Leather Pocketbook Novels & Stories

Miko looked intently at the messenger bag right in front of her face. Or, perhaps, it was more accurate to say she was right up on the bag itself. She was so close that she could see just how fine the stitching was along the seams. She drew back as she picked up from the rack in front of her, and slowly ran her open hand across its surface. It was mildly stippled leather, and dyed a deep blue, as though it belonged in the ocean.

The leather-bound notebook was a small rebellion. It was not his workaday tablet, nor the family schedule on the kitchen fridge. This was personal, discretionary, analog. He had bought it at a busy, dusty stationery store in the Village, the kind that reeked of ink and old paper, light-years from the glass-and-steel reasonableness of his day-to-day life. Its cover was a dark, plush navy, blank and awaiting. It was heavily weighted in his hands.

Reed and I peruse the stylish, trendy items that line the racks, picking out pieces that catch our eye. We carry on our shopping binge at an upscale leather goods store, where the aroma of opulent leather permeates the space as we peruse an array of purses and accoutrements. Among other things, I notice a stunning handbag in a soft blush color, and Reed purchases a black leather wallet, admiring its craftsmanship. It’s elegant and versatile, something I can use every day.

They had tried using the heavy strength glue to attach the pages to the leather but a few pages would not hold, so she had to go back and sew the pages into their books. While she did that, she had Asher cut little pieces of fabric out of a spare scrap of leather. With those pieces of leather, she sewed a medium sized pocket on the back inside cover of each journal and she sewed a tiny strap at the bottom of the page. Asher kept watching her curiously, clearly wondering what she was doing, but never asking. When she was done with the books, she took their quills and slid it in to the litle strap on the back. Peeling the stickers off of the little pouches of ink, she tucked them in the pocket

The room was already half-empty, the shelves skeletal and dusty, smelling of old paper and the stinky, metallic tang of his sweat. In the center of the room sat a black leather duffel bag I had never seen before. It looked out of place against the refined mahogany. Jordan unzipped it slowly, the sound of the teeth catching like a serrated blade in the silence. My breath hitched as I saw what was inside. It wasn't books or documents. It was a collection of dark, heavy leather—cuffs lined with sheepskin, a series of silk ropes, a faceted glass plug that caught the morning light, and a long, supple leather crop.

They wouldn’t hold it against you. After awhile of just sitting there, listening to the thump of their hearts and the crash of the waves, I reached into the pocket of my jacket and pulled out a worn leather wallet. It was clearly expensive, the material thick and smooth beneath my fingers. Burned into it were the letters A. M. “This was his.” I opened it carefully, and half a dozen photos tumbled out accordion-style.

Bending over her purse to get an emergency pen, her fingers brushed against the soft leather of her wallet. It was an old wallet, one she had had since her first year of college. The leather was wrinkled and worn, the edges frayed. She hadn't even thought about what was inside it in years because it was simply easy to have money and cards. But now, without a reason she could name, she opened it.

Still, she manages to get it open. Inside, ledgers rest in neat rows, dust gathering in the creases. They look like they haven’t been touched in years. Old. Very old. The leather bindings are cracked and worn soft, each one marked with the Whitmore crest she’s seen in faded photographs and carved into the oldest buildings around town. Her pulse picks up as she slides one free, the weight of it settling heavy in her hands. The dates stretch back nearly two centuries. What she finds inside is not what she expected.

He nods and leans to the side, pulling something out of the large hidden pocket he had down his leg. “I assume you know how to use a book and inkhold?” Tearing out the front pages he hands me a small hardcover book, bound with leather and rope, as well as what reminded me of a pen but I had to assume it was a modified bird feather, similar to how people used quills, just without the ink in a pot or the fluffy touch. Funnily enough, I don’t hesitate to take it and start writing notes about some of the things I have heard about today.

I gave her one of my most crooked smile before taking the porch from her. "Yeah, thanks," I mumbled, aiming for the chill tone but probably landing somewhere closer to a startled squirrel sound. My chest was doing that dumb flutter thing again. Seriously, could it not? Lyra caught my eye, smiling like she knew exactly what was up. I fiddled with the leather on the porch. I couldn’t lie, it’s a fine piece, with a clean brown leather. Somebody put real effort into this. The stitching was wild, like the kind of work you only see from people who actually care about details. Plus, it was soft. Like, dangerously soft. I tried not to look like I was petting it.