Book Reading Journals Novels & Stories

Jasmine asked as she pulled out her journal. “A book?” “Yeah, you know, a book.” She held up her journal in confusion. “You DO know how to read, don’t you?” There was sadness in her words as she realized that Maia most likely couldn’t read. Maia slowly shook her head no, fear starting to rise in her chest again.

I was about to see a time before the one I read. “A diary?” I ask, gingerly picking up the book. “No, a journal. And proof that every family is as fucked up as yours.”

The romance was being squeezed out. "The journal" Elara shouted, her bare knees hurt as she fell flat onto the asphalt to pick up the black leather book that was lying between them. The moment her fingers touched the leather, the blank white pages inside the journal did not just move they started bleeding. A lot of midnight-blue fluid came out of the journal mixed with the cold rain water and formed a swirling indigo circle around her ankles. The gold letters on the cover of the journal; THE MASTER LEDGER: VOLUME TWO ​flared with a white-hot, blinding radiation that scorched the skin of her palm, the unique, un-templated human syntax of her blood-infused veins screaming in protest against th

Proof that he tries to change how he is, a little ray of hope for my confused soul. I close it and push it back in beside a black leather-bound book, heart racing slightly in case he sees me going through this stuff and I pause to examine it. Interest piqued because it seems out of place among textbooks. It looks like a journal and when I pull it out and open it, I find that it is.

A blast of cold air rushed up from below, smelling like wet stone, old blood, and something rotten beneath snow. The journal slid across the floor toward the opening. “No!” I lunged for it. Damien caught me tighter. “Leave it.” “No.” “That thing wants you closer.” “The book has been more honest than half the people in this town.” “It is not a person.” “Neither are half the people in this town.” The journal teetered on the edge. Pages fluttering. Glowing. Waiting. Then one page ripped free and flew upward on a burst of silver wind.

He asked, taking a seat in front of my desk. “Yes. These journals were left by my parents to help me for the first three years after meeting my mate. Three books for the first three years.” I said and lifted the journal in my hand, “First year.” He looked at me holding the journal with interest. “So, this is their advice?” “I guess. I haven’t read it yet. I thought now might be a good time to start reading it, but I can do it later tonight.” I said putting it down. “Did you need something from me?”

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.

The FT section of the rack was the deepest, the issues stacked in reverse chronological order, the most recent on top. Two culinary journals, Elijah's, which arrived monthly and were read promptly and thoroughly. Elijah read them with a pen in hand, making notes in the margins, dog-earing pages that referenced techniques he wanted to try or restaurants he wanted to visit or chefs whose work he wanted to understand better. The culinary journals never stayed in the rack for long — they migrated to Elijah's office or to the kitchen or to the small stack beside his side of the bed — but they passed through the rack on their way to wherever they were going.

“No… It doesn’t. But it felt as if it was burned into my skin.” “It’s the same design as the one on the book…” Leo adds with a frown. “Can you read it?” Thea implores curiously. “Yeah… - I nod, skimming through the contents - It’s like a journal. Or a diary… Would you mind if I went to read it in peace?” “No, no. Go ahead.” I go to the bedroom in the back before turning the book to the first page and start reading.

She muttered something beneath her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Bossy.” I chuckled quietly before reaching for one of my own slices. For a few minutes, the room settled into a comfortable silence. She read. I ate. Every so often she’d stop, scribble another note, then continue. Finally, curiosity got the better of me. “So…” She looked up. “What have you found?” She sighed dramatically before setting the slice back onto her plate. “Honestly?” She tapped the open page. “These journals are incredibly frustrating. They assume whoever’s reading them already knows everything.”