Two for the Show

By Rebellion LIT

Fourteen stories, fourteen Rebellious authors on a mission to entertain. These writers have put their spin on a theme of "two" and you will love what they have to offer. "Two for the Show" is a multi-genre anthology that will keep you turning pages. Short Stories By: Carlotta Ardell, David Blair, M. Blankenship, Erik Cederblom, Rebecca Cuthbert, Mia Dalia, Wendy Harrison, L.N. Hunter, Valerie Hunter, Steve Loiaconi, Joe Mogel, Kelly Okoniewski, Jake Stein, and C. W. Stevenson

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebellion LIT
• Release date: May 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224885084

Book preview

Two for the Show

Two for the Show

A Rebellion LIT Anthology

Rebellion LIT

Contents

Ouroboros

Small Secrets

Average Man

Blood Calls to Blood

Mrs. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson

Condign Justice

House on the Mountain

Serendipity Smiles

Legacy

Split/Personality

Hastings

Into the Styx

Cardinal Chance

From the Ashes

About the Authors

Also From Rebellion LIT

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the following website: https://rebellionlit.com/contact-us/

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Design by Tiffany Christina Lewis

Title Card Illustrations by Victoria Aden

Ouroboros: Copyright © 2024 by Joe Mogel

Small Secrets: Copyright © 2024 by Erik Cederblom

Average Man: Copyright © 2024 by David Blair

Blood Calls to Blood: Copyright © 2024 by M. Blankenship

Mrs. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson: Copyright © 2024 by Rebecca Cuthbert

Condign Justice: Copyright © 2024 by Mia Dalia

House on the Mountain: Copyright © 2024 by Jake Stein

Serendipity Smiles: Copyright © 2024 by Carlotta Ardell

Legacy: Copyright © 2024 by Steve Loiaconi

Split/Personality: Copyright © 2024 by Wendy Harrison

Hastings: Copyright © 2024 by L.N. Hunter

Into the Styx: Copyright © 2024 by Valerie Hunter

Cardinal Chance: Copyright © 2024 by Kelly Okoniewski

From the Ashes: Copyright © 2024 by C.W. Stevenson

All rights reserved.

Ouroboros

By Joe Mogel

He hunched his shoulders against the drizzling rain. The dark hood of his sweatshirt hung down to his brows, droplets falling from the edges as he opened the door to the foyer. An ATM flickered when passed into the bank’s main lobby.

The line of tellers paid him little attention as he stood by an island counter fiddling with a bank slip. His beady eyes flitted across the room. As a couple who had cashed a check were leaving, he headed for the line of tellers.

The banks counter didn't have bulletproof glass, just indentations where business was transacted. He anxiously sauntered up and placed the bank slip down. The teller was a young, bright eyed man close to his own age. Smiling broadly, the teller took the slip. Then the smile disappeared.

Scrawled on the slip were the words: I have a gun, give me all your money. The man in the hoodie pulled out a snubnosed revolver, which was mostly covered by the cuff of his sweatshirt. The teller's false calm wasn't enough to keep the robber's demeanor from becoming feverish.

Did you just press a silent alarm? The robber demanded. You did, didn't you? He gritted his teeth.

The teller, eyes wide and face flushed, tried to say he hadn't, but only managed to babble.

You son of a bitch, The robber snarled, turned to the room and fired a shot into the ceiling. This is a robbery! He shouted at the people dropping flat to the floor. Nobody move!

An older security guard snuck in through the door at the far end of the teller's counter, pistol drawn. The robber caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun and both men fired.

The guard dropped with a grunt as the patrons and employees shrieked. Blood pooled along the guard’s left side. The robber pointed his gun straight at the now sniveling teller.

You bastard! The hooded man snarled again, pulling back the hammer of his gun, You couldn't just give me the money, could you?

The teller’s fear seemed to melt away. He looked the robber in the eyes, as if at a photo of a long dead relative.

Wait, I… The bright eyed man started to say, his face full of concern and desperation. Don't shoot me, you have to listen! He demanded, This time you have to let me explain!

The robber pulled the trigger. The bullet punched through the middle of the teller's forehead. A splatter of blood, skull and brains hit the wall behind as the young man's body fell to the floor. The other tellers screamed and cried, some prayed.

Distant sirens turned the robber back to the lobby. As he was shouting at terrified patrons another gunshot went off. The robber dropped to one knee. An icy chill ran through him. His fingers lost their strength and the gun fell. He unsteadily looked toward the shooter.

