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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Lake Tahoe

 

Across the Carson Range, the peaks stood tall,

And gave a glimpse of the lake below, in thrall.

A mountain drive with a panoramic view,

Of Lake Tahoe's turquoise and endless blue.


Past Emerald Bay, with its Vikingsholm walls,

And Inspiration Point, the vista calls.

We stopped to marvel at the jewel-like hue,

And drank the scenery, so crisp and new.


The air was fresh with the scent of pine,

A symphony of nature, so divine.

On sandy shores, we watched the waves at play,

And walked the trails, from dawn until the day's last ray.


On paddleboards, we saw the depths below,

And felt the sun upon our faces glow.

At Zephyr Cove, a boat cruise sailed past,

A day of wonder, built to truly last.


Then came the twilight, with its colors so deep,

A quiet moment, promises to keep.

The mountains faded, shadows soft and gray,

Reflecting memories of a perfect day.


Location: Lake Tahoe, United States

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