The Notebook Rating Novels & Stories

Dahil ako lang ang nakakalam na ito’y diary, everyone else knows it as a notebook. Silence greeted me. Kahit alam ko na it was quite difficult to obtain the diaries through underground means, I still have my hope. I was about to give up, when the elderly gentleman, Mr. Eye of Notorary speak. “Are you talking about the Witch of Iceland Archmage?” My eyes almost sparkled, I restraint myself from showing any abnormal behavior and nodded calmly. “Yes, sir.” Mr. Eye of Notorary nodded. “I don’t have the whole notebook but only five pages of it, I’ll sell it you in 5 Nars.”

Held it high. “Then maybe it’s this one?” His temper snapped. “Get your filthy hands off my things!” He was already storming towards me. But I was faster. My fingers closed around the notebook. The one with my bleeding eyes inside its pages. “What about this?” I asked quietly. Odell’s pupils dilated. He lunged like a shark drawn to blood. “That’s it!” he barked, ripping the notebook from my hands. The receptionist’s voice cracked like thin glass. “Sir? I thought you said… the book was missing?”

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.

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 opens it. He runs his hand acro

Just honestly, which I was finding was a different thing entirely from what I used to think honesty between us felt like. He reached into his jacket pocket and put something on the table between us. A small notebook. Slim, good paper, the kind you could feel the quality of just by looking. The cover was a deep blue. I looked at it. "It's not a gesture," he said. "It's just a notebook. You can throw it away if you want." I picked it up. It was exactly the right size. The kind that fits in the pocket of a jacket or a large bag without you having to think about it.

Behind the card there was a number and Jonathan's initials. I compared the signature and understood that the notebook had been his at some point. That could only be a terrible joke. A very ugly game. But I found myself flipping through the pages, trying to find Suzane's name. Maybe that was Jonathan's Death Note, his little reckoning notebook. But only Hunter was a well-known name for me. All the others were mere whimsical handwriting. I started thinking about the possibilities for that notebook to exist. If it were a list of traitors, then it would make sense for Hunter to be on it.

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.

When those dark green eyes fell on me, they darkened. I walked up to him and sat beside him, my eyes on the movie as well. He was watching THE NOTEBOOK , the same movie he said was childish and wasn’t worth wasting tears for. He handed me the box without saying a word. I opened it and it was just what I wanted. A red Velvet cake.

“A notebook. Good paper. For arguments and grocery lists. Both noble forms of writing.” I took it. The paper inside was thick enough to resist bleed-through, the cover plain navy. No monogram. No surname claim. “I will use it,” I said. Adrienne’s eyes shone, disciplined. “That is all we ask of gifts.” On the drive back, campus rising into view, I held the notebook on my knees and felt the hour settle into me without demand for permanent residence. Tristan drove one-handed, the other resting open on the seat between us. I placed my palm in his.

The note about the shop revival. He looked at it. He nodded. He put the pencil down. He looked at the notation system. He opened it to the provisional entry. He looked at it. He added one line. He closed it. He looked at me. "I added a note," he said. "To the provisional entry." "What note?" I said. He held up the notebook. The note said: *The fabric has been category eight for eighty six years. It has arrived at the right place. This is evidence that the staying finds its correct destination eventually. Time does not diminish category eight. It confirms it.*