Dear Diary Book Novels & Stories

It was just a plain, faded pink, thick covered book or so it appeared to be until I started flipping through the pages. Most pages started at the very beginning with a date. March, April, June. It was an archive with dates from every month of the year, for so many years. This was a product of work so passionately and carefully documented. Behind the book, by the corner of the very last page, it read, "property of T.W." It belonged to Zara. It was a diary of sorts. My first thoughts were on how to get it back to her. I needed to return it, I had to see her again, but with time, just a few minutes, and the urge to flip through the book once more arose.

The sides of the pages of the diary crumble in my hands and are reduced to ashes. The sun has come out and I start to sweat. I look at the diary. It has nothing written on the cover, except the year—2010—which is faded. There is no auto in sight. I sit on the pavement and flip through the contents. It is nearly full. The handwriting is not the best, but it is neat and deliberate. The first few pages are damaged beyond recognition. The top-right corners of the pages keep crumbling into charcoal.

I had a stack of books and she left me the magazine since she couldn't take it with her. I pored over that magazine for days. One thing we hadn't really studied was the last pictorial in it, one of two girls. I guess it would have been embarrassing for us to look at it together? I don't know, all I know now was it excited me more than I wanted to admit, even to myself. I found myself pulling a book out of the pile "Women Daring to Love" was the title, and the subtitle was "Daring to Love Women" and reading that. I got halfway through it the first morning and afternoon and that might have been the first time I had four orgasms in the same day. Then the next day I was about to go lay by the po

Azrael gasped. “Thank you, for standing up for me.” I thanked Azrael and he nodded, I, then opened the book, reading the first page. “05/08/90 Dear Diary, I’ve decided to write a journal from now on, it sounds cool to have your life written on the paper. Let’s work together… but I actually don’t have anything to say right now, I’ll come back tomorrow.” I snickered at my mother’s words, my eyes beginning to water and I sniff them back in.

“Mother kept a diary, and she mentioned a Deagal quite often. I don’t know exactly what role he played, but I figured if anyone could figure it out, it would be you.” She handed me the small leatherbound book, a tree scorched into it. I lifted it to my nose, smelling the smoky, earthy smell. The paper smelled old and mildewed, the ink, rotten. “I don’t know. It smells old. I don’t know if I should even be handling this the way I am.” I flipped the book to look at the spine. “It has so much potential. I’ll look at it, but I’m not going to promise anything, and I really need my nap first.”

As she gathered the jewelry, something caught her eye—a small leather-bound book that had fallen from a hidden compartment in the bottom of the box. “What’s this?” Deja picked it up, turning it over in her hands. The cover was soft, well-worn, with the initials “D.M.” embossed in gold on the front. “A diary? Original Deja kept a diary?” She blinked, slowly absorbing the chaotic possibilities. “Oh. Oh no. Or maybe... oh yes.” Curiosity overwhelmed any sense of privacy. After all, technically it was her diary now, right? Deja settled back onto the bed and opened it to a random page.

As I tried to return the boots, my hand knocked over some of the shoe boxes, and an old book fell out of one of them. 'What's this?' I grabbed it and flipped open the first page. ~Dear diary,~

I flipped the page of my notebook, leaning down to grab my textbook from the door beside my chair. And that’s when the idea struck. Slowly, deliberately, I let the book slip from my fingers. It hit the floor with a soft thud. “Oh—" I bent down immediately to pick it up and the classroom suddenly felt very quiet. Very still. I didn’t rush. Instead, I took my time reaching for the book, my skirt shifting slightly as I moved. A risky move. A deliberate move. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then— Jeff cleared his throat sharply.

I contemplated whether to check out the book, but I saw another person just leaving without even glazing at the librarian who was busy doing his own work. ~~~~~ Back in my room, I sat down on the settee and opened the book. The pages had taken a brownish hue, conveying its age. Surprisingly it was more like a diary. I frowned. Whose diary was it? The name had become smudged. Even then I carefully flipped the page. My eyes halted on the first line of the first entry. ‘Mother is scary. She doesn’t love me. She doesn’t love father. She wants to kill us….’

I pulled it out, surprised to find a leather-bound book. "What's that?" Maya asked, peering over my shoulder. "I'm not sure." I turned it over in my hands. The cover was soft, expensive leather, unmarked except for a small monogram in the corner: H.S. Helena Sinclair. My heart skipped. "I think... I think it's a diary." "Helena kept a diary?" Maya's eyebrows shot up. "Never would have pegged her as the type."