I sit talking to Atty, arguing about whether the Greeks or Romans are better. I've always loved Rome, but she says that the Romans stole everything from the Greeks. It's actually kinda funny, she's Atty, short for Athena, and I'm Minnie, short for Minerva. They're Greek and Roman equivalents of eachother. Atty glances at her watch. "I'm sorry, I have to go now. I'll talk to you tomorrow!" she says. After she leaves, I pull out a book containing several of my favorite Latin poems, and sit on my bed to read through it for the hundredth time. I'm trying to concentrate, but my eyes keep drifting towards the cupboard where the journal is. After thinking about it very much, I decide that I might as well take a look at it. It's obviously important, and I'll never be able to stop thinking about it until I look. Finally, I walk over to the cupboard, stand up on my tiptoes, open it, reach far back, and grab the journal. I sit back down on my bed, and examine the journal. Besides a bit of dust that has settled on it, the journal is identical to how I found it 10 years ago. For a moment, I stare at my name on it. Minerva Cicero. After staring at it for a few minutes, I open the journal for the first time. I'm so shocked by what I see, that I shut it again, turn around, and stare at the wall. There is writing in the journal that I didn't examine more, because it shocked me so much. The handwriting in it was identical to my own. Exact and every detail, down to the way I dot my i's with a horizontal line. This surprises me enough that I throw the journal across the room, sure that something is wrong with that. Once again, curiosity wins over, and I pick up the journal. I open it back up, and examine it a bit more. There is writing on the lines, just like their should be, but there's also writing added in the margins and between lines, as if someone decided to add more after already filling the page. There is writing in clearly whatever writing implement was easiest to access. Some of the writing was obviously written under strange circumstances, parts of it as bad as if upside down on a rollercoaster. While flipping through the pages, I notice some sketches in the margins. On one page, there is a strange sign that appears to be drawn with a berry, squished and rubbed on the page. After flipping through all the pages, I go back to the first page, and begin to read it. It says:
"There is a man called the Doctor. He has a blue box, identical to the Police Boxes I learned about from Mr. Brady. Inside the Police Box, it is much larger than the outside. He calls it the TARDIS, which stands for Time And Relative Dimenstion In Space."
There is too much to take in, even in just this small little bit. In this journal, Mr. Brady is mentioned. That's just strange. I put the journal away, but not for 10 years this time. For the next few years, I study it for a little while almost every day.