January 29, 2010
Witch, Bosco, Deedee and Zimbo had real names but didnít use them. As a child my heart turned to ice at the sound of their monosyllabic grunting and feral howls sent from the back of the school bus. During the twenty-minute ride to St. Gregoryís, I sat mute, the only sound a faint rattle as my hands trembled against my Barbie lunch box. Zimbo, my contemporary was the last to emerge from his mother-host in a glutinous heap of hooves and horns. He may have blended in among his human victims, but I knew better and he knew I knew.