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 Treacherous Court

 

Upon the high-arched galleries, the whisper starts,

A venom meant for unsuspecting hearts.

Amidst the jewels and tapestries, a sigh,

The silent dagger of a jealous eye.

The courtier's smile is polished, bright, and grand,

The poisoned cup held firm within his hand.

He offers praises like a gilded key,

And speaks of loyalty with treacherous eyes.


The queen, a portrait framed in silk and lace,

Knows not the wolves that haunt her sacred space.

Her trusted confidante, with honeyed tone,

Has sought for years to claim her ivory throne.

The prince, her brother, whispers to the guard,

With promises that leave his virtue scarred.

The bloodline cracks, the royal house divides,

By whispered lies and shifting, treacherous tides.


The banquet hall, a feast of glinting knives,

Where every gesture plans a thousand lives.

The jester, with his bells and painted face,

Sees truth in shadows others can't embrace.

He sees the hands that touch and then withdraw,

The shifting eyes that break the gilded law.

For trust is just a ladder, steep and high,

From which a friend will push you down to die.


The King, so sure his power is supreme,

Awakens from a long and golden dream.

To see the courtiers in their fine array,

And knows they kneel for him, but wait to prey.

He feels the chill of treason's icy breath,

A loyalty repaid with certain death.

The whispers fade, the smiles are now a mask,

And each new day presents a deadly task.


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