Breeze's journal is an orange composition notebook with squiggles and swirls drawn in permanent marker on the front. She mostly fills it with the things she dares not tell her friends. Crushes, feelings, grudged, the lot. It'd sure be a juicy book to get ahold of!

It's a small, but thick, brown notebook, about the size of a 400-page paperback. The binding is coming apart a bit, and the corners are worn, but overall it isn't in bad condition. On the inside cover, his name has been written in small, spikey handwriting. The rest of the book is full of months of this same cramped writing, occasional doodles here and there, and little notes from other people every so often. Steven's tiny writing seems to fill the book without rhyme or reason; short stories are taken up and dropped off at random points; notes are added along the margins; some pages are devoted entirely to fragmented thoughts about stories to be written, classes to be taught, songs to be composed, and anything else he feels he needs to write down. Throughout the book, most pages are dominated by impromptu musical staff paper, filled with scraps from tunes he is composing. On the inside back cover, in slightly messier font, as if written on a sudden impulse, are the words, "I'm a fermata. Hold me."

It's really nothing special. A black notebook, a bit torn up around the edges from getting tossed around. Pretty much what you would expect if you were about to go to school, 170 sheets of simple, white lined paper. Though there are a few extras the have been slipped in here and there. On the covers, there's Jocelyn's name and other random scribbles and drawing with a silver Sharpie. The most reoccurring is a little robots, arms torn off but a big smile on his face that she has affectionately named Smiley Bot. It's rare that there is anything written in pencil in there. Either pen, or even thin Sharpie.

Charliee's journal is a simple composition notebook with 200 pages in it. The 200 pages work out well though, because he writes fairly small and continues every entry underneath the previous, even if it's on the same page. His handwriting looks somewhat like it should be graffiti, and most of his letters were squared instead of rounded. The cover of the notebook is in a checkered pattern, but Charliee took the time to color in every other square different colors. On the last row of white squares he managed to fit C-H-A-R-L-I-E-E in them, one letter per white square. A few of the pages on the inside were ripped, and there were plenty of loose papers hanging from his journal, but hey. At least the notebook is holding up for him to write in it.

The journal is a small, spiral notebook with a blue cover. On the front is a little black box with an indigo sailboat on it. The pages are mostly blank because it was purchased (for half price) only a week ago. There is no locking mechanism. Who would want to read what Penny has to say?

Its a fairly small hard-backed journal. The color is black with a few pink and white swirls and dots on it. There is no lock but string attatched to the outside which you can pull over it so it doesn't accidently fall open. She bought it at the airport when she arrived in New York as she felt it might be easier to rebuild her life if she wrote everything down. It now resides beside her bed in a drawer, only coming out at night when she lies in bed and writes about her day.

She's got a regular 180 page red spiral note-book that you could buy from Kroger or Wal-mart for a journal. Except it's not like what you could buy at the store, her journal's front if covered in lines of black electrical tape. Completely covering every once of red on the front cover, which is starting toa hang for its like on the spiral cord holding it together. The back cover is completely hidden away with newspaper clippings, ranging from a picture of her at her first gig, to the story about her father. Owner of the country-wide AT&T's death, pictures of her mother, her and her brother weeping at the funeral. To just random new events that meant something to her. The first 20 or so pages are filled with journal entries, to poetry, to songs. She usually keeps it hidden away from wandering eyes, under her matress, just because her entries do have some very private things.

It's not too small and it's not too big either. It's about the size of a small notebook. The black cover is nice and shiny and new on account of Evan just bought it a few days ago. The cover is leather, fake of course, and has little lines dug into it making it look a little like black aligator skin? Don't know, it just looks cool. There's a lock and only Evan knows where the key is of course. The pages inside have that old look to it, the kind of look you get when you take a wet tea bag and blotch it over a piece of paper. He thought it would be a good idea to start writing in it for refrence in a couple of years.

It was simple. Nothing big. Just something that she got when she was eight and her parents decided she would like a diary. She wrote in it everyday, faithfully describing her day's adventures. It was her way of keeping her sane. She kept her brown leather journal next to her all her life.

Simple, one of the many she has started over her life and one of the few times she had kept it instead of throwing it out. It is black, just black. A small bit of silver decoration on the binding slowly weaves its way up in a curling smoke like design. Inside the pages are a tanish color, like old paper. It is old but she never really wrote in it. A single pen it on the inside of it, in a small loop of elastic. The pen is also black, but it seems like a lot for just a pen. On the first page is a simple poem, just a poem that she wrote.

"It's about the size of a smalll notebook with an Irish knot on the front, a gift from her parent's before Aidan left Ireland to come to the U S of A. The cover and back are hard covers and the pages inside are rough edged, thick white lined paper, giving the brown journal a rustic look. Because this journal doesn't have a lock on it, doesn't mean that anyone can sneak a peek. God bless your soul if Aidan ever catches you reading it."

"The tattered book is quite fat, from Maddie adding things, glueing things to pages, and it just keeps getting bigger. Pages are falling out, papers are stuck in there, pictures are glued in and on the thing, and it's got about every known fact about Maddie's life in i.t The girl has confined everything to this book. She started it when she met Ben. This book has learnt all about her pregnancy, all the things she did with Ben, all the time she spent in the hospital over Ben dieing, and all her feelings for this new guy. Man, this thing has gone through a lot. It's been a year now since she pulled the old thing out, why is it out again?"

It's about the size of a regular book, but not as thick. It entire outside is red paper (like a paperback book) and looks slightly distressed. The front has a golden windmill design. No locks, no spiral binding. The inner pages are lined and contain ornate-looking watermarks. Always clipped to the front are two pens: one black ink and one silver ink (the black ink is for normal entries, silver is for special occasions). If you didn't know it was a journal, you would mistake it for a regular book. This is why she keeps it hidden from everyone but her.

It's a small pink journal. About 3/4 the size of a normal notebook. It's pink with white strips on it. No lock. Spirals on the side with a blue pen clipped to it. She has just bought it June 24th. The pages are nice, lined, not on the back though.

The large sized journal is literally hanging by it's last thread. It's one of those old fashion composition notebooks where the books are actually threaded together. It's pretty cool, but needs lots of care, or it just might fall apart on you. The black and white book has got many scribbles on the front from her and her grandmother. Ah yes it sounds weird, but actually before Kendel's grandmother passed away she gave Kenny all her journals. Including this one which hadn't even been filled in half way. Now it is Kenny's most prized possession.

A simple notebook, the red cover grasping for life at the metal binding. The top corner is a bit singed and burnt, from a cigarette no doubt, and half the wafer-thin pages are missing or sticking out the sides. It's filled with psuedo-philosophical ramblings of a man high on pot, with the occasional sober remark here and there, all in the form of Alan's chickenscratch, I-failed-fourth-grade-penmanship writing.