He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up. The
stairwell seemed dark and endless, stretching far into the unimaginable beyond.
He was undaunted, for he was smart. And using his intellect,
he proceeded to zero in upon a plan of action to counter this darkness.
He switched on the light.
Feeling somewhat relieved, he looked up again. But this time
he received a jarring shock. At the top of the stairs, casting a shadow over
the twenty-two steps, stood a dominating woman.
His teacher.
And then it all came back to him. How, four months ago, his teacher
had announced a story-writing assignment. How he had prolonged the deadline
with all kinds of excuses, ranging from blaming his fictitious dog to having it
burned to a crisp by a sudden convenient flash of lightning.
She had bought his excuses and gave him an additional week’s
time, every time.
But now she was here, at his house! The absurdity of the
situation appalled him.
Slowly, however, he began to understand. This was
inevitable, for, when standing under someone, one can’t help but understand.
And he realised that he had no choice this time, for the
deadline had been reached. The twenty-second step was the line, and there she
stood, blocking the path into his house.
Thus having transcended into a sphere of realisation, he
proceeded to ascend the steps. He put his right foot forward, hoping it was the
right thing to do.
And going up two steps at a time, he reached the twenty-first
step. Standing there, under her nose, feeling the power of her steely gaze upon
him, he realised that this was it.
He drew a paper from his pocket, a crumpled,
miserable-looking sheet. He stared at it for a moment, and then he sneezed.
For it was a tissue paper.
And then he took out another paper, an actual paper, and
handed it in, thus submitting, not only to the will of the teacher, but the
assignment as well.
For the story he had handed in was the one you have just
finished reading.
