Cornell Note Taking Notebooks Novels & Stories

Grabbing a pencil, he jotted a note on the calendar blotter. Shelby made a mental note to go ahead and order more calendars for next year. He was already scribbling his notes in March, and it was not even December. It didn’t matter how many notepads or sticky pads that she bought him, he preferred to make his notes on the desk blotter. She bought him a blank blotter once but then he didn’t know where any of his notes were. Muting the desk phone, Neo pulled out a tube of lotion. “Back must be itching by now.”

Thе nail fіlе іѕ tiny, аnd has a рlаѕtіс tоrtоіѕе ѕhеll hаndlе. Thеѕе things аrеn’t еvеn ѕlіghtlу іmрrеѕѕіvе to me аt first glаnсе. I’m looking for wеароnѕ, and wауѕ to escape. But I сhаngе mу mind whеn I ѕее the pages of thе first half of thе notebook are fіllеd wіth flоwеrу, cursive ѕсrірt.

This office that has always felt safe now felt like a crime scene. My fingers drifted across the bookshelf, across the neat rows of accounting textbooks. I stopped when I noticed there was no dust on one part of the shelf. Something roughly the size of a notebook has been sitting there. Dad kept dozens of notebooks because he always wrote down everything. Meeting notes, ideas, random thoughts. He always trusted paper more than computers. Then why is one missing? Someone must have removed that notebook. The question is, who?

July 15, 1990 Coralis and Nadilla were excited. They were about to go shopping for their school supplies. Their list wasn’t long, but there were so many books on it, that they hoped that none of them were heavy: they had no one to help carry them to school or across the mall.

The timeline was always approximate. I looked at what I had written. I added one more line: The timeline was always approximate. What matters is that the room was left. The room was correctly sized. I closed notebook thirteen. I went to the shelf. The twelve previous notebooks were stored in sequence — the dates written on the spines in my specific handwriting for spines, which was smaller than my standard handwriting to allow for readability at a distance. Notebook one through twelve, the complete record of a situation that had been running since before the lobby and had now produced: a merger, a marriage, two trees in a garden, and the confirmation of a fourth figure.

Inside was almost nothing. A phone, powered off, that Marcus immediately bagged for his tech team. A half-empty water bottle. And a small spiral notebook, worn soft at the corners, the kind of thing someone carries for years without meaning to. I flipped through it carefully. Most of the pages were mundane—grocery lists, gas mileage, nothing that told us anything. But near the back, tucked between two blank pages like it had been added separately from the rest of the notebook, was a single line in different handwriting than the rest of the notebook.

The shelves were taller than I was, so I had to stand on my tippy toes so I could stretch and get the book I usually used. After tapping around for a while, I finally got it and made my way back to my seat, repeating the exact same sitting position as before. I glanced at Cyrus briefly, and he reached into one of his desk drawers to grab a pen. He threw it at me and I caught it, clicking on the top of it so I could start writing. I leaned forward so I could place the notebook on the desk, flipping it open to a page that hasn't been filled with random notes and scribbles so I could start writing.

What the fuck! I was frustrated even more when I head back to NYC. I had tones of mails and parcels that I was no doubt from Brandon Cornwall. I tore it open one of the letters and it was a note from him. I think my fury was seething when I read it. Dear Miss Brown, I have to send my condolences when I discovered that you were injured and cannot join the excavation. It was not common for a female to injure insight. However, I have returned your properties to you as well as your journals and notes about the discovery of the minerals.

It must have. Growling under her breath, she scanned the floor around her seat for it. The writing device was nowhere to be seen. How was she supposed to take notes if she didn’t have a pencil? She looked in the spiral of her notebook, but it wasn’t tucked in there, and it wasn’t inside of her folder either.

I smile at her words and turn back to my bag, taking out a pencil and a notebook. We spend the next hour reviewing my work. She berates me a few times for having a messy notebook, which I have to say is really hot. “No wonder you’re not doing well in class. Look at this mess.” She says, holding out the notebook with its scribbles and torn sheets. Huffing with frustration, she lays the notebook back down on the table and arches a brow. “We need to work out a way to organize these and maybe set up a better system for note-taking. since I've taken a few of these classes, I’m sure I still have old notes for this class. I’ll see if I can find them.”