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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Hit and Spin


A fine morning in appearance

Until the rain interrupted it rudely as it fell

Lost control on the wet asphalt

Skidding began, in earnest it spun


Hit the median concrete

Spun some more

How many times is lost


Time seemed to stop

The beating heart

The adrenaline of fear

Life flashing before one's eyes


The near death experience then the final smash as it came to a stop

Never to move again 

Neither forwards or backwards

Engine revving, nothing happening

The turmoil is over

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