The Diary Novel Mga Nobela at Kwento

But, The ones above were harder to reach, forcing me to stretch, my fingers roaming blindly across the upper shelves. Suddenly, something solid brushed against my fingertips. Frowning, I pulled it free. It fell to the floor with a soft thud. A black diary falls right at my feet. Frowning, I picked it up out of curiosity. Its leather cover was worn, its pages yellowed with age. My heart skipped as I picked it up, and curiously opened to the first page... A date stared back at me— it was 27th August, 2005. “A twenty year old diary in the bathroom cabinet? What the hell?”

Sighing deeply, the young woman reached for the diary and opened to the first page, her fingers running across the brown colored paper absentmindedly. She reached out for the blue pen on the dresser, her body slightly quivering in anticipation as she silently contemplated shutting the diary like she usually did, only this time she didn’t want to do that. Only this time, she actually had a story to tell. Sighing deeply again, Natalie uncapped the pen, and for the first time ever, she wrote in the diary; Dear Diary, I met someone today.

He doesn't know if his father will return. He was two hundred in age, his father was almost thousands. He can still recall his father's order, "If you want to leave, do it. Don't worry about me. Go in a year where peace is at hand..." His diary dated February 1915. He was doubting on leaving his father. It took him hours before he decided on entering the room with the diary clipped in his armpit, the pocket watch on his left hand, and the gold key inside his pocket and chanted the same.

As she searched through them, her fingers touched something hard. She pulled it out. A small brown diary. Ann stared at it. She had bought it years ago, before she married Daniel. She remembered writing in it during her younger days. Dreams. Plans. Little secrets. Things she couldn't tell anyone. She smiled sadly. She hadn't written in it since her wedding. She sat down and opened the first empty page. For several seconds, she held the pen without writing. Then she finally wrote. Dear Diary, She stopped. The words suddenly felt strange. Then she continued.

An example is the female columnist Elizabeth Farrelly, who besides being a columnist, is also an architecture critic and author of books. Diarist[edit] Main article: List of diarists Signature of Anne Frank Writers who record their experiences, thoughts, or emotions in a sequential form over a period of time in a diary are known as diarists. Their writings can provide valuable insights into historical periods, specific events, or individual personalities. Examples include Samuel Pepys (1633–1703), an English administrator and Member of Parliament, whose detailed private diary provides eyewitness accounts of events during the 17th century, most notably of the Great Fire of London. Anne Frank

"I'm not sure. But I am almost sure no one saw me, can you tell me what is going on right now? Is it some sort of 'no touch book'?" "Well, kinda. You see that book is not a scrapbook. It's a journal." "Okay, whose journal?" "Everyone you saw their pictures there." "Wait, hold on." "Holding on." "You're telling me that that book is a diary? Like not historical data or educative, I don't know, background checks. You are saying it's a diary?" "Well, practically we go by journal but sure diary works too." "If it is a diary, why the hell is it kept in the library? I have never heard of a diary being kept in a library before."

My first memoir in a new diary. My old diary was filled with stories and stories of girls I've fucked and turned but after this incident that happened on 23/4/2027 I had to start a new diary. So... I was angry that mum was remarrying. I really hate the thought that she couldn't keep her pussy at check after dad's death and jumped into another man's arms. However, she kept reassuring me that it's going to be fine but I hate it as hell.

Or, it may be something that I can work with him on, to get him to accept just like when it happened with Asher and Dan, and maybe even enjoy, but I chose my diary instead of confessing to my husband. It was locked down, the boys and I were on a little break and the only cock I had in my hot pussy was David, my husband. I wanted to explore, but I couldn’t since I'd vowed to the boys that I belonged to them alone. Without the boys, I turned to my diary to pen down how I met my husband.

Something inside caught my eye. Curiosity stirred, subtle but undeniable. I pulled the drawer open. Inside, among scattered papers and pens, lay a book. I reached for it, my movements slower now, more deliberate. On its cover, faint but unmistakable, was a single word. A word that made something deep in my chest tighten. Diary. And for reasons I could not fully explain, I already knew. Whatever was written inside… Would change everything.

The first image nearly knocks the air out of my lungs. A woman. Beautiful. Fierce. Eyes sharp with intelligence and sorrow. Blue fire dancing effortlessly in her hands like it belongs there. And in her arms. A baby. My breath goes shallow. That is not a legend. That is a memory. I turn the page. And freeze. This is not a history book. It’s a diary. Handwritten entries. Personal notes. Dates. Emotions bleeding through ink. Why would a woman’s diary be locked away in the forbidden section of the academy library.