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 Hour Glass

Upon the shelf of ages, tall and thin,

A glass of life, where all our days begin.

The upper bulb holds shining, shifting grains,

The promised years of sun and sudden rains.

A tiny throat, a narrow, measured stream,

Where every falling grain is a lost dream.


First, slow and steady, childhood's languid pace,

A long, soft wait in time's indifferent space.

But then the middle, where the flow quickens,

As tasks pile up and the heart often sickens.

The sand flies faster, memories start to fade,

A life consumed by promises unmade.


The bottom swells with all that's come to pass,

Reflecting back what was held in the glass.

A heavier weight, a darkening of tone,

The quiet knowledge that you're not alone.

At last, the final grains descend and fall,

The hourglass has answered its own call.

No turning back, no starting all anew,

Just silence settling where life flowed through.



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