Instead of "The Neverending Story" it's "The Neverending RR".

I think it's best if we keep our posts shorter.

......She got A's in everything in school. But she never did anything more than that. She never participated in anything extra, no honor roll parties, no MathCounts, no Harry Potter Book Club. She got the grades she had to get, she did the math she had to get, she read only the books she had to read. No more, no less. That was her motto.

The only thing she did that was slightly exemplary or above what she had to was drawing short-eared owls. That was it. Not long-eared owls, not barn owls, not doves or unicorns or people or rocks. Just short-eared owls.

She had no idea why she did it- she didn't count that as a hobbie, jsut a habit that she did outside of school. When she was done with homework, she would sit at her desk in her room for hours at a time, just drawing short-eared owls, over and over again, in the pages of her sketchbook. She never colored them, just drew them in pencil, did the shadings and everything.

She didn't even really like owls. She just drew short-eared owls. They all looked rather similar, though they were almost always in different positions, or from different angle. Once she had drawn a short-eared owl from twenty-three different angles.

She lived like this all her life… Until one day.

That day was a Saturday, and Cleea was sitting at a table, a half-finished drawing of a short-eared owl before her. She wanted to talk to someone, because that's what normal people did. She had observed this for years, what normal people did. One of the few things that she did that was abnormal was that normal people try to be abnormal. But Cleea simply tried--and stayed--normal. She though that she was pretty good at being normal, no one had ever given her a second glance. She liked it that way.

She looks up from the table to find someone out on the street, looking at her. She grows nervous.  

The stranger on the sidewalk winked. Shocked, Cleea felt her face grow warm. She bent her head to her sketchbook, until a strange feeling of newfound curiosity overcame her, and she slowly peered out of the window to examine her surveyor more closely.

She couldn't tell the gender of the newcomer, because a head of wild red curls covered their face. She would refer to her as a girl, because she couldn't imagine a boy winking at her from the sidewalk. What would a normal person do? She wondered.

Wink back? No. Cleea was not going to wink. She could wave. That would be normal. But the girl was gone. The next day the red haired girl was back. Again she winked. Again Cleea lifted her hand to wave. Again the girl was gone

Cleea found herself waiting by the window every day for the girl to wink at her from the walkway. It was odd; no one had ever paid her any attention, and now she didn't know what to do. She considered going out to meet her one day, but decided against it. This was not normal. Once she had opened the window so she could say hello, but it had started to rain and the girl wasn't there. Today, though, she was feeling sort of different, like she actually wanted to talk to someone. Today is the day. She thought. Today I will talk to the girl.