Note Book Buku Kecil Novels & Stories

Kennedy POV. The weather was bad, but I needed to get that new book, it's Robert birthday gift, who'd knew a grown up man would kill for the newest werewolf love book. I got into my car, drove carefully toward the local book store, they had the new book reserved for me. It was supposed to one quick drive, until I walked into the library. A girl was sitting on a bean bag, her blond hair was covering her eyes with overgrown bangs, she tried to huff them away from her face but to no use. She looked young, maybe she's just here with her parents, looking down at the book she had in her hands it was a kids story. Does she read for the local kids? Or is it just for her?

For Stacey, there would be hell to pay for her indiscresion. The notebook that Lili had stolen was only about 2 inches by 3 inches and was bound in black leather. Hal had written page after page of code in the book and since no one was a computer geek, they waited for Reinie to arrive back from his trip to Madison to review the data overnight.

Even that detail, so precise and so Lila, made something tighten in Mia's chest. She cut the tape with a box cutter and folded back the flaps. Books. A scented candle. A University of Texas pennant. A rain jacket. And beneath all of it, wrapped in a plain paper bag, two composition notebooks—the kind with the black-and-white marbled covers that Lila had used for everything in college: class notes, grocery lists, arguments she was having with people who weren't in the room. She had called them her thinking books. Mia sat down on the concrete floor of the storage unit with the notebooks in her lap.

Before I run my fingers across the books, I notice that there is a notebook specially kept. This notebook has a leather cover and looks different from other items in this room. I do not know why, but I can sense that it is a precious thing for its owner and it is well-kept. I really want to open it. Maybe because I am a human, a curious human. But my fear controls me not to open the notebook. Otherwise, I will be killed by Mr. Barnett, the owner of the notebook.

Julian's POV She gave me the fourth notebook on a Tuesday. Left it with the doorman in an envelope with my name on it, no note inside. Just the notebook. Dark blue cover, softer than the green one, edges worn from being carried around. I read it in one sitting.

He flipped through it, and every page of the notebook was filled with words, written neatly and elegantly. He turned his head and said, "Mom, I found a notebook!" Yasmine had just finished blow-drying his hair. She turned off the switch and placed it on the countertop, then took the notebook from Layne's hand. This is a pink notebook that is approximately three centimeters thick, with a matte leather cover and a very good texture. Yasmine opened it, and on the title page it said, "To my beloved daughter." The time was recorded four years ago.

When it produced the same result, she went on to continue her first practice. She practiced the rest of the evening at their home until she noticed that she had almost filled up her school notebook. The school notebook comes in nine pieces for nine different subjects in one set when bought from the school. They have a school's logo printed on its front and back cover and intended for school works only as their answers for recitation quizzes, networks, and homework. If the student submits a different notebook apart from what was authorized, there will be no recorded score. The school notebook only contains at least fifty sheets of paper.

Just from that, it was obvious. As she examined each book, she suddenly stopped when she opened one about flowers. She read through it, and because it was thick, she decided to check other pages. But when she started from the back, she was startled to find a notebook-sized insert with a white floral design. It was placed right between the pages, as if the book had been hollowed out or carved to fit the notebook. “What’s this? A secret notebook?” Atasha asked in surprise because the notebook was completely unnoticeable unless you flipped through the book. She took it out, closed the book, and then opened the notebook.

The timeline was always approximate. I looked at what I had written. I added one more line: The timeline was always approximate. What matters is that the room was left. The room was correctly sized. I closed notebook thirteen. I went to the shelf. The twelve previous notebooks were stored in sequence — the dates written on the spines in my specific handwriting for spines, which was smaller than my standard handwriting to allow for readability at a distance. Notebook one through twelve, the complete record of a situation that had been running since before the lobby and had now produced: a merger, a marriage, two trees in a garden, and the confirmation of a fourth figure.

The notebook is a cheap spiral-bound thing I bought in a stationery shop in Brooklyn three weeks ago, before I knew what I was packing for. The cover is blue cardboard, already soft at the corners. Inside are eleven days of transcriptions, every deed and manifest and shipping record I have translated, every note I have made in the margins, every photograph reference I have logged. The pages are filled with my handwriting, small and precise, the handwriting of someone who learned early that words left room are words that can be used against you.