The Funhouse

They had just sat down to a simple dinner, the emphasis being on simple, since it consisted of nothing but buttermilk and hard rye bread with stale butter. The mood was sullen, as it often was in the summertime, particularly on a warm, sunny afternoon when the neighbours were preparing a barbeque and they themselves had nothing to feast on except buttermilk and bread. Kirsten had made a feeble attempt to go to the store but had promptly been chased back into the house by some young hooligans that had ventured into the yard. At the sight of Kirsten, they had started running towards him, while calling him every name in the book. At first, Kirsten had bravely faced them, standing there with his hands firmly planted on his sides, glaring at them, daring them to come near him. When it was painfully obvious that his scare tactics weren’t going to work he did the smart thing, he ran. Or rather, he staggered. He took off on those old, ratty clogs as fast as his skinny legs could carry him, stumbling and cursing, slipping on grass still moist from a light shower in the afternoon. It looked pathetic. That frail, mangy body. Those large clogs that resembled two potatoes that had been mauled by a dog. His crooked glasses with one shattered lens. He was a rare sight. No wonder those hooligans couldn’t keep up with him, they were too busy cracking up at the sight of him. As Kirsten reached the stairs he could hear them in background, that hysterical, sadistic laugh they had. Like hyenas on the prairie.