Literary Vibes - Edition CLIV (27-June-2025) - YOUNG MAGIC
Title : Village Woman (Painting courtesy Julian Lenju)
Julian Lenju, son of Capt. Lenju Paul and Dr Jennifer Sakhya is a student of Dawn International School in Ernakulam, Kerala. He is in the sixth grade now. He likes painting and indulges in it when he visits his grandmother.
His early paintings where imitations. Being untutored, he tries to imitate what he sees. He made his first painting on a hard board when he was three years old. It is proudly displayed in his grandmother's house. He and his younger brother communicate in a language that is close to Hindi, a register the siblings created, which only they understand. Apart from painting, he is also keen on his studies and loves playing football.
A silent observer, he is fond of animals especially cats.
Table of Contents :: Young Magic
01) Juan Lenju
MY OIL PASTEL
02) Anura Parida
WIND
03) Rohith V Rahul
CHAPTER 2 – RUNNY’S REVENGE
04) Shivanshi Das
MY PENCIL ARTS
05) Ankit Sahoo
THE INK OF DREAMS
Juan Lenju
Title : Basket of fruits (Painting courtesy Juan Lenju)
I am Juan Lenju, brother of Julian Lenju. I am in the fourth grade at Dawn International School. I am nine years old, kind and friendly, and looking out for adventures. I like making new friends, swimming, playing football and drawing. I sketch very fast and most of my drawings end up like cartoons. That is what my grandma says. I am happy helping others and animals and even insects. I like learning new things and even languages. I communicate in Hindi with my sibling, which only we understand. Sometimes, I create on-the-spot short stories and recite them to the amazement of my granny, who says it is spoken word poetry. My aim, now is to become a footballer. I also like to make people around me laugh and smile. I like being called Dany, which is my pet name.
Anura Parida
The wind passes by my ear with a whiz,
Twirling my hair with cold hands of his.
The wind through sight never found,
But you when stretch out your arms, you feel it all around.
Indeed, the wind is mysterious,
It can give answers or make us query us.
The wind is not less mischievous,
Blowing hats and spooking people with sounds so hilarious.
This is enchanting and soothes my soul,
Every part of my body and whole.
Maybe from up comes this wind, so lovely and pure,
This wind is every broken hearts’ cure.
Do you know where the wind is from?
Is it east, is it west, or somewhere beyond?
I am Anura Parida, a 12-year-old creative writer currently studying in the 8th grade. Ever since I can remember, words have been my closest companions, and poetry has become my heartfelt expression.
Through my writing, I explore the tapestry of emotions that color my world – from the joy of friendship to the contemplation of life's mysteries.
Besides being a writer, I am an avid reader, devouring classics and contemporary literature alike, which helps me expand my creative horizons.
Art, in all its forms, holds a special place in my heart, and I enjoy sketching and painting to complement my poetic musings. Thank you for reading, and I look forward to sharing this beautiful world of creative writing with you all!
Rohith V Rahul
Seven months had passed since the great heist—when Runny, the clever crow, had stolen the prized chicken bones from Rupert the cat. The theft had made him infamous in the treetops, but his newfound notoriety came with a price. The seeds he had carefully stored for the dry season had vanished from his nest shortly after the bones were taken.
Runny suspected it was the pigeons—they were always watching from afar with their beady eyes and bobbing heads, pretending to be innocent. But pigeons were greedy, and everyone in the sky knew it.
Now, Runny sat alone in his nest, staring at the empty space where his seeds used to lay.
"How do I get my seeds back?" Runny muttered to himself, wings folded tightly over his chest. "I could fight them… but they’ll overrun me with numbers. They swarm me like ants. I can’t call other crows—no, they’d devour the seeds themselves before I even got a chance to touch them."
He let out a long, croaky sigh, his mind spinning with schemes. Then, Runny saw a chameleon changing its colour to match the texture of the grass. Inspiration struck him like thunder.
"A disguise," he whispered, eyes wide with revelation. "If I can’t go as a crow, I’ll go as one of them."
