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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The Dying Castle

 

The ivy's green, a slow and silent thief,

Has claimed the stones of glory and of grief.

The crenellated edges, sharp and high,

Are soft with moss beneath a weeping sky.

The mighty gate, where banners used to fly,

Now frames a vista where the seasons die.

The drawbridge rusts, a severed, useless arm,

No longer guarding from a world of harm.


The wind sings low through arrow-slitted cracks,

Recalling ghosts of long-forgotten attacks.

The grand banqueting hall, so vast and wide,

Has only dust and silent shade inside.

The carved and gilded windows, now shattered they are,

Allow the rain to wash the broken vow

Of endless rule, of power's endless boast,

And leave behind a melancholy ghost.


The spiral stair, a spine of solid stone,

Leads up nowhere, empty and alone.

The vaulted roof, where once a fire burned,

Is open now, for stars to be discerned.

A story told in whispers, slow and deep,

While generations sow and fall and sleep.

And in the quiet, where the lichens creep,

The ancient, stone-cold secrets it will keep.


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