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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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A Broken Arm But Not A Broken Dream-A Short Story

Jayden loved the sound of baseball: the rhythmic thwack of the bat, the satisfying pop of a ball hitting a leather mitt, and the triumphant cheer of the crowd. More than anything, he loved the feeling of a bat in his hands, the weight of it, the power he felt as he swung. But now, that feeling was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache and the heavy presence of a cast. A freak accident during a practice slide into second base had left him with a fractured humerus, sidelining him for the entire summer season. The first week was the hardest. He sat on the sidelines, watching his teammates in a state of quiet despair. The summer sun, which used to feel like a warm hug, now seemed to mock him with its brightness, a constant reminder of everything he was missing. His friends tried to include him, passing him a ball to hold, or letting him sit in the dugout, but their kind gestures only highlighted the chasm between him and the game he loved. He felt like a ghost, a silent observer in his...
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Lost It All-A Short Story

He lost it all on gambling. The house, the savings, the car—all gone, swallowed by the insatiable maw of the poker table. For Andrew, it hadn’t started with a desperate need for money, but with a seductive promise of easy wins. He had been a successful architect, his hands accustomed to building solid, tangible things. But the digital cards on his screen felt so real, the rush of a winning hand so intoxicating, that it had slowly replaced the satisfaction of blueprints and new construction. At first, it was a secret, a thrill he indulged in after his wife, Sarah, had fallen asleep. He'd sneak downstairs, the blue light of his laptop a beacon in the dark living room, and lose himself in the high-stakes games. He'd win some nights, and the exhilarating surge of victory would convince him that he was a genius, that he had a system. He'd hide the money he won, a testament to his secret prowess. But the losses began to mount, and soon, the small wins were no longer enough to que...
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Casper -A Short Story

Casper was a swift and clever robin, but a collision with a windowpane during a fierce windstorm had left her with a mangled wing. The jagged edge of the window had snapped the delicate bone, and now, instead of soaring, she could only hop awkwardly from branch to branch, a prisoner in her own treetop world. The rest of her family, with the autumn chill setting in, had flown south, their bright songs fading with the warmth. Casper was left behind, alone and vulnerable. One morning, the familiar sounds of the forest were shattered by the guttural roar of engines. A trio of loggers had arrived, their heavy machinery chewing through the ancient woods. Casper watched from her nest, hidden among the leaves of a towering oak, as one by one, her neighbors' homes were reduced to sawdust. The other birds, strong and able, fled in a panic, but Casper could only tremble, her broken wing throbbing with a phantom ache. Her nest was far from the main clearing, but the loggers worked with ruthles...
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The Safari

The golden dust, the scent of coming rain, The rising sun on the vast and open plain. A canvas painted in ochre, green, and gold, A story ancient, and so bravely told. The engine hums, a low and patient sound, As the jeep goes searching for hallowed ground. A silhouette of giraffes, tall and serene, A living image on a wild and endless scene The mighty lions, a sun-soaked tawny pride, Hidden in the grasses where their instincts guide. A leopard's shadow, elusive and so rare, Sliding through the thicket with a quiet, watchful stare. The trumpeting echo of the elephant's call, As families wander, moving free and tall. A wildebeest stampede, a blur of motion swift, A thundering promise, a primal, moving gift. And when the twilight paints the sky anew, With fiery hues of crimson and deep blue, The campfire crackles, a low and steady glow, With jackals barking in the dark, and stars that grow. The stillness settles, vast, deep and wide, The wildness stirring, with nowhere left to hi...
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Starless Sky

The canvas spreads, an endless, charcoal plain, A heavy vault, indifferent to rain. No ancient spark, no pinpoint of the lost, Just velvet darkness, at a certain cost. The absent fire, the hidden, empty space, Reflects no legend, knows no god's embrace. No pinprick hope, no distant, silver gleam, Just the deep quiet of a forgotten dream. The city's lesser lights ascend and blur, A mimic pattern, a metallic stir. They cannot fill the silence from on high, Or pierce the hollow of this vacant sky. It is a blanket, absolute and whole, That hides the secrets of the waiting soul. A perfect, dark, and uninterrupted sleep, A promise neither heaven nor hell keeps.
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The Laws Paradox

They bind the hand that reaches for the throat, They tame the storm, the selfish, vicious goat. A fence erected in the wild green space, To keep a certain peace, a measured pace. They say, "This far, no further," to the strong, And grant the weak a place where they belong. The wild wood cleared, a path is neatly laid, A promise in the daylight, unafraid. The chaos of a million warring wills, Subdued by silent paper, on the hills. But oh, the hand that's bound, it can not reach For gentle touch, a kind and earnest speech. The fence that holds the monster in its place, Can also hide the sunbeam from the face. The measured pace, a slow and weary stride, For those whose hearts can't find a place to hide. The path so straight, it never takes a turn, To find a secret lesson it can learn. And in the order, beauty dies away, A price for safety, paid in shades of gray. So here we stand, a paradox held tight, Between the ordered day and primal night. We trade a measure of our w...
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