Spitball Army

This piece was published in 100 Word Story‘s August edition, though the online journal printed the initially-submitted draft. The version below is my final submission to them, after they requested some revisions. I think it is superior to the one they ultimately chose to go with. The editorial restriction was that the story be exactly one hundred words in length.

Hector Gonzalez, feared by the neighborhood youth, lives in his family’s garage and hangs black lights on the big door, forcing us to sneak in from the back. We rifle through his records: Zappa, Santana, Hendrix. I steal one I know he won’t miss. When he names me the perp, my sister gets up in his face, defensive. Hector swings a roller skate, grazing her scalp. Soon after, Mr. Gonzalez begins parking his Plymouth in the garage and Hector vanishes. Forty years pass. Hector fatally overdoses. Memorially, I spin his Watergate Comedy Hour LP, laugh, stop, look over my shoulder.