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 Sack of Rome

Beneath a bruised and sulfur-colored sky,

The bronze gates clang, a final, iron sigh.

The papal flag hangs limp, a pious plea,

Above the crowd's dark, tide-like misery.

Within the city, fountains weep and play,

As rumors like a fever spread all day.

The painted saints upon the ceilings gaze

At earthly fear, through gilded, hazy maze.

The pious chant, the merchant counts his sum,

And wonders if the judgment day has come.

Beyond the walls, the camps are stark and wide,

Where German flags and Spanish pikes divide.

The landsknechts, starved, with eyes of bitter steel,

For months of pay their starving bellies feel.

A reeking mist of vengeful hunger hangs,

A promise of the plunder's savage pangs.

A Protestant, whose rage has found a cause,

To break the gilded city’s ancient laws.

His captain, dead, and now no law remains,

To stem the tide of anger and of pains.

The Roman night descends, a velvet drape,

Across the city, fearing its own shape.

The ancient marble shines, a ghastly white,

Reflecting back the campfires in the night.

The Colosseum, hollow, dark, and vast,

Remembers other conquerors of the past.

The Tiber's flow, a silent, knowing stream,

Reflects a broken, fading papal dream.

The city waits, its history immense,

To meet its fate with baroque reverence


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