Mia Pandey Gordon

The Sea Balloon

Monday, 7.47am: Water, water.

My throat itched — not where it meets your tongue, but further down. Then, the itchiness started snaking up. When it reached my mouth, my head started swaying, back-n-forth, back-n-forth, like a beach ball at sea — buoyant on gentle waves, back-n-forth, back-n-forth.

The itchiness reared its head, making my mouth dry. I need water. I had water. Water all around, but none to quench the thirst. And all the while my head went back-n-forth, back-n-forth.

Seagulls squawked above. The sound and sign of land? No, the sound of the alarm and a signal of morning.

The blinds were down, but the outside sky seemed sullen — gloomy streaks pouted through the gaps, might snow. Must wear big boots, but first brush teeth, cleanse face.

The lights in the bathroom flickered then cut to black. Snapping the switch back-n-forth had no effect. I sleepy-sauntered down the hall for the corridor lights — they worked. Cool.

That’s when I saw it — reflected in the hall mirror — an upside-down teardrop slightly larger than my head and so bright, it glowed. The top of the teardrop reflected white light and images from the corridor wall hangings and carpet. The bottom curved to a cup shape and rested on my neck, where my face should have been. My head had swelled to a blue balloon.

I paused for a whole day waiting for the balloon to float away, but no, it spent the whole day attached to my neck and hovering over my body like a bubble. I considered breaking the pause with panic, but the balloon seemed so buoyant, I didn’t want to deflate it, so I went for the patient approach.

Tuesday, 10.32am: Doctor, Doctor.

The balloon lingers so I’m going to have to take the other patient approach. At the doctor’s office, no one looks at me twice, perhaps because I’ve hidden the balloon under a striped multi-colored giant wool wrap, perhaps because a doctor’s waiting room is a magnet for physical irregularities.

Inside, I sit on the vinyl bunk in the middle of the room. “Good morning, young lady,” says Doctor. He smiles as he looks up from his clipboard. He squints. (He’s never done that before.) He puts on his glasses. (He’s never done that before.) Doctor frowns. (He’s never done that either.) “Hmmm.” (He’s never said that before.) He walks behind me. (It’s Doctor’s day for firsts.) Even though I can’t see him anymore, I can feel his eyes on the back of the balloon. The pause stretches, but I’m reluctant to interrupt. What if he tells me I have a terminal disease? A life of infinite pause is better than no life at all, right?

(Break in pause.)

Doctor says, “I can see why you might be concerned.”

“Do you Doctor? I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it.”

“No, no, of course not. But you know, it’s nothing to get too worried about.”

“Really?”

“Yep. No big deal… just uhh… like a blemish.”

“A blemish?”

“Uh-huh. Like a pimple, a whitehead.”

“A whitehead?” (But it’s blue. I’m offended on behalf of the balloon.)

“That’s right. I wouldn’t worry too much. Get some rest. It’ll go away.”

“When will it go away?”

“Uhh, hmmm. I’d say two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“Yep, if it’s still there in two weeks, come back and see us.”

“Do I need to do anything?”

“Uhh, nope, just eat, and sleep, and breathe.”

“Eat and sleep and breathe?” realizing that the only one of those I can do without

ginormous effort is sleep.

“Yep. Eat, and sleep, and breathe.”

Wednesday, 7.36pm: Boy — friend or faux? Balloon — friend or foe?

I’m slippering down the slope to Blueville. I need company and comfort, so, I call Boyfriend

over for a beer.

“Wow! What happened to your face?”

“It sorta swelled.”

“Looks like a balloon.”

“I know,” I flush but he probably can’t tell. Or maybe he can since the next thing he

says is, “It’s so… bright… and bouncy, like a water ball or something, yeah, yeah, that’s it —

your head looks like a beach ball.”

We sit on the couch, him with a beer, me with trepidation.

(Pause)

He tries to kiss me, first, near where my ear used to be, then closer to the middle of my face. My face squeeches. Conspicuously. The way plastic does when you wipe it too hard. He pulls back.

“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure why since I didn’t squeech, the balloon did.

(Awkward pause. Boy sips beer. Girl’s balloon wobbles.)

(Break in pause.) Boyfriend says, “So did ya see a doctor?”

I’m not sure whether his tone is concerned or reproachful.

“Yeah,” I reply tentatively.

“What did he say?”

“He wants me to do stuff, stuff my balloon doesn’t like me doing.”

“Okay, well, d’ya want to get rid of the balloon or not?”

(Awkward pause. Boy jangles car keys. Girl’s balloon wobbles.)

