The officer opens the door and gestures me inside. Files in hand I adjust my collar and walk in. The door shuts with a loud pop, the stuffy air feeling almost oppressive.

The small room is lit with overhead light, it gives off a sterile glow, washing out all the color. The man handcuffed to the metal table in the middle of the room looks up, his orange jumpsuit almost looking sickly green. He straightens up, although he can’t shake away the worry lines etched into his pale forehead.

“Mr Gable?” I ask as I pull out the opposing chair. He gives a curt nod, a quiver in his lip. “I’m James Becker, your court appointed attorney.” I place down my stack of files and open the one at the top. I skim a few lines, my fingers drum against the table. Gable shifts nervously, his cuffs clinking. “I’m gonna be honest Mr Gable, this isn’t gonna be easy,” I say as I glance back at him. “Lots of evidence, cameras, witnesses, dna…All points to you.”

His sweaty hands clench. “It was an accident-“ He starts, his voice high and breathless.

I raise my hand and stop him. “That right there is gonna get you 50 to life, Peter. Can I call you Peter? Listen, we got a good chance here. If… we play our cards right.”

“Got any history of mental illness? Voices, hallucinations?” I ask, a brow raised.

He looks down at his hands, and shakes his head. His knee bouncing up and down.

I rub my temple, a sigh escaping my lips.

“They…they said I’d get a lesser sentence if I plead guilty.” He says softly, his wide eyes raising to meet mine.”

“Jesus Christ, Peter, that’s how they get you,” I say, my voice rising with exasperation. “You might get the chance of parole after 30 years, bud.”

He looks down again, taking in a shuttering breath.

I stare at him, my fingers drumming against the table once more. “Listen bud, there’s…well maybe another option, but it’s not free.”

He looks up enthusiastically. “S-shit I’ll take anything at this point”

I smile and grab the little black book from my inner breast pocket. “It just requireds your signature, and I promise, you won’t be going to jail.”

“Just…just like that?”

“Yep, just gonna make a deal.”

           ………………

I close the door loudly, muffling the screaming voice of Peter and the officers attempting to sedate him. I hum as I walk down the hall and out of the holding area.

“Mr Becker?” A soft feminine voice calls from behind me. I turn, seeing an elder woman with tired eyes.

“I’m Sarah Lee, I believe you’re representing…Gable..?” Tears well up in her eyes, her voice shaking. “Ah Ms Lee, my condolences,” I say sorrowfully. “Yes I’m representing Mr Gable.”

“Please Mr Becker, if you are a decent man of any kind, please I beg you,” She chokes back a sob, she moves her hands in front of her, pleading. “Please don’t let that monster go free.” Her voice turns bitter.

I smile, my fingers thrumming against my black book. “Let’s make a deal.”

Snuggled into a calm residential neighborhood lived a young man, John. Of all the magnificent two-story houses that surrounded him, he lived in the tiniest one. With barely enough money to make a living, he still called this place home. In the backyard was a vibrant, thriving garden. Flowers from all colors of the rainbow filled the sight. Beneath the flowers were fruits which grew to perfection and vegetables that were grown for the most mouth watering meals. The lively garden had been in tact ever since John's mother sadly passed. He made it his life's goal to keep the garden alive in order to also keep his mother's spirit's alive. Every morning at exactly 6 AM before work, John watered the garden. And every night at exactly 9 PM before bed, John watered the garden. But even as water hydrated the garden day in and day out, it always stayed exactly the same. Underneath the house, however were bugs that would attack in the night. They would slurp all the water that had been provided during the day and hide when John would awake. John was repeating what he had done the day before with not a sliver of progression. But the bugs never used to be there. For they were born from the monster within the house. There were clothes covered in dirt scattered throughout the living space. Dishes and trash piled up to the height of the ceiling. Food scraps covered the floor becoming the new carpet. And the stench that flowed inside could kill someone the instant they opened the door. While John thinks he is keeping his garden alive, he is killing it all the same. His mother would be proud, but not at this. For, John is the real monster living in the tiny house.

Mr. Rhinehardt was the kind of person one noticed. 120 Alice Court was a charming Queen Anne three story manse that had been transformed into flats right after WWII. It was advertised as full of character, which meant drafty original windows, gingerbread turrets, pipes that banged, and a sunny wraparound porch. Mr. Rhinehardt lived on the top floor.

In the winter 120 Alice Court put on a good face. Stella Lampfear the artist who lived in the basement/ garden apartment thought the snow frosted old place looked like a lopsided birthday cake. Whenever it snowed she caught Mr. Rhinehardt in his St. John’s sweatshirt shoveling their walkway and vehicles.

The Small-Martinis with their little girl Clarissa and another on the way moved into Old Lady Green’s flat last autumn. Between work and Clarissa, they barely noticed Mr. Rhinehardt. They passed in the foyer with a polite nod. Or he held the door open when they were carrying in groceries and the stroller. They never knew when they lost SugarPants it was Mr Rhinehardt who found it in the recycling, washed and returned the toy cat with a stuffed toy kitten.

