Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Marilyn Houseman and Detective Sergeant George ‘Ginger’ Kidman walked into the murder team office, with the rest of the team stopping to look at them. Marilyn smiled and they all cheered.

“Terry Hanson got twenty-five years for each murder, consecutive, with the judge appalled at the brutality. That’s on top of the five that he got for smuggling and possession of illegal firearms. He’s unlikely to be out in our lifetime.”

Authors Note: Hi! Seven chapters left I think. Thank you for all being my beta readers. Your comments are what keeps me excited to continue posting. If you've enjoyed my story there is something you could do for me. Give me some constructive criticism. I'm going to go back through the text and work on grammar, but I'm also considering making a few changes. You could also let me know where you think this is going to go.

When Samantha wants to help Jenna, she finds out her friend is the victim of a three hundred year old family curse...and a whole lot more.

There's a single-occupancy bathroom at the end of the east corridor — the one with the accessibility sign and the slightly sticky lock that everyone knows about and nobody has ever put in a maintenance request for. I've used it before when the men's is occupied. Today I go there first, directly.

I push the button to lock the door and it clicks.

Chapter 4

There was something that Marilyn could do while she was at her computer. It would be doubling up Ians’ work, but she called up Ancestor and entered Geoff Hunter and his known year of birth. She tracked through the family tree, finding that he had five brothers. One, who would be the right age as the man that Rose had seen, was called Henry Hunter.

Chapter 3

Tapper looked as if he’d been hit, and Marilyn watched him closely. He was silent, and they could see that his tear ducts still worked. He took a deep breath.

Chapter 2

They walked into the office to see most of the team already studying computer screens. Marilyn went into her own office and spent two hours working on administrative paperwork, to clear her mind. At around ten, she had a call on her mobile.

“DI Houseman.”

In this part our "victim" agrees to transition and is surprised by what is possible.

I couldn't sleep when I got back. It was the first time I had experienced actual pleasure since this all started. I just couldn't reconcile feeling pleasure having sex as a woman.

I was a guy. sex with men was shear humiliation most of the time. At best is was a chore. A chore that I learned to mentally block out.

"Ohh, yes baby. Do me, You're so big" etc. All this to encourage them to finish so I could leave. At worse, it was mental torture. When they would say things like.

And now, as they say in the classics, for something completely different. This is a pair of stories triggered by watching a very realistic British crime series on TV. The term ‘flower’ further into this, is used in York, in a similar way that ‘pet’ is used in Tyneside.

Chapter 1

I wake to the ache still there, low in the back, radiating forward. Emily's side of the bed is empty and cool - she's been getting up before me lately. I lie there for a moment with my hand on my lower abdomen before I've decided to be awake.

Then the intestines register - a liquid looseness, insistent, making its announcement before I'm ready for it. I get up. Bathroom. Now.

Then the routine. Sit, wipe, flush. Nothing unusual on the tissue. The dark boxer briefs feel slightly damper than normal when I pull them up, the baseline returning after the dry spell. I move on.

Caden wakes with his arms folded across his chest, fingers digging into his own ribs. A dull ache pulses beneath the skin — persistent, like the ghost of a bruise. He rolls onto his back and hisses as the sheets drag across his nipples, rough against skin that had turned traitor overnight. The pain isn't localized; it radiates outward in concentric circles, tightening with each breath. He presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, testing. The pressure sends a jolt down to his navel.

Cruel Love
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I have always considered myself as a driven person – some might say obsessive. Whatever you call it, it has bought me success and the admiration of my peers, but I wonder whether it is also what led me into a cruel love affair.

Marcus calls at eight-fifteen — school run done, twenty minutes before he has to be anywhere.

"Wolves lost," he says, before I've finished saying hello.

"I saw."

"You didn't see. You checked the score at midnight and felt nothing."

"I felt something."

"You felt data. It's different." A car door, keys, the acoustics of his kitchen — I know it well enough to place it. "They're going to finish mid-table again. I've made peace with it. Have you made peace with it?"

"I've never not been at peace with it."

The Garden Party
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

“Maybe you should go down to the strip and find yourself somebody to do the job,” I suggested. “You know, just like Richard Gere did. Find yourself a Julia Roberts.”

“If I thought that would work, I might,” he said, the man who had just introduced himself as Jerome. “Now do you want the money or not? Will you do it or not?”

Chapter 9

Next morning, we were both awake early and I was resting my head on Randalls’ shoulder. It was quiet in the hotel, just the sound of the air movement from the conditioning. He squeezed me.

“I guess that we should remember these moments before the storm. You realise that today is the first day of the rest of your life. Up until now, you’ve been a good presenter and reporter, with some stand-out stories. Today, you’re a multiple Walkley winner, with one of them a gold. That’s something that others have taken decades to earn.”

"Four weeks," Caden mutters as the gravel crunches under his tires, the cabin's wooden sign swinging slightly in the wind. He parks, kills the engine, sits for a moment staring at the pine trees crowding the driveway. The tour contract is signed, the advance spent. A short drive from Denver, no distractions. Just the work.

A TURN OF THE MOON
Day Seven
by
Jessica Drew

I woke the next morning to hear Lauren calling my name. I groaned and pulled the covers over my head.

“Come on, it’s a beautiful day today,” Lauren said. I felt her tugging on the bed sheets.