Reading Journal Books Novels & Stories

It wasn’t anything like the libraries in Gabriel and Raphael’s estates but this room was beautiful in its own dark haunted way. I picked the one that had caught my attention because of Mario, The Art of War, and tucked it beneath my arm as I went through other books. When I picked up one of the heavy books that was on the top shelf which looked like no one had ever read it or even moved it from its place from the dust that was gathered in its cover, I cleaned it with my palm and realized that it wasn’t a book but a journal. There was one more. I picked it up too. I sat down on the floor and opened the journal first.

Maybe because I need something, anything, to distract me from the hollow cracking sound inside my chest. My fingers graze the spines of faded books, most of them worn with time, forgotten like the memories they hold. I don’t expect to find anything of value. But then, near the back of the bottom shelf, I notice a thick leather-bound journal wedged awkwardly between two histories of the royal bloodlines.

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.

I eventually gave up and asked for directions, after finally making it to the library I sat down beside mum who had three big piles of books infront of her, she was looking at a personal journal and from what I could see there was a picture of a lady on the front. Mum looked up and saw the curiosity in my eyes, "This is your great great grandmother's journal, I would like you to read it first then if your interested you can read all these books" mum said pointing to all the books infront of her. "But please be careful with this journal, it has been in my family generations. I look at the journal, it had a leather cover with a painting of my great great grandmother on it and from what I could

I thought about how easy it had been for Ezra to turn that into a weapon. I went to the library because it was the farthest room from everything. It was past midnight, the shelves ran floor to ceiling, old leather spines crammed together, some of them so old the titles had worn off entirely. I pulled three journals from the lowest shelf and sat on the floor with them in my lap and started reading.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she stepped forward and picked up one of the leather-bound volumes and flipped through it. Rinaldi's scrawl was scattered across the pages, along with tiny sketches and hand-drawn charts. She stopped and skimmed a couple of pages. As with the atlas, this journal bore the marks of love and wear. Many of the pages were stained or smudged with signs of use.

My eyes are buried in that damn journal, and so far all I’ve managed to get out of it is a splitting headache. Twisted letters, hand-drawn sketches, curses that seem to form and unravel at the end of every page. I’m completely exhausted. I sit on the edge of the bed and, with my other hand, push myself toward the kitchen, scratching my head. A strong coffee should calm my chaotic neurons, already numb from reading and rereading every page with zero success.

“I'll be down shortly. Thank you.” She nodded and shut the door behind her. I lingered for a minute or two before I finally got up from his chair. As I was about to circle the desk, I caught sight of a journal on the floor, just by the edge of the table. It must have fallen from the desk without notice. I picked it up and observed the covers. It was leather. I opened it and began to read its contents. It was a sort of daily entry and report on someone's life and experiences.

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?

I jotted back a quick thank you. I walked into the living room. The wall opposite the kitchen was entirely shelved with books and journals, old diaries collecting dust. Classics, contemporary… you could read a new book the entire year without repeating. My fingertips grazed over old, embroidered leather covers and brilliantly decorative dust jackets. Here, I could stay in this room forever, lounging below the wide cabin window like a lazy house cat near the heat of the crackling fire. I opened a random book to a dog-eared page which was folded to an entry dated, November 5th.