Journal 3 Pages Novels & Stories

Professor Williams calls me, finally pulling me out of this uncomfortable thread of emotions. “Yes sir.” I run down to him, struggling to get my books together, so I can have the walk. “Are you okay?” He asks me when I reach him. “It seems you struggled to focus today.” “It's probably stress sir. I still enjoyed the class regardless.” I reply to him. “That's good. I would like you to consider submitting your paper for the student literacy journal.” He offers. This feels like a dream come true to me, being featured in such a prestigious journal and I do not even think twice about saying “yes!”

On the first page of the journal, written in a thirteen-year-old boy’s handwriting, were eight haunting words: “If you found this… I survived.” ⸻ — End of Chapter 36 —

She has, by every material measure available to her, been perfectly safe since the moment she was born. She wakes screaming every third night anyway. After a long moment, she reaches for the journal. The false panel is in the third drawer of the writing desk, requiring pressure at a specific angle she found by accident at age eleven. The journal itself is bound in dark violet leather, sealed with a mana-lock keyed only to her, its pages filled from front to back in her own precise handwriting — small, controlled, without the slope that most people develop when writing quickly or emotionally. She does not allow herself to write emotionally.

I had just finished journal 3 when I stopped. “What am I doing?” I whispered and dropped the journal, “No, no, no. Please no. Stop.” I dropped to my knees and started to collect all the pages. In a frantic hurry, I picked up each page as if they were about to fade away. Pages had landed everywhere. On the bed, behind the cupboard, under the tables, even in the bathroom. I picked up 575 pages. Each journal was a book of 192 pages… which meant one page was missing.

Something that my mother have left for me. My hands crumpled the side of the paper that I am holding. It’s been three days since I have read the content of this journal but the memories and impact of the words still brings me too much emotion. The crows started to make a noise and that’s when I’ve decided to turn the page, reading exactly the words which changed my life.

"He actually wrote it in the journal." I pressed my hand to my mouth. "He has sixty-seven pages," she said. "He'll have ninety by spring." "Are you going to write back?" "I've started my own journal. I'm not telling him yet." She almost smiled. "He'll figure it out eventually." The fire crackled. Outside, the moon was up — not full, building toward it, the thin sliver of early autumn. "Are you happy?" Mira said. "On the correct scale."

Instead, she shifted gears, asking, "What were you reading?" I snapped my fingers, and my journal reappeared in my hand. It was a treasured possession, filled with entries spanning the past 100 years. I had amassed a collection of these journals, each one a testament to my love of recording every detail of my life. I wrote about experiences, adventures, thoughts, plans, and ideas - nothing was left unrecorded.

During gym class, when Coach Jim was watching, she missed six baskets in a row. Wednesday, March 17th. The cafeteria ran out of dessert. The last person to get a dessert was the person right in front of Jane Waleski and Emily Zuckerman. Friday, March 28th. Jane and Emily finally did their book reports, Ms. Reeds told them that the books they read were too short, even though she never told the class ahead of time that the book-report books had to be a certain length. Jane's book had 97 pages. Emily's book had 78 pages. Lucy Adams's book had 357 pages.

This journal had really become a trusted friend, the one common denominator in all her travels. She turned back the heavy leather cover, and the pages crinkled. She looked at her handwriting, flipping through the pages, and noticed how it had already changed. All the different types of inks, of pens….Some of the pages were soiled by now, covered in dirt stains or wine spills. The pages had become thick, too, from water stains and dampness. The journal already felt as if it were a thousand years old. She was shocked at how thick it had become. Had she really done all this? The pages were getting completely filled, and Caitlin had to keep turning to find a blank page. Finally, she did. She too

~ I shut the journal, licking the saltiness off my lips. Taking a deep breath, I concentrated on the burn in my chest that had turned even more bitter and excruciating. But my mind felt lighter than before. A lot less chaotic. Although it took me the entire night to write two worthless, senseless, crappiest paragraphs of literature in my journal. And I wasn’t even counting all the sentences I struck off, scribbled away. The unfinished sentences and the discarded ones that were now in the dustbin closed in the crumpled papers.