Secret Garden Archive Table of Contents

The Secret Garden was a website for gay amputee devotees. Between 1997 and 2004, Doug Rogers posted dozens of stories there. Since taking down the website, he contacted Paradevo and asked us to archive his short stories here. Below is a list of the stories he sent us. The descriptions are taken from the original website. 

Doug also self-published his longer fiction on Amazon. Find his novels here.

Table of Contents

A Turn of the Wheel	2/27/2007	A stranger at the bedside of a dying man is the setting for this sweet short from The Wiz hisself!
Cindy's Fault	10/18/99	A one-legged girl named Cindy brings out the devotee in several young bucks... and you won't BELIEVE the ideas she gives a young gay guy!
Circles	2/2/2002	Sometimes it's difficult to know whether you are running away from or toward something. Here's a sweet short about a young waif on the road and the very special love he finds there. Stay for the end.
Circles II	2/6/2002	Randy is in the hospital and Corky comes to help him through recuperation. Or is that all that's going on? Corky seems in no hurry to get back home!
Closure	6/15/2001	Probably more accurately called "Questionable Practice Chapter 20", this short does sew up the questions as to whatever happened to Constance Parring, the devotee doctor from that novel. Yes, she DID retire to a tropical island... (But read on!)
Convert	7/28/2004	It was hard to figure out: The gay boy who showed his amputated leg off all the time befriended the straight boy who hid his from the world. Who's zoomin' who? And Why?
Drive-By	7/15/99	It's a violent world in which we live, and sometimes paths cross at tragic times. Who can doubt this tale of gangland violence and the changes it wrought to one man's life.
Equal Measure	3/9/2002	A young lass starts taking bust enhancement pills as a gift to her boyfriend. He's obviously delighted with the results until he asks what he can do for her in return! (Even if you're not a breeder, give this one a chance!)
Fantasy	12/15/2000	In the spirit of "The Cell" and "Total Recall", here's the story of a dev who pays for a week-long computerized fantasy vacation on an island filled with friendly, open amputees. The problem? The fantasy is too real! He falls in love with one of the characters there! But all is not lost... stay for the ending!
First Date	12/06/2001	Is a grade letter drop in a college course worth the distraction that caused it? A tale of missed opportunity. Or is it?
Flowers in the Wind	6/14/2002	Here's another coming of age love story that seems idyllic until one of the pair is struck down by a tragic accident. It's all about inner strength and who has it and who doesn't. Are you an Orchid or a Dandelion?
High Art	10/27/2003	This bit begins when a set of "hidden" paintings arrive at the home of an armless artist, and ends with one of the most hair-raising escapes in our collection!
Indiscretion	9/26/2004	The young doctor was captivated by the gay teen boy, so much so he took him home. But the story only begins there. Here's a tale of blackmail and strange turns. Stay for the end.
Johnny	2/10/2002	Here's an Oldie but a Goodie! The story of the overnight camping trip between friends Ted and one-legged Johnny has been around since before I started writing for the Garden. It suddenly occurred to me that it wasn't posted here! Remember!
Just a Little Scratch	10/8/2000	A wantabe finally finds a way to get the job done! In spades!
Looking Glass	6/5/2005	A man seeks help when a bizarre dream begins to plague him night after night. Here's a new short short from The Wiz.
Mr. Gilton's Last Christmas	12/16/2003	The young man had literally lost the same leg twice and he was mad as hell. Enter an elderly man of 103 years, and a whole different way of looking at life. It's the first Christmas offering from The Wiz.
Mulled Wine	½/2000	On a snowy night a few days away from New Years Eve, a one-legged man knocks at the door of a kindly widow. What follows should charm and warm you, just as it did them.
Reality	4/5/98	A football player is sitting at an awards ceremony, where, oddly enough, all of the recipients appear to be amputees!!!!
Resolution	6/26/99	Sometimes fate brings you everything you ever wanted in your life, only to show you that perhaps you have been wishing for the wrong things.
Ryan	6/14/2000	A chance encounter with a handsome young customer at her bar leaves the owner in a family way. Here's a sweet tale with a twist in the tail!
Secrets	5/13/99	The pretty young woman with one leg is furious when the man following her can't explain himself. But a friendship of sorts develops... As long as he doesn't ask that single burning question about her leg!
Shark!	11/13/99	A shark attack leaves a young lawyer without lower legs. But he's eager to get back in the diving game. Especially when this cute young lady on the excursion shows every sign of being a devotee!
Skalawag's	10/15/99	It was a great idea! A nightclub named "Scalawag's" where the waiters all wore peglegs! At least it was until the haters found out about the place!
Sweet Dreams	5/12/99	Be warned. You are about to descend into a nightmare. This one is all too real.
Tank	12/18/2003	What starts out as some rather unhealthy stalking turns into much more in this story of unrequited love set in the holiday season.
The Bully	8/9/99	You are the small kid that everyone picks on. But sometimes fate steps in to even the odds in ways that are far more devious than the obvious. This story also illustrates the young age at which "the attraction" often asserts itself.
The Dancer	6/12/2001	Here's the tale of a fellow who tries for a pickup at a disco only to find that the target of his efforts already has a date. Stay for the ending.
The One-Armed Boy	11/21/2001	When the brash young man with one arm came up and introduced himself, she didn't quite know what to do. She decided to at least hear him out. What followed would be with her for all the days of her life.
Trends	7/4/2003	Teens are quick to embrace new trends. It's just a matter of time until they find the next one.
Turnaround	12/19/99	A thirty-something is understandably bitter when he wakes up in the hospital minus an arm. Luckily, his lover is accepting and supportive. But it's hard to accept such unconditional love. What could possibly turn him around?
Vacation	10/21/2000	It's a long drive to get all of the people together for this nefarious tale, but the results speak for themselves!
Vengeance	5/15/2004	The traveler fell in love with the young man at first sight. The lengths to which he would go to prove that love are amazing, much more so because his lover will never know about them! A mini-detective story by The Wiz.
Weekend	9/21/99	A casual question triggers memories that are as fresh now as 30 years ago. A sweet miniature.
Wrong Turn	5/12/2004	Sometimes a wrong turn can ruin your life. Then again...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Bully

