Welcome to Penny’s Diary, a contemporary urban-fantasy serial. Read new diary entries every Thursday. Supporting readers can also access a weekly Writer’s Commentary, along with immersive audio and eBook editions, after each entry.
Penny’s Diary stands on its own—but this world holds more stories, waiting when you’re ready.
I’m Penny Summers, and let me set the record straight—I don’t write diaries. Like, seriously, who has time for that? But here I am, breaking my own rule and scribbling in this flowery diary Mom stuffed in my stocking like a last-minute Christmas afterthought. Little did I know my world was about to flip upside down in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Buckle up—this is gonna be a wild ride.
Monday, January 5, 2026
First-Day Disaster Energy
Picture this: just another “normal” January morning in Meridia Falls. Seriously, this town’s weather has mood swings worse than a reality show contestant. But on this shockingly almost-normal morning, I grabbed my hat, coat, and gloves because it was freezing out there.
Skateboarding to school was a breeze, as usual. I flew down the street like a pro—but it’s like I’m invisible to everyone. Not that I mind. Being a sixteen-year-old nobody is kind of my thing.
Subscribe to receive new diary entries straight to your inbox each week as the story unfolds.
Ketchup Catastrophe Chronicles
And this is where the day officially derailed.
But of course, life’s got to stir up some Drama. I opened my locker, and boom—ketchup explosion all over me. Like, who even thinks of setting up a ketchup balloon catapult in someone’s locker? Naturally, it had to be Candy Steele—the Queen of Mean herself. She’s got the looks, I’ll give her that, but underneath the lip gloss and fake lashes? Total nightmare.
Candy and her posse were losing it, laughing their butts off while recording my humiliation. Ugh. The audacity. I fought back the tears, even though it stung like hell. I swore I’d never cry in front of anyone again after that elementary school meltdown.
I bolted to the bathroom and scrubbed off the ketchup stench like my life depended on it.
I just wanted an escape.
To be someone else for once.
Even my bestie Teddy Chen was nowhere to be found—he and his family were in Halifax for one of his little sister Kelly’s audiology checkups. I usually go with them, but this one got bumped onto a school day after a last-minute cancellation, and there was no way I could skip too.
Kelly’s deaf, so we sign with her, and she likes having me there to translate the car jokes she can’t lip-read. Her ASL is lightning fast; mine is… let’s call it “earnest but chaotic.”
She’s the only person on earth who can make Teddy look slow.
Existential Homework Hour
First-day schedule: homeroom with Mr. Gale, then straight into Math with Mr. Matheson (yeah, I know—ironic). Nothing like equations taught by a guy who literally sounds like he invented them. By third period, Media Studies with Mr. Lefevre had me silently thanking the universe for electives that actually make sense.
After lunch came English with Miss Rivers, who was on her usual crusade for poetic souls. Her first words of the semester? “We’ll be exploring literary themes and how they shape who we become.” Great. Just what I needed—existential homework. Apparently we’ll be reading stuff from “different cultures and eras,” which sounds suspiciously like code for more Shakespeare.
By the time Drama rolled around at the end of the day, Miss Rivers (because she moonlights as our theatre queen too) was already auditioning half the class for the spring play. I stayed in the back row, quietly counting the minutes until freedom.
First day back and I’m already over it.
Scratch that—the week.
Actually, make it the whole year.
Mom vs. Freedom (Round 1)
I got home and, shocker, Mom was waiting at the door with her usual speech queued up—something about her fancy spa friends coming over and me staying out of sight.
Then she told me to shower so I wouldn’t “stink up her dinner party.” Classic. Because nothing says “welcome home” like a hygiene critique.
I cleaned up, changed, and risked the kitchen for a sandwich—only to find her halfway through a glass of wine and already judging my outfit. According to her, I should “try dressing decently for once” or, better yet, “at least wear more makeup so I don’t look like someone she has to hide.”
So yeah, that went well.
I grabbed my skateboard and told her I was heading out. Cue the full-name treatment and the usual jab about Gramps being an “old fool.” That did it. I told her he’s been a better parent than she’s ever tried to be—and I meant it.
