David Henson πŸ”ˆ

My Transparent Cranium

My peculiar scalp can’t grow hair, and wigs itch down into my brain so I used to sport a ball cap to hide the flashing neural pathways and sparking synapses that shine through my transparent cranium.
My weekends free β€” who wanted to date a freak? β€” I played my banjo on the children’s ward Saturdays. During one visit, when no one was looking, I knelt beside a sad little girl and removed my hat. See? I don’t have hair either, I said, my brain pulsing light.
The girl tried to smile. Looks like fireworks.
When I returned the next weekend, the girl’s empty bed snatched my breath. Is she … ?
The doctor grinned. Better!
I decided that if the girl could bear the treatments, I could endure the whispered stares. I tossed my hat in the trash.
As I started to leave, the doctor stepped in front of me and peeled her scrub cap.
I thought I was alone, we said.
That evening we met for dinner β€” soft lights, a corner table, conversation charged with the excitement of possibility … and a glow from our fireworks flickering on the wall.

Author Reading

About the Author

David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Moonpark Review, Literally Stories, Fiction on the Web, The Eunoia Review, and Fairfield Scribes.