The Sunday Scaries
Volume I, Number 4
Microfiction by Pat Harrigan
Content Warning: Language and Horror

The Neighborhood Fair

Turnout was low, probably because of the weather. Overcast and fifties in July! There’s your global warming for you, said dad.
          Thanks, Obama! chirped Jacob. This was the ritual response. But dad barely acknowledged it. It was pretty boring. There was a booth advertising some sort of telephone company. Here was one for the neighborhood association. He’d already gotten his pop and mini-donuts and he supposed he could jump into the bouncy castle, but there was something queasy going on in his stomach and he could imagine bouncing, bouncing, bouncing and then blam! puke everywhere, on the walls, on the bouncy floor, on the other kids, bits of puke spraying and bouncing…
          He decided to think of something else. He took dad’s hand. A bicyclist zipped by, kind of close, he might hit somebody if he kept doing that. Dad was talking to a lady in the architect’s booth. Why would dad be talking to an architect? Was he building a house? Were they moving? Jacob didn’t want to move. He liked their house. He tugged on dad’s hand. Dad introduced him to the lady, whose name was Alice. She looked a little like mom.
          They sat for a while in the beer tent. Jacob kicked the table until dad told him to stop. Usually a beer tent was crowded and hot, remembered Jacob the street fair expert, but today it was cold inside, colder even than out of the street. A few groups of men huddled together on the far side of the tent. Something shot out from under their feet and disappeared behind a stack of kegs. Jacob jumped in his seat.
          Something the matter? asked dad. He’d hardly touched his beer.
          Just saw a cat over there, he said. It scared me a little.
          A spring-loaded cat, said dad. That was their term for anything startling.
          Back on the street, he saw another cat dart behind the Internet fiber booth. Dad was arguing with the hot dog guy.
          Listen, fuck you, it’s perfectly fresh, said the hot dog man.
          It’s gray. Look at it, it’s gray. And don’t swear in front of my son.
          Fuck you! The guy grabbed the hot dog out of dad’s hands and flung it behind him. Ketchup and relish spattered on the laundromat’s window. The people inside turned to look. To Jacob they looked like they were half-asleep.
          Come on, Jake. Dad tugged on his arm, hard! hard enough to hurt a little. Ow!
          Oh, don’t be a baby! Dad pulled him down the street. Jacob looked back at the hot dog man. A cat was eating the discarded hot dog. Jacob stopped, ignoring dad’s pulling. No, that wasn’t a cat. It was nothing like a cat.
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