After lunch.
Oscar was lying on his bed with a notebook filled with poems. He wrote at least one every day. He kept tapping his on the front cover of the book.
I want to write about her. But how will she see my words?
Oscar grabbed the magical diary from his bedside table. This time, he cut below one of his already bandaged fingers so that Aunt Leona wouldn't get suspicious.
The droplets of blood dissolved in an instant.
How are you, Oscar?
Fine my dear.
That's wonderful, darling,
I was about to write a poem for you.
Write it then.
Oscar looked up at the ceiling getting lost in his thoughts.
Finally, he started writing.
Dearest Samantha
I have only seen you in a dream
Yet you make my blood boil
And my heart scream.
There was a slight pause as Oscar waited for a reply.
You're a great writer, Oscar,
Thank you. My parents named me after Oscar Wilde.
Who's that?
Don't you know him? Irish writer. Best known for The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Now I know. And won't you write more poems about me?
Of course.
Oscar wrote his heart out and Samantha continued flattering him. But Oscar still didn't know the secret behind this magical journal.
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