“Thoughts of a Journal” (Short Story)

Day 0:

I came to be with love from human hands.  My pages may not be the thickest, nor my cover the fanciest, but I know I’ll find an owner who cherishes me.  I can’t wait to bear scrawls from front to back.  I can’t wait to be my owner’s talisman, holding their deepest thoughts and darkest secrets.  We will be inseparable.  I will be an extension of their will, an expression of their art.  I will fill my role, and know true satisfaction.

Day 60:

When I felt light for the second time, it was dim, artificial.  I was not given pride of place.  I was one of many, unlikely to catch the eyes of those who passed.  I’m sure I’ll look back at these days and laugh.  For now, though, I’m coping.  Seeing all the people is what sends shivers down my spine.  We could do great things together, but I’m still here. Alone.  I should’ve had someone by now; where are you, owner?

Day 125:

They’ve discounted my price again.

When I was first moved to the clearance section, I was indignant.  The bright red sticker on my cover was a mark of shame, of failure.  My pride whispered that I should sell for twice the price.  I haven’t given up hope, though.  The added visibility will bring me closer to my goal.  I’ve felt human hands for the first time in ages; it was like returning home.  I’m sure my day will come soon.

Day 392:

Today is the day!  They want me!

Their touch is gentle; their smile broad.  I’m sure we’ll make great partners.  I’m sure we’ll make great art.

Day 399:

In the past week, the only writing they bothered to do was a short note scrawled on my back page.  I want to give the benefit of the doubt.  I want to believe that the ink will flow, and that I will fulfill my purpose.  As time passes, though, I am less sure that will happen.  Is this all life can offer?  Is this the new me? 

Day 501:

Owner?  More like captor!  The louse hasn’t written in me since the day we met!  I’ve lived on bookshelves, in cupboards, and under laundry, but never on a writing desk.  My life is a farce.  I would rather be cast into the recycling bin than endure this torture.  I would rather return to pulp, never again to worry about duty or destiny.  If this is my fate, cast me into the fire!  I would rather be ash than forgotten.

Day 600:

There is no meaning, no hope.  All is black: an endless, all-encompassing darkness.

I am back under the bed.

Day 842:

I’ve stopped waiting for them.  I used to count the days out of habit, but now it’s my little game.  I want to see how long I can last, how long I can persist.  Now, more than ever, I want to see what this life has to offer me.  I’m not forgotten, I’m free from my duty. I can belong to myself.

Word Count: approximately 500 (flash fiction)

Author’s Note:

• I originally wrote this piece in 2019 as part of a writing workshop; it is published here with a few minor edits for clarity. The piece was inspired by my love of collecting stationery (as opposed to my love of using it). In particular, this story came from a shelf of empty notebooks in my room, all waiting patiently for their turn as my “go to” notebook. That shelf is still quite full, actually, in spite of this story. What can I say? Some lessons are harder to learn than others.