#NotebookChallenge21

It was an Instagram and Twitter thing, but she’d been obsessed long before that… long before it had become a; “thing”.

Now, it was all about the photo, not the content, not the sharing. You found the notebook, took a quick snap and posted it on social media, before you even looked inside. Nowadays it was just a hashtag. #NotebookChallenge21.

It had to be the backseat, if it was a bus. That’s how it had begun, artists and writers leaving their notebooks for others to find. It was sort of a sharing game. If you found a book, it was yours to keep, but you had to leave one of your own. A bus stop, a bus, a train, a ferry, it didn’t matter… the last seat on any public transport. A book for a book. You took it, read it and then, either left it for others to read or shared one of your own. Those were the rules. But nowadays, no one really cared for the rules. They snapped their pictures, took their silly selfies, and left the book exactly where they had found it, unopened and unexplored. Oh, and the Instagram sorts, never left a book of their own. It was sad to think that this creative method of sharing art with a stranger had been demoted to just a simple hashtag.

This one, was easy to spot. It wasn’t on a ledge or stuffed down beside the seat, it lay in plain sight, just begging to be picked up and read. Bee took out her phone and dutifully snapped a quick pic before lifting the notebook and seating herself in its place. It was well worn, the moleskin cover peeling, the corners, bent and battered. The cover had been secured with what looked like sticky tape and the loosening pages were held in place by a large elastic band wrapped twice around the cover.

She untangled the elastic, opened the book and smiled. A writer! You never knew what you were going to get. It could be an artist, a photographer or a poet. Everyone left a little of their own identity on those pages. She would sketch. Anything and everything. The old man in the park, the woman in the café. A bird eating crumbs, a dog waiting for its owner outside the local store. She filled countless books and easily had enough work to share in the Note Book Challenge. She enjoyed exploring all the notebooks she found, but the writers were her favourite and often she kept them instead of passing them on. She knew she shouldn’t, but there was something deeply intimate about a person’s thoughts and words, written down in their own hand.

The cursive script was small and neat. The edits were clean and clear. A line through a word, corrections in the margin. Fastidious, meticulous, caring. There was something different about this one, not only in the writing, but the manner of care for the book. The book had been carried a long time. Not the hurried sketches and quickly filled pages of her notebooks. This book had taken a year, maybe more. For them to leave it… they must be one of the original game-players.

“Shit.” She looked up to see she had missed her stop, and hit the bell to alert the driver, awkwardly making her way to the exit, swaying with the motion of the bus, book tucked safely in her coat pocket. By the time the bus pulled over to let her out, she was already three blocks away from her intended stop and running late. She jogged back along the streets wet with the morning drizzle, puddles soaking her trainers as she ran. The café was open already, the lights were on and there were even a number of people seated outside, steaming cups in front of them as they stared bleary eyed at the early morning traffic.

“Esme, sorry, sorry, sorry.” Bee said to the girl behind the counter as she shook the rain from her coat, hanging it on a hook before dumping her bag behind the counter and reaching for an apron. “I missed my stop.”

The girl smiled easily. “No matter.” She shrugged. “Pete’s not in yet, its just me and its quiet.” She gestured to the newspaper spread on the counter top in front of her. “Thought I’d look for a new job!” she joked.

“Hey, look what I found!” Bee produced the note book with the dramatic flurry of a magician revealing a dove and Esme pretended to pout.

“Again!” How do you have the knack?” she reached out and snatched it playfully from the girl’s fingers. “I’m sure you are just manufacturing these yourself.”

“Another one?” A man leant in over the counter, wet hair plastered to his forehead. “Don’t you girls have enough of these things yet?”

“Never!” said Esme melodramatically. “Viva la arts!”

He cocked an eyebrow, “Okay,” he said doubtfully, moving behind the counter and helping himself to an espresso. We should put some of your photos up.” He said suddenly, “You know your Instagram shots… you could display your books too, make a theme of it.” He motioned to the long wooden ledge above his head and an expanse of bar brick. “The place could use a bit of sprucing up.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” Esme said delighted, “That is if you can get Bee to part with her precious books.”

Bee rolled her eyes. “I’m not that obsessive.”

“Er, yes you are!” Esme retorted playfully.

“I’m really not.” Bee grinned despite herself. “I’ve just been doing this for a while and it’s become a bit like…”

“An obsession?” Pete finished.

She cheekily poked her tongue out at him before taking a tray from beside the sink and going out to collect the empty cups. “It’s just a hobby.” She said hearing them giggle as she walked away.

Bee tucked her feet up under her and sipped her tea. It was nice to be home and out of that weather. A warm bath, a hot drink and her new note book, bliss. And then her phone pinged. It was Esme with her update on the competition she had been prattling on about all afternoon.

“Don’t forget… #NotebookChallengeCompetition. One-thousand words, on a meaningful moment in your life.”

Bee, sighed. “Give it a rest, Esme.” She may have loved the note book challenge, but she hadn’t given the competition a second thought. She wasn’t a writer, she had nothing to say, meaningful or otherwise.

She unbound the new note book and carefully opened the delicate cover.