I left before she could respond. Guilt tried to follow me out the door, but freedom was faster. Each push down the street peeled off the day like dead skin. Just me, the board, and the cold air—finally quiet.
Maybe freedom’s just another kind of running away.
But right now, I’ll take it.
Revenge Served Cold
I was on a roll, skating down Main Street toward the Meridian Cinema—aka Gramps’s place and my unofficial second home—when—bam!—someone stepped out of Lavish Couture Boutique. Trash can collision, strawberry milkshake airborne, and me? Flat on the pavement. Classic Penny Summers moment.
And the universe clearly has a sense of humor, because the milkshake’s new home? Candy Steele’s perfect face. The rest of the Candy Gang poured out of the shop—Kaelyn, Jemma, Ellie, and Candy’s stepsister, Marilyn Moreau, Miss Teen Canada herself.
Marilyn cracked a “pink highlights, anyone?” joke, and I nearly lost it.
Candy didn’t.
While her fury switched targets, I grabbed my skateboard and bolted—brown hair, purple highlights, and all—straight for the only safe place left: the Meridian.
Gramps was knee-deep in post-holiday cleanup and renovation—he’s turning the old place into a movie-themed restaurant. He was humming an old tune like he didn’t have a care in the world.
I offered to help, which of course went about as well as you’d expect.
(Translation: “Can you take these boxes down to the basement for me?”)
The Diaries Behind the Vent
Fast-forward to me in the basement, “organizing” boxes, which really meant creating chaos. I knocked one off a shelf, and out spilled a pile of old Christmas cards. One envelope was addressed to me—unopened, old, dusty, and weirdly specific. So, obviously, I opened it.
Inside was this old-school typed letter, the kind that looks like it belongs in a detective movie or some cold-case file. The font was all uneven, like it came from a cranky typewriter with attitude. And the message? Straight-up treasure-hunt instructions, telling me to check my secret hiding place. Stamped at the bottom was a small red eye—maybe a doodle, maybe a code, or just someone’s idea of being dramatic.
Curiosity: 1. Common sense: 0.
So I went upstairs to the only place I could remember ever calling that—the AC vent in my room, which I’d used when I was a kid. Sure enough, behind it was a stack of five green diaries, wrapped together with ribbon. I picked up the first one and touched the page, just like the letter had instructed—and everything changed.
A rush of memories crashed into me. Mine, but not mine. Familiar, yet off, like someone had edited my life and forgotten to tell me. It wasn’t normal memory recall—it hit like a shockwave, sharp and bright, almost like… some weird kind of magic. Not fairy-dust magic. More like what-the-heck-just-happened magic.
And it hurt. A bright, stabbing headache bloomed behind my eyes, like my brain short-circuited trying to make room for memories I didn’t remember making. For a second, it felt like I’d stepped sideways into another version of my own life, and I couldn’t tell which parts were real anymore.
By the time I finally skateboarded home, Mom’s dinner party was still in full swing—laughter, clinking glasses, the usual networking symphony. I crept upstairs before she could spot me and flopped onto my bed, head still spinning.
Sleep? Not happening. And not because of the noise drifting through the floorboards. My brain felt like it had been picked up, shaken, and dropped in another decade.
If this is what a “new chapter” feels like, I’d like a refund.
Tuesday, January 6, 2026
Dream Logic and Nightmares
Oh, you won’t believe the dream I had last night. I was in this creepy cave—pitch-black except for a faint light way off in the distance. Obviously, I had to follow it. The ground turned to water, icy and shallow, and my socks were instantly soaked.
When I reached the light, I saw my reflection in the water. Only it wasn’t me now—it was little-kid me staring back. Freaky, right?
I tried to call out, but instead of words, a bone-chilling scream echoed back. That’s what yanked me awake—heart pounding, drenched in sweat, like I’d run a marathon in my sleep.
Maybe it’s just my brain glitching after finding those diaries—filling my head with memories I don’t even remember making. Still, that scream stuck with me while I got ready for another fun-filled day at school. Not.
Social Survival Studies
First period was Gym with Miss Moore—code for “mandatory humiliation.” Then History with Mr. Jefferson, whose voice could lull caffeine to sleep.
