The Lost Journal

There I was, sitting around. I’d be smiling if I had a face.

I was sitting on a shelf in the corner of a dimly lit room. I was friends with the other forgotten and dusty items here.

I was brought to life after the little girl that lived here wished upon a star. I can’t speak like the enchanted toy bear next to me, but I can watch. I was granted the ability to see everything through the eyes the little girl had drawn on my cover. And I can make words magically appear on my pages.

Despite this, we were now both abandoned and collecting dust. Life was looking dismal and bleak.

I am a worn-out, leather-bound glossy papered journal. My former owner, an adorable girl named Meara, had been faithfully entering her day to day activities for years. Being magical, I’d always create new pages for her. That is, until she became more interested in boys then me!

Now, I lay abandoned, misplaced, wishing I could see my own shooting star. I’d wish for her to be an excited little girl again, and to stay that way forever, and she’d continue to write in my pages every day. I’d even respond, magically putting words and advice on my pages, giving her advice on all her issues, just like the good old days.

As time continued to pass, I listened to the muffled sounds of footsteps and laughter that drifted through her room. I watched her make out with boy after boy, promising each of them a lifetime of loyalty just to satisfy her concupiscence, lecherous desires for coitos, then abandoning them after a week or two when she’d get bored, just like she abandoned me after years of writing and pretending to be a forever friend. Now she was a pretentious little brat and I hated her. I could empathize with those poor boys. They trusted Meara and she stabbed them in the back. She was a mutinous traitor, a soul stealing pirate, a treasonous instigator of false love turned anger, a crusher of hearts, a breaker of trust. Why wish upon a star for magical items if your only going to forget about them?

I remained unseen, completely ignored. The amount of dust I was collecting was just depressing.

I yearned for Meara’s presence, her hands once again gently writing on my now worn pages, the pen gently massaging its ink into my papyrus, and to once again be trusted with her secrets. But she never wrote in me again. Then she moved. I was still on the dusty old shelf. How could she just leave me here? I felt so betrayed.

I continued to sit on my shelf and collect dust as a family of mice scurried about, making a cozy nest in a corner. They tried to nibble on me once, but the toy bear sitting next to me yelled and scared them away. Spiders spun their webs, threading and weaving intricate patterns around me. The air grew musty, carrying the scent of old wood. The smell began to remind me of my ever growing misery. Will anyone ever talk to me again, write in my pages and allow me to respond. The bear next to me knew I could respond, but he couldn’t move to write in my pages, his only ability was he could speak. He could at least talk to me. Damn you, stupid talking stuffed bear, don’t you know how lonely I am.

“Talk to me,” I’d write on my pages. If only he could lean over and read them.

Months went by. It was depressing that Meara would never return. But I had a shimmer of hope when a new girl moved in. The door swung open.

A young girl, not much older than Meara had been when she first started writing, entered the room. She started looking around everywhere with her oversized glasses and a smile larger then life.

Her name was Cora, and she had recently moved into the old house.

Cora didn’t notice me at first, always reading books or playing chess against herself. She was a loner, like me.

One day, she saw me, took me off the shelf, blew the dust off my cover and started reading my pages.

“Oh cool, Meara’s old journal,” she said a loud. She knew Meara. I hope she didn’t forget about me like Meara did.

After she finished reading all the entries, I wrote words on a new blank page I created. I wrote, “I can talk. Ask or write anything and I’ll respond, just like I did with your friend Meara.”

“That’s weird…” she muttered.

I wrote back a response.

“No, not weird at all. Meara wished upon a star that her journal and toys were enchanted. Now I can respond,” I wrote.

“I see. Well, if I need any advice from a journal, I’ll let you know,” Cora said. I drew a smiley face on the page.

She put me back on the shelf she found me and promised to return. Weeks went by, though, and she didn’t so much as give me a second look. No, not again.

“Don’t worry, journal, someone will talk to us eventually,” the bear said. Too bad the bear couldn’t read my pages, we could make some good conversation.

Months had passed, and the bear and I were still collecting dust. Then one night, I heard the bear say, “oh look a shooting star. I wish me and the journal could move and walk.”

Paper arms and legs grew out of me, and I slowly figured out how to use them and I turned to the toy bear to see him dancing.

“You did it, you gave us freedom,” I wrote on my pages. The bear read what I said.

“I sure did,” the bear said and smiled. We looked down at the shelf to see Cora sleeping below.

“Time to get even,” I wrote on my pages. The bear smiled and nodded in agreement.

We snuck into the kitchen. Meara used to write about all the delicious meals her mother made her there. Next wish, I’ll wish for a mouth to eat with. Food sounds fun.

We grabbed kitchen knives and snuck back upstairs.

The bear started shaking Cora and calling her name until she woke up.

“Time to die, Cora,” the toy bear said in a deep scary voice. She sat up and screamed and jumped out of bed, and all the bear could stab was Cora’s pillow, sending feathers to fly everywhere.

“Why are you doing this? Aren’t toys supposed to be friendly?” She asked.

“Not when we’re ignored,” the bear said and smiled with only the left half of his fuzzy mouth, bearing his plastic teeth.

“I’m sorry. I promise to play with you,” Cora said, tears now dripping from her eyes.

“Too late,” bear said and lurched forward, waving the knife in the air. Cora ran away before bear could kill her.

“Good job,” I said sarcastically and followed the bear downstairs.

Her parents were sitting adjacent to the fireplace.

“Mom, Dad, an evil bear and walking journal are after me,” she screamed.

“Darling, your twelve, don’t you think your a little to old for these games?” Cora’s father asked.

Bear cleared his throat and her parents slowly turned around.

“This is no game, sir. You should always believe your child, no matter how obscure the story,” bear said.

Her mom and dad screamed.

“Ha ha ha,” I wrote on my pages, then the bear and I lurched forward and decapitated the parents. “NO! Mommy, Daddy!” Cora screamed. Bear smiled and Cora slowly backed away.

“You’re next,” bear growled and ran behind Cora while I stood where I was to keep Cora from running.

Bear thrust the knife into Cora’s leg, and she fell over. We then put her into the fireplace, just like Hansel and Gretel did to the witch.

When Cora was done screaming, we tossed the parents in too!

I turned to face bear so he could read my pages, and I wrote, “we should find that brat Meara and do the same to her.”

Bear smiled.