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...

Rising Tide


The ocean stirs, a distant, quiet call,

As though the water listens, over all.

The low tide's secret places, kissed and dry,

Await the great return beneath the sky.


A whispered surge, a rumor on the stones,

The sea begins to gather what it owns.

It creeps along the footprints on the sand,

And takes them back with a slow, patient hand.


A silver line advances on the beach,

A tireless flood that waits for what it can reach.

Each wavelet crests and falls with measured might,

A gentle conquest in the afternoon light.


The rock-pools, once a world contained and small,

Now feel the tumbling, rising ocean's thrall.

And with the turning of this world-wide key,

The shore surrenders to the coming sea.


 

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