Obviously, I did my best to steer clear of Candy and her cronies. Guess the milkshake’s food coloring didn’t vibe with her peroxide—her hair’s still blushing pink. Not that I’m complaining. Small victories.
Lunch was the usual chaos, made better by Teddy and a pack of M&Ms. I filled him in on Candy’s latest antics, and he dropped a bomb—someone posted a TikTok of the ketchup-catapult disaster. Great. The internet never forgets.
We’ve been thick as thieves since junior high, ever since his family moved here from across the pond. People love to assume there’s more to it, but nope—it’s strictly platonic. Besties only.
I told him I wanted to hang out at the Meridian tonight. The mysterious letter I found said not to involve family, but it didn’t say anything about best friends. Still, I figured I’d wait to show him the diaries before trying to explain—because “Hey, my childhood journals are possibly magical” sounds like the start of a breakdown, not a conversation.
Unfortunately, print-shop life waits for no one. His parents run the place near Maple Shore, and there’s always some last-minute client in crisis. Tonight was no exception. Teddy had to bail and help with a big order—even Kelly got dragged in to stack paper or something—so we pushed it to the weekend instead. I get it—duty calls.
Consider it a reschedule, not a rain check.
I just hope he’s as pumped about this mystery as I am.
Déjà Vu with a French Accent
French with Mrs. Leblanc came first after lunch. At least it was entertaining. She talks like every word should be in a perfume commercial, and half the class just nods like we understand. I don’t, but at least I can fake an accent.
By the time Media Studies rolled around with Mr. Lefevre, my brain had completely checked out. He’s cool though—always talking about “visual storytelling” like we’re Spielberg or something. I just nod and doodle storyboards of my escape from here—school, the town, everything. But every time my mind drifted, that dream crept back—the shimmer of light, the echo that wasn’t mine. Like it’s waiting for me to remember something I shouldn’t.
After school I kept my head down, dodged Candy’s death glare, and tried not to think about the scream in the water.
Spoiler: I failed.
Wednesday, January 7, 2026
Drama by Design
Ah, Drama class—the one oasis of entertainment in the desert of afternoon lessons. Today was all about the grand spectacle: Spellbound Harmony. Yep, that’s really what they’re calling it. Mi’kmaq folklore, witches, and dragons mashed into a musical. Who comes up with this stuff?
Roles were handed out like free candy on Halloween, and guess where I landed? Backstage baby—set design and props. No center stage for me, thank you very much. I prefer my chaos without an audience. Let the spotlight-hungry divas handle the meltdowns.
And speaking of divas, guess who snagged the lead? Marilyn Moreau—Miss Teen Canada herself and, of course, Candy Steele’s stepsister. Because naturally, perfection runs in the family. One hair flip and bam, she’s the star. Privilege must come with a season pass. Poor Harper Martin, though—she practically tap-danced through flaming hoops to land the second lead. Guess that’s showbiz.
Not that I’m complaining. I’ll take my behind-the-scenes kingdom over the spotlight any day. Paintbrushes, props, and zero expectations—it’s the only kind of drama I actually sign up for.
The Search that Glitched
Okay, hold up. On my way home from school, I couldn’t resist swinging by the Meridian to check out those mysterious diaries stashed behind the AC vent in my room.
So, there I was, holding these old-school notebooks with green leather covers and The London Antiquarian embossed across the front. Fancy, right? But here’s the kicker—each one’s stamped with an address in London. As in, the actual United Kingdom. How did my younger self even get her hands on these things?
Naturally, my nosiness won out, and I tried searching The London Antiquarian on my phone. But nope—autocorrect decided to wage war, changing “Antiquarian” to “Antiques” every single time. I gave it five tries before giving up. Total bust.
Next up, my trusty PC. Surely, it wouldn’t betray me. Ha. One big, fat error message later, I was ready to throw it out the window. Are you kidding me right now?
With Gramps’ office locked and no sign of him around, I had to stash the diaries back behind the vent. I couldn’t risk bringing them home—Mom’s nosy radar could rival airport security. It was bad enough she signed me up for a medical observation program when I was seven. If she saw these diaries, she’d probably have me committed.