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website, and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

Sometimes life is funny as hell.
By funny, of course, I mean peculiar. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Roy Coxson was a bully. I had met him for the first time on the playground in the opening days of the fourth grade. He was the guy who pushed me in the chest and made me fall down over Donnie Ritchen. Donnie was on all fours, and I found my feet flying out from under me, and I hit the ground hard on my back. Roy kicked some dirt in my direction, they hi-fived each other, and ran off. Over the following two years, Coxson had done nothing to change my opinion of him. If it is possible for a twelve year old to hate, I hated him.
And then there was that day just before Christmas break when our teacher made an announcement to the class. Roy Coxson, it seemed, had gone deer hunting with his brother and father. The old man had handed the shotguns to Ben while they crawled over a fence. The eight year-old had promptly dropped one of the weapons, and it had gone off. The shot caught Roy in the right arm and the right side of the chest. So Roy was in the hospital, and we were told if we wanted to visit him, it was room 614 at Jefferson Hospital.
I thought little more about it until we came back from Christmas Break. I noticed that Coxson wasn't in class. As soon as we came to order, our sad-faced teacher gave us an update.
"I know you have all been concerned about Roy Coxson. I got a call from his father last night. Roy won't be back in school for at least another month. His lung is fine, and his breathing is much better. But..." She paused a moment and swallowed. "But the doctors say they haven't been able to fix the damage in his arm very well. They are going to amputate his right arm this afternoon."
Mickey Kentz bent over to my desk and whispered "What's amplatate?"
"It's AMPUTATE," I whispered back. "They're gonna cut his arm off!"

Cindy's Fault

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website, and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

When you come right down to it, it's really Cindy Thurston's fault that I only have one leg. Now that I have your attention, let me start at the beginning.
Cindy and I had gone to school together since she moved here in the third grade. I can remember the first day of school that year. She came crutching in on those forearm sticks she used back then, and I remember thinking "Far out! This girl ain't got a left leg!"
The teacher introduced Cindy to the class, and explained to us that she had been very sick a few months ago and the only way the doctors could make her well was to remove her leg. She didn't throw words like "cancer" and "amputation" at us. Hell, we were only 8 year olds at the time! Cindy let everyone who wanted to take a closer look at her leg (we were all wearing shorts back then!) I didn't know what a hard-on was back then, but I got one all the same.
That night, when I went to my room to go to bed, I had a thought that thrilled me in a strange way. As I was putting my pajamas on, I doubled my left leg up and put it down the leg of the loose pants. I tied a knot in the end of the pant leg, and stood up. Using the bed to walk on with my knee, I got around to where I could see myself in the mirror! I felt crazy! But my heart was pounding, and the feelings were good everywhere. I remember thinking, "I wonder if Cindy feels this way when she gets ready for bed!"

