Pompom and The Magic Shoes
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- Parts 12
Complete Fri, Aug 14, 20201h 13m
This story is about Pompom. Pompom was a little boy who was fat. He lived in a small town called Bahadurgarh. People in Bahadurgarh liked to play football. Pompom loved football too. One day, his sports teacher was choosing students for the Junior School Football Team.
Pompom wanted to be a part of the football team too. So he decided to go for the selection. Everyone was asked to run. Pompom could not run well because he was too fat. He felt very bad. Some of his classmates teased him by calling him names and yelled, "Fatty! Fatty!"
......
He crept out of the house and went to the park. It was still quite dark. He started running. But something strange happened. Instead of feeling the ground below his feet, Pompom could feel only air. He was flying!
A/N: Although suited more for the 5-7 years age-group, I thought it would be nice to share the story here. If you like it, do read it out to your children, brothers, sisters, really anyone who you think might like reading it. Besides, there is always a child inside all of us. Hope you enjoy the story.
Note: Updated daily.
Also, this book, in this form, would not have existed with the help of Niketa Mulay, who had edited this book. Many thanks to you, Niketa.
All Rights Reserved
#83
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They say madness runs in the blood. If that's true, then I'm already drowning in it. I dream of cats who speak in riddles, of stars that bleed light, of hearts that throb beneath soil and stone like they're trying to escape. Most nights, I wake up with the echo of a heartbeat in my ears-never mine, always someone else's. Louder. Closer. My aunt says it's just the wind. The others in the village say it's something worse. We don't talk about dreams here. We till the earth, we bake our bread, and we keep our heads down. Dreamers don't last long in places like this. And girls like me-girls who see more than they should, who hear what no one else can-they don't get happy endings. They get whispers. Looks. Doors shut a little too hard. So I've learned to pretend. I smile when I'm supposed to, nod when I'm spoken to. I hide my journal beneath the loose floorboard, the one that creaks only if you step just wrong. No one knows what I write there. No one knows that sometimes, in the quiet, I can feel the weight of a thousand hearts pressing against mine. Longing. Ache. Something else I can't name. Until last night, I thought I was still pretending. Then the cat came. She didn't knock, didn't ask. Just sat on the windowsill like she owned the moonlight and said- "You're late, Inimar. The hearts are dying."
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