So yeah, this mystery’s gonna have to wait. But mark my words—I’ll figure it out.
Skating home after that, I had this weird adrenaline buzz, like my brain had switched stations and forgot to tell me. I told myself it was fine. Just old notebooks.
Totally normal. Right?
Thursday, January 8, 2026
Science and Other Horrors
The day kicked off with a pop quiz in Science—because apparently Mr. Keeler moonlights as a sadist. Half the class looked like they’d just been told TikTok was shutting down. I spent most of it pretending to know what a mitochondrion actually does while doodling dinosaurs eating teachers in my notebook. Productive, I know.
My phone buzzed after the quiz:
Teddy: Candy’s hair is still pink.
I almost laughed out loud. I’d been so focused on avoiding her death glare that I hadn’t even noticed, but Teddy was right—the strawberry milkshake revenge clearly had a lasting legacy.
Me: Justice is sticky.
By lunch, the cafeteria smelled like fries and despair. Candy and her crew were holding court at their usual table, probably plotting their next public humiliation attempt—or maybe just breathing, which is the same thing.
Teddy was deep in explaining how his latest Mario 64 speedrun shaved 0.3 seconds off the first level—“algorithm gold,” according to him.
I let him geek out, and he went on about finally getting his Doctor Who Series 10 soundtrack in the mail after “waiting literally six regenerations.”
Classic Teddy.
But honestly? My head was somewhere else.
Green leather diaries, embossed lettering, that strange London address burned into my brain.
I couldn’t focus all afternoon. Every class felt like static. The more I thought about The London Antiquarian, the more it itched at the back of my mind. It wasn’t just a random name anymore—it felt familiar. Like déjà vu with a British accent.
Digital Ghost Hunt
I hauled ass home on my trusty skateboard, feeling like a ninja on a top-secret mission. Mom wasn’t back from work yet, but somehow, she still had that spooky omnipresent vibe going on. Every creak of the floorboards made me flinch like she might materialize out of thin air to ask if I’d done my homework.
I tried searching again for The London Antiquarian—but nope. Autocorrect decided to go back to war with me, switching “Antiquarian” to “Antiques” every time. Seriously, who programmed this betrayal?
So I switched tactics and borrowed Mom’s laptop. Password unchanged. Small mercies.
I fired up Google and typed in The London Antiquarian. Nada. It was like the name didn’t even exist online—ghost town, digital edition.
Alright then, plan B. I pasted the address instead: Cecil Court, London. Google Maps loaded, and I went full detective mode, “walking” the street in Street View.
Shop after shop—bookstores, antiques, collectibles—but none of them were it.
Creepy.
At least I learned something new: “antiquarian” means a store that deals in rare and antique books. Which makes total sense—but also raises the question, how did my younger self end up with notebooks from a shop that doesn’t seem to exist?
The Clash Always Wins
After my epic fail of a search for anything about The London Antiquarian, I needed a pick-me-up. So I grabbed my lifeline—Dad’s old Clash CD. Nothing like a little punk rebellion to drown out the static in my brain.
The opening chords of London Calling kicked in, and for a minute, I felt weightless. Then, of course, Mom barged in like a hurricane and killed the music in one swoop. Silence. Heavy and awkward.
She scanned the CDs on my desk, and I could practically hear her internal judgment alarm blaring. The Clash, A Tribe Called Quest, Arctic Monkeys, Pink, Alanis Morissette, Queen—all from Dad’s collection. To her, they were ghosts. To me, they’re connection.
And naturally, she somehow knew I’d used her laptop earlier. Seriously—does she have a sixth sense or spyware hidden in my room? She stormed in about my “unauthorized use,” launching into the full Mom Lecture™ about boundaries and responsibility—same script, different day.
I said I needed it for “research,” which wasn’t a total lie since my phone decided to betray me. But that didn’t earn me mercy.
Password changed.
Access revoked.
Classic.
As soon as she stomped out, I cranked the stereo back up and blasted London Calling at full volume. Take that, Mom. You can’t silence me or my music, no matter how hard you try. The Clash wins every time.
Friday, January 9, 2026
Small Victories, Big Plans
At school, Candy’s hair was still betraying her in streaks I’d call Milkshake Rose. I didn’t gloat. Out loud.