Circles I

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

I'm not really sure what sort of turn my life would have taken if I hadn't met Corky. Quite probably, I'd be dead. In a very real way I owe my life to him.
It was the summer I had turned fourteen. I was running away. I was running away in every sense of the term. I was fourteen and I was running away from the small town where I had been raised, from my parents, from the thugs at school who thought it was really funny to pick on the small kid everyone thought was gay. Well, they were right, but what of it? I never bothered anyone! I was running away from all the problems that had been dumped into my life in the past eight weeks! I was tired of it all and all I wanted was out. So I had saved my allowance for the past four weeks and stolen everything that was in my mother's purse the summer afternoon I finally decided to do it, and I had bolted!
It doesn't take much money to hitchhike. It's scary as hell, but it's cheap. I'd only had one close call so far. This guy in his late 30's I guessed had picked me up outside of Carson City. He'd seemed nice enough and had chattered on and on as we headed down Route 28 toward Lake Tahoe. About the time the night fell he pulled into a Mickey D's just outside of Tahoe.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"Yeah, I could eat," I told him. Actually, I wanted to get out of the car and stretch. My knee was throbbing something awful and I needed to walk it off.
"Great," he said. "Let's grab a bite here, my treat!"
He didn't have to make that offer twice. We sat in the plastic restaurant eating the plastic tasting meal. I'd never thought much of fast food, but at least this was filling and someone else was buying it.
"Want another?" the guy asked, pointing to the smudged carton that had held my Big Mac.
"No, I'm good," I said. "Thanks. I was hungry."
"You on the run, kid?" he finally asked.

Circles II

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden Website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

 Circles I


I think I woke up fairly soon after coming back from surgery. I say 'I think' because I'm really not sure of anything that first day. I was drifting in and out a lot. Of course, the doctor had told me that would be the way of it. He was keeping me pretty well sedated to let the major healing begin and keep me out of pain. That suited me just fine. Somewhere in there it occurred to me to look down at the foot of the bed. At first I thought the operation hadn't been done yet: I saw the twin rises of my feet right where they should have been; there was no void on the left side. I drifted back into the blackness again.
It was, I think, the next time I drifted into consciousness that I became aware of the tight feeling all around my left thigh. I focused again on the shapes at the foot of the bed. Ah! Of course! I was seeing the instant prosthesis that Dr. Burns had promised he would fit me with. He said he did that for most of his younger patients after amputation anyway, but after what Corky had told me about being able to get up and actually walk after a day or two, I wanted to be damned sure I was one of the guys who got one!
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Thank God! It was over! The twin specters of the horror of having a leg chopped off and death were both past now, one having banished the other. The cancerous knee was gone. The doctor had promised me the night before that the tests showed it hadn't spread; they had caught it early enough. Gingerly, I tried to lift my left leg. It seemed to weigh a ton. I simply shook my head, smiled a silly grin, and drifted back to sleep.

Closure

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

Constance Parring saw the boat coming long before she could hear the cries from the occupants. She had spent the greater part of the day sitting on the shaded porch of her thatched cabana, reading one of the many gothic romance novels she had brought with her to this far-away little island more than three years before. Kusta had crutched by a few minutes before, asking if she wanted anything to drink. He was in the kitchen area now, she was sure, squeezing fruits for a large pitcher of the local variant on planter's punch.
At the thought of the smouldering Kusta she shuddered, an erotic thrill sneaking from the base of her innie navel down the smooth tight line of her flat tummy to nestle warmly deep into the recesses of her most female part. Just thinking about this young bronze god made her vagina ache with desire! He was, indeed, her dream man in every sense of the word. His tall, Polynesian good looks were nothing short of classic. Black hair framed a squared face with exotically high cheekbones. His golden skin covered broad shoulders and a hard smooth chest that she never tired of stroking and caressing. His long left leg was sharply chiseled flesh and the play of the opposing muscle groups as he would hop or crutch from place to place made her marvel at his controlled strength.

