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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Jordan Rivers-A Short Story

14-year-old Jordan Rivers walked down the street of Autumn Lane, not knowing that this would be her last. The afternoon light, the color of weak tea, filtered through a canopy of turning leaves. The air was crisp and carried the scent of woodsmoke and decay, a signature of the season. She had walked this same route to and from school for years, a path so familiar it had become an unthinking motion, a second heartbeat.

Today, the ordinary felt special. She saw a squirrel bury an acorn with frantic, single-minded focus. The red leaves of the maple in the Miller's yard seemed to burn with an inner fire. Jordan’s own breath plumed in front of her face, a small, fleeting cloud of warmth. She was thinking about a boy in her math class, the way he laughed when his pencil broke. She felt the fluttery, electric feeling of a future that seemed to stretch out forever, a landscape of endless possibilities. That’s the cruelest part of fate: its silence. It never sends a letter, never whispers a warning. It just allows you to feel, for one final moment, the sweet, mundane happiness of everyday life before it’s gone.

As she reached the corner, the sound of a car backfiring made her jump. She turned toward the noise, a fleeting distraction. Just that half-second, that tiny shift in attention, was all it took. A blur of metal, a screech of tires, a flash of unbearable pain. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colors—the burning red of the maple, the amber glow of the setting sun, the endless blue of the sky—all crashing into each other, fading into a single, overwhelming white.

The last thing she felt was the cool touch of the autumn air on her skin, and she was gone. The world kept turning. The leaves kept falling. The street remained, but Jordan Rivers was no longer a part of its story. Her last walk was over, a quiet, forgotten ending on a vibrant autumn afternoon.

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