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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Anger-A Short Story

 Dust swirled in the beam of light from the high school's overhead projector, a silent galaxy of particles suspended in the dead air. Lucas stared at it, not at Mr. Harrison's meticulously boring PowerPoint on the Louisiana Purchase. The anger was a slow burn, a low-frequency hum vibrating just beneath his skin, and the dust motes were dancing in its heat.

The bell rang, a shrill, jarring clamor that made Lucas wince. His classmates exploded into noise and motion, books slamming shut, chairs scraping back. Mr. Harrison called out, "Lucas, stay for a minute."

He didn't need to ask why. The pop quiz was still on his desk, its surface a smear of red ink. A fat, angry D- minus. Lucas had stared at the questions, his brain a fog of useless facts, and the anger had started its slow creep.

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