Journal 3 Pages Novels & Stories

I would not risk more than I sacrificed. I uncorked the vial and held it over the page. My thumb shook, but only for a moment. One drop fell and hit the cream like a pinprick of dusk. The paper drank. The same slow, hungry ink unfurled, but this time the letters came steadier, as if welcoming a payment that had been calculated rather than spilled in panic. Words bled up from the margin in a hand that felt older than the world. Names and dates, locations and rites. The journal did not gossip. It recorded. Its voice was dry and clinical, like a ledger kept by an old priest who could not be moved by pity.

The ragged, leather-bound corner looked promising. I pulled it free with the kind of care you give to bomb wires and sleeping snakes. It was a journal, a diary and a ledger combined in one scruffy volume. I flipped through it. The content wasn’t meant for bedtime stories. The leather was cracked, the spine well-loved, and the edges of the pages looked like they’d been thumbed through in drunken anger, and sometimes desperation. I sat down on the edge of the low, clubby-looking couch and opened it.

Back home, if I was lucky, two days of meals combined would not match what I had in a single sitting here. And that was on a good week. My stomach does not complain. It has learned patience. It knows how to wait. It knows how to quiet itself and accept what it gets. I sit cross legged on the bed with the journal they handed out on the first day. The cover is smooth and thick, the pages creamy and untouched. No real instructions came with it. Just a suggestion to write. Reflect. Process. I flip it open and stare at the blank page. Instead of writing, I start doodling in the margins.

I asked. I saw that he got something from his table and gave it to me. “Here. Your duty.” “Final draft for next month's release?” I asked while browsing the pages. He was seated on the chair at the other side. We are now facing each other. “The center page will be yours,” he uttered. “Really?!” I felt great excitement. Finally, my word will be seen in Inkwell's journal issue this month! “Dreamers Conquering Pages or Dreamers Inks Through Pages?” I faced him. “What do you think is better?”

" ohh!! You mean the assignment they asked us to write a ten page on the our daily lives" (I implored and her head nods affirming my words) "Yes please, I don't think I can be able to write more than two pages, ". Maria Jose accidentally scraped soap on her forehead, without knowing, I smiled seeing that.

"That's the only kind worth doing." After we hung up I sat at the desk. The paper on the screen. Sixty-one pages of careful work by my daughter who had decided at ten years old what she was going to do and had done it with the complete commitment of someone who had never needed the decision confirmed. The limitations section, four pages long. The next thing already waiting. I opened my journal — not Claudia's, my own, which I'd kept since the autobiography was published — and wrote a single line. *Claudia: the most Claudia thing in a document full of Claudia things.*

Jace’s eyes narrowed. “What?” “Nothing.” “What were you writing?” “Nothing.” “You’ve been writing nothing for twenty minutes?” “Yes.” “Impressive.” I shoved the journal into my backpack. Jace leaned forward. “Seriously. You’re always writing in that thing.” “I like writing.” “I know. You told me you want to write books someday.” “Then why are you asking?” “Because you don’t look like you’re writing a book.” I grabbed his English paper. “Would you like to discuss your thesis statement?”

I try to ignore it as I grab a mug and start the coffee maker before settling down at the counter. Wary, I study the journal. Its pages are yellowed and brittle with age, as if time itself had gently woven a tapestry of sepia tones around its every word. The cover, once a rich, chestnut leather, has faded to a mottled shade of antique brown. It bears the scars of countless years, its edges frayed and corners worn, a testament to the passage of time.

"That's nice. What's your major here?" "I'm studying journalism. I like to write about the human condition. People at work, at play." "That sounds very interesting. Anything published yet?" "Sure. I have some writing credits in the New York Times, Boston Herald, Washington Post, that sort of thing." "Wow, that's impressive." "Don't say that until you've read it!" "Do you have anything here?" "Sure." We were passing my room, so I opened the door and stepped inside. Josie hesitated and stood in the doorway. "Don't worry," I laughed. "I won't bite. You can leave the door open."

“I don’t have anything to share—” “Oh, don’t be modest. I’m certain you have plenty.” Knox swirls the bottle lazily. “Or better yet — save yourself the rigor of thinking too hard. Just read from that journal you’ve been keeping. You know the one.” His voice is conversational. Almost pleasant. “Leather cover. Cramped cursive. A little hard to read, to be honest. Detailed entries going back — what, ten years? Twelve? I lost count somewhere around the section on dosage calculations.” The silence that follows is deafening.