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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A Girl's Grief

The little girl sits on her bedroom floor,

where dust motes dance in the sun.

She holds a faded photograph and nothing

reminds her that time has run.

She wears the sweater that was once his own,

oversized on her small frame.

It smells of old books and worn-out leather,

and whispers of his name.


The tears that fall make constellations

on the picture in her hand.

Her father smiles, a memory now,

in a quiet, distant land.

She doesn't weep for the man he was,

but for the time they'll never see.


The future stories, the things unsaid,

the forever that won't be.

The world outside keeps turning,

but her small room holds still.

Held captive by a quiet grief,

and a love that time can't kill.


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