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Tommy's head from the trash barrel, so he did the first thing he could think of, which was to pop Tommy's head into his mouth, chew it up as best he could, and swallow it. By the time Daddy Mike reached him, Tommy's head was all gone.
      "It's time for dessert," Daddy Mike said. "And then we're each going to say what we're thankful for. Can you think of what you're thankful for, Timmy?"
      "Yes I can, Daddy Mike," said Timmy. "I'm thankful that I'm not adopted."
      But as they walked back to the house, Timmy realized that there was something he was even more thankful for. He was thankful because he and Tommy now had one more secret, the biggest one ever, that only the two of them shared.
      The secret was this:
      No matter what anyone else thought, the head was the very best part of all.

Savage Breasts

    Nina Kiriki Homan

    I was only a lonely leftover on the table of Life. No one seemed interested in sampling me.
      I was alone that day in the company cafeteria when I made the fateful decision which changed my life. If Gladys, the other secretary in my boss's office and my usual lunch companion, had been there, it might never have happened, but she had a dentist appointment. Alone with the day's entree, Spaghetti-O's, I sought companionship in a magazine I found on the table.
      In the first blazing burst of inspiration I ever experienced, I cut out an ad on the back of the W onder Woman comic book. "The Insult that Made a Woman Out of Wilma," it read. It showed a hipless, flat-chested girl being buried in the sand and abandoned by her date, who left her alone with the crabs as he followed a bosomy blonde off the page. Wilma eventually excavated herself, went home, kicked a chair, and sent away for Charlotte Atlas's pamphlet, "From Beanpole to Buxom in 20 days or your money back." Wilma read the pamphlet and developed breasts the size of breadboxes. She retrieved her boyfriend and rendered him acutely jealous by picking up a few hundred other men.
      I emulated Wilma's example and sent away for the pamphlet and the equipment that came with it.
      When my pamphlet and my powder-pink exerciser arrived, I felt a vague sense of unease. Some of the ink in the pamphlet was blurry. A few pages were repeated. Others were missing. Sensing that my uncharacteristic spurt of enthusiasm would dry up if I took the time to send for a replacement, I plunged into the exercises in the book (those I could decipher) and performed them faithfully for the requisite twenty days. My breasts blossomed. Men on the streets whistled. Guys at the office looked up when I jiggled past.
      I felt like a palm tree hand-pollinated for the first time. I began to have clusters of dates. I was pawed, pleasured, and played with. I experienced lots of stuff I had only read about before, and I mostly loved it after the first few times. The desert I'd spent my life in vanished; everything I touched here in the center of the mirage seemed real, intense, throbbing with life. I exercised harder, hoping to make the reality realler.
      Then parts of me began to fight back.
      I reclined on Maxwell's couch, my hands behind my head, as he unbuttoned my shirt, unhooked my new, enormous, front-hook bra, and opened both wide. He kissed my stomach. He feathered kisses up my body. Suddenly my left breast flexed and punched him in the face. He was surprised. He looked at me suspiciously. I was surprised myself. I studied my left breast. It lay there gently bobbing like a Japanese glass float on a quiet sea. Innocent. Waiting.
      Maxwell stared at my face. Then he shook his head. He eyed my breasts. Slowly he leaned closer. His lips drew back in a pucker. I waited, tingling, for them to flutter on my abdomen again. No such luck. Both breasts surged up and gave him a double whammy.
      It took me an hour to wake him up. Once I got him conscious, he told me to get out! Out! And take my unnatural equipment with me. I collected my purse and coat, and,