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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Relentless

 

Upon the path where others turn away,

A lonely shadow lengthens through the day.

The drum of purpose beats within the chest,

Allowing neither compromise nor rest.


It is the wind that carves the desert stone,

A will that speaks in every grinding groan.

The hunter's eye that seeks a single prize,

Reflected in the wide and hollow skies.


It is the hammer, striking cold and clean,

The turning of the ever-grinding screen.

The climb that scoffs at mountain's icy breath,

A vow to journey onward until death.


The finish line is not a place of ease,

But one more mile to conquer and to seize.

The quarry always just beyond the sight,

A fire burning in the deepest night.


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