Determined, Runny flew across valleys, rivers, and farmlands, searching for a disguise convincing enough to fool even the sharpest-eyed pigeon.
Along his journey, he spotted many houses, too many farms, and only a little bit of woodland. But during his flight, he saw something strange.
Runny had spotted a giant temple-like nest. As night approached, he decided to sleep inside.
He perched on the nest, but the bottom gave out, revealing a hidden passageway that led into a branch. It was small, but Runny could fit through it.
He slowly made his way to the heart of the tree, which had been hollowed out by the creatures—or birds—that lived there. As he reached the bottom, the floor, which seemed solid at first, gave way to reveal a massive hidden structure. It felt as though it had been made just for him—or so Runny thought.
He walked through rooms full of priceless artifacts, marveling at every step, until he came upon two large passageways.
The one to the right had a sign hanging above that read:
"Goliath’s Goldmine."
Runny peeked inside. It was filled with priceless artifacts: a gram of gold, a little bit of diamonds, and a bunch of sticks.
The other passageway had a crumbling roof and no major precious items inside. The sign above it read:
"Poverty’s Passageway."
Between the two was a carved wooden plaque with strange writing:
________________________________________
"Choose wisely, my young child,
For your choice may be wild.
Will you choose the right,
Or will you get a bite?
The right has valuables indeed—
Precious gold and diamond beads.
While on the left is normal,
Which may be abnormal.
Don’t believe me?
But in each of these, you will get a chance to flee."
________________________________________
Runny found the choice hard.
“What if the modest passageway is special, like in those human stories?” Runny thought.
“Or what if the rich one is better and I’ll keep all the gold?”
But for him, the decision was easy.
Crows are always greedy—it’s in their nature. They’re omnivores. They hunt anything.
So, Runny chose the road to riches.
There was a sack conveniently placed for him. He collected all the treasure and put the sack in his beak. Just then, he saw an exit and a sign nearby:
"You can stay,
Or leave you may."
Runny remembered his mission to disguise himself as a pigeon. So, he hid the sack of treasure in a spot he would remember, then took off flying.
After days of flying and scavenging, he finally found what he needed: a bundle of discarded festival flyers featuring printed images of pigeons—and better yet, there was an image for each side. If Runny wore them, he would look like a real pigeon.
Triumphant, he returned to his nest and called upon his loyal monkey friend, Hanger. Hanger wasn’t keen on the plan at first, but a promise of yummy mangoes from a distant mango farm swayed him.
Hanger coated Runny’s feathers with sticky jackfruit sap until his wings glistened and shimmered. Then, with meticulous care, they layered the printed pigeon images across his body. Runny even did trial flights to make sure he could still fly properly.
By the time the work was done, Runny no longer looked like a crow. He looked like a pigeon—awkward, plump, and unthreatening.
With his disguise in place, he took flight once again, heading toward the distant pigeon nest he had discovered during his search. The nest was no ordinary collection of twigs; it was a sprawling fortress of sticks and straw, high in an old banyan tree, guarded by plump sentinels with puffed-up chests.
As Runny approached, the guards tensed and flapped their wings, blocking his path.
"Stop right there! What’s your name?" barked one of the guards.
"My name is Pionny," said Runny, in a voice as soft and fluttery as he could manage. "I come from a land of pigeons far, far away."
The guards tilted their heads, their suspicion melting into curiosity.
"Oh, wow! A foreign pigeon! It’s an honour to have you here. Wait right here—I shall fetch the king so you may speak with him."
"Thank you kindly," said Pionny, bowing his head with exaggerated grace.
Soon, the pigeon king arrived—a stout bird with golden thread tied around his neck like a royal collar.
"You may speak," the king cooed solemnly.
"Well," said Pionny, "there isn’t much to speak of. But it would be a pleasure to strengthen the alliance between our flocks. Unity in the skies, as we say in my homeland."
