It's spring, time

for slaughter. March in like a lion out like a lamb. I'm on the lam. In Stiles, April's the season of resurrection, rebirth, rain, room draw and assassins. The last two both can get violent. The game is on. Day 2. Notes from an undisclosed location. Paranoia and stalking started yesterday at noon. Staked out the bathroom this morning. Read Kant on the can until my target came, brushed her teeth, and then turned back towards no man's land, the hall way. Hand trembling with the thrill of the silly water gun kill, I shot. Glee, got her. I happen to be a little competitive. Walking around campus, little pink gun cradled in pocket, I'm happy for the excuse to draw pistols with anyone. I shoot on sight more for the five-year-old, childlike delight than the half hour of immunity.