Convert

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

I was leaning against the red-orange brick wall of the Student Union reading the campus rag and resting my bare stump on the handle of my left blue-trimmed forearm crutch when I first became aware that he was watching me. The look on his open face was a curious one; something between amazement and disgust. Now, getting looked at when I go out bare-stumped in short shorts is nothing new; I've been having that happen ever since my freshman year when they first cut it off. What was odd was the air he seemed to have about me. Most people are either frankly fascinated or just filled with pity. This guy looked, in short, mad. I finally smiled and gestured for him to come over. He looked around, like he was checking to see that no one was looking, and coke-in-hand he got up from the green umbrella covered outdoor table at the student snack bar and headed my way. I noticed in passing that he had a slight limp. That should have tipped me off as to what was about to happen, but it didn't.

The Dancer

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

"The guy is a fruit loop," Tommy told me flatly.
"So?" I returned. "This is a gay club. What's your point?"
"Not that kind of fruit loop, Will," he returned. "This dude is like a couple of bubbles off plumb."
I shook my head. "He doesn't look crazy to me. What makes you say that."
Tommy Bledsoe took a long pull at his whiskey and soda. "I bought him a drink a few weeks back and he told me this tale of woe that you wouldn't believe. It was all about his dead lover and some freaky story about how they had made a deathbed promise. It weirded me out!"
I looked over at the lone man sitting at the side table again. He had a half-empty beer held loosely in his right hand. He had a world-weary look that made him look older than the early thirty-something that was his apparent age. His dark good looks had caught my eye when we had entered. He had classic features and was dressed to kill. To any casual looker at Wanderlust he was just another cruiser albeit an upscale and attractive one. The pulse of the disco music and the play of the dance floor lighting only added to the mystique the man exuded. I smiled at Tommy. "Guess I'll go check the story out myself." I grabbed my drink and headed across the room. Bledsoe just shook his head and picked his own target for the evening.
"Is this seat taken?" I asked with a smile as I reached his table.
The man's eyes looked up, surveying me casually. "Not at all," he said simply, gesturing for me to sit down if I pleased.
"Will Ramsey," I said, offering my hand.
"John Allenson," he returned with the shake.
"Buy you a drink?" I asked.
"Still working on this one," he answered. "But nice of you to offer."
"I haven't seen you around."
"I haven't been here very often these days," he answered. He took a swig of the beer as if trying to wash something away.
"You used to come here a lot?"
Memories seemed to cross his face like thin clouds skittering across the moon on a cold autumn night. They obscured nothing but still changed the nature of the way he looked. "Yes," he finally answered. "My lover and I used to come here quite often."
I was crestfallen, but tried not to show it. "Oh? He's not with you tonight."
He smiled wistfully. "No." He paused. "Of course, in a way he's always with me." He looked across the table. "He passed away."
"I'm very sorry," I began uneasily. "I didn't know."
"It's okay."
"I must admit that I was going to ask you to dance," I said with embarrassment. "Now I feel like I've dredged up memories you'd rather not have."
John's smile showed no sign of pain. "There you're wrong. Those memories never leave, and I'm pleased to have them with me." He looked into my eyes. "Are you interested in hearing what happened?"
"Sure."
"It was five years ago," he began, the mild din of the nightclub mentally receding from his consciousness. "His name was Sergei Solokyov."

-0-

Drive By

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

Jeff Carson looked nervously up and down the darkened street. He was alone. Not that he was surprised. The street was a back-water avenue that had seen better days at least fifty years ago. It was dirty and littered. The public library could have filled any missing issue of the local paper for the past three years from those piled in every dark corner. The single-bulb street light at each corner of the block threw a pool of light about 10 feet in diameter. Outside of those circles, the eye had to strain to see anything in the blackness.
For the third time in as many minutes, he put his hand in the pocket of his wool suit to retrieve the car key that would drive him away to safety. And again, he decided against it. The dealer had said there would be no hitches.
He had actually liked the young man. He was obviously a drug dealer. The heavy gold chains reinforced the golden sheen of his teeth against dark skin. Still, there was a sort of street honesty about him that Jeff felt he could trust.
So, here he was. Waiting. As instructed.
A lone car turned the corner. It's headlights were immediately doused. With parking lights only, the 15 year old car crawled down the block. Jeff stepped out toward the curb.
A window was rolled down, and he heard a stranger's voice say, "That's him!"
All hell broke loose.
Both of the back doors of the car opened in unison. Men in ski-masks, jeans and tee shirts emerged. Before Jeff could respond, one had his hands behind him. A second was pressing a cloth over his face... the strong smell of some sort of chemical burned his lungs as he began to pass out. Almost instinctively, he began to struggle; to free himself from the men and from whatever drug they here using to subdue him. He remembered kicking wildly once or twice. Then a huge explosion, followed by a vague sense of fire on his left leg just as he slipped from consciousness.

