Journal 3 Pages Novels & Stories

The weight of three years of being unwanted? I turned away from the closet. My eyes landed on something else. A small writing desk in the corner, pushed against the wall like an afterthought. On it sat a lamp, a pen holder, and a leather-bound journal. My heart skipped. I walked toward it. Dax didn't stop me. The journal was old. The leather was cracked, the pages yellowed at the edges. I picked it up. It was heavy. Not from weight—from words. "Whose is this?" I asked.

Jaden I read through the first journal, careful not to tear any of the pages. There wasn’t much to find to begin with, as there was nothing about the moonstone pack or Claxton. Night had come, and the fire crackled in the lounge as they sat on the floor, tearing through the pages. The smell of smoke wafted through the air, mingling with the musty scent of old books. We tore through the journal’s contents like wild animals ripping apart their prey, desperate for any scrap of knowledge that could aid us in our mission.

But nothing prepared for the hybrid journals and what was done to their parents. The last entry of this journal was eighteen years ago. Strange. I flipped the book to the first page, and just as I was about to get vested in it, I heard a voice. “You're going to tell me why you are reading that.

Time to stop worrying and get dinner. I make my way to the restaurant nearest my dorm and quickly order as I get to the table. As usual, I pore over my journal and start penning my latest entry, determined to recount every bit of my boring life, hoping the act itself can make it more interesting. I think of my therapist, who is a firm advocate of word vomiting on pages of paper. She will be so proud of me. I have written a full three pages of text before the waitress goes back to me. "Here's your order, Ma'am."

“A…. J… Nie-lan? Nillan?” Ben freezes behind me, then coughs. “It’s Nyllan,” he corrects. “Oh, ok. A.J. Nyllan. Theoretical Text Volume Three.” I begin to write it down in the ledger, then return to the book, looking for a publication date. “Oh,” Ben says from behind me. “I can deal with that one later.” “What is it?” I begin flipping through the pages. It looks like some old scientific journal.” “Actually, Lo. I’m really pretty tired. Sorry. Do you mind if we pick up tomorrow?”

Mine: nine to ten. I stood with my coffee cup and looked at it. I looked at it for longer than twelve seconds. The document did not change under extended examination. It remained what it was: one page, two time windows, a sentence about household routines. Very clean. Very considered. The kind of document that had been composed by a person who had sat somewhere with a blank page and made a decision about what needed to be on it and had put exactly that on it and printed it and placed it on the counter.

I love you and I always will. The rest of the pages held diary inpista that dated up for months even years.As I spent every day resing through the journal,I felt like I was beingcatapulted to a years back when I must have been a little baby.This woman gave detailed descriptions to things,events that happened that it almost felt so surreal. Manuel had gotten back his strength and eveything had gone back to normal.But I couldn't stop reading throse journals.For weeks,whenever I was alone or had some alone time I would sneak away to go read.And every page sucked me in even deeper.

Leto: the code is 3-1-2. Hurriedly, I input the code and the door of the study unlocks. It’s a bit dusty which means that the staff doesn’t even clean this place at all, there are tons of bookshelves, glass containers that store what I think are heirlooms. I approach the table carefully, there’s a red leather journal on it. It’s almost like someone deliberately planted it there for me to see. Carefully, I pick it up and flip the pages, two old newspapers fall onto the table.

And for ten months, I got nothing. Abruptly, I stood, accidentally knocking the journal off the bed. When I kneeled to pick it up, it had fanned open, and I realized it wasn't an empty book meant for me to fill. My knees were pressed into the hard floor, and I sat back on my heels as I flipped through the pages. Every page, from top to bottom, was lined in Jude's best handwriting. Tears prevented me from stalling on any one paragraph long enough to read it.

The pages looked… so worn, like they had been read thousands of times. I looked down at the opened page, underlined in black ink was a sentence I’d written at midnight two years ago: "I want to know if those big, strong hands feel as good as they look when they finally touch my naked body, grip my hips, squeeze my tits, or hold me down while he fucked me.” I stood up slowly, totally forgetting the pain in my toes, with the journal trembling in my hands, and turned to face him. He looked guilty as hell. He couldn’t even meet my eyes.