Off the Top of His Head

by Margo Griffin

The man pulled the scally cap off of the top of his head and his entire scalp came off with it.

“It’s an idea receptacle,” he explained quickly after noting my reaction.

“But…”                                                                  

“I carry refills in my bag,” he said, and reached into his backpack, pulling out a glass jar filled with various images and words.

“How…”

“A twelve-month supply of fresh ideas is included with the surgery,” he interrupted, and screwed the top off of the jar. Then he pulled a small plastic scoop out of his bag, the kind one might use for measuring out the exact amount of coffee grinds, and scooped up some ideas.

“Why…”

“Nasty case of writer’s block,” he said. “I hadn’t had a good story in months and the lack of creativity ate at my confidence, setting in motion a vicious cycle of unproductivity and low self-esteem.”

“Well…”

“Here, let me show you,” he interrupted again, and dumped the ideas into the opening at the top of his head.

I observed for signs of change, excited by the prospect, and in seconds, the man’s bright eyes flickered about like fireflies around a campfire, his cheeks hot as embers. And then he returned his cap and scalp over the top of his head.

“Eureka!” the man yelled and pulled out his laptop, banging furiously at the keyboard.

“I’m a writer, too,” I said hopefully, thinking of the bare-limbed, hollow oak tree that splintered in my brain a few months back, blocking all paths to my creativity.

Suddenly, the man slitted his eyes as he inspected me.

“What genre?” he asked.

“Flash Fiction.”

Humph. “Is that so?” he said, now shielding his computer screen with his hands and body.

“Are you seriously blocking your screen?”

“Well, duh! It’s Flash Fiction competition season,” he replied and rolled his eyes, tossing them like dice, deciding if this would be my lucky day.

“Please,” I begged, kneeling down before him.

“There’s always Smoke Long Quarterly Fitness or a Kathy Fish work…”

“I promise I’ll stay away from the Bath and Flood competitions!” I interjected.

Sigh. The man looked around cautiously, ensuring no one could see him and pulled out a small hand drill from his pocket, gesturing for me to bow my head. The tool turned and spun, causing much discomfort, but no worse than a blank screen with an hour left before deadline.

“I’m not a trained professional, but I watched a DIY video on YouTube after my surgery,” he said, as he burrowed into the top of my skull. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yes!”

The man took out his jar, screwed off the cover and scooped up some fresh ideas for me, siphoning them into my head. After a minute or two, my brain fired up and intriguing and fantastical ideas flooded my mind all at once. Before I knew it, I pulled out my phone, opened the Notes app, and pounded my tiny keyboard, with my fingertips writing what I once thought was an impossible opening line:

A man pulled the scally cap off of the top of his head and his entire scalp came off with it.

Bio:
Margo Griffin’s work has appeared in Bending Genres, Wild Roof Journal, Maudlin House, Dillydoun Review, MER, HAD, and Roi Fainéant Press. You can find her on Twitter @67MGriffin