Equal Measure

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

 
I had almost done it again. I had almost dozed off snuggled against Diane's pillow-soft left tit with my leg still strapped up. You'd think that I would learn after a while that doing that's not a good idea.
I sat up in bed as gently as I could so as not to awaken my sleeping beauty. The sexual flush had faded from her ample cleavage quite a while ago. She appeared serenely relaxed, at peace. There was nothing to reveal that scarcely thirty minutes before she had been a caged animal, her claws raking my back, her mouth almost bruising my own with passion. The sex had been that hot!
Of course the sex was always that hot with her when I had my leg up. I reached down and unbuckled the top restraining strap of the harness, the long belt-like part of it that kept it from slipping down off my tightly folded leg when we were in the process of making love. Next, I pulled on the bow knot that held the long shoestring that laced the top half of the device tight. The tension of the lace released, the two halves of the leather enclosure parted with a slight 'pop,' and I easily slipped the mass of leather away from my body.
Slowly, cautiously, I rolled over on my right side, allowing my left foot to turn 45 degrees back to its normal position. The harness kept it pressed tightly against my butt, and the twist that it put on the muscles and tendons would produce a charley horse if I didn't take this part of the operation very, very slowly.
The foot in a more normal position, I now began the gradual process of straightening out the leg. It was asleep, but not badly so. Another half hour and the pain would have set in! It took nearly five minutes for me to ease the leg out as straight as it would go. I knew, again from experience, it would take the rest of the night for the muscles to completely relax and return to their normal tensions.
Pretending offered a lot of problems, but they were a small price to pay for sex of the caliber that being Diane's 'amputee' lover extracted! And, then too, it wasn't like I didn't owe her. She had done something for me, something that I still marvel at her willingness to do.

Fantasy

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

I could not decide which was the more beautiful sight, the vast expanse of the azure-blue ocean to my right or the almost inky blackness of the volcanic sands that met it at the island's edge. The fine powder shifted slightly as I walked through it, my footsteps leaving a series of impressions that were periodically washed smooth as the waves rolled in to wash the beach clean again. It was exactly as I had been promised; the tropical island cooled by sea breezes and verdant with palm trees, fruit bushes and huge-leafed plants. Somehow, I couldn't quite remember the plane trip that had to have brought me here. My senses were so overloaded! A bevy of brightly colored parrots flew noisily overhead, wheeling and chasing each other in a cloudless deep-blue sky.
But it was true! The email ad I had received had looked like just so much spam, but it had been legitimate! 'Fantasy Vacations! Literally!' the notice had proclaimed. A return email had led to a phone call which had led to an interview which had led to a trip to Chicago which had led me to this spot! Or what looked like this spot. Part of my mind understood that I was actually floating in a sensory deprivation tank back at Roark Enterprises. The technicians there were monitoring my well being while all the time an electro-induction helmet was imprinting all that I saw and heard and felt and smelled and tasted directly into my brain. It was an illusion! But what a grand one! I even pinched myself to see if I could feel it. The sting registered just as naturally as any other sensation I was feeling, I could not tell it from the real thing!

First Date

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

I was about to make the only 'B' I'd gotten since coming to college. The fall semester was damned near over, and I still was not over the distraction in 'Broadcast News Writing' that sat a chair up and one over from my own seat.
The distraction was not the person's fault. Not at all. Usually the sort of distraction I'm referring to is along the lines of a girl wearing a much-too-low-cut blouse every class hoping to get the next highest grade by the two points she's showing off to the prof. No, this was not that sort of thing. This person was doing nothing but coming to class and sitting there several rows from the front taking notes.
Besides, it was a guy.
No, what was distracting me today was the same thing that had distracted me every day since the tall attractive green-eyed boy had sauntered into the classroom and taken that very seat on the first day of class. It was not his brown hair or anything about his sharp features that was bothering me. What was distracting me was the fact that Robert Howell was an amputee. I had no idea how high up his left leg was missing, but I knew it was above his knee. I could tell by the shape of the mechanical device that sometimes would be outlined by the cloth of his trousers that he was missing his real one. I had mused about the possible site of his limb loss for a long time, (that being one of the reasons for the upcoming 'B'!) and had decided that he must have quite a bit of his thigh still remaining. He seemed to have no trouble at all managing on his artificial leg. A slight limp and that was it.
Actually, he had at least two artificial limbs that I had been able to identify. The one he wore most often was one of those with the plastic covering that looks more or less like skin until you take a close look at it. I still remember wondering why his gait was a little stiff the first day of class. It wasn't until he turned around to look at me when I asked Professor Cunningham a question that I realized the leg was false. I saw the oval void where the upper and lower sections of the thing were hinged together outlined through the thin tan summer slacks he was wearing. I almost forgot my question, but if he noticed my stare, he didn't say anything about it. A few weeks later I would be totally fascinated by his other prosthesis; the one that had no cosmetic cover. It was just a yellowish tinted metal tube that disappeared down into a sock that peeked out of his left sneaker. The knee for that one was a rather angular metal frame. I had again been able to gather that much by the outline.

