Samantha Jayne Frost
She had nothing but an enormous ear. It peeked up over the top of her head and drooped to within a foot of the concrete. The entrance to her head seemed no larger than a marble and indicated her brain couldn't be much bigger. Somehow that ear took in everything.
She waddled around flapping her lonely ear. Nobody spoke in her presence; they just stared at her in horror. What had she heard? Nothing. Her whole life had been spent juggling work, school and holding up her ear. She never said anything. She didn't have to. The ear said it all.
She listened and heard everything she needed to know. She never asked questions because nobody would answer them anyway. They just stared at her ear. She needed hearing aids but the doctors never could get past her lobage. They wanted to run tests and experiment on her. She hides from them now.
She lives alone with her ear for company. It eats just as much as she does. Sometimes she takes it for walks or gives it a bath. She enjoys the quiet. Someday she plans to retire and take her ear on a vacation to Hawaii-- but not until she's earned enough to pay it's airfare.
