Mr. Stepfall

When I was in the last year of high school I took to writing with a dramatic fervour. At one point I discovered a thesaurus and decided to make use of the word 'small' in a short fictional account, and thus was born Mr. Stepfall...


Mr. Stepfall was a preschool teacher. He enjoyed relating to his submicroscopic little runt students about certain aspects of his somewhat detatchedly ill-fated life. The pint sized, dwarfish little creatures swallowed these melancholy tales which were desperately lacking in profundity and meaning.
So the shrimpy, diminutive little beings took over the class in a battle that lasted the length of the evolution of a silk worm; no less than three minutes. So Mr. Stepfall, bound by the silk worm's inflexible thread, began to reiterate his iniquitous yarns of inappropriate actions in variable contexts.
The infinitesimal little gnomes heard his meager utterances and videotaped his mouth to the ceiling. Once Mr. Stepfall was hitched to the ceiling, the insignificant, undersized little pygmies began discussing next what to do about nuclear arms, major crises occurring world wide, and how to put three pennies up Billy's sister's nose.
The tiny little dwarves found solutions to all of the world's problems, and represented the solutions in easy to read pictures on blue and yellow construction paper, using coloured wax crayons. When the principal came in and saw Mr. Stepfall attached to the ceiling, he disconnected Mr. Stepfall who was still sulking in a disarray of pathetic moods.
Mr. Stepfall saw the pictures the insubstantial little midgets drew and yawned in incomprehension as he thumbtacked them all over the puny preschool room. Two weeks later the solutions to world hunger, world peace and the common cold were thrown into the garbage, as Mr. Stepfall, in a state of despondency, relinquished his mindless distraction in a fit of destruction, never to have an impact on the steadily depreciating state of things in general.