It was the middle of winter when Demeter returned home from hospital after a miscarriage. A problem with her IUD had resulted in this, her first and only pregnancy. Ian found it hard to conceal his relief at the outcome of this unexpected turn of events, but his relief turned to impatience and frustration when his grief-stricken wife remained inconsolable. He had followed Demeter into her frozen garden with her coat and slippers one night, when she had run barefoot from their bedroom. The black skeletons of the fruit trees were frosted with silver in the moonlight, and gliding amongst them was the spectre of his distraught wife, her feet invisible through the freezing mist which covered the ground.
Pale and thin, she had lost that lustiness he had loved so much. She seemed unreal, ethereal, like a deranged phantom haunting their barren garden. She was gazing at an apple hanging frozen from a bare branch, marvelling at its arrested life. Ian ran to her, crashing through the beds of hibernating flowers and, in his hurry to reach her, caught his dressing gown on the thorns of a rose bush. Cursing, he tore himself free, shattering the last of the late-flowering roses in the process. Demeter threw herself at him, accusing him of murdering her garden, before collapsing into tears. And that was the moment, as she sobbed in his arms amongst the empty rose bushes, that Ian realized that he no longer loved her.
With Spring, Demeter seemed to regain her spirits. By the time that the blossom was out on the fruit trees, the colour had returned to her cheeks. But things would never be the same between Ian and herself. He tried hard to make the marriage work. He was motivated by guilt and pity, but the more attention he devoted to Demeter, the more she lavished on her plants. Every daylight hour was spent in her garden. He tried to help her with the weeding, propping up the iris or knotting the stems of daffodils after they had flowered, but she did not trust him in her garden and resented his presence there.
In early summer, a Japanese student started her work placement with the garden centre. They began to go out for lunch together, and then for a drink after work. Soon they were seeing each other on a regular basis. She was cool-natured, emotionally disciplined and serene. Being with her was a relief from the traumas and obsessions of the drama queen he called his wife. She massaged away his domestic troubles with essential oils. Her lipsticked kisses covered his body with delicate pink Os of delight. Love with her was perfectly choreographed, beautifully controlled. She made an art form out of the act, filling it with ritual and mystery. Ian could not resist, and besides, what Demeter did not know could not hurt her.
Demeter barred Ian from her garden. Entry was strictly forbidden. At first he did not mind, but he became intrigued at the comings and goings of various workmen and numerous deliveries of stones, plants and earth. By the middle of August, he could no longer contain his curiosity, so one evening while Demeter was busy with her ferns indoors, he broke the new lock on the gate to her walled garden. The gate swung open and he gazed in shame and disbelief at what greeted him. The cottage garden was gone. Its rambling, trailing riot of colour had been replaced by subtle shades of green. Before him was a perfectly ordered, Japanese garden. Pots of tiny firs and maples were arranged on wooden slats and benches. Little bonsais of all shapes and sizes were placed around a pool of Japanese coy carp. A small footbridge spanned a tiny waterfall where the bird bath had once stood, and in place of the cornflowers, hollyhocks and poppies were camellias and Japanese lilies. This domination of nature through art was totally out of character for Demeter. She had somehow found out about his affair.
Ian had dragged Demeter, screaming, into her garden. They drowned out the gentle murmuring of the water with their crying and yelling for almost an hour. Ian could not understand why she had felt the need to create this garden. Why had she not discussed her suspicions with him face to face? He refused to end his affair and insisted that Demeter give up her gardening. It had become too much of an obsession. He had promised to stay with her if she agreed to get medical help, and Demeter had told him that she would get rid of the Japanese garden, put every thing to right and give up her garden for good in the winter.
Ian could not end his affair. He made plans with his lover to marry once he had rid himself of Demeter. They would buy a flat, without a garden, and start a family. Demeter seemed much calmer. She spent a lot of time finding homes for her houseplants. Ian was so relieved to see the removal of the little footbridge and bonsais that he gave Demeter a free hand in the landscaping of her last garden. All autumn she worked at it. Visiting nurseries all over the country. Plants and seeds arrived daily in the post from all over the world. Ian tried to guess how it would look in the spring, but the season kept its secrets.
