Booktok Book Journal Novels & Stories

Jace DAYS BEFORE The bed creaked in protest as I reached for the leather-bound journal which had turned into a close companion for the last couple of weeks. Forbidden knowledge had been inked into every page with intentionality I could only thank the author for. I opened to the page I had dog-eared for days, sinking into the information there.

He said. Annabel held the book up. The journals pages were clean and blank. The cover had a tiny straightforward design embossed on it. “What is it?” she asked. “It's a journal. I believed you could write your new story with it. An entirely new start. A place where you can think. Something to use your imagination for.” He said. A flood of tears filled Annabel's eyes. It was such a simple yet considerate gesture. It showed his belief in her and was a small silent acknowledgement of her journey.

After Lilac fell asleep again—her hand still resting over mine, her breathing finally soft and even—I got up. I didn’t turn on the overhead light—just my laptop and the small lamp by the desk. My journal app open on the screen. I was never big on handwritten journals, mostly because, as Darius likes to say, I have the handwriting of a serial killer. So, instead, I designed this secure journal app to keep all my private thoughts written out, not always in a manner that makes sense to others, but I always understand. The cursor blinked on a blank document, quiet and expectant. It was time. Not to fight, not this second. But to say something.

Her aunt gives her a small smile and nods, Celine finds the bookmark and opens to the page. The woven bookmark has a faded blue tassel and was made of woven threads depicting wolves running in a forest, at the bottom of the bookmark was an old wolf’s tooth with a hole drilled through to be able to tie it onto the bookmark. She puts it to one side to look at the page it had been marking. It looked much like many of the others she had seen flipping through. But its words had her feeling like her world was slipping through her fingers and she was unable to do anything to stop it.

I hit it. With a faint nearly imperceptible click a tiny piece of the bookshelf panel moved inward and then smoothly sideways exposing a dark narrow nook. I gasped for air. Tucked away inside was a small worn leather-bound journal rather than a stash of cash or a secret weapon. I reached for it and my hand shook. The leather was warm and soft from hiding. With my eyes sweeping the front I took it out. Both a title and a name were absent. Only dark plain leather. It was this. This had to be it. I struggled with the journals clasp as I opened it.

Realizing that I'm clenching too hard at the side of the frame, I loosen my fingers. The leather bound book catches my attention next and when I take it and get a closer look at it. I immediately realized it’s a journal. My mom’s journal? I flip it open.

Inside was a beautifully bound book. Its pages were blank. Attached was a handwritten note. "Your Majesties," "When you visited our village, you reminded us that every voice matters." "This book is a gift for your child." "May they fill its pages with their own thoughts, dreams, and discoveries." "May they always remain curious." "And may they never stop learning from the people around them." Nova carefully closed the book. "It's perfect." Kieran smiled. "Our child already has their first journal." She placed it beside the keepsake box containing their letters.

The fourth book is the argument about what the ordinary day becomes when the building is sufficient. He wrote: This is the argument I have been having for thirty-one years. The journal has been the record of the ordinary days and what the ordinary days have contained. The fourth book will be the argument about what the journal has been recording. He looked at what he had written. He thought about the journal as the raw material of the fourth book — not the source material in the sense that Don would quote from it, but the evidence, the lived record, the proof that the ordinary day deepens with the accumulation. The journal's thirty-one years of entries were the documentation of the deepening

I jotted back a quick thank you. I walked into the living room. The wall opposite the kitchen was entirely shelved with books and journals, old diaries collecting dust. Classics, contemporary… you could read a new book the entire year without repeating. My fingertips grazed over old, embroidered leather covers and brilliantly decorative dust jackets. Here, I could stay in this room forever, lounging below the wide cabin window like a lazy house cat near the heat of the crackling fire. I opened a random book to a dog-eared page which was folded to an entry dated, November 5th.

He nodded slowly and before he could say anything more, the bedroom door swung open. Erick and Jess stood at the doorway; they were both breathless, so we knew they were running. Jess held one of the thickest books I had ever seen; it was a large brown book with golden decals swirled throughout the cover. In the front of the book, in a silvery oval was a white infinity symbol I didn’t quite recognize and then written in white above the symbol read: Book of Magic. “Woah…” I breathed, staring at the book. It was real.