Reading Book Journal Novels & Stories

If my handjob sucked, then I had to make it better, learn the best way to treat a cock, and whip him up with something he’ll never forget. “Noah”—his moans played in my head as I searched the shelf for something helpful. [The Faith of the Dragon Lair] [How to kill a dragon] [The Art of Fireflies] [An Omega’s Journal] My finger paused at the last book, “An Omega’s Journal.” It sounded intriguing and also felt like it was written from experience. I pulled the book out of the shelf, dusting it off and removing the particles in search of the author’s name. No name, no copyright claims… Who would leave something this private in a library?

The owner, a wise old man with a gentle smile, welcomed us as if he had been expecting our arrival. As we peruse the shelves, our eyes landed on a worn, leather-bound journal that seemed to call out to us. Intrigued, we opened it to find a collection of handwritten stories, each one filled with magic, adventure, and the triumph of the human spirit. The journal spoke of forgotten legends, hidden treasures, and ancient prophecies.

Ancient books lined the shelves, their pages filled with forgotten knowledge, while relics of a bygone era adorned every surface. Curiosity led us deeper into the chamber, until we discovered an old journal, its leather cover aged and weathered. Lya carefully opened it, her eyes scanning the faded ink that adorned its pages. The words within were fragments of a lost history, a testament to the struggles and triumphs of those who had come before us.

In the Meath library, Kaida closed the last journal and stared at it on the table. All week she'd been reading through the passages, and it had been harder than she'd anticipated. She'd attempted to look at them with a professional, objective eye, tried to distance herself from the human element and view them as research, but that was impossible.

The preparation for the third book was inward: the reading of the journals, both of them, across sixteen years. He had asked Ernest in November: I want to read both journals. Not the private entries — the entries that are about the argument. The entries that are the argument's evidence. Ernest had said: tell me which you want to read and I will read alongside you and we will decide together which entries belong to the argument and which do not.

A blast of cold air rushed up from below, smelling like wet stone, old blood, and something rotten beneath snow. The journal slid across the floor toward the opening. “No!” I lunged for it. Damien caught me tighter. “Leave it.” “No.” “That thing wants you closer.” “The book has been more honest than half the people in this town.” “It is not a person.” “Neither are half the people in this town.” The journal teetered on the edge. Pages fluttering. Glowing. Waiting. Then one page ripped free and flew upward on a burst of silver wind.

Realizing that I'm clenching too hard at the side of the frame, I loosen my fingers. The leather bound book catches my attention next and when I take it and get a closer look at it. I immediately realized it’s a journal. My mom’s journal? I flip it open.

She shoved the journal under her shirt and grabbed a random book off the shelf something about pack politics just as Rue walked in. "What are you doing in here?" Rue asked, arms crossed. "Reading." "In the dark?" Nell looked at the window. The sun had set. She'd been in here for hours. "Lost track of time." Rue's gold-flecked eyes narrowed. "You're always lost." She walked out. Nell waited a full minute before slipping the journal out from under her shirt. She tucked it into her waistband and walked back to her room. That night, she read.

The accessing had been systematic—she had checked them out in the order that suggested she knew what she was looking for rather than browsing. The dark applications journals: all five of them, checked out within a two-month period. The journals had been returned to the shelf. The content had been copied, presumably, through whatever method she had available during the hours she had the journals in her possession. Pei added, at the end of his message: The journals themselves are still on the shelf. I've reviewed them. They're intact. But they've been read very carefully—there are trace marks in the margins where someone pressed hard while reading. She spent significant time with them.

Red dots blinked overhead—cameras everywhere. The room screamed luxury trap: white oak floors shining, cream linen curtains puffing from vents, bed big enough to lose yourself in. My duffel sat open on the rack—empty. Every scrap of my clothes gone. In their place: one sheer black bodysuit on the bed, crotchless, backless, spotlighted like an altar. Cost more than my rent, hid nothing. Note in Damian’s handwriting on cream card: Wear this to lunch. Nothing else. –D