Flowers in the Wind

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Mr. Gilton's Last Christmas

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

I don't remember if it was the fourth or fifth day after they did the second amputation to my leg that they moved Mr. Gilton into the bed next to me. My insurance isn't that good, to put it bluntly, and they didn't view an above knee amputation as a condition 'requiring a private room.'
I, on the other hand, had taken the situation a bit more seriously. I was depressed as hell and mad at the world. The privacy curtain was pulled between the two beds so I couldn't see much as they wheeled the fellow in on a Gurney. He was just a shape under the white sheet that I glimpsed as he cleared the door. I forgot the interruption to my angst almost immediately.
The door closed and it was quiet in the room. Quiet. Man, was that ever the bane of my existence in those terrible days. All I could do was seethe. "It's so Goddam unfair!" I thought.
"Life is often unfair, young man," a voice called.
I gasped. I hadn't realized I'd spoken my thought aloud. "I beg your pardon?" I returned.
"You were saying it was unfair," came the answer. The voice was obviously old and somewhat shaky. Still, there was a calm there that somehow gave me comfort.
"I'm sorry," I told him. "I didn't realize I was thinking out loud."
"Nothing to be sorry for," the voice returned. "We need to let our feelings out, to be heard." He paused. "And we need someone to listen to them."

High Art

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers. 

In Memory of Mac -

Long-time supporter, friend of the Garden, and the best reader an author could have hoped for!

'Nuff said.

The paint flowed smoothly, spread by broad fluid strokes that suggested both depth and texture to the draped cloth. The tightly stretched canvas accepted the pigments as a lover embracing his beloved, the two joining in union creating a more perfect whole.
Before the artist was Jesus. The tortured man was kneeling beneath the weight of the heavy wooden cross where he had fallen in the streets of Jerusalem. He was looking upward, imploring someone... anyone... to help. It was the moment before Simon of Cyrenea would lift his burden and carry it for a ways, thus assuring himself a place in the history of man as well as the eternal favor of the Almighty.
Of course, any artist other than the one wielding the brush would have noticed the flaw in the tableau immediately: the real Jesus had possessed no artificial leg.
The model had the long dark hair and rugged, handsome, chiseled features that have always been the traditional look given by artists to represent the Prince of Peace. His shoulders were strong and well-muscled under the torn cloak in which he was clad. His bent left leg supported his weight, the foot extended behind him in its single sandal. His right leg was bent as well, the mechanical knee making a better than ninety degree angle. The artificial foot, anatomically correct in all details was bare against the seamless paper, making the bright yellow of the metal pylon almost absurd. The bucket that encased the remains of his right leg was clearly visible, including the release button that he would use later in the day to free his stump from its Fiberglas bondage.
This was not, of course, what the acrylics and linen before the artist depicted. Not only was the man whole and robust, but he was amid a throng of strangers, most jeering, his image being immortalized in one of the familiar series of paintings known as "The Stations of the Cross." The artist knew anatomy, and had no trouble replacing on canvas what had been torn away in reality.

