This short story was written by my boyfriend, Garron, for his creative writing class. Please review!

There once was a girl in a creative writing class, except not really. In fact, this girl wasn't in a creative writing class at all. Though her desire was to join, she was sadly not on the list, and during the introduction phase of the first class, she was removed. Dejected, the girl left the class, and was never seen again by any of the members, except that she was, because one of the other students was her sister.

The girl who was in a creative writing class (except not really) was a normal girl in all regards, which is not to say that she wasn't a beautiful shining jewel of uniqueness, which all people are, but simply that her uniqueness was no more unique than the uniqueness shared by all unique people, which is everybody.

One of the most striking features of this girl, if an observer was requested to provide such after only a forty-second cursory examination, was her hair, in which she kept small people, who were by and large likable, with the exception of Tiny Barry, who was a jerk. As any person with the standard level of uniqueness, the girl was confused and ashamed by what could be seen as her most unique uniqueness. She strove to keep the tiny people in her hair a secret, though she treated them well and was very kind to each of them, even Tiny Barry.

She grew her hair out and arranged it in such a manner that it could hide a very tiny doll house, which she had commissioned in secret from a Czech immigrant who was down on his luck but VERY skilled with his hands. He insisted on being paid in lira, which was odd given his own nationality and the nation in which he currently lived, but those who are down on their luck are not traditionally the most sane of people.

The people who lived in the hair of the girl who was once in a creative writing class (except not really) were embarrassed by this display of generosity, so they spent much of their time doing what they could to pay for their keep, except Tiny Barry, who was a jerk. They would prune and trim her hair, caring for it as if it were a large forest. They would scrub her scalp, giving tension-relieving massages. They would listen to her worries and cares, responding with the wisdom gained through their tiny lives in an elaborate system of semaphore that required the use of several mirrors.

And though the girl who was in a creative writing class (except not really) missed out on her creative writing class, life went on. Birds sung, flowers bloomed, fifteen students were assigned to write a story about the girl (though they would never know her secret), and the girl one day met a boy who made her very happy.

They lived a comfortable life in a nice neighborhood, raised two point five children (a slightly unnerving and gory story for another day), and lived to a ripe old age. The girl from the creative writing class (except not really) kept her secret to the end of her life, and the pleasure observers find in a life well-lived was only marred somewhat by the knowledge that the tiny people were probably buried alive with her.

The End