Notebook Novels & Stories

No official stamp, no foundation logo, and personal notes, of course. Men like him always keep their own record of the damage. I reach for the top notebook first. He puts one hand over it. “Read carefully,” he says. “You may not like what memory looks like when someone writes it down without kindness.” Aurora steps in before I can. “Move your hand.” He does. Good. I open the first notebook. The first page is enough to make my skin crawl. Subject B – intake retention notes. Not Nadia, not a child, Subject B. I keep reading anyway.

These snippets of introspection and self-discovery were like tiny seeds, planted in the fertile ground of shared human experience. Yam hadn’t intended the notebook to become a project. It was meant to be a personal outlet, a place to pour out thoughts and feelings that had been bottled up for too long. But as the pages began to fill, people started to notice. They would approach Yam with curiosity and a gentle request: “Can we reply?” “Can we leave something for someone specific?” The notebook had become a beacon, drawing in those who were seeking connection, understanding, or simply a place to leave their own mark.

A plan that, if executed correctly, would change everything. Back in her cell, Isabella sat down on the bed and opened a hidden compartment in the floor. Inside was a small notebook, its pages filled with her carefully scribbled notes. She had been tracking everything—names, contacts, dates, potential allies. The details were crucial, each line of writing a small piece of a much larger puzzle. She flicked through the pages, each entry a reminder of how far she had come. The notebook held her only connection to the outside world, her lifeline in the midst of the prison walls.

“I stared at the girl who enticed me deeply. Though her clothes were wet because of the water that dripped from the clay pot on her head, she looked so beautiful. She resembles my dear late Nana, of whom I first saw the beauty of a black woman. She looked like a black angel. She had a portion of her plaited hair bound by a red ribbon, while the rest, fell about her arms, and even reached her waist. I have never seen a black woman with such an abundance of fine hair in my lifetime. She walked like a cat. I admire her more than any damsel I have ever seen. As fate happens, she turned around, and stared back at me. Our eyes met, her hazel-coloured eyes left me entranced, so I fell. Her pot of

Irene said visibly trying to gather her thoughts and breath. “Yes, I vote that we do that,” I whispered and reached for the scissors. I unwrapped the large package while they squealed, I was more interested in the note that I knew would come with it. The box was opened and I immediately reached for the paper before Irene took the MacBook. “Oh my goodness! Anna it is a MacBook, and there’s a note attached to it. I can’t believe Jason Micheal is sending you gifts with notes. Can I read it?” “Go ahead,” I giggled, I knew that it would be cute notes. The one with me had more length and I knew it was going to be very personal.

Inside was almost nothing. A phone, powered off, that Marcus immediately bagged for his tech team. A half-empty water bottle. And a small spiral notebook, worn soft at the corners, the kind of thing someone carries for years without meaning to. I flipped through it carefully. Most of the pages were mundane—grocery lists, gas mileage, nothing that told us anything. But near the back, tucked between two blank pages like it had been added separately from the rest of the notebook, was a single line in different handwriting than the rest of 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

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.

It seemed like Bagwis routinely cleaned it. She opened the chest, and she saw lots of notebooks, old pens, several glasses and wooden bottles, little wooden boxes, and lots and lots of papers. She grabbed a green notebook, the lengthiest in the collection. It was puffy because of its pages that seemed to be made of a thick type of paper. It also looked like it had been soaked and dried. Most of its pages were crisp and burnt. "Uma," Luna read. It was written in Baybayin, an ancient calligraphy she's still studying on. She flipped a page filled with faded Baybayin characters, which she deficiently understood. It continued until h

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, q