(Break in pause.) “You can’t live with a balloon for a head forever,” he says.

“I suppose…. I’m sure everything will get sorted out in its own time.”

“In its own time? And how much time will that be?”

“Doctor wasn’t sure. I’m not sure.”

“If you’re gonna be this passive, maybe we should put things on hold for a while?”

Boy, I wasn’t expecting that, “What d’ya mean?”

“Well, see, I’m facing a lot of headwinds right now.”

“Headwinds?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…, so…, not sure if I’m grounded enough to hang onto uh….”

“… Hang onto?”

“Well, to something…”

“Something?”

“Yeah…, uh…, something uh…, so… kinda, well… sensitive, you know such a

sensitive situation – flighty! Yeah! That’s it, not sure if I can hang onto something so flighty,

you know.”

(Pause. When in doubt or annoyed or on the way to a hurt place, best to be silent.)

The silent approach fails since boyfriend says, “So, maybe a good idea for us to cut

loose, at least ‘til the winds blow over.”

“Well a moment ago you said ‘on hold,’ and now you’re saying ‘cut loose.’ So which

is it, hold or lose?” And with that prickly retort, I popped our relationship.

Thursday, 2.18pm: Cry me a coffee.

I have to get out of the house, or maybe just out of my (balloon-) head. The corner Starbucks

seems like the least treacherous option. Not sure how I’m going to drink it, but I’ll worry

about that later. My woolly wrap and beanie seem to work great for camouflage and

protection — until I get to the register. I have to pull up the cap and pull down the scarf to

give my order, “Tall soy latte.”

The man in front of me, who’s just given his order glances in my direction, then does a double-take. He tries to cover up his bewilderment by turning to his female companion, who’s waiting at the other end of the counter. She gives him a questioning look. He leans towards her. They whisper. She peers over her shoulder at me.

Her eyes widen. She bestows a smile, the Botox kind, where the eyes don’t crinkle and the forehead doesn’t wrinkle. Meanwhile, the Starbucks kid finger-punches my order, looks up, up-downs my face, from where my forehead should be to my neck.

(Pause.)

(Break in pause.) He says, “Will that be all for you?”

I don’t want to go near the couple who were before me, but they’re blocking the path to the pick-up spot for my latte. I shuffle towards them just as their coffees arrive. “You have a striking face,” she says.

“Thank you.” I skedaddle.

Back on the street, a sense of isolation grips me around the throat like the snaking thirst that began this saga. I splutter into a shallow cough and waterfall coffee over my coat and down the sidewalk. Not sure why I’m so despondent; after all, everybody’s been so nice.

Might feel better to cry, but tears don’t penetrate plastic. A river of coffee on the pavement will have to do.

Friday, 4.26pm: Pass the salt.

The throaty itch has snaked up further to the spot where my right cheek used to be. I rub the spot. (Pause.) Better? No change? Not sure. I rub harder. (Pause.) Bead-sized white crystals appear on my fingers. That’s new, must be progress. I rub harder. The crystals disintegrate to chalky texture. I try the other side with my left hand. Same deal, within moments my hands are coated in powder. Better get some tissues before I get this stuff all over the floor. I walk to the bedroom for tissues. My hands start to tingle. By the time I get to the end of the corridor, the tingling has intensified to sting. I look at my hands. What was powder is now water, which I’m dripping on the hall runner. I change course for the bathroom. Hall-mirror, check: balloon, check; still blue, check; bright and buoyant as ever, check. Don’t do rubbing thing again, check.

Saturday, 11.43am: Blow me away.

I didn’t sleep well. The sky furled, unfurled. A fog swirled. My balloon, less blue, more violet, tossed. I turned. Together, we were alone, floating on a violent sea. I tried to raise a white sail but crystal shards etched my palms with letters in a language just beyond my dream conscious. The squall of seagulls echoed: wistful, seeking, longing. Longing for what? A thirst to be quenched? With what? Water? But water was everywhere. And my balloon sailed on bobbing as my head and in the stormy sea.

A waking walk might clear the storm.

Outside, the wind mimics coastal waves, a benevolent crest chased by bluster. A clever bluster snatches my balloon, and we’re swept up. Luckily, a tree branch catches us.

But now I’m dangling ten feet high in the arms of a skeleton.

Below, the waves amplify and soften gathering foam. Bubbles swell and refract off the eyes of passersby, walking lights, a kaleidoscope of frowns and smiles, glowers and beams. But what’s the source — an alp, a stream, the sky? And do these shapes and hues ebb? Or just swarm within each other? Someone or something must have sensed my SOS because, with a rustle, the skeleton releases my balloon.

