bite size fiction...

There was an Acadian boy in our fifth grade class. He was the victim of our collective ridicule, not because of his linguistic difference --we were all in French immersion-- but due to his spatial difference. Guillaume Robichaud was a chubby tub. Not extremely rotund, but squishy enough to give us an excuse. After band practice, we'd circle him and his trombone chanting "Pauvre Guimauve!...Pauvre Guimauve!" as he would have undoubtedly hit a wrong note in his three-note solo. Poor marshmallow, if we got too close he'd try to jab us with the slide of his trombone. Once, the spit valve caught on Marika's wool sweater and punctured the sleeve, its pale blue strands cascading like linty teardrops.

*Find out what happens to Guimauve during the Harvest Carnival next week!...