happy land

When the children leave them scattered across the playroom floor, the blocks, free of their wooden crate, are left to their own devices.

“Come Mr. Triangle,” says Square, righting himself once the lights go out, “Sit on my head, and we can be a house.”

“Oh bother,” huffs Triangle as Square hoisted him, “We’re not a house at all.”

“No, a barn! “squeals Mrs. Cylinder rolling up behind them and standing up, “And I’m the silo!”

“But we’re just the shape of the thing, not the thing itself,“ harrumphs Mr. Triangle.

“Silly Triangle, it’s imagination; it’s what we do,” chimes in Miss Circle, flopping over before them, “Look, I’m the duck pond!”

“You’re not a pond!” hisses Triangle, “You’re not even blue, you’re yellow! And I’m green and that’s a shitty color for a roof.” He shoves himself off Square and flips end over end towards their crate, “Fucking liberals!”