Blank Page Notebook Novels & Stories

Thursday brings the larger notebook. It arrives by post, a proper package, carefully wrapped, the specific care of someone who ordered something important and wanted it to arrive intact. Théo opens it at the communal table after breakfast with the focused attention he gives all things that matter, removing the wrapping without tearing it, which is a habit that Celeste told me he has had since childhood and which she considers evidence of a temperament that respects the effort behind things. The notebook is dark green, larger than the previous ones, with a heavier cover and pages that are thick enough to absorb both ink and pressure without bleeding through. He opens it. He runs his hand acro

"... Ah. Maybe I haven't noticed your presence. I was really spaced out. Sorry." Mace just smiled at her sweetly and took out a black notebook. It has wide pages and it was designed for goths. The sheets were colored into black so it's kind of odd to write them down because the written phrases can't be seen in the eyes because of their pigment. It's like writing for nothing, but this kind of note can be helpful too. Writing down your secrets is possible and safe, the only way to read all the writings is to let luminous shine upon it.

The woman who got it. She reached into her bag. She pulled out a notebook of her own. It was blank. The pages smelled new. She opened it. She looked at the first page for a while. The white space stared back. Clean. Empty. Ready. She held the pen in her hand. The plastic felt smooth between her fingers. She clicked it once. The sound was small in the plane noise. Then she wrote: "Things I want. There are not things I want to take."

The leather-bound notebook was a small rebellion. It was not his workaday tablet, nor the family schedule on the kitchen fridge. This was personal, discretionary, analog. He had bought it at a busy, dusty stationery store in the Village, the kind that reeked of ink and old paper, light-years from the glass-and-steel reasonableness of his day-to-day life. Its cover was a dark, plush navy, blank and awaiting. It was heavily weighted in his hands.

It would’ve been rare if I didn’t find something I liked. This time, it was a thick spiral A5 notebook. The hard cover was an abstract motif in blues, with a discreet white crescent in the upper right corner and a little white star by it. The pages had the lines in navy blue, and the crescent and the star outlined in light blue in every upper right corner. It was love at first sight. It was calling my name like a siren, and I refused to ignore it.

Never the answers Juliette had begged for. And now someone else was stepping forward to fill in those blanks, someone who apparently knew more. The nurse stepped back. “All done. You’re stabilizing well. I’ll give you some space.” Juliette waited until the door shut behind her before reaching for her notebook, the same leather-bound one she’d started writing in a week ago. She flipped past pages of reflections, memories, and quiet fears until she found a blank sheet. Her pen hovered for a moment before she began to write:

Andrew looked for newspapers and came back with one printed two days earlier. At a table near the fountain a man sold notebooks and pens. His face was dark from the sun, thin, with a nose that looked recently broken. He tapped a cigarette on the table while he talked. “Diaries,” he said. “Blank. Good paper.” “Old ones?” I asked. He hesitated, then reached under the table. He laid out a small book wrapped in brown paper. “One left. The rest burned.” I opened it. The first page carried a single word written neatly in blue ink: Santuzza. The rest were blank.

The pages were all blank. What the hell? Was it a notebook? I thought, taking my lips in, even as my eyes caught a tiny black pen which was attached to its lock. "A note it is..." I muttered, keeping the book back. I will return to it whenever I need to write down a story, or jot down my feelings. I traced the books on the second shelf, stopped at a small blue book. It looked like a novel, exactly what I was looking for. From the inscriptions on the width of some of the books, they were history books, although some were written in some other foreign language.

she said, flushing with apparent embarrassment. When I'd opened the wrapping, I held a black notebook with rounded corners on one side and a curiously flat, square pen tucked along its binding. The covering material felt like leather and the pale yellow pages were neatly lined in a crisp gray ink. "Oh my God, it's gorgeous. When did you get this?" "Yesterday, after I left you at Denny's. If you hadn't shown up last night, I was going to leave it in your Mom's mailbox as a goodbye gift."

I brеathеd, еyеs fluttеring shut. That did it. I thrеw thе blankеts off and rеachеd into thе drawеr undеr my bеd. My toy was thеrе, tuckеd bеtwееn a fеw old books I prеtеndеd to rеad. It was pink. I pullеd my pantiеs off and sat back, sprеading my lеgs slowly. “Just a quick onе,” I whispеrеd.