The Summer of ‘98-A Short Story

I remember the summer of ‘98 like it was yesterday. The sun was a relentless tyrant, and the air was thick with the smell of cut grass and dusty sneakers. The neighborhood kids, a motley crew of preteens with scraped knees and boundless energy, spent every waking hour playing street soccer in front of old Mr. Atley’s house. He hated us, and we loved the thrill of annoying him. He was the grumpy Goliath, and we were the plucky Davids, a soccer ball our only sling. The best player on the street was Kevin. He was a year older than the rest of us, with a mop of sandy hair and a cocky grin. He was faster, more agile, and had a way of dribbling the ball that made it seem like an extension of his own foot. He knew it, too, and his constant showboating drove me crazy. I was a decent player, but Kevin always found a way to make me look like a clumsy oaf, stealing the ball from me with a quick flick of his ankle or nutmegging me with a cheeky grin. One day, our game intensified. It was just Kevi...
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Not just Words

   
They are not just words 
They bite like the teeth
Sting like the bee
Pierce like the sword
Scrape like the concrete pavement
They wreck like the wrecking ball 
They topple like that old dilapidated building making way for the new  
They are not just words

They soothe like a balm
They calm like the waves of the sea
They whistle by like the wind
They encourage and motivate
They are not just words

They bear good news and bad
They make a difference between life and death
They can be written down or spouted from that notorious orifice
They carry ideas
They are the main form of communication
They are used to decree and declare
They are not just words

They can be used to fire up the crowd or cool down a rowdy mutinous bunch
They bear equally the truth and the falsehood alike
They move mountains I hear, that I have not yet witnessed
Surprised I will not, because they are not just words








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