Short Story: The Flower on My Head

This is a story about my friend.

He called himself a novelist. But before that title, there were usually some unflattering descriptors attached, like "unsuccessful" or "hopeless." His manuscript paper was wrinkled more by the moisture of his sighs than by ink stains.

One sunny morning, he woke up feeling a strange sensation on the top of his head. When he probed it with his finger, something hard poked through his skin with a pop. He peered into the mirror and doubted his own eyes. There, as if a seed had sprouted, a tiny pair of cotyledons was peeking out.

He rushed to the doctor in a panic. But the doctor just tilted his head. "Hmm, it is certainly a plant. But as far as I know, there is no species that uses the human head as soil..." In the end, he was just given the doctor's cliché of "observation," which was a useless conclusion.

However, that strange pair of leaves brought him an unexpected gift. When he was holding his head in his hands, faced with a manuscript rejected by an editor, the leaves on his head trembled slightly. Then, as if it had fallen from the heavens, a bizarre yet perfect plot for a story flashed into his mind.

From then on, he was like a different person. Every time his head sprout tickled, he wrote a masterpiece of a novel. Mysteries of ancient civilizations, tragicomedies of future societies, labyrinths of other dimensions. Ideas gushed out inexhaustibly.

His works became bestsellers one after another, and the descriptors "unsuccessful" or "hopeless" were replaced before he knew it by the glorious crown of "genius."

The plant on his head also grew vigorously in proportion to his fame, spreading many glossy leaves, and was celebrated by the public as his trademark.

Smooth sailing. That was exactly the right phrase. Until an old friend asked him about his children at a dinner party. "How is your daughter doing? What was her name again?" "Ah, my daughter's name is... um..." He stammered. The name of his beloved daughter wouldn't come to him, as if it had vanished into a fog.

From that moment on, everything began to go slightly wrong. The name of his favorite coffee shop, his mother's favorite food, the first words he exchanged with his wife. The memories that should have colored his past were slipping away, one by one. As if they were being sucked away for nutrients.

He was terrified. But whenever he picked up a pen, the plant on his head rustled its leaves and whispered stories more exciting and profound than ever before. New stories filled the voids left by his fading memories. He couldn't stop writing.

Before long, he became a hollow shell sitting in his study chair. He forgot who he was and didn't understand why he was there. He just sat there, breathing quietly, bathed in the light streaming through the window.

Occasionally, visitors would come and ask him for a manuscript. Then, the lush green plant on the man's head would begin to sway, even though there was no wind.

In response, a perfectly constructed story would flow effortlessly from his lips. The visitor would eagerly write it down, express their admiration, and leave.

Sometimes, a small white flower would bloom on the plant on his head. No one left in the world knew that it was the flower his wife had loved.