#5MinuteFiction, Week 96!

I participated in a little flash fiction over on Nicole Wolverton's BLOG again! 

Its so exciting to get your brain working with such a small time frame, and I'm shaking again just like last week!  LOL!  Unfortunately, in my haste and panic, I have a little typo in my story, but ah well!  You win some, you lose some!

The prompt this week was "the act of a derelict" ... Not to be confused with DERELICTE from Zoolander, though that was an awesome fashion show, Mr. Mugatu.

Focus, Jessa.

Anyway, here's my little entry.  Let's play find the mistake, shall we?  Do you see it?  No?  How about now?  Its right there.  Keeeeeeeep looking.  Ah.  Yes.  There it is.  Mr. Greenburg had a brief identity crisis halfway through, changed his name, and forgot to make sure all instances of his name change had been updated throughout the story.  Damn. 

Joey walked outside, his head hung low.  His heart felt shattered, and his face was bruising.  He could feel the blood pulsating in his cheek, right underneath his swollen left eye. 

As he carried the heavy can of paint and the old weathered paint brush the two miles to Mr. Berman's home, he couldn't get his father's words out of his head.  They pounded viciously at his brain. 

He hadn't meant to do it.  Not really.  He'd been so caught up in wanting to fit in.  Wanting to be a part of something he'd never been a part of before.  A group.  A circle of friends. 

"... racist ..."

He remembered looking down at the can of spray paint in his hands, turning it over and over, knowing he should resist but unable to do so. 

Victor had taunted him, teased him until he'd done it. 

He'd painted the word on the side of old Mr. Greenburg's house, with tears silently streaming down his face.  When he turned around, the guys were all gone.  Only Mr. Berman remained. 

Joey had braced himself for the anger that he was sure would come to him, only to see hurt from Mr. Berman instead.  He hadn’t yelled.  He hadn’t screamed or chased Joey home.  He’d just sighed and stared at the word as if Joey wasn’t even there. 

He'd walked home that day, tears streaming down his face, preparing to tell his father what he'd done.  He knew he had to, because Mr. Berman was sure to tell on him eventually.

His father had raged.  His father had screamed.  His words had hurt Joseph.  His fist had hurt worse. 

But the worst pain of all was to come.

When Mr. Berman covered for him. 

“It was the act of a derelict,” he’d said.