A man finds a fish in his teapot.

Hmm, he says. That's odd.

He decides to transfer the fish to a bowl. He does, and watches it for a while.

It seems like a good fish, he says to himself. I just don't get how it got in the teapot.

The man tells his friend about the fish in the teapot.

Someone must be playing a joke on you, his friend says.

Who? says the man. And what kind of joke is that?

I don't know, says his friend. But what's the other explanation?

The man sits at home, watching the fish, trying to figure out what's happened.

Who put you in my teapot? he says to the fish.

But the fish doesn't bother to answer.

It just swims around the bowl looking for an exit.

That night the man has a dream. In his dream all his friends are leaving his house with teapots tucked under their arms. Apparently the man has hundreds of teapots--and also hundreds of friends--for the dream seems to go on for hours and hours.

Good lord, says the man, waking up.

He goes into the kitchen and stares at his teapot. Of course, there is only one.

I must be losing my mind, the man says.

Then he looks at the bowl.

The fish is gone.

What the hell? says the man.

He looks all around. He checks the counter, the floor, under the fridge. He goes into the dining room and searches there too. He checks the living room and the bedroom to be sure. Then he goes into the bathroom and checks the toilet and the tub.

But the fish is gone.

Completely gone.

It's gotta be one of my friends, the man says. Probably the same one who left the fish to begin with.

He hunts around and finds his address book, puts it in his pocket and goes to the door.

The man goes to visit every friend he has. He pushes into their homes and stomps around. He interrogates them and the members of their families, and peers into their closets and drawers.

But he can find neither hide nor hair of his fish, and all of his friends are frowning.

You were never my friend to begin with, one says.

We never liked you, says another. Please leave.

When the man crosses off the last name in his book--still shy one particular fish--he finds a policeman waiting outside.

I'm sorry sir, he says, you'll have to come with me.

The man is taken to jail and thrown in a cell.

All I wanted was my fish! he says.

What fish is that? says a prisoner beside him.

Oh, it doesn't matter, the man says.

He sits there and sits there for hours and hours.

He realizes it matters very much.

When the man is released, he hurries on home and immediately looks in the kitchen. The fish is still gone; the teapot's still there. He looks inside it to be sure, but there's nothing.

The man stands in the kitchen. He doesn't know what to do. He thinks about making some tea, but for some reason he just doesn't feel like it.

Perhaps I will buy a fish, he thinks.

The man goes down to the neighborhood pet store. Inside, he finds hundreds of fish. Actually, probably closer to thousands. He walks up and down all the aisles. He wanders the pet store for what seems like hours, staring and staring into the tanks. But none of the fish he sees seem right; none is the fish from his pot.

Finally the man decides to ask the lady sitting behind the counter.

In your teapot? she frowns. That's very strange. I don't know what kind of fish that would be. What kind of teapot do you have, exactly?

The man hems and haws. He makes a tentative motion with his hands.

It's hard to describe, he says.

The man and the woman go back to his house. They stand there in the kitchen, looking down.

Hmm, says the woman, I still don't know. It is a nice teapot, though.

The man and the woman sit at the table and drink tea from the man's best cups. The man tells the woman about the weird things that have happened, and the woman listens, and then tells him some back.

My cousin got his porch stolen one time, she says.

His whole porch? says the man, in wonder.

Yep, says the woman.

And they drink their tea.

Later, they go out for supper.

BIO: Ben Loory lives in Los Angeles, in a house on top of a hill. His fables and tales have appeared online and in print in Barrelhouse, Wigleaf, Vestal Review, and more. His book Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day is currently seeking a home. He can be found on Facebook, or writing non-fiction at TheNervousBreakdown.com.