Journal 3 Pages Novels & Stories

Rick Jenson needed no introduction. He was 10 years out of his PhD and he had 11 articles, all in top 3 journals. The year when he had 2 articles, because of a timing thing, he was Researcher Of The Year, making him a megastar. His dissertation was 4 times the length of mine and he still had a few articles left in it. Rumors were that one of the tables he stuck in was a translation of his wife's ultrasound, because he took longer than she did.

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."

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.

“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.