Tommy Takeda knew all about things being torn away in reality. His delicate Asian features smiled. Putting down his brush, he raised the stump of his right arm and used the nub to scratch the tip of his nose. "That's it for today, Bob," he called toward Jesus' direction. "We'll finish this up tomorrow."
The model dropped the papier-mâché cross, letting it land with a soft, airy thump. He shifted his weight a bit for better leverage and stood up. "Can I see?" he asked, walking smoothly toward the place on the floor where the artwork lay.
"Sure," Tommy answered. He was not shy about people seeing his work before he declared it 'finished.' Sometimes an off-hand comment would be the spark for further inspiration. He rolled both his shoulders forward until the twin eight inch stumps of his arms just met.
"I don't see how you do it," Bob said with a shake of the head and a smile.
"Do what?"
"Paint!" he answered. "You paint one hell of a picture for a guy with no hands!"
Tommy smiled crookedly. "Well, you're not a bad Jesus for a boy with one leg either," he countered good-naturedly.

Indiscretion

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

 


Cal Clemens became acutely aware he was being watched as he was waiting his turn on the lumbering ski lift. He usually didn't like it when the older guys came on to him. Most of them were fat and gross, even here at a winter resort where one would assume a requirement of physical fitness to take advantage of the attractions. But this guy was different. He couldn't have been more than thirty-five and he looked like he worked out several times a week. He was a hottie.
"You gettin' on?" a voice complained from behind.
"What's it to..." he started to retort angrily. He stopped mid-sentence. The twenty-something behind him was standing there on a single ski between twin outrigger poles, his right leg obviously missing all the way up at the hip! "Like I said," he quickly added, "what does it take to get this line moving! Here, dude, you go on ahead. I've got something I need to check."
The amputee passed him and took the waiting chair on the lift. Cal watched as he disappeared up the line, fascinated by the single idly-swinging ski hanging from the chair. He shook his head. Damn! Those guys made him so hot! He'd always had thing 'thing' for amps. His father had a friend who had only one leg, and Cal had seem him around at family functions for as long as he could remember. The man, 'Uncle Bill,' had always been kind to him, once even removing his artificial leg to let the curious youngster inspect how it was made. He smiled, remembering the nights he had folded a leg up in his pajama bottoms and played at 'being' Uncle Bill.
"What run are you going to try today?" a different voice asked, breaking the reverie.
Cal snapped out of his daydream. It was the thirty-something who'd been giving him 'the eye.' "Red Canyon," he replied, then idly bent down to inspect his left binding. "How 'bout you?"
"Funniest thing," came the reply. "I'm going to do Red Canyon as well!"
"Yeah, how the fuck about that?" Cal thought silently. God! Did he have 'Gay Boy' stenciled on his forehead or something? Could the guy have thought of a more obvious pickup line?

Johnny

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

Johnny swung his tennis shoe clad foot over the edge of the boat and found his balance on the uneven, rocky surface of the shore. He was already doubting that this was the best idea Ted had ever had. The rocks were none too sure, and his crutches would have a hard time finding secure support. He reached for the aluminum rods, and slid his fore-arms into the housings.
Ted was returning to the boat to get the second, and last, load of gear for the overnight. "Just wait," he grinned. "This island is GREAT at night! You'll LOVE it!"
The island WAS beautiful. The rocky beach met the lakeside in a series of gentle rolling waves, whipped up by the ever-present breeze across the large body of water. The beach turned to grass about 15 yards up a slight incline, and the grass gave way to trees after another 20 yards. The grass was dotted everywhere with the daisies that had given the lake its name.
Ted grinned at Johnny again. It hadn't been easy convincing Johnny's mother that the week-long camping trip with his family would be good therapy. Nor had it been easy to convince HIS mother that the overnight on the island was the best of ideas. Only after his dad had checked the weather forecast did they say "OK." Two 16 year olds with a power boat was not the old man's fondest wish, but they had promised not to use the boat except to get to the island, and back the next morning.
"Time's wastin'," Ted said to Johnny. "There's plenty of driftwood here in this pile. Stack it up for a fire and get it started. I'll set up the pup tent and break out the 'dogs!"
Johnny nodded. At least that was something he COULD do. He set his crutches aside, and slowly lowered his stump to the ground, standing on its tip without much pain. He shifted his left leg to the front. A casual looker would have thought he was any other teen dropping to one knee to build a fire.
The wood was dry, and it caught fairly easily. It only took two matches to set it ablaze.

Looking Glass

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

"Mr. Greene?"

