The House in the Bubble

Ivy was falling. She had tripped on the sidewalk, but concrete had failed to meet her. In a flippant motion, she had slipped past the ground. She was slowly drifting downwards in what looked like a massive square bubble, suspended in the clouds. She craned her neck upwards to look for the sidewalk. Nothing but sky & bubblish ceiling showed itself.

She softly landed on the bottom of the bubble, surprised by its warmth. It felt like smooth skin. Looking around, she only saw one thing of note in the bubble: a house. The house was fish-eyed: the door looked comically large, and the walls seemingly curved so that the parts closest to her were much larger. It was red-brick, but the bricks were all of different sizes and shapes, bending around each other, and the roof’s shingles shimmered like the walls of the bubble. She owed it to her curiosity to check it out.

She walked up to the door and knocked twice with the massive ring knocker, the door towering over her, and to her surprise, she heard footsteps coming to the door. It opened with a click, and there he was.

Standing before her was an eight-foot man. He was angular, his nose and chin jutting, and lanky. His arms were long, and he clearly didn’t know where to put them, hanging at either side in awkward twin arcs.

“Come in, please!” he invited. Ivy was surprised to learn he spoke, though she was unsure why.

As she walked in, she spotted a few different things. The house seemed to be all one room, hardwood floors convex across that one room, with a table elevated by the curvature at the very center. It was circular, and had no chairs. The man led her inside, moving knobblish and flappy, taking six-foot lunge-like steps.

“So, where are you coming from?”

“Are you real?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about that.”

“Well, you don’t seem very real.”

“I could say the same about you. You’re like a miniature.”

“No, I think it’s that you’re big.” He gasped.

“How rude. That’s positively ridiculous. I am a regular size, just like all the others I’ve met.”

“You are?”

“Well, of the ones I’ve met.” He began to count on his fingers, but seemed to struggle to get past one. “I’ve met myself, so compared to him, I’m exactly average.”

“Now, that’s just silly.” He gasped again.

“I don’t like your attitude one bit.”

“Well, I don’t like yours.” They both harrumphed. There were high wooden cabinets and an L-shaped counter at one corner of the room, creating what looked like a kitchen of sorts. He puttered around this area for a bit, attempting to find something to put on the table.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Do you want to eat? I have some fresh fish.”

“Yeah, sure.” He walked over to what looked like a portable cooler and plucked a three-foot fish out of it by the tail. The fish looked like a trout, but baby blue, and its eye sockets were almond-shaped like human ones. He slammed it against the counter with a loud thwap.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Well, you don’t want bones in it, do you?” He went to his window and held the fish out of it by its tail, and bones small and large clattered out of its mouth. Ivy could have sworn she saw a femur.

“Sit! What’s the point of a table!”

“Um, there are no chairs.” He tilted his head at her, confused.

“Well, yes, you sit.”

“But there are no chairs to sit on.”

“But,” he pleaded, “the table is for eating, not sitting.”

“Didn’t you just say-” Ivy thought better of asking.

“Here, watch me.” He chopped the fish neatly in two with the outside edge of his palm. He put both halves of the fish into his hands, lunged over to the table, setting down their respective halves opposite each other, and sat as if there was a chair there. He fell back with a great crashing sound.

“Are you alright!?”

“What do you mean? I just sat down.” He extended his neck with a rubbery sound until his head sat about where it would be if he was sitting on a chair. He did the same for his arms. “Are you going to sit?”

Ivy was beginning to get used to his demeanor. “Yes, I will.” She careened backwards, emulating his nonchalance as best she could. She hit the ground with a slightly quieter crashing sound. To her surprise, her neck and arms began to extend as well, lifting her head and hands to the point where it would be comfortable to eat the fish.

“You see?”

“Yeah!” They both sat there in silence. “Are you going to cook the fish?”

“Well, I didn’t say anything about that, did I?”

“You said you would make it.”

“Well yes, and I did. It’s ready to eat.”

“Why aren’t you eating, then?” Yet again, he gasped. This time, however, he paled.

“It would be rude,” he said, teeth gritted, “to eat before a guest.” Ivy took the hint and bit her fish. It was fatty and soft. He gave a relieved smile, picked up his portion, his thumb and forefinger in the eye sockets, and dropped it, whole, down his throat. Ivy saw it going down his six-foot extended neck. He looked at her expectantly. Not wanting to be rude herself, she picked up her portion and did likewise, dropping it down her throat. It felt nice on her newly stretched esophagus. Ivy, energized, asked the question she had been waiting to ask:

“How high up are we?”

“About yay high.” He indicated about three feet with his two hands.

“How can that be? I don’t see anything except clouds.” He burst into tears.

“Listen,” he stammered, “this was the only place I could afford. I know it’s a rough neighborhood, and that I don’t even cook my fish, and that I’m too tall, and that I don’t even have chairs, but you don’t need to be so rude about it. I’m trying to be a good host.”

“Hey, hey.” She extended her arm across the table and put it on his shoulder, but he shook it off. “I never wanted to make you feel bad.”

“Well too bad, because you did.” He pulled a tissue from under the table. “Now get out of my house.”

“Okay.” She shrank her arms and neck back down to regular size. “Thank you for the fish.”

“You’re welcome.” He opened the door for her as she left. She tripped, and concrete met her.