The guard was now lying on his side, bullet hole in his left shoulder and smoke coming from the barrel of his pistol. The robber collapsed to the floor. He couldn't breathe, his vision was tunneling and speckled with stars. Slowly, all grew dark and cold.

As the last points of light faded, he was hit with a rush, of what, he wasn't sure. Space in the pitch darkness felt as if it was expanding and contracting. He lost himself in the oscillations, didn't know where he ended and everything else began. A sudden, and powerful, compression squeezed him. He was now cramped, pressed in a place he couldn't identify, but was warm and… Wet?

His mind went pleasantly blank, only being aware of having no awareness of a past, present or future. And he grew to like it. Another compression and he saw legs, heard crying, heard himself cry.

It's a boy!

Space and time continued to rush. Kindergarten through high school flashed by in its youthful, exuberantly awkward way. He dated, dumped, was dumped, grew, learned from all in seeming seconds of empty minded action. College charged him like a freight train, an unstoppable wall of academia. Classes flipped past like images in a slideshow. He applied for jobs, got them, lost them, quit them.

He was young man now, well-dressed, heading to work. He opened the door to a bank and strolled in. Everyone knows him and they wave and wish him good morning. He wishes them good morning back.

Patrons come and patrons go as the day turns dreary, rainy. He sees a man come in out of the rain in a hooded sweatshirt and start filling out a bank slip. A couple, who had been teasing each other over checks, left and the hooded man walked over to his spot in the counter. He handed him the bank slip.

The hooded man's dour, angry face and silence made him feel uneasy, but he keeps smiling anyway. Then he reads what is on the banknote.

I have a gun, give me all your money.

His ears start ringing, his palms sweat. He reaches for the cash box. He doesn't know why. A gunshot goes off, shocking him out of his stupor. The gun is now pointed at him. He looks down the short barrel.

You bastard, you couldn't just give me the money, could ya'? is growled at him.

Wait, I… Recollection washes over him. He remembers now, the dark tunnel, the rushing sensation, the beady eyes staring at him. He remembers what it feels like to hold the gun aimed at him, the desire he couldn't explain before to pull the trigger.

Don't shoot me, you have to hear me! Last time, you didn't let me explain! Have to let me…

He doesn't hear the gunshot. He doesn't feel the bullet passed through his brain, or scatter pieces and droplets on the back wall of the bank. He doesn't hear his coworkers scream, pray or cry. All he sees is void, hollowness too dark to be black, emptiness too lacking to be vacuum. All he sees is a pulsing corridor urging him on and filtering out all his mind contained.

He feels something, cozy and damp, but acrid. He sees tattooed legs as he is pushed forward. The air is stale and smoky. He cries, he hears yelling behind him. The world spins him through. Childhood, the slaps, backhands and cigarette smoke, whirls into his past. High school roars on, with detentions, stealing money and booze, and stints in Juvenile Hall.

Adulthood, or something like it, strikes early. He's in and out of jail, in and out of rehab. Drugs come and drugs go. He mugs and is mugged. Time, both fast and slow, takes its toll. One rats nest apartment follows another. Money goes faster than it comes.

He has no apartment, no money, just his clothes and a gun. A gun? He doesn't remember where he got it, but he knows it's not his. Apathy and anxiety take hold of him as he walks in a light rain. He sees the bank. He doesn't know why, but he hates the bank.

He heads inside, not certain what he's going to do but knowing he has to do something. He stands at a counter and starts writing a bank slip. Briefly, he glances at a door at the end of the row of tellers. More hatred fills him when he looks at it, so he turns away.

A cooing, happy couple strolls out of the bank as he sees him. The teller. He can't explain the danger he feels, but stiffens his resolve. He goes up to the young man with a bright, happy eyes and hands him the note.

He finds seeing the smiling face go pale oddly saddening. The teller's hand lowers behind the counter and the hatred surges back. He knows the silent alarm has been pressed. He knows the police are coming.

Did you just press the silent alarm? He asks, jaw clenching and un-clenching, You did, didn't you? Rage overtakes him and he fires into the ceiling, spinning to the lobby, This is a robbery, everyone on the floor now!

People dive for the floor and he feels vindicated. But there's movement by the door. A guard! Shots are fired and the guard drops. He turns back to the teller. The stupid, happy little teller.

You bastard! He snarls, You couldn't just give me the money, could ya'? You fucking punk!

Gun pointed right between them, the teller's eyes change. The teller's fear is going away, and he hates him for it.

No, not again, The teller blurts.

