The Notebook Novels & Stories

progressive-markdown_:is(p,blockquote,ul,ol,h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6)]:pr-8"> _*]:min-w-0 gap-3 standard-markdown"> The eighth notebook was not Seren's. This surprised her when she understood it — she had been expecting her own notebooks to be the ones that mattered in the way that Ivory Voss's four notebooks mattered, had been building toward the possibility of adding her own notebooks to the archive's permanent record. She had filled two already. They were good notebooks. They contained real thinking. But the eighth notebook — the one that would be added to the archive in the specific way that the four notebooks had been added, the one that would be read by the people who came after the way the f

Julian's POV She gave me the fourth notebook on a Tuesday. Left it with the doorman in an envelope with my name on it, no note inside. Just the notebook. Dark blue cover, softer than the green one, edges worn from being carried around. I read it in one sitting.

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

Thе nail fіlе іѕ tiny, аnd has a рlаѕtіс tоrtоіѕе ѕhеll hаndlе. Thеѕе things аrеn’t еvеn ѕlіghtlу іmрrеѕѕіvе to me аt first glаnсе. I’m looking for wеароnѕ, and wауѕ to escape. But I сhаngе mу mind whеn I ѕее the pages of thе first half of thе notebook are fіllеd wіth flоwеrу, cursive ѕсrірt.

“Go ahead, open it.” She hesitated for a moment before pulling at the ribbon. Inside was a sleek leather notebook, engraved with her initials on the bottom corner. “I remember you always carried a notebook in college,” I said, watching her reaction carefully. “Thought you might need a new one for all the brilliant ideas I know you’ll have.” Her fingers lingered on the smooth cover, but her expression remained unreadable. “It’s thoughtful,” she admitted finally, her voice softer now. “But?” I prompted, sensing the hesitation.

Just to give them somewhere to go. He'd bought the notebook the same day. A Moleskine, black, the kind he'd used in college for lecture notes and never since. He'd written the first entry on the F train, coming home from the appointment: Things I have done that I am not proud of. The list had been longer than he'd expected. Longer than he'd wanted. He'd added to it over the following days, the items coming to him at odd moments—in the shower, at his desk, in the middle of the night when he woke and couldn't fall back asleep.

I went downstairs and greeted him. "So what are we watching tonight?" I asked him. "I found this really old movie in the library. It's called the notebook. It's a 1940s movie" he told me showing me the cover. It looked like a romance movie. 1940s,that was really old. I wonder how some of the really old stuff survived.

That counts for something, right? My name is Annalise McDermott. And for the record, I am a nerd. A hopeless romantic. A person who believes in love even when it clearly hates me back. This is my playbook, a chronicle of terrible timing, questionable decisions, and the kind of love that shows up when you least expect it, usually right after you've sworn you’re never falling in love again. So here is a little friendly advice: do not follow my advice. At least not until the very end.

“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

"You don't have any clothing in there? You have an entire bag for stationary?" "I need my notebooks," I reply defensively. I twist my lips at him in annoyance. Who is he to challenge my life? But then again, we're in this together. So maybe he should have a say? I dismiss the thought outright. Fuck that. I pick up my favorite notebook, a 300 page pink and white "monstrosity" as Emma calls it. It's gorgeous really, shades of pink crossing it with white flowers and rhinestones scattered over it.