The Circle

In a town of straight lines and sharp corners, posters warned: KEEP YOUR SHAPE.

Circle worked hard to stay smooth. Today was the Shape Parade, and he wanted to look perfect.

He rolled out early, humming the tune he knew by heart.

A pebble nudged him. A small dent appeared, and it stayed.

He kept rolling. An acorn, a curb, a bump from a lamppost; marks began to show.

“Careful,” called Triangle. “The signs say KEEP YOUR SHAPE.”

“I will,” Circle said, though he wasn’t sure.

But life had other plans. A skipping child spun him, a puppy’s tail knocked him, the gutter scraped him again.

His roundness faltered. First a little oval, then soft on one side, then uneven all around.

He paused at a shop window. The reflection wasn’t perfect anymore; it was something softer, something alive.

Behind him, the posters repeated: KEEP YOUR SHAPE. KEEP YOUR SHAPE.

Circle felt small. He tucked in, hoping not to be noticed.

At the parade gate, Square stood tall. Star sparkled. Line stretched straight.

Circle came last; not quite circle anymore. He had become a quiet, breathing blob.

“I’m sorry,” he told Rectangle, the marshal. “I lost my shape on the way.”

Rectangle looked at him kindly. “On the way,” he said, “is where most of us change.”