One morning in February, after staying out all night with his intended, Ian came home to find the house deserted. Barren of houseplants, it had seemed a cold and lonely place for some time, but this morning there was an extra chill in the air. He walked out into the garden. A solitary magpie was cawing mournfully, a blackbird pecked viciously at a frozen slug amongst the rotting leaves. Demeter had been busy, for scattered around the garden were the most grotesque statues, frozen in bizarre contortions of depravity, their marble as cold as the day. Ian called out for Demeter but only the walls answered him. At last he found her stretched naked on the frosted flags, her twisted corpse recording the agony of her death, her fingers still clasped around the empty can of weed killer.
Ian took his new bride for a Caribbean cruise to get over the trauma of his first wife’s death. It was July before he returned home once more. No one had entered the garden since Demeter’s suicide, so he expected to find it a little overgrown, but nothing could have prepared him for what he was to find.
Ian noticed the stench even before he opened the gate. The garden stank like the Amazon. As he forced himself along the overgrown pathway, struggling through the tangle of creepers and ivy, sap dripped from the breaking stems, and the sticky orange pollen of huge waxy flowers stained his skin. He could see a clearing ahead of him. He could just make out one of Demeter’s vile statues, disquietingly life-like in the pale green light. It was a satyr raping a nymph. Frozen in lust, the satyr’s eternal erection, perpetually primed and ready to fire, was aimed ominously at the exposed rear of the unfortunate nymph.
Above the statue was the most gorgeous plant that Ian had ever seen. Great scarlet bells hung amongst the emerald leaves. Long yellow stamens beckoned like fingers from the centre of each flower. The beautiful blooms seemed to illuminate the whole clearing. He thrashed through the thick growth to reach the flowers, heedless of the thorns and nettles of unfamiliar plants that caught at his flesh. It was becoming difficult to breathe for his lungs were filled first with the rancid stench like rotting flesh and then with the heady scent of powerfully perfumed blooms. He could feel his skin crawling, a rash began to appear on his arms and his head started to throb with pain.
Ian reached the garden’s centre and filled his aching lungs with the sweet scent of the huge red flowers. He watched fascinated as a shiny black beetle fell dead from one of the blooms. He tore his attention away from the captivating blooms and studied the Elizabethan knot garden set carefully at the clearing’s centre. He gazed at it in terror, for the strange herbs planted there did not form the geometric patterns usually found in such ornamental gardens. Instead the plants spelt out his fate, for they formed the letters of the words, “Thou art poisoned, Murderer!”
Jack
Cara Bruce
I was thirteen the first time I met Jack. It was one of those stifling-hot Virginia days, the kind when the air smells like Budweiser even if there’s no one drinking. All my carefully applied make-up was running down my face and dripping onto my faded blue cotton halter top. The beige streaks got caught up in the lacy neck and I was just about to pull the top off altogether when Jack came up behind me.
“Hey,” he said, his southern drawl heavy, like he wasn’t opening his mouth at all, just sort of pushing the words out with his tongue. “Sure is hot.”
“Yep, sure i
s,” I said and looked at him. He was scrawny. His white undershirt was soaked to the bone and sticking to him – you would have been able to see all his muscles, except for the fact that he didn’t have any. “I’m Jack,” he said, rubbing his sweaty palm across his chest before offering me his hand.
“I’m Ceilia, but everyone calls me Sissy,” I told him. I used to hate the nickname but nobody ever paid mind so I had no choice but to get used to it.
“Sissy,” Jack said, smiling. “I like that.”
Suddenly we heard voices. I recognized the high, shrill laugh immediately – it was my older sister Janice. I crouched down behind the fence and Jack did the same.
