Gardening Tips

Alan P. Scott - Fictions

green thumbs and other parts


Amanda started her penis garden in the dark of the moon, as all the almanacs had advised her to do, in early March after the last likely frost of the year had passed. She'd received the cuttings from Lorena, two farms down, whose own newly-bulky form was mute testament to the effectiveness of her methods. In our bed later that night, as Amanda clung to me, she confessed herself heartened by Lorena's evident success.

I was not so sure I wanted that sort of success. We'd been together for so long, just we two; were we ready to have offspring? But I allowed Amanda's certainty to carry me along, and even helped till the soil in which she planted, joining with her skyclad under the sliver of moon as she patted down the soft earth over each tiny slip.


As I washed the dishes, I watched Amanda through the kitchen window, tending her garden. She knelt in the rich black soil, gently showering the tender pink heads of her crop from the watering can she carried, adding droplets of her iron-rich monthly flow and softly breathing encouragement onto each burgeoning glans as it poked its way through the earth.

She wanted them to succeed so much... she had such great plans for harvest time. I found myself smiling indulgently at her earnestness. Though I wasn't able to share her enthusiasm, still I found it infectious, because it was hers, and I loved her so much.


Two months later, Amanda's garden was showing undeniable signs of burgeoning life. Dozens of shafts rose above the gleaming earth where she'd sown and nurtured them. In the mornings each glans glistened with a myriad droplets of mingled dew and seminal fluid, clear and viscid though not yet fertile.

She'd decided not to top them at all. Though some of the gardening books she'd consulted so assiduously recommended circumcision for the good of the crop, Amanda's plantings showed no signs of ill-health from her decision. Some of those books had also recommended an early harvest, purely for the savor of it, and I must admit that we sampled some of those early gifts of the earth long before they'd ripened. But the bulk of Amanda's crop stayed in the ground, as she insisted, where it would be allowed to mature at its own pace.


As her garden grew and flourished, Amanda grew distant from me, focused as I thought on the new life she planned to grow inside herself, all attention directed to the process that she said she could feel already beginning within her, though so far her garden had not borne the sort of fruit for which it was intended. The penises there were still less than half a foot high, and while some of her gardener friends had told her that size didn't matter, Amanda was still unwilling to settle for less than a full-grown organ.


There came a day, though, when Amanda discovered that she could no longer ignore the pain in her belly. It had nothing to do with her garden; the insidious interloper that had invaded her cervix had nothing to with life, and everything to do with death. There was nothing to be done at that point; the hemp with which she lessened her pain kept her far from me but to no avail. Neither she nor I could ignore the fact that she was dying.


Yet still Amanda tended her garden as long as she could, pulling the unruly shoots of green that threatened to overwhelm the unpruned, uncircumcised pinkness of her crop, washing each tender shaft daily with a soap solution to prevent infestation, until the day came when she was no longer able to go outside at all. The bed we set up in the back room looked out over the garden, and she called out instructions to me until she no longer had breath with which to speak.


My tears during this time were of no consequence; they changed nothing, and I made sure that Amanda never saw them. But she knew I could not bear to be apart from her without reason, and so upon me she laid one last charge.


One long month after we'd burned Amanda's flesh on the pyre and fertilized her beloved garden with her ashes, I went out naked and anointed with oils in the middle of the night, when the force of the moon was most potent and laid the brightest of swathes across Amanda's garden, and I harvested the largest, straightest cock in her plot. I brought it inside with me, washing it tenderly in the kitchen sink, and taking it into the bed that was now mine alone.

Stroking it in the approved manner I had gathered from all the books Amanda had collected with such dedication, I gaped as it changed color and size, so much more dramatically than our earlier experiments. The penis lengthened and thickened in direct contradiction to its uprooted state, the rounded excrescences at its base tensing exactly as the final chapters had said they would.

I lay back on the bed and opened my legs, and took Amanda's penis inside me, into the place that heretofore only Amanda had known. I thrust with it one, two, three times only, before I felt a pulsing that could only mean one thing.

Amanda's child would quicken inside me.

Original content on this page © Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.

This document last updated March 6, 1998.

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