Marinettes Diary Box Novels & Stories

Noah's spear wasn't there. No protection. Mara went back and stumbled over the bed. The metal box she suffered from her hands and scratched on the floor. The lid jumped. All the noises tumulted. Even the people with the collars stopped in the middle of the movement. Mara lay down. Before her the contents of the box were scattered. No gun. No cards. Documents. Photos. Files. An old tape recorder. And at the top there was a single envelope. This was in handwriting: For Mara — if you have to see the truth.

I stepped back into my room and closed the door, turning the keys again. The pink fancy paper the box was wrapped in made me cringe. I tore it open roughly, not caring I was messing it up pretty bad. Cut out papers, colourful ones were in the box, in addition to a flash drive and a huge burgundy book that looked more like a diary. A white sheet was wrapped up in a black polythene nylon. I pulled out the sheet, what I saw made me gasp. I immediately began to regret that I opened the box. There was a blood stain on the white sheet, no one needs to tell me what it was and what it represents. I shut my eyes tight as I bit hard on my lips, drawing blood.

“Anyone stop in while I was on lunch?” She shakes her head. “Nope. No one I saw, anyway, unless they snuck in during one of my smoke breaks and was the quietest, quickest person ever. And invisible, too. Besides, I’m certain that box has been there since I started at ten. First thing I saw.” “And it’s got . . . What? Journals in it? Diaries, or something?” Cassie shrugs. “Didn’t look too close, honestly.” “Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser.”

The first to open was Thaddeus as he punched a hole into the box and began to pull out Magazines, DVDs, and even a Big yellow book with the title How to be a Submissive in a BDSM relationship? “What the…” Thaddeus yelled out. “What the fuck is this? Who sent this?” He said going back to read the label. All the while Reign, Remmie and I bit back our laughs. ‘Oh, my goddess I am going to piss myself.’ Remmie roared out in laughter through a link. I could tell that Reign was also tethered in as she too was laughing down on the link. Marcus sitting next to his wife was just looking down at her with love. “Go on open your box,” Mari said looking to her husband who opened his box slowly.

Hopefully her human counterpart won’t be a fucking twat. After sifting through the contents of the box for almost an hour, I felt no closer to finding anything that might help me. There were diaries from both my grandfather as well as his mate. As I flipped through the pages, reading her increasingly worrisome thoughts, the moonlight reflected off of shiny black leather.

The sound of the cabinet unlocking felt like the cruel punchline to a cosmic joke. He wanted to smash it—to destroy whatever lay inside—but he didn’t. Instead, he opened it slowly. Inside was a single small box. Within it rested a delicate jellyfish-shaped stamp and a thin notebook bound in dark leather. It matched exactly what Colton’s investigation had described—Marken’s old diary. Alexander flipped through it, page after page of emptiness. Then, on one of the inner pages, he noticed something faint—a square patch of dried glue, as if something had been torn out long ago.

I knelt down, pushed my hand beneath the warped boards, and found something cold. A box. Small, metal, rusted on the edges. Inside: letters. Photos. A diary with a name that didn’t belong to me but somehow felt like it could have. Aurelia. And written in ink that had bled from water damage: “If you're reading this, then I never made it out.” My heart stopped. The storm outside had passed. But inside me, it had just begun. ---

A box was right at the doorstep; Philip had come to deliver the body like I instructed him to do. Marina seemed confused; her face was furrowed as she began to look around, searching for who dropped the box. When she searched for minutes and couldn’t find anyone, she pulled the box in and closed the door back. “What could be inside here?” She murmured, circling around the box. She would stop every minute and stare at it before she resumed pacing around it again. Then she stopped, bent down, and opened the box. She let out a loud scream that sent shivers down my body; I almost ran out of my hiding. “What.. what is this?” She stuttered.

"Let me get you a water cup and paper towels." Marianne sits behind the information desk up front with a cup of coffee. I can hear the soft clicking of her nails on her keyboard, and my eyes stray from the wood arrows to my surroundings. There's another, smaller table against the wall beside the computers, and I recognize the box on top of it as the box the stranger carried in this past weekend. Some of its contents have been extracted and spread out for analysis. When my mom returns with my supplies, I ask, "What's all that stuff?"

All while she, Almay, the one who raised her, clothed her, albeit barely, was rotting in a dump with a plastic kettle and expired canned food. It was not right. It was not fair. She reached deeper into the suitcase, fingers brushing against worn velvet. She pulled out a small, nondescript wooden box. Her breath hitched. Slowly, she opened it. Inside lay a faded leather-bound diary. The edges were frayed, the gold-embossed letters barely visible now, but they read: “Diamante Lunaria Hernandez.”