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...

Poison Chalice

The chalice gleams in candlelight,

a promise held in polished gold.

Its lip is carved with delicate grace,

a secret story to be told.


The brew within is dark and deep,

a velvet shade, a liquid dream.

It whispers of a sweet relief,

a taste of things that only seem.


But in its depths, a shadow lies,

a bitter truth, a final cost.

For every sip, a piece is paid,

a precious part of what was lost.


And all who raise it to their lips,

in thirst for power, or for grace,

will find the sweetness turning sharp,

the serpent's sting, the bitter chase.

So let it stand, a silent test,

a lesson carved in metal's face.

That what is beautiful on the outside

can poison all it can embrace.


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