Janice and her boyfriend came up the path, stopping just a few feet away from us. I held my finger up to my lips, signalling Jack to be quiet. We sat there hunched down and watched as they began to kiss. He was sticking his tongue down Janice’s throat and she was making these awful moaning sounds.
Jack and I had to clamp our hands over our mouths to keep from bursting into laughter. They lay down on the grass and the guy rolled over on top of her. Janice started saying stuff that I guess was supposed to be sexy; Jack and I just sat there and watched. After a few minutes they were done and gone. I looked over at Jack, who was even redder then before. His eyes were as big as the dishes hanging on my Mamma’s wall.
“You ever done that?” I asked him.
Jack shook his head no. “Have you?”
“Nope,” I admitted. Then we both fell over laughing. We laughed so hard tears rolled down our faces, mingling with droplets of sweat.
“Oh, Jack, you are a man,” I said shrilly, mimicking Janice’s heated cries. Jack made a bunch of kissy noises and we laughed until our sides hurt. That’s how Jack and I became best friends.
It wasn’t until many years later that Jack and I ended up having sex, and I fell in love with him. Poor Jack, he never really filled out like his brothers or most of the men we knew. Maybe that’s why he thought he had to act macho, always bossing me around: “Sissy do this, Sissy do that, Sissy girl, come here and get on your knees.”
Oh, sure, there were times I hated him, but for the most part I just couldn’t help myself – I was in love with the man. Jack was bossy, and he was rough in bed. It just made me feel sorrier for the poor guy – always feeling like he had something to prove.
Life was good. I made up names for the kids we were going to have and made plans for our wedding. Then one day out of the blue Jack seemed to lose interest. He’d come over and just sit there staring at the TV, watching soap operas and talk shows. Maybe it was because we were best friends before anything else – but a best friend never would have done what he did to me. I woke up on our wedding day and there was nothing in my bed except a letter on my pillow telling me he’d gone. He didn’t write another word to me until the other day, when I got a letter telling me he was coming home and needed to see me.
I was sitting on my porch thinking of all the things I wanted to tell him: that he was a rotten bastard, that he’d messed up my life for years. It was a hot day and I held a glass of ice water to my forehead. The longer I sat waiting for him the angrier I got, until I’d almost made up my mind not to talk to him at all, just to give him a big smack across the face.
An hour later his big old truck came rumbling up the driveway, spraying dirt every which way and sending my flowers flying. Just like Jack – not even out of the truck and already messing up everything in sight.
The door to the cab opened and I saw his boots hit the ground. He stood behind the door for a moment and I walked over to give him my hand in greeting. He looked up at me and smiled. It was still Jack, except for one major difference: he was a she.
My mouth dropped open and I took a few steps back, almost losing my balance stumbling on an old tyre.
Jack’s head dropped. She stared at the dirt and said, “I’m sorry, Sissy. I should have told you but I was afraid you wouldn’t see me.”
I didn’t know what to say. Jack was a beautiful woman. His cropped hair was now long and curly. He still had the same slim build, only with tits. There was no way I could hide my shock. I walked up to her and wrapped my arms around her ’cause I didn’t know what else to do. Jack pulled me close and held me. Her new body fit perfectly against mine. She smelled like musky sweat. I laughed to myself, thinking of all the heartsick nights I had spent imagining Jack with another woman.
“Sissy,” she started slowly, “I know this is probably a shock but I’m happy now. I had to leave.”
I held my finger to my lips. She looked up and met my eyes. I smiled at her.
We went into the house and I fixed her a drink. She sat easily in the chair, her legs spread open in tight blue jeans. I wondered if the operation was complete. I wanted to pull down her pants, more out of curiosity than lust – or maybe even out of anger.
“Have you been to see your family?” I asked, keeping my cool.
“No, I wanted to get your reaction first,” she said. “You know, Sissy, I really did love you.”
“I know,” I said, forcing a smile. “I loved you too.”
