The days had been alternating sun and rain, and the the little stream behind the hedges was flowing well. He imagined the area by his neighbours fence to be Point A, and the entrance to the culvert by the road Point B. He placed a basketball-sized boulder in the centre of the stream between point A and point B, and the water wrapped around without any sort of diversion or change in speed.

He was so tired. Comatose. He tripped over his drooping eyelids and melted into the floor.

Her son marvelled over the one hundred and ninety six pieces of candy spread and grouped out on the dining room table. She eyed the six Snicker bars over his shoulder. One way or another they would be hers.

Rats had gotten into the huge bag of dogfood in the garage. The population had presumably skyrocketed. The engine block wires were doomed.

The first minutes after the family went out the door in the morning: Pen to paper on the coffee table. Silence like a sensory deprivation tank. Chaotic hubbub replaced by a subtle but thick static in the air, a nearly imperceptible pop in a light fixture, a drip of water from ice cubes melting in the kitchen sink, the cat stretching on the carpet, the refrigerator kicking in.

It was a weekend that never happened. First it was Friday, then it was Monday. Somewhere in between there had been reading and eating and watching, but of what, he could not remember.

On his way to get his teeth cleaned he saw a sign in a coffee/plant shop window that said, “Free latte with plant purchase”. Sold. Fifteen minutes later, his dental hygienist was working on coffee stained teeth and a little fern sat on the counter next to the free-toothbrush basket.

He looked around his lifeless room and wondered if rent-a-plants were a thing.

They set out five granola bars on the table. Different brands, sizes, styles. Which product would be best for their 30 minute hike?

The wind was gusting hard, pushing to dislocate weakened branches from their sockets, and pulling to topple diseased trees with their rotting bases and root beds. Nevertheless, he was right in there, driving a series of discs toward the golf tee: a dented ring of sheet metal that collared the base of an old pine. He was right in that mess, working to improve in this “sport” that was played by only five other people within a 100km range.

He rotated the pen and unscrewed the tip. A purple gelatinous substance poured out onto his silicon work mat. He picked through the ooze with two toothpicks, and located the tiny diamond-like stone. He picked up his cellphone and dialled.

He had always bought just a few of everything. Three apples. Four oranges. Two peppers. Three onions. Today was the day he was going to buy one of those big sacs. The sacs that told your checkout line-mates that you were not only serious about cooking, but also, you know how to store food. Better than most. So, lemons is what he bought. Forty lemons in a mesh sac.

The days were blending into each other. His routine was sound, but it made every day feel a tad too similar. That’s why he stepped into the tuk-tuk and informed the driver that he was looking for a gift for his wife, and that he had only $1000 USD. Maybe a ruby or some fine textiles? Mister tuk-tuk driver, could he help?

Cats fell from the sky, but not dogs. In other words, it was raining cats, not dogs. The cats were mostly pure-bread, but some were purebred. There was one frog and one spotted leopard. Which is technically a cat, but the frog was surprised to see it nonetheless.

The droplet of water vibrated and skipped on the surface of the skillet. It made its way over to a pool of oil, and then popped upwards violently. He recoiled and clipped the back of his head on the stove hood.

He jumped into the foam pit and disappeared.

“Don’t parade down the hallway with that thing,” he said as he sat down on his meditation cushion. “You could burn your eyebrows off.”

He