The king nodded, clearly flattered by the diplomatic visit. "You are welcome here. You may sleep in the guest nest for the night."
"Your generosity humbles me," said Pionny.
That night, Runny lay in the softest part of the nest, pretending to sleep while the other pigeons snored around him. He waited patiently until the moon hung high in the sky and the forest was silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves.
Then he moved.
Silently, he crept from the nest and tiptoed through the granaries. He filled his beak and claws with as much seed as he could carry and dropped them just outside the nest entrance. Then, using a dry banana leaf he had secretly plucked earlier, he fashioned a small sack and tied it tightly with grass threads.
One by one, he moved the stolen seeds into the leaf sack. Just as he was tying the final knot, dark clouds rumbled above, and a fierce wind pushed against his wings.
But he flew as fast as he could, slicing through the sky like an arrow. The storm was coming, and he needed to get home.
For several minutes, all he could hear was the howling wind and the pounding of his own heart. He looked behind him once—no one followed.
At last, soaked and exhausted, Runny reached the crooked tree where his old nest waited. He dropped into the nest with a thud and curled his wings around the banana leaf sack.
He was home. He had his seeds. And no one—crow or pigeon—would dare steal from Runny again.
A few days passed. Runny was resting in his nest when he remembered something—the treasure he had hidden near the secret temple.
He flew off to the temple and found his goods still there.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the sack and took it back to his nest.
Then he remembered the temple itself—how much more of it there was to explore.
He flew off for the second time, wondering whether he’d return with more riches...
...or come back with less?
Rohith V Rahul. Is a student of 6th grade in Thiruvanathapuram. He is the only child of his parents. He says it is for this reason that he loves to read books and they turn to be his brothers and sisters. He also enjoys sci-fi movies, long journeys, adventurous games, explorations, melodies…... His dream is to be someone who can make others' days better.
Shivanshi Das
Shivanshi Das, the newest entrant to the Literary Vives family, was born to engineer parents and is currently a fourth-grade student in Hyderabad. With a natural talent for painting, she enjoys capturing the beauty of nature on any available canvas. Beyond her artistic abilities, Shivanshi is a multi-talented individual excelling in academics, sports like badminton and swimming, dance, and gymnastics. A voracious reader, she has a remarkable ability to finish books in both English and Hindi within a short time frame, comprehending them to a high degree. Her favorite dish is Chicken Biryani, lovingly prepared by her mother, and her closest confidant is her father. Shivanshi also has a passion for teaching, displaying abundant patience, with her grandfather being her favorite student. May Lord Jagannath bless her endeavors in all aspects of her life.
Ankit Sahoo
In a village kissed by hills and sky,
Where winds would whisper, and hopes ran dry,
Lived a boy with eyes so wide—
Rahul, with dreams he could not hide.
His home was humble, meals were few,
Yet in his heart, a fire grew.
While others ran through fields in glee,
He sat beneath the old mango tree.
With pencil stub and paper torn,
He spun new worlds from hopes forlorn.
No guide, no books, no silent room,
Just flickering light in twilight's gloom.
He scribbled tales of heroes bold,
Of dreams that dared, of futures told.
His hunger wasn’t just for bread—
But for the stories in his head.
His teacher chanced upon his page,
And saw a soul beyond his age.
He sent those words, both raw and true,
To where young dreams might just break through.
The prize was small, but lit a flame,
And slowly spread through word and name.
Now Rahul writes for all to see,
A voice that stirs the deepest sea.
His pain became the ink he used,
Each line a life he never’d choose.
From shadows deep, his light now streams—
A boy who wrote the *Ink of Dreams*.
Ankit Sahoo is a student of Grade 9 at Global Indian Model School at Cuttack, Odisha. A son of teacher-parents, he is a brilliant student and has a deep passion for literature. He is highly talented and is a poet and writer of great promise. He has won the Story Mirror App Best Young Writer Award in 2023 and the Pen award in 2024. He was placed 3rd at the Block Level Essay Writing Competition organised by Sambada in 2024.
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