We made ourselves comfortable in the living room and talked about old times. After a while I came over and sat next to her on the couch. Jack looked at me tentatively. Man or woman, I supposed the brain was the same – I used to be able to turn him on like a light switch. I didn’t think it should be any different now.
“You want to take a shower?” I asked. “You know, to cool off?”
“Sure, Sissy, that would be great.” I led her to the bathroom and handed her a towel.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Jack looked a little uncertain but I didn’t leave. She slipped off her sweaty tee-shirt and black bra. I was surprised at how nice her tits were. She was hesitating, though, and I didn’t want to give her time to get uncomfortable, so I stripped and stood waiting. Jack unbuttoned her jeans and slipped out of them. I looked at her crotch and smiled; I couldn’t see any major differences between hers and mine – but I also couldn’t wait to get down on my knees and find out. We got into my small shower stall.
“Let me rub you down,” I offered, soaping up the washcloth and sliding it down Jack’s back. She kept her back to me so I had to turn her around to get at her front. Jack kept her head down – the poor girl had no idea what was going on. I lifted her chin with my hand and brought her lips to mine. The kiss was soft and sweet. I opened her mouth with my tongue, a mouth I had known once before but without lipstick. Jack moaned: her voice was higher. Slowly I drew my hands over her round, wet ass. I groped it, pulling her closer. I pushed her back against the shower door and knelt before her.
My hand reached up between her legs, pushing them farther apart. My fingers slid easily up her dripping slit. She arched her back and leaned on my hand. If she were truly a woman then I knew what she would like; I thrust another finger into her and felt her created cunt tighten around me.
“Oh, yeah,” she murmured as I knelt before her. My tongue went from clit to cunt as my fingers pumped. I felt her knees weaken as she grabbed my hair.
“Do you want my dick?” I asked her, my fingers never ceasing.
“Your dick?” she asked, her voice surprised – but I detected a twinge of hope.
I led her out of the shower and pushed her onto the bathroom floor, then ran into my bedroom and got the harness and dildo I had gotten as a joke for my twenty-first birthday – which Jack had missed.
I strapped it on and sauntered back into the bathroom, feeling like a cowboy with my gun drawn. If she wanted to be a woman I was going to fuck her like one. She looked at me wide-eyed; I smiled as if this sort of thing happened to me every day, and lay down on top of her.
“How does it feel to be a woman?” I asked her, guiding my plastic prick into her hot hole.
“Good,” she whispered. “It feels so good.”
“Do you like my big cock?” I teased with the old Jack’s own words. “Do you like my big dick inside you?
”
“Yes, oh, yes, I do.”
I thrust it in a little farther and began to pick up the pace. “Tell me. Say ‘I like Sissy’s cock.’ ”
“I like Sissy’s cock,” she whispered.
I brought one hand down and slid a finger up her tight ass. She bucked her hips against me and groaned. I fucked her hard and rough, the same way she had fucked me years before. Jack was clenching at my shoulders, digging nails into skin, trembling and whimpering.
I got my angle perfectly so my clit was being hit with each thrust. Her legs began to shake.
“Oh, yes, Sissy, fuck me, oh, yes.” I pumped her harder and faster until she came, calling my name and writhing on the floor. My only regret was that I couldn’t come first and leave her unsatisfied.
We got up off the floor and showered again. Jack looked at me now with those big post-orgasm doe-eyes. I fixed up some dinner and we sat down to eat.
“I’m really sorry I left you, Sissy,” she said. “I’ve always loved you.”
“I was sorry you left too, but I got over it,” I told her with a smile. I had her right where I wanted her – still in love with me, and now in love with my dick.
“Maybe things could still work out between us?” she asked, resting her hand near mine.
“I don’t know Jack, it seems like we’ve both been through a lot of changes.” She laughed until she realized I was serious.
“Oh Sissy, you don’t even know how much I’ve missed you,” she gushed, tears forming in her eyes.
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