portion of the artwork for Rachel McKibbens's story

Tomatoes and Daffodils
Rachel McKibbens

You might think I have remarkable boobs. You might even call them tremendous when you speak of them with your coworkers, reminisce on how smooth and radiant they are. How they complete small tasks for you with hi-gloss enthusiasm. Changing the light bulbs. Stretching across the room to hand you the clicker. When I awaken from my naps, sprawled on the couch, drooling & bra-less, I often dread discovering what my unsupervised boobs have been up to. It is quite a chore picking up after them. A hair dryer in the fireplace. Stevie’s gasping goldfish flopping around the foyer. I inherited these boobs from my great-great-great-grandmother, Betty the Shoemaker. It is said that these boobs were won in a card game by her father. He kept them snug in an apple crate and only brought them out on special occasions. Sometimes I daydream of being a flat-chested maiden, running through a field of tomatoes and daffodils. When I was a young girl, I never imagined I would one day possess such wild, incorrigible boobs. I am afraid to have children because of them. I am afraid my left boob especially might be capable of murder.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 28 | Spring 2010