The words make no sense to him, but he doesn't care. Makes him hate the teller more.

You have to listen to me. You have to give me a chance to explain!

Give you a chance? Explain what? His hate swells in him. His teeth are grinding, eyes and ears burning. I have to listen? The rage flares and pushes him to pull the trigger.

Joe Mogel is a born and raised New Englander and is currently living in Worcester Mass. He’s a member of several regional writer's groups, and actively participates in the city's art scene. By day he’s an alumni of the History department and employee at Clark University, by night he’s a writer with a sense of the quirky and macabre in various genres. He has also written and published several non-fiction articles, ranging from author’s interviews to the history of piracy.

Small Secrets

By Erik Cederblom

Although his colleagues in the finance department liked Charles and respected the quality of his work, they considered him shy, socially awkward, somewhat odd… And they didn’t even know about Mr. Higgins, the mouse he kept in his pocket.

The world shifted for Charles the day a new employee emerged from the serving line in the company’s cafeteria and made her way to an empty table. A petite woman, early thirties, demure blouse in muted spring colors, beige skirt, stylish tote bag, nothing flashy, no lipstick, no nail polish.

It was the half-moons of her ears parting her long, straight, dark hair that caught his attention and, when she leaned over to smell the small bunch of flowers on the table, he was sure he saw her nose twitch. She looked up and saw him, three tables away, a dreamy smile on his face. Reflexively, she smiled back, then blushed, and dropped her eyes. Charles was a goner.

The following day, Charles positioned himself outside the cafeteria where he could discreetly observe her arrival. He waited until a few more employees entered, then followed them in. When he emerged from the serving line and looked around for a place to sit, there were, as he had hoped, few vacant tables. He found his way to hers.

Excuse me, it’s crowded today. Would you mind sharing the table? he managed, his voice shaky.

She looked at Charles: tall, lanky, disheveled hair, and red face.

Please, she said. There’s plenty of room.

Thank you, he said, unloaded his tray, sat down, and promptly forgot all his rehearsed opening lines.

The two of them concentrated on their meals, stole peeks at one another, but ate in silence.

At a lull in the hum of the dining area, they blurted simultaneously, I saw you yesterday.

Both laughed.

I’m Charles Enright, he said. I work in Finance, sixth floor.

Primrose Brown, new employee, Marketing Communications, 3rd floor, she said and extended her hand.

I’m happy to meet you, he said, not wanting to let go.

And with that, shyness dissolved, and conversation flowed, punctuated often by Primrose’s merry laughter. They lingered over cold coffee, neither wanting to interrupt the moment by offering to get refills. Both leaned in to pay attention to what the other was saying, and two quiet people discovered they had a lot they wanted to share.

It was only when Mr. Higgins wiggled that Charles came back to earth.

Abruptly, he straightened. There was no way he could explain a mouse to Primrose.

Excuse me, I lost track of time. I’m due at a meeting in a few minutes. Welcome to the company, he said and stood to leave.

I enjoyed meeting you, Charles. I guess I’ll be seeing you around, Primrose answered.

He needed time to think, so Charles climbed the stairs to the sixth floor. But instead of a steady trudge, he practically danced up the metal stairs, his footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell.

Well, Mr. Higgins, what do you think? he said in a low voice. Wasn’t she beautiful? And so easy to talk with. Do you think she’ll be at the cafeteria tomorrow? Would it be too forward of me to sit with her again . . . But what if she doesn’t want me to sit with her? Thanks for going with me. I would have been afraid to approach her by myself. It was nice having you as my wingman.

When Charles arrived at his desk, he took Mr. Higgins from his pocket and placed him in his briefcase inside a small plastic box that had ventilation holes and was lined with cedar chips.

There was food and water in the box, and Mr. Higgins would be content for the rest of the afternoon. Charles sat at his computer and stared at a spreadsheet of quarterly sales projections. But all he could see was the face of Primrose Brown.

The following day, he went through the lunch line earlier than usual and was already at a table when Primrose arrived. She can sit wherever she wants. This way, I’m not putting any pressure on her.

She spotted him and walked directly to his table.

Hi, Charles, may I join you? she said.

His smile told Primrose everything she had hoped to hear. She unloaded her tray, hung an oversized purse on the back of her chair, and sat. Her smile told Charles everything he wanted to know. They leaned forward and picked up as if they had parted mid-sentence.

Again, their conversation moved comfortably from one thought to the next. They laughed at each other’s anecdotes, listened carefully to what the other was saying. For the first time he could remember, Charles worried he was talking too