Claiming the Summit

A flat horizon is an insult. I refused to remain stranded on the floor, staring up at the sheer vertical incline of the wooden footstool. Its lower rung sat twice my height, slick with polished varnish. I didn't hesitate. I surged forward, locked both hands onto the crossbar, and hauled my weight upward through sheer discipline. The slick wood offered zero forgiveness, but my grip held firm. With one decisive thrust, I drove my boot into the frame and crested the top platform. From this elevation, the entire territory is surveyed. An acceptable start.