"Fuck it, here's that fiction."

Some new microfiction comin' soon, y'all. Guaranteed, seeing as how it's in my notebook waiting for transcription. I just gotta conquer this semester, and then I'll have a couple-three months of relatively free time to jaw about whatever comes to mind. Exciting topics may include Chinese radicals (the linguistic kind, not the political), ruminations on skate park life, brutal Houston summers, whatever. No promises.

Fuck it, here's that fiction. Penned 二零一零年四月二十五日。 No editing.

Another batshit heat day out here, they all observe while mopping sweat from brows & crevices. Eight, ten hours on the blacktop in uniform for all, with a changing of the guard so to speak every two hours, time for hot coffee served in metal cups, no sitting allowed and cigarettes must be smoked w/in four minutes or else. Then it's back to formation until- if not when, at least on a small scale, a day scale- one of the figures in the bleachers comes down with the manual and invokes some rule or another, rule more arcane than the last, no way for most of those soaking their starched collars to ever figure out the whole thing. But there is no whole thing; the game is made up on the fly, rules from the manual quoted & put into play for the sake of a game using the manual as a prop. Nobody sees over the cinderblock wall east of the field, doesn't know what else is part of the larger scheme, knows anything but fields & barracks and hot coffee that blisters the mouth daily.