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 Slayed King

 

The tyrant on his gilded throne,

Ignored the pleas, the tear, the groan.

He sowed the seeds of bitter strife,

And crushed the hope of common life.


The crown that sat upon his head,

Was stained with blood the innocent bled.

His laughter rang in vaulted halls,

While hunger gnawed at peasant walls.


But shadows move in quiet ways,

And whisper through the endless days.

A farmer's son, a widow's child,

Remembered all his scorn, so wild.


They did not raise a mighty host,

Or boast a strength that they could toast.

Instead, a single, humble blade,

A promise in the darkness made.


That night the wind did howl and rage,

As actors turned the final page.

The wicked king, in fitful sleep,

Had secrets that the shadows keep.


A whisper first, then cold hard steel,

A taste of what the masses feel.

No fanfare for his final breath,

Just silence and the coming of death.


The scepter fell with hollow sound,

And shattered on the tiled ground.

The crown rolled from his lifeless head,

Just one more evil story said.


And so the sun rose on that day,

The wicked king was slayed.

The people wept, but not for him,

But for the hope that was not dim.


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