A few of Eric's short stories ... as evidence of Split Fiction's drastically differing writing styles ...

Here's to hoping, praying and begging we can find a single, clear voice for the novel.

Life & Times of an Amigos Manager
A True Story

"Yeah, but there's no control."  It was a feeble argument, but handily offered.

"What kind of control is there in politics?  It's a free country.  People say what they want to.  Trouble is, you can say whatever worthlessness comes to mind, and if you get some other people to go along with it, then that's it.  The intelligentsia of a culture shouldn't be ruled by a pop culture, but in a democracy, they necessarily are.  It's a degradation inherent in the system."  Eric delivered the final words and hurried off. His timing was perfect with the 5/4 rhythm that had been pounded into the floor and dishes and utensils since he got there.  He grabbed a box.  Feet slid in pivot, sounding somewhat akin to a brush on a snare.  Footsteps resumed, and a hand tapped some shelving to pick up the place of a cymbal.

"Here's the thing..."  Eric stopped. 

Jon looked at him with that singular sort of look that clearly meant, what's the thing? 

Eric opened his mouth to continue, but there was a peculiar sort of sizzling coming from the back door, just more than 6 feet to his right.  His head turned.  The box dropped from his hand and time slowed as muscles began to work.  The box hit the floor and burst as plastic-ware exploded across the tile.  At the same instant, a larger explosion ripped through the store as the back door was blown clean from its hinges.  Time slowed further.  The pounding of feet at a dead run resonated loudly for a full three strides before Eric lunged and threw himself clear of debris.  Head tucked, he landed and rolled, springing instantly to his feet.

"Get in the cooler." 

The discussion of politics was obviously over, suddenly ended by the entrance of several militants with the look of business about them.

"More Runza employees," muttered Eric.  "Just what I need." 


The Frantic Adventures of Little Red Robin Hood (and her various battles with the misaligned Sheriff Wolf McClainne)

Chapter 1:  In which the fair little red trips to see Grandma for her 84th birthday, and is then waylaid by two of King-Corperation's men, and is then, quite by the happenstance of escalation, put into the position of becoming an outlaw.

It was a bright, crisp, fall morning in Arrowhead.  Silence was broken by an even more crisp sound as Robin's alarm clock erupted into noise.  She opened her eyes and sat up, instantly awake and only slightly less instantly on her feet and moving.  She stretched in a teasing manner, as if to remind her muscles that they may or may not have some work to do, but not seriously preparing them for the prospect.

In two small steps she crossed the room while holding her arm stretched over her head, body swaying slightly to work the stretch into her back.  She looked over the rough sketch of a schedule that played itself over a dry erase board like a mix of art, mathematics, shopping list, and chaos.  Her eyes worked over the barely organized notes that penned the month, then smiled and sighed.

“Red, are you up? Oatmeal's getting cold!”

Robin groaned and ran a hand through her curly, dark red hair.  “Oatmeal. Ugh.”

She sighed again, then switched off her alarm, ending its insistent brrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii so it could finally fade away with a iiiinnnnggggggg.

“What's the diff if it does?”

The house she shared with her older sister was small.  Two bedrooms.  Kitchen and bathroom were combined in the middle.  In the back was a pantry.  The only luxury items were the toilet and shower.  Both had the latest hand-pump-pressurized system that ensured the water came out at good skin-scouring strength, or flushed completely assuming one spent a bit of time on the hand pump.

Robin sauntered across the kitchen to the corner bathroom and pulled the curtain mostly into place.  It's not like it hid THAT much.  The pump squeaked.  Ten pumps for number 1.  Eighteen for number 2.  If you wanted a shower, you had to put some work into it, but hell... it was better than hanging a bucket.




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