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 Empire That Once Was

 


The golden eagle, frayed upon the flag,

No longer soars, but sags, a weary rag.

The marble columns, once so strong and proud,

Are cracked by time, beneath a purple cloud.

The aqueducts, a marvel of the age,

Now leak and crumble on a dying stage,

The far flung legions, loyal and arrayed,

Are selling arms for pay they've not been paid.


The borders fray, the barbarians advance,

A desperate plea, a fleeting, backward glance.

Ignoring rot, and muttering of rain.

The poets sing of victories long past,

A fleeting echo on a fading blast.

The emperor, enthroned in silk and jade,

Is but a child in a long charade.


The sun sets on a glory half-remembered,

The gilded age is scattered and dismembered.

The roads are silent, choked with weeds and stones,

The silent, dusty record of their groans.

The common folk, in hunger, pray for sleep,

While history prepares a bitter sweep.

And nothing's left to mend, to save, to hold,

The final chapter of a story told.


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