Sunday, 3.23pm: Everybody is strange at the zoo.

The wind has deserted the neighborhood and I’m going cage-crazy, so decide to hang out at the zoo. Never noticed before but there are plenty of animals with balloons at the zoo — monkeys with a red balloon on either side of their noses, pandas with a black balloon on either side of their head, turtles with hard helmet-style balloons which must be heave-ho heavy to walk around with (maybe that’s why they move so slow). And they all have it way worse because people are stare at them all day, every day.

I’m so involved in my animal musings, I don’t notice the kid. She has climbed onto the second rung of the railing that I’m leaning on. Her face is three inches from mine. Her hair is all mussed up. Her eyes are liquid-black and transfixed on my balloon.

“You have a funny face,” she says, neither mean, nor nice. More like, ‘I had psghetti

for lunch.’

“It’s a balloon.”

“Yeah. It kinda looks like a balloon.”

“Mmmm.”

“So, how d’ya score a balloon for a head?” the child asks.

“Mmmm, not sure. Woke up and there it was.”

“How long have you had it?”

“You know, I think it’s always been there. It just wasn’t so big and so bright. So no one noticed.”

“Does it hurt your neck?”

“Mmmm, doesn’t hurt, but… it is awkward sometimes.”

“Do you want it to go away?”

“Weeell, I’ve kinda  gotten used to it now. Suppose, makes me look strange.”

(Pause. Balloon-head is motionless. Kid alternates between fidgeting and staring at

balloon. )

(Break in pause.) “It does make you look strange. But not in a bad way. Maybe if you just tilted your head and thought ‘bout it ‘nother way?”

“Mmmm.”

The kid takes one hand off the railing, the one that’s closest to me. She lifts her hand to my head (Or is it the sea? Or is it my balloon? At this point I’m not sure what’s what.) She sticks out her index finger and pokes where my ear is supposed to be, hard. Inside the balloon, I hear an echoing plop, like when a large pebble drops in a lake. The pebble creates ripples that radiate in and out of the balloon. The circles go green, teal, turquoise, marine.

The kid’s eyes enlarge. The liquid-black of her pupils each take on a white flame.

“See,” she says. “Strangely, insanely beautiful. Like a bird spreading wings. Or a seagull sensing land.”

(Pause.)

(Break in pause.) “I gotta fly now.” She scurries off the railing and round the corner.

(Silence. The silence of solitude.)

That’s when the sea fills the pause. My thirst evaporates.The water was in me all along and my thirst was for understanding.

---

Though The Sea Balloon is fiction, it grew out of a period in which I felt as though my agency was unravelling and dissolving. Writing this piece became an act of reclamation: a way to locate my identity, make sense of the disorientation, and find a way forward.

The narrator’s surreal transformation, waking to find her head has become a buoyant blue balloon, allowed me to explore that loss of control at a safe distance. Her journey toward acceptance mirrors my own attempt to hold space for uncertainty, for strangeness, for the possibility that change might not be catastrophic but transformative.

This is a troy that drifts between the real and the dreamlike. My hope is that readers might recognize their own moments of rupture in this story, and that the narrator’s slow, hesitant reclamation of herself offers them some solace just as I found in discovering her voice.

Mia Pandey Gordon is a writer and painter who resides in Sydney, Australia  and has grown up in many parts of the world including London, Geneva, Athens, Hong Kong, San Francisco, New York, and Washington D.C.

Her work is shaped by places both real and imagined. She completed a MA in Writing at John Hopkins University where she was fortunate to receive the Outstanding Graduate in Fiction prize.

Her nonfiction essay, “Walking the Wire”, appeared in the widely acclaimed anthology Growing Up Indian in Australia. Her ekphrastic piece “Ruth Sears Bacon”, part of a fiction series drawn from John Singer Sargent’s paintings, was featured in The Ekphrastic Review. Each of these works, in its own way, seeks the moment when inner experience breaks the surface and finds form.

She also takes joy in guiding others toward that discovery. In 2025, she led “Writing Inspired by Paintings” through Johns Hopkins’ continuing education arm, Odyssey, a course that braided the visual with the verbal, offering participants a new way to see and to say. In 2026, she will be leading a course on Travel Writing and so taking these same perspectives to another contemporary genre.

Through her paintings and stories she seeks language for what lingers at the edges of silence, where art and literature can bear witness, unsettle, and illuminate.