The doctor's voice seemed cordial enough as he stood there at the door. I don't know what I had really expected a psychologist to sound like. Perhaps he should have had an Austrian accent. Who knows what makes us make the assumptions we grab on to?
"Right here," I answered, getting out of my chair. I crossed the small waiting room and shook his hand.
"This way," he told me with a gesture. "I'm Dr. Lockstadt. My office is the one at the end of the hall."
I followed without saying anything more. The room he led me to was comfortable, painted in muted tones of green and tan. The chairs were leather covered and of some dark wood. There was, of course, the obligatory couch against one wall. "Is that for me?" I asked, almost teasing.
"Only if you want it," the doctor answered back with the same sense of fun.
I decided I liked him.
"What brings you to me?" he began. "I read on the primary sheet you filled out that you're being bothered by recurrent dreams?"
"Exactly."
"Well, why don't we jump right into it. Can you tell me about these dreams?"
"Sure," I began, "as long as you don't take me straight to the looney bin." I cleared my throat. "The dreams are always different, yet they are always the same. It's like there is a whole 'nother life that I'm living in these dreams."
"Are they filled with familiar things?"
I shook my head. "No. Almost everything is different. In these dreams I'm not a salesman at all. I'm an artist. I paint."
"Perhaps this is an interest you never explored. Have you ever wanted to paint?"
"No," I answered. "I can't draw stick figures. But it gets more and more bizarre. The worst of it is, in the dreams, I'm gay and..."
Lockstadt broke in: "And you are heterosexual?"
"Sure. Been married for ten years. Two kids. Mortgage, two-car garage... the whole package."
"Go on."
"Oh, being gay isn't even the most nuts part of it, doc." I took a deep breath. "In this dream, I'm an amputee!"

Mulled Wine

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

 

1 Gallon Red Wine
1 Gallon Water
2 Cups Sugar
10 Sticks Cinnamon
5 Cloves
1 Orange, thinly sliced
1 Lemon, thinly sliced
1 Lime, thinly sliced

Combine in crock and steep covered three days next to fireplace.
Serve warm, directly from crock.

Annie Clowers was almost asleep as she sat covered in a cozy quilt in her high-backed wooden rocker. She had already banked the fire for the night so that the last of the logs would still be there when she awakened in the morning. That way she would only need to add more wood to rekindle the cheerful blaze. Her farmhouse had central heating and cooling, but the winter nights always seemed warmer with a fire in the stone fireplace. Annie had allowed her eyes to close "for just a minute or two." She might have passed the night there had the knock at the door not awakened her.
She glanced at the pendulum clock on the mantle: 11:45. "Who in the world?" she said out loud, but to herself. The knock sounded again. Annie got up and walked to the front door. She flipped the switch of the front porch light and looked out the cut-glass window to see who it might be. The man there was unknown to her, but one look at him made her open the door.
He was fairly tall, but totally under-dressed for the weather. The snow was still pelting down on this December 28^th, and the light wind that blew across the mountains and through the valleys of northwest Arkansas made the night bitter. The man was clad in a sweatsuit and a light jacket. He wore no hat.
"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour," the well-modulated voice began.
"Dear Lord in Heaven! Get yourself in here out of this cold before you freeze!" Annie said, cutting him off. She opened the door wider and gestured for him to enter. It was only when he leaned forward and planted his forearm crutches across the threshold that her eyes flickered to his lower body. The left leg was missing about half way up from the knee. He had tied the leg of the sweat pants in a crude knot where the limb ended, obviously trying to keep warm.

The One-Armed Boy

This story originally appeared on the Secret Garden website and is archived here at the request of author Doug Rogers.

"God! Kenneth is so lame!"
Karen Stevens looked up from the book she was studying to assess her roommate. Dana Keith's make-up was smudged beyond repair and the right side of her blouse was not completely tucked in. "I don't know," she quipped back. "Looks like he did a pretty good job with you!"
Both girls giggled.
"Oh, he got the job done alright, at least from his perspective! But damn, girl! Don't these guys have a clue about there being more to it than 'Gee baby, you're pretty, let's screw, it won't hurt much, did it?'" She began to take the wrinkled clothes off and get ready for bed.
"I'm afraid we've got a lot of training to do to make most of 'em worth snuggling up to," Karen agreed. Then she got a far away look in her eyes and a sad smile began to play over her lips.
Dana raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"
Karen shook her head as if to clear it. "Yeah. Sure. Sorry."
"What was that all about?"
"I was just remembering something... someone."
Dana shifted the raised brow up another notch. "Well?"
The young woman looked at her roomie seriously. "I was remembering the very best lover I ever had. That's all."