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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Manifest Dreams

Upon the canvas of the sleeping mind,

A fleeting sketch, a vision undefined.

It shimmered there, a whisper soft and low,

A fragile promise in the twilight's glow.


It was a seed, a fragment of a thought,

With silent purpose, it was deeply wrought.

But waking hands took hold and gave it form,

Through patient labor, braving every storm.


The vision sharpened, gaining vivid hue,

As fervent effort made the dream feel true.

The phantom air, once held in quiet trust,

Began to gather shape from mortal dust.


No longer just a wish, a pale belief,

But rooted purpose, finding sweet relief.

The broken-winged bird was taught to fly,

The frozen field thawed 'neath a striving eye.


And what was once a hope for things unseen,

Became the vibrant, breathing, living scene.

For dreams made manifest are more than fate,

They are the work that makes a world create.


The daring heart that chose a certain way,

And brought the colors to the light of day.

The unseen blueprint, drawn in hopeful night,

Is now the structure, standing strong and bright.

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