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 whispers

They whisper in the coffee shop, a breath,

A fragment of a story, hinting death

Or scandal, or a hidden, newfound grace,

That flickers on each anxious, curious face.


The teller starts with, "Did you hear the news?"

And ends with speculation, soft confusions.

The barber hums, his clippers catch the light,

And pauses just to give the tale a new flight.


He doesn't know the hero or the sin,

But adds a layer where the facts wear thin.

The checkout girl, her movements quick and neat,

Adds a new detail, savory and sweet.


No one can trace the source, the single start,

Of this strange legend woven in the heart.

The story changes with each passing mouth,

A winding river flowing to the south,


It grows, it shrinks, it gains a richer tone,

But the core detail is forever unknown.

It's in the air, a hum, a low vibration,

The town's own, private, dark imagination.


A phantom scandal, or a whispered crime,

That fills the empty, unadventurous time.

And though it binds them, in a common quest,

The truth is never put to the test.


So let them talk, and let the rumor bloom,

And cast its shifting shadows in the gloom.

For what's a town without its one great lie,

The perfect story that will never die.

It is the secret they all love to keep,

That keeps their restless, dreaming minds from sleep.

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