During the sticky summer nights every window in 120 Alice Court was wedged open in the hope of a breeze. Maybe that was why Mr. Rhinehardt stood on Miss Feathergill’s last nerve. He was partial to German Thrash Metal and bottles of katzenshiegal on occasion. The summer soundtrack was Miss Feathergill banging her second floor ceiling as Mr. Rhinehardt danced.

While spring cleaning Stella Lampfear noticed the top floor tenant weaving drunkenly up the front stairs. It wasn’t the first time. In fact she noticed his stumbling home more and more. Then there were the familiar long blue bottles tucked in the recycling bins. And of course there was the switch from the pounding beat of Accept to moody requiems.

Having gone through her own blue period Stella recognized all the signs. Her hands clenched and unclenched helplessly. There was no salvation from sadness were hard work and perhaps Zoloft. Stella reclaimed the bottles and sparked her welding torch.

By his laptop Karl aka Mr. Rhinehardt scrubbed at his face and reached for his glass. He was distracted by the tinkling of glass in the backyard. For months he had been smashed between writer’s block and anxiety. He watched the artist in the fading blue light lit by a flame working metal and swaying bottles. Karl set down his glass captivated.

It was never about being my own person. I just wanted to help someone asking for it. Whether or not she got it, I was cruel.

From the first day we met, she clung onto me for dear life. To her, I was so strong and perfect, confident and everything she wished she was. I didn’t ask for anything from her because in reality she couldn’t offer me much, but at the very least she was a loyal and dear friend. I wanted to get her out of her shell.

Slowly she started to worm her way into my life. Texting pestering questions, researching how I did my hair and makeup, calling when she was feeling sad. There would always be some emergency, some trauma resurfaced. And I would answer to do the right thing. I was her rock.

Pretty soon she would startle me with her long stares - eyes always watching me, dissecting every physical part of me, burrowing into my movements to figure out what made me “me.” Out on the dance floors she would, when she thought I wasn’t noticing, study my body as it swayed and she would move like my shadow.

Over the next year, I found myself snappy, shortening my replies. I felt like hiding. Eventually I started making comments in rebuttal to her voice. The very memory of her voice grated my skull. I could not at the time remove myself because I was her everything, her symbol of rebirth.

One day I snapped and never replied. It was my first crisp breath after years of being smothered, of feeling exploited by her desperate gaze, of my space being violated. To this day I’m not sure if I was the bad one, but I am thankful to have been freed.

The first thing you should know is that I'm not some sort of angel who strives to always be a do-gooder. I don't care that my parents named me Veronica after the Saint of Kindness. That's on them. They were practically begging for the universe to make me the way I am by naming me after a saint.

Now, I'm no Satan either, let's be clear. I like to think I land somewhere in the middle in terms of my character. A nice, warm grey area. Not to be confused with Gray, my last name. Yes, I know. Notice the irony and move past it, please.

We have far more important things to deal with.

The next thing I need you to know - and this is where you should start taking notes - is that you must contact Evelyn Harper in the case that I don't return at any point during the mission. She knows everything I know and can help you if something goes amiss.

You'll also want to note that it's only the fourth floor we're targeting today. Don't ask questions. Don't ask about names or what they do. Don't ask anything humanizes them. The less emotions and humanity involved, the better. All you need to know is that you're going into the fourth floor as an IT specialist, but instead of updating the software, you'll download our tracking software and bug the office.

We'll use the information we collect over the course of 10 days in order to carry out the next part of the attack. That's where things get a bit bloody. By which I mean we eliminate them all.

I know what you're thinking. How cold; how callous. Take a step back with me, though. If we successfully see this through, we free all of the Chicago Bay hostages. We can save their lives just like that. And you know what else it'll accomplish? It'll shake up the job market like never before. Thousands of jobs will open up in the aftermath of all of this. Full time jobs available for my brother, your best friend, my niece, and your cousin.

Not so black and white now is it? It's the age old question of which is the lesser evil: The lives of a few or the livelihood of many? We're just the unlucky bastards who got tasked with the follow through this time.

Now don't get me wrong. It's not like I enjoy killing just to kill, but I can get behind a legit reason. There is no price too large to pay for the joy of reuniting families torn apart by monsters. Anything is worth the truly good people in this world succeed. We're helping a greater good here, and I promise that you'll see it that way one day.

Now that we've gotten all of that out of the way, are you ready to get started?

Henry wasn’t sure if he was Henry anymore.

He felt like Henry some days. Well, what he remembered Henry feeling like.

He felt like Henry when he was working in the forge, sweating like a pig and beating the shit out of molten metal. He felt like Henry when Islwyn clapped him on the back and shoved a tankard of ale in his hand. He felt like Henry when a little girl, blonde and filthy, tugged on his cloak and asked for a copper.

He gave her a silver and fought the urge to puke.

It was easier when he didn’t feel like Henry. Worse, a thousand times worse, but still somehow easier. When that dark feeling started twisting inside him, snapping at his heels and clawing up his throat, it was so much easier to remember who he was. Where he was. When he was.