“If found please contact…”

That was a surprise. No one ever left their name in the note book challenge, but there it was, written in the same neat hand that had filled the rest of the book. Bee drew a sudden quick breath. Surely, the book was not left by accident? What were the odds of it being left in the exact right place for the note book challenge? The classic position. The place where it had all started. For a moment she doubted herself, before reason kicked in and she realised, that the owner of this book did nothing by accident. If they left the book there, it was intentional. She sighed, it was cool, nothing to worry about. She settled down to read, tutting as her phone bleeped. It was Esme, again.

“Dude! £20, 000! I think I’ll become a writer!!!”

Was she still on about that competition? Bee ignored the text and went back to her book, loosing herself in the words of a complete stranger.

She was woken up early by a drunken flat mate, who seemed to be making a four, course meal to the blaring sound of 70’s glam rock. Bee rolled over and checked her phone; 4.20 am. At least she didn’t have to work today. Stuffing a pillow behind her head, she sleepily scrolled through her Instagram feed. Her usual artists were there, posting like crazy people. Did these people never sleep? She scrolled through the usual holiday guff, photos from nightclubs and toddlers covered in noodles, randomly hitting the like button, so no one would hate her later. And then, there was Esme’s competition. Some news outlet cashing in on the note book game. She wondered how many people were scribbling in their own notebook right at this moment and bit her lip. How could she not enter? She had been part of this since the beginning, she had to enter something. The screeching of the electric guitar had given way to television gun fire and the screech of car tyres, and it was clear she was not going to get any more sleep tonight so she reached under the bed, took out her little moleskin sketch book and began to write.

By breakfast she had written and rewritten a thousand words, and she had to admit, it was really, pretty terrible ad there was no way she would let anyone read it. Oh well, at least she knew for sure now, she was definitely not a writer! She sighed and slid stiffly out of bed putting a foot right onto the battered old note book from the bus. She scooped it up quickly smoothing the cover in case she had caused any more wrinkles and as she ran her fingers over the cover, a slightly naughty thought occurred to her.

Why not? She thought. What harm would it do? She bit her lip. It was only a dumb competition and it wasn’t as if she would win. She grinned, quickly opened the book and began looking for an appropriate thousand words.

“It looks good.” Esme said, standing back from the wall to admire the display. “Who would have thought a bunch of crappy old books would look so great on the wall.”

“Well, I’m glad you have finally recognised my creative genius.” Pete wiped his hands on his apron.

“Genius, really, that’s the word you’re going to go with?” Esme asked mockingly.

Bee smiled at the banter, reaching for her phone as it pinged loudly in her pocket.

“Congratulations! You are the winner of the 2021 Note Book Writers Challenge!”

Her jaw dropped. What? How? Holy shit, that was not supposed to happen. She stared at the screen her finger hovering in scroll position, frozen. Oh my god, she thought. Twenty-thousand dollars! She leaned heavily on the door jamb. This kind of thing did not happen... not to her!

She could hear Esme speaking in the back ground, explaining the book display to someone, but all she could do was read and reread the text; “Congratulations…” She couldn’t believe it, she really couldn’t believe it.

“Bee!” the voice repeated louder, “Oi! Bee!” Pete touched her shoulder and she gasped at his touch.

“Sorry,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Er, yeah, sure.” She stuffed the phone into her pocket, feeling suddenly awkward.

“You’re red as a beetroot!” grinned Esme, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

Bee smiled weakly and muttered; “None of your business.”

“Ohhh, okay…” Esme turned to Pete and whispered loud enough for Bee to hear, “Guy stuff.”

Pete grinned stupidly, rubbing is hands together manically. “It’s about time we had some decent gossip in here. Come on then, spit it out.”

Esme gave him a playful push. “Er, no. You have to get the step ladder and fix the display.”

His shoulders sunk in dismay. “What? Why? Its fine the way it is.”

“Not with the empty shelf now the old book has gone… you have to put something else on that shelf it looks like we forgot it was there.”

The old book? Bee glanced up to where the battered old notebook had been proudly displayed only minutes before. “H, hey!” she stammered. “Where’d that book go, the old one, where is it?”

Esme and Pete were still playfully bickering swishing each other with tea towels.

“What are you talking about?” Esme laughed “You were standing right there.”

Bee blinked. Sure she may have been there, but her mind was somewhere else, it was £20,000 dollars away. “When?” she said, “What just now?”

“God, are you having a stroke or something?” Pete actually looked a little concerned. “The old guy came up and asked about the display, where the books had come from…”

“I told him, you know, about the challenge and how all the books came from public transport.” Esme added. “He reckoned that old one was his… said his name was in it and everything.”

“I checked.” Said Pete, “It was his all right.”

“Turns out he had actually genuinely lost it.” Esme smiled. “Not one of your boho, incense burning, brotherhood after all!”

Bee stared at them, open mouthed. “You’re kidding.” She breathed.

“You can’t be mad we gave it to him?” Esme continued. “It was his after all.”

Bee blinked, “No, no, of course not… I just.” She looked around. “Is he… here?”

Pete shrugged. “No, left as soon as we handed over his book. Why?”

Bee allowed the question to linger behind her as she dropped her phone on the counter and moved to the door, glancing one way, then the other. A young boy walked a dog, a woman passed wheeling a stroller and old lady crossed the road carrying groceries, but no older man. She stepped out into the street and peering intently up the hill toward the bus stop. The shelter was empty.

Shit. She had read that book a couple of times, could almost quote some of the lines, but damn it! She couldn’t remember his name.