Note Book Buku Kecil Novels & Stories

"The fourth notebook is not a continuation of the third. It is a different kind of record. The third notebook documents what was done to people. The fourth notebook documents how people describe what was done to them. Those are not the same document. One is evidence. The other is testimony. Both matter. Only one belongs entirely to the person who gives it." She buys the fourth notebook on a Thursday at the stationery supply on Silver Hollow's commercial street, which is an ordinary shop that sells pens and paper and notebooks to a city that does not officially exist and that consequently produces more handwritten documentation than most cities of comparable size, because the supernatural com

Thursday brings the larger notebook. It arrives by post, a proper package, carefully wrapped, the specific care of someone who ordered something important and wanted it to arrive intact. Théo opens it at the communal table after breakfast with the focused attention he gives all things that matter, removing the wrapping without tearing it, which is a habit that Celeste told me he has had since childhood and which she considers evidence of a temperament that respects the effort behind things. The notebook is dark green, larger than the previous ones, with a heavier cover and pages that are thick enough to absorb both ink and pressure without bleeding through. He opens it. He runs his hand acro

I looked at the stack. There were perhaps thirty books. Board books at the bottom, the thick-paged kind for very small hands, and picture books above them, and a few that were slightly longer, slightly older, the kind that would take more than one sitting but were not yet chapter books. He had covered a range. He had thought about the range. There was a note on top, written on a small card in his handwriting, which was exact and slightly compressed, the handwriting of someone who had trained their hand for precision.

This office that has always felt safe now felt like a crime scene. My fingers drifted across the bookshelf, across the neat rows of accounting textbooks. I stopped when I noticed there was no dust on one part of the shelf. Something roughly the size of a notebook has been sitting there. Dad kept dozens of notebooks because he always wrote down everything. Meeting notes, ideas, random thoughts. He always trusted paper more than computers. Then why is one missing? Someone must have removed that notebook. The question is, who?

I get up from the couch, and my gaze darts on the thing lying on the armchair. It's Prince's notebook. Wondering if it's something important that he forgot to bring, I walk closer to it. I feel guilty for looking into other people's stuff, but there's something urgent kicking inside me. I take the book and flip through the pages. Then my eyes widen. It's all about the presentation to get into the internship. He's written the notes here and there. The important points, the conclusions and what he has to say to convince the company.

This must be it! I widened my eyes and excitedly pulled out my hand which is now sprinkled with specks of dust and saw a shiny purple notebook with a small padlock. I lifted my other hand who was holding the small key and tried to brush the clouds of dust above the notebook before inserting the small key which perfectly fits in the lock and suddenly-- *click* The notebook opened. ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~ A/N: Please bear with my story for a while. It may be a little boring for now because it's all storytelling but these parts will be crucial for the next chapters. Keep reading and I won't let you down! =)

I guess I could get a good enough view of her there… Oh gosh, Anya, that’s so gross. I just shake off the thought and decide to unroll the bag. As I do so, I stumble upon something. I look below me and near my right knee is Sadie’s notebook, slightly ajar. I took them and lay them on the side so I could straighten the sleeping bag. After that, I went back to my place, taking the notebook with me. It is a medium-sized hardbound notebook. It is coated in black but there are a few statements written in what seems like a cut-out white paper taped on the hardbound. Some words have exclamation points, question marks, swear words written in all uppercase, and other words like Shh!, Quiet! It’s Not

The rest would be known to the police. With the box in hand, I untie the ties of the gift and a notebook appeared in the box. I should have been a little more careful when opening. I didn't know if it could be another weapon. Even a bomb. It could be something chemical that would hurt me or poison me to the point of going to the hospital. But it was just a black leather notebook, with nothing on its cover or spine. It was very thin, with maybe no more than ten leaves. And it wasn't big or uncomfortable to keep in one hand. It was the pattern of a notebook or a diary. I took the notebook, removed the small rubber band that kept it closed, and flipped through it.

The knowing saw. Don wrote this in the notebook. The notebook was the small black one he carried on walks—the one that had replaced the previous small black notebook, which had filled up and been retired to the study, where it sat on the shelf with the other filled notebooks from the thirty-two years. The accumulation of notebooks. The accumulation of observations. The accumulation of the seeing.

The thing I had written in my notebook after the puck proposal, alone in the bleachers with the victory howl still echoing: I think I actually live here now. I took out my notebook. Not the Elowen notebook. The other one — the smaller one, dark blue cover, that I'd bought at the gas station the first week because I'd run out of pages in the notebook I'd brought from San Diego and hadn't found a proper bookstore yet. I'd been using it for notes, for miscellaneous things, for the letter to my mom before I transferred it to the real paper. It had Elowen-adjacent thoughts in it, observations, lines I wasn't sure where to put yet.