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 Private Word

I have a word that burns like a brand,

A match struck quickly in my hand.

I speak it loud, with a ringing sound,

And they cheer me on, a favored hound.


It's just my wit, a clever phrase,

The turn of mind in my usual ways.

You have that word, and as you try,

It turns to ash before your eyes.


It is not yours to hold or keep,

The well of sound is far too deep.

For me, it is a playful sword;

For you, the verdict of a court.


My history wrote a certain right,

A privilege that makes words light.

Your lineage is an iron chain

That makes your speech a public pain.


When I say it, it's just a joke;

When you say it, the anger’s woke.

The rules are written in the air,

For all to breathe, but none can share.


The silent text, the hidden laws,

Decide the measure of your cause.

I can say it, and you can’t—

It’s not the word, it's the implant

Of power's poison, slow and deep,

While we're all watching, or asleep.

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