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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Trees In The City

 

In forests of glass and steel,

the modern trees take root,

with silent, deep foundations,

and branches reaching for the sun.


Their trunks are polished granite,

their bark a shimmering facade,

each window a small leaf

that glitters in the urban shade.


They whisper with the wind,

a low and humming drone,

of elevators rising,

of whispers on the phone.


Through veins of tangled wires,

and pipes that carry life,

the current flows and pulses,

relieving daily strife.


No nests are built within them,

just floors of busy hive,

where human dreams and dollars

struggle and survive.


They do not shed their foliage,

or sleep through winter's chill,

they simply stand and prosper,

obeying human will.


And though no birds may sing there,

or squirrels climb their height,

they stretch toward the heavens,

and catch the fading light.


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