced marriage and they weren't in love, but they always look so happy together that it makes me feel sick. Today is going to be the usual again, with them chatting and laughing about the wedding. I'm going to have to pretend again and keep my alcohol intake low. Just as I finish with my sundress, a knock on the door startles me. I open it to see Wren staring at me with a smile. “Hey,” She greets. “Umm... hi?” She hands me a shopping bag. I feel my gut twist when I see my dress from last night alongside my underwear that he had ripped out of me. “What...”