He was a rolling king. He could roll up anything: lint, bread, pennies, buildings, his classmates...But the one thing he could not roll up was himself. He tried throwing himself at the ball. He tried lying under the ball while his mother pushed it over him. No luck.

Why did the ball not accept him? Was it repulsed by him? He wished it wouldn't give him false hope, allowing him to touch it and control it but not be a part of it. Whether the ball could fit in his pocket or fill the universe, he felt he was the real puppet in their relationship. The ball brought people and objects together. As much as people screamed while stuck to the ball, they had each other. It didn't matter that he was free of the physical pain that they endured; He was in emotional pain, because he would always be an outsider.

One day, he wrote a letter to the ball. As a mute boy, he believed this to be the best method of communication for his sincerest feelings.

"Dear Ball," he wrote, "I wish to give up my position as roller. Please choose someone else, so that one day I may have the chance of being rolled up myself. I know it may not happen right away, but I don't mind waiting." He placed his letter on the floor, and slowly began rolling up paper clips, then thumbtacks, and finally the letter. To his horror, the ball hit a table leg, and the letter flew off. Had the ball had time to read it? He stopped.

Cautiously, he put his hands back on the ball. He pushed- nothing. "Did you understand?" he thought as loudly as he could, willing the ball to hear him. The ball rose,

and rose,

and rose.

Through the ceiling, into the sky, and beyond the clouds. His mother came into the room. "What's wrong?" she asked. He lay curled on the floor, in despair. Slowly, he rolled towards his mother, as she opened her mouth to scream. A new ball had been born, and this one piloted itself.