Well. Hello. Me here.
This post is the story of a bookworm. I looked up ‘bookworm’ on google, and this is what it said it means:
Bookworm/ˈbʊkwəːm/noun: bookworm; plural noun: bookworms, INFORMAL: a person who enjoys reading.
Which is true. But here is my definition:
Bookworm/bookworms: noun: someone who really really really really really REALLY loves books.
Personally, I prefer mine.
So, now you know what I’m talking about, let’s begin the story.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in a big city. She was twelve years old and had just started at a new school. The girl loved snow, hummus and books. She had many friends, but some of her closest friends were in the stories stacked up on her bookshelf. She
Ok, just pause for a second. It’s getting really annoying saying ‘she’ all the time. Let’s call her 🍇 instead. That’s better.
🍇 gobbled up books like dogs gobble up the party sausages you drop on the floor at Christmas. She devoured each one faster than anyone else she knew. A new book to her was as wonderful as twenty bars of chocolate (don’t get me wrong, though, she still loves chocolate). 🍇 read and re-read books; she wrote endless lists of books she wanted to read, that crawled off the bottom of the page. Sometimes 🍇 worried that she would run out of books, that she would come to the end of one of her lists. She never did, but one day encountered something similar…
Find out what happens in my next post, The BookWorm Part 2!