I texted Teddy between classes:
Me: You still up for hanging out at the Meridian this weekend? Teddy: Yup. Print shop chaos should calm down tonight. Tomorrow afternoon work? Me: Perfect. Don’t bail or I’ll replace you with a raccoon in a hoodie. Teddy: Rude. But fair.
Consider it a date—just not the kind his parents wish for. It’s all about solving this diary puzzle.
Teamwork makes the dream work, right?
Weekend Mission Protocol
Once that glorious bell rang, I bolted home to grab my weekend bag. Mom’s Halifax spa schedule is chaos—off Mondays and Fridays, on-site weekends, and three long midweek shifts. I’m not complaining—I get weekends at the Meridian with Gramps. Best deal ever.
She dropped me off that evening on her way to Halifax. It’s her usual Friday routine—meeting friends, then staying overnight in the apartment above the spa so she can roll straight into work Saturday morning. Perks of staying where you work, I guess.
I headed straight to my room once we got to the Meridian. The diaries were calling my name, and I couldn’t resist. I spread all five of them out on my bed, arranging them in order like a secret treasure map. Just looking at those old notebooks sent a chill down my spine—like diving into the unknown, and I was so ready.
Truth is, I’d been putting off really digging into them. The first time I touched one, all those alien memories had hit like a lightning strike, and I wasn’t exactly eager for a repeat performance. So instead, I’d obsessed over the name on the covers—The London Antiquarian. It was easier to focus on the mystery than the memories.
Tomorrow I’m showing Teddy everything. If these diaries are a joke, we’ll laugh it off. If they’re real—if they’re mine—then this is where the story starts keeping score.
You can sign up to receive new fiction each week, along with regular behind-the-scenes updates. Supporting readers unlock an exclusive Writer’s Commentary, immersive audio, and eBook editions, and help make stories like Penny’s Diary possible.
Thanks for reading. There’s more to come.
If you’d like to talk about this diary entry, you’re welcome to share your thoughts in the chat.
Stay tuned, stay enchanted, and stay connected!
Warmest Regards,
DB
🗝️ Supporting Reader Content
The Affinity Web Chronicles is a reader-supported publication. Subscribe for free to receive new fiction every Thursday, along with regular updates.
For the first week of Penny’s Diary, immersive audio, eBook editions, and the Writer’s Commentary are available to all subscribers. To continue receiving enhanced content beyond that, and to support my work, consider becoming a supporting reader.
🎧 Listen to the diary entry:
Prefer audio? Press play and listen as the words come to life.
Please note: All eBooks are delivered via a BookFunnel email, which includes full instructions on how to download and read them on your preferred device.
My Thoughts — Week 1
Okay. Let’s talk about this week.
The most important thing was for it to seem normal before it began to seem odd. That was what I aimed for. I needed Penny’s narration to read as if from someone who’s watching things closely, with a touch of dryness, and who is a little, but not yet, worried. She is still going about her days thinking the world is reasonable — even though it’s beginning to feel a bit off.
I really concentrated on holding back. There are clues all over the place — things absent, casual remarks, instances which don’t quite have the effect they ought to — but I didn’t make any of them. I didn’t want the start to read as though a puzzle was being offered; instead I wanted it to be like a life being recorded, and the discomfort only becoming apparent when you look back.
Also, I was very careful to have Penny look at what is outside of her, not at herself. She sees locations, daily actions, individuals, repetitions. She isn’t yet asking herself questions. That’s key. This isn’t a story about a person who knows at once that something is wrong — it’s about someone who gradually understands she’s been existing with holes she never thought to inquire about.
I made a definite decision this week to not give an account of the diary itself. There isn’t any reason, no way of setting it up, no “here’s the reason I am writing.” Penny is at this point writing without meaning to, and isn’t someone who thinks of herself as a diarist. The sense of that choice will be revealed later.
By the week’s conclusion, Penny hasn’t gone past any boundaries — though she is nearer to them than she knows. That gentle nearness is the essential thing.
Still pitch perfect Penny. And maybe "strawberry milkshake blonde". That has a better ring to it.