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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Free Speech-The Spoken Word

The voice released, a torrent and a stream,

A flood of questions, or a fevered dream.

It pulls down curtains that have long been drawn,

And brings the silent, hidden things to dawn.


The poet's verse, the protest in the square,

A tool to fight the tyrant and the snare.

It gives the powerless a chance to rise,

To lift the hood from blind and fearful eyes.


It builds a bridge where once the canyon yawned,

And seeds the ground for futures yet unthawed.

But from the same deep well, the poison flows,

The quiet cruelty that festers and grows.


The whispered lie, the slander in the breeze,

The ugly word that brings a soul to its knees.

A reckless shout, a fire in the hall,

That makes the bravest spirit stumble and fall.


The bridge of reason burned by hurried hate,

A storm unleashed, with no retreat, too late.

It gives the hateful, license to incite,

And drowns the truth within a raging night.


So, stand we here, upon this shifting ground,

Where both the balm and bitter sting are found.

The gift, a weapon, sharp and double-edged,

A sacred trust, a promise often pledged.


To speak the good, to use the voice with care,

And know the shadow that it can ensnare.

For every word that makes a justice true,

Another stands to make a world anew.

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