Isadora lived inside a bright orange balloon. When she was very, very little, she snuck inside a deflated balloon during a game of hide and seek. Since it was one of the better hiding spots, no one could find her, and before long, she fell asleep. She did not awake until she felt the rush of cool helium swoosh across her back and heard the echoey groaning of the unsuspecting culprit (her grandfather) tying up her hiding spot. Before she could protest or escape, the balloon was sealed as was her fate.
As fates go, it was not a bad one. Her parents, of course, were beside themselves with worry. The knot Grandpa had tied was too tight to untie, and everyone who tried uncoiling the navel of rubber sent violent thrums throughout the balloon, shivering Isadora’s frame. No one could bring themselves to pop the balloon, for fear of accidentally puncturing her. Besides which, Isadora loved it. In her stocking feet, she found she could slide around and around the perimeter of the balloon, and up and over and back again. If she struck her feet against the base of the balloon quickly and frequently like a match against flint, she could generate enough static electricity to amble casually up the side until she was hanging from the top, her auburn hair hanging out from her like tree roots. And everything had an orangeish glow about it; it was like living inside a sunset.
Sure, at times there were minor threats, such as when a bee alighted on the side of the balloon, filling the inside with dread and an echoing hum. But in general, it was about the safest environment imaginable.
Living inside such a round and fragile environment meant that Isadora needed to comport herself with as little edge and as much care as possible. This wasn’t difficult, as she had always been a soft and considerate person. That was how her parents and grandparents had raised her, and how they presented themselves to her whenever possible. But she was young, and with age came the jagged sharpness of cynicism.
She watched, as time passed, her sister grow taller, more angular and awkward like a poorly assembled bookshelf, and then slowly the edges were worn down and the lines filled in, and she became a beautiful woman. She watched, with bittersweet awe the passage of time slough its skin as her parents danced on their 25th anniversary. She was alone, aloft, entombed. She hadn’t grown an inch since she first crawled into the balloon, and the toll this stasis took on her heart was unbearable.
Then it came to pass that she began to shrink. Surprisingly, the bright orange balloon, in all this time, had remained bright, orange and as round and inflated as on that fateful day. Balloons normally slowly shrivel, wrinkle and wince under the pressures of time and gravity. This balloon had endured somehow; remaining in constant stasis as it appeared was the case with Isadora. But on the inside, Isadora was shriveling, wrinkling and wincing under the pressures of time and the slow erosion of emotion. Indifference had settled like sediment in her center and eaten away her core until there was little left but air. Unlike her balloon, this air was heavy, and far from warm. It contracted slowly, whispering from her body, taking traces of Isadora with it as it fell away.
When she finally shrunk to nothingness, the balloon, freed from the weight of the girl, drifted skyward, further and further away, until, like an ellipse, it vanished from view.
Tags: Isadora
Mark J. Hansen
Are ellipses known to vanish from view? I mean, more than other shapes?