The Notebook Rating Novels & Stories

Satisfied she was alone, she reached into the mattress and pulled out a small, plain black notebook. With trembling hands, she flipped it open and began to write frantically, her expression shifting between guilt, longing, and raw fear. When she finally stopped, she closed the notebook with a sigh and carefully slid it back under the mattress, concealing it from sight. Soren’s curiosity ignited instantly. He immediately picked up his phone and called the head of his security team. “Retrieve that notebook from the suite tonight while she’s asleep. Do it quietly and bring it to me.” Two hours later, one of his men delivered the small black notebook in a sealed envelope. Soren waited until he w

"I call dibs." Jane groaned and Lia just shook her head, eating her ice-cream. This was fun. Three women hanging out and talking about stuff without judgement and discrimination. It was nice to have a circle you could trust. "The notebook." Lydia cheered and Jane groaned. Lia agreed with Jane. The notebook was soo overrated. "Nope, pick something else." Lia said, pointing at Lydia with her spoon. "There are tons of other great choices we can stick to." "There's this new movie, YOU. It's really really great." Jane said, chewing her nails and Lia smacked her arm.

The study window is dark. The blue notebook is inside. On the desk. Between the law books and the biographies. "Okay," I say. "Okay?" "Yes. I will read it." "Now?" "Now." --- We go inside. Damon walks to the study. He opens the drawer. He takes out the notebook. Blue. Leather. The pages are worn. The spine is cracked. He has read it and reread it and read it again. He hands it to me. His hands are shaking.

She gets up and goes to get her breakfast. Valentina opens the eighteenth notebook to the first page — the one she just started, the one that says: Sixty-one. The right depth. She adds below it: Noa, November, fifteen years old. 'They reach inward instead of outward.' The whole argument for the fourth book, in one sentence. The annual review, complete. The eighteenth notebook, begun. The right depth. Always.

I lеt out a lоng уаwn, lаѕt night had bееn amazing tо hаng оut, but I was ѕtіll overly tіrеd. “Oh аm I kееріng уоu uр?” he mосkеd аnd I gіgglеd. “Sorry, wе wеrе wаtсhіng Thе Notebook tіll nеаrlу twо. Elijah watched іt wіth uѕ аnd met the gіrlѕ. He hаd a blаѕt. Hе’ѕ соmіng tо ѕее us at thе еnd оf thе mоnth ѕо we’re all еxсіtеd about thаt.”

He didn't like the idea of eating naked. Tiffany was finishing making their turkey sandwiches in the kitchen. On the table was her purple covered, spiral notebook. Ben noticed it was different from the one they normally used. He sat and opened the cover. In it, he saw his mom's perfect handwriting. Several titles were underlined with what appeared to be summaries under them. She had at least ten outlines. As he was about to read the first, the notebook was quickly snatched from his hands and carried to the other side of the table.

“First of all, you cried during ‘The Notebook’. Don’t deny it.” “I had allergies,” I said, deadpan. There was no way I was going to admit to him that ‘The Notebook’ was one of the best romance movies ever made, and only someone with a heart of stone would have watched that movie without shedding a tear. “Right. Allergies… from your eyes leaking. You’re such a terrible liar.” He smirked, turning back to the TV. “Fine. How about action? Something loud enough to annoy the neighbors, but still has a plot?”

"I was twenty-nine and I had met someone on the night bus and had a series of conversations that stayed with me when the person was gone. And I wrote it down the only way I could." Daniel looked at the dark blue notebook on the table. He thought about the twenty-nine year old Adrian and the four months on the night bus and the composition written in the year of it. He thought about all the years between twenty-nine and the rainy night, the nine years of the carrying, and the composition in the notebook all that time — the inside view of the recognition, preserved. He thought: the notebook is not February. The notebook is the kept thing. The thing held in the honest container, not hidden, not

"People I should have protected instead." Noah looked at the notebook. "You did not make it about the consequences to yourself," he said. A notation, not a compliment. "No," I said. "Last time you did not either." He wrote something. "That is consistent." Something moved in my chest. This child was conducting the most thorough and honest audit of my character anyone had ever attempted, with a notebook and a hot chocolate, with more rigour and less agenda than any board member or journalist or lawyer I had ever sat across from.

But something else, something quieter and more dangerous, said something different. He turned the notebook around and pushed it toward her. She leaned forward and read. He watched her face as she did, the way her eyes moved across the page, the small line that appeared between her brows when she was concentrating. She read for a full minute without speaking. Then she looked up. "Leo. This is, this is actually really good." "It's just rough notes," he said, pulling it back.