Dugal gave him orders and he carried them out. If he was feeling like Henry they made his stomach turn, but if he was feeling like Not-Henry he barely thought about it.

Seeing Clara nearly broke him. His baby sister, too tall, too old, too strong. He remembered her barely reaching his waist, all big grey eyes and shiny blonde hair he painstakingly braided each morning. But now when he saw her she reached his chin and carried a sword.

Without fail, whenever he saw her, the two beings inside him started tearing into each other. Henry begged and begged to hold her for just a second more. Not-Henry seethed at the indignant girl standing against Dugal. Henry was horrified, horrified his baby sister was grown and had blood on her hands and scars on her body. Not-Henry didn’t even notice.

Henry knew that even if he could decide which one was really him, or maybe even just which one he wanted to be, it wouldn’t really matter. He’d never get Clara back, his Clara back. Something had broken fifteen years earlier, when that blade had sunk into his throat and everything went black. Or maybe it had broken when Dugal had dragged him back, kicking and screaming and clawing from—from wherever he’d been.

He was pathetic. He hated every inch of himself, Henry and Not-Henry alike.

His blue eyes were the first things that struck me, and then it was his warm hands contrasted against my coldness. “Careful,” he muttered, helping me up after I had just slipped. Ian Voulder, the kingdom’s heir to the throne, had just helped me. Helped! “Thank you, I did not know you were able to show kindness,” I remarked, brushing the dirt from my skirts. A small smirk blossomed on his face. We were forced to work together to uncover a treasonous thief that had been stealing from the kingdom’s merchants. I happened to be one of the best trackers, and Ian was one of the best interrogators. I glanced at Ian’s leather black jacket and multiple daggers on his belt. He looked lethal, deadly. His dark hair blew in the wind; his dark brows assessed the area for any potential danger. “Watch your step, Izevel,” he growled, anger slicing through his tone. I stepped over the sharp rocks, but a scared bunny running before me scared me and I fell. My palms stopped my fall, only to get stabbed by the razorours rocks. I cried in pain. Warm blood seeped from my hands. “I’m sorry…” I whispered, slightly scared Ian would be wrathful. But instead, he gently helped me move to soft moss and sat me down. “Do not be sorry,” he said, taking out his aid kit. So gently and softly, he wrapped my wounds, being careful not to add too much pressure. How could Ian be so cruel and cold one minute, then warm and kind in another? I would never understand Ian Voulder. “That’s the second time I saved you,” he remarked, with a small smile. “Well lucky you,” I responded.

He’d seen it happen for the last time, the anger burned through his fists with an unmatched fury as he followed the harrassers to their van.

As they were packing their stuff into their trunk he tapped one on the shoulder and when they turned he punched them square in the face.

Blood sprayed from their nose as he grabbed them by the collar and looked them square in the eyes.

“If I ever catch you harrasing another woman it won’t just be your nose I break ca-peesh?”

The individual nods so hard you could almost believe their head could have rolled off.

The man drops them and walks off shaking his head and scrunching up his face with a scowl until he sees an older woman struggling to cross the busy road, paints his face with a smile, jogs towards her and offers her his arm.

The delicious forbidden, chocolate four layer cake I kept staring at it, dreaming of a bite that I will take

At the moment, the nice baker in his apron of flour white Had made a zillion donuts, and pies throughout the night

I watched him doze off in a needed nap, he had to take Quickly as if I flew and had wings, I grabbed the cake

It was safely locked up behind the invisible wall, I did not see Trying to grab it then I bumped it, and landed on my knee

Broken wall unseen by some, lay on the floor mixed with flour I guess the youngsters who I promised it to, will have to wait a hour

Danny was in his tracksuit taking his morning run, twice round the block in preparation for a five kilometer race for charity when he ran past a couple of kids playing football. An overzealous kick a few seconds later and Danny nearly trips over the ball. "Oi, mister, can you pass the ball back." Danny obliged adding a tad more velocity to the ball. The ball flew past their heads into the Smythe's garden breaking the hat off a garden gnome. Danny smiled to himself, turned around and continued his run. The two kids, caught by Mrs Smythe who was wielding her broom, and got their backsides whacked as they tried to blame Danny who had disappeared out of sight. "Don't lie to me," Mrs Smythe shouted, "your ball, I saw you playing not five minutes ago with it. Your fault!" The kids, with a tear in their eyes picked up the ball and ran home, Danny had extended his run around the park. Smiling to himself, getting warm from the running, he came across an old lady whose shopping had fallen out onto the pavement. Reaching the old lady, Danny stopped and helped pick up the shopping, waited with the lady, Mrs Swiftly, for the Uber taxi he had phoned for.
When the taxi arrived, he helped Mrs Swiftly into the car, closed the door, waved bye and continued on his run. In the space of half hour he had gone from a mischievious naughty git to a good samaritan. Conflicted as to hom he should feel, Danny entered the house, kissed his wife on the head and went for his shower.