Leather Pocketbook Novels & Stories

"Show me whatever the Penance had on board." In walks Alex, arms full of a worn leather bag and some loose things. A shake of the head comes first. Not much worth anything here, just usual supplies. Yet there’s this one thing. Out comes a folded sheet of paper, edges stiff, shut tight with dull grey wax. Hidden it had been, stitched beneath the cloth right against his chest

“Bottom drawer. By the sink.” I frowned. I’d already checked there. Still, I padded back in and tugged it open. Towels. Razors, yet no shampoo. With a sigh, I crouched lower and pulled open the next drawer. Something metallic clinked inside. And it certainly wasn't toiletries. I hesitated, then lifted the folded T-shirts stacked on top. Beneath them was a small leather pouch, the kind Dean usually kept locked in his travel bag. My pulse kicked, but my hand moved on its own, sliding the zipper open.

“What in the world?” She turned on the overhead light and opened her bag wide, pulling out the larger objects, like her wallet and makeup bag. Nearly everything was out, and the journal wasn’t there. It wasn’t a huge book, only about the size of her palm, but it was thick and heavy, so there was no way she was missing it.

she said. The shop was a small clothing shop with a half-dozen leather outfits ranging from full suits of clothes to skimpy bra-and-brief sets in the window. The clothing obscured the view of much of the interior, so Cherry had to take Lucy's word that she was not being taken to a sex shop. Once inside, the smell of new leather assailed their nostrils and Cherry breathed it deep into her lungs, gaining an appreciative look from both Lucy and Michael. The shop was simply filled with racks of leather coats, leather dresses, leather bodices, leather pants; leather of all kinds, black and coloured, for the delight and enhancement of those who liked leather.

“One way or another.” “That’s not fair,” she blurted. “You work more than anyone. You’re not… bad.” A bitter laugh crawled up my throat. I pushed it down. “Fair doesn’t matter here,” I said gently. “Only what they owe and what they think they can get.” She bit her lip. “What will you do?” she asked. I glanced around to make sure Hest wasn’t lurking, then reached into my pocket. I’d stolen a small offcut of leather from the cobbler’s workroom that morning—just a scrap, palm‑sized, discarded near a pile of broken straps. Useless to them. Precious to me.

Inside, nestled in soft tissue paper, were a few items that made my eyes widen. First, a small, elegant leather-bound journal, dark green, with my initials subtly embossed in gold on the cover. It was beautiful, the kind of journal I'd always wanted but never bought for myself. Next to it, a fancy pen, heavy and smooth in my hand. Then, a small velvet pouch. I opened it, and a delicate silver necklace spilled out, with a tiny, intricate compass charm. It was simple, yet meaningful. It wasn't flashy, but it felt special, like something someone truly thought about.

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.

The object feels heavy, and the oilcloth is tied with a black ribbon string that looks so old and dusty. Carefully, I untie the string, my fingers fumbling with the knots until they are finally free. Next, the cloth falls away, revealing a book. A journal to be precise. Forcing myself not to get too excited, I decide to check the book first before drawing conclusions. The book is thick, black, and the cover is made of leather that has been treated to resist moisture and decay. Also, the leather has a glossy texture that catches the weak lights in the room.

As I flipped through the pages, reading her increasingly worrisome thoughts, the moonlight reflected off of shiny black leather. Sitting down the diary, I reached into the box, grasping the strange book. It was all black. When I’d first looked at it, the binding appeared to be leather, but it doesn’t feel or look like any leather I’ve ever seen. It was far too soft, similar to suede. The material seemed to be stretched over a symbol and as I circled my ring finger along the ridges, the padlock holding it shut popped open. “Not fucking creepy at all.”

I said. "And the outside pocket," he said. "For the survey notebook." "Yes," I said. He looked at the sketch. He touched the outside pocket drawing. "Flat so it doesn't bulk," he said. "Yes," I said. "So I can tell what page I'm on without taking it out," he said. I looked at him. "Can you?" I said. "I can feel the page through the cover," he said. "If the pocket is flat enough." He paused. "The current coat has a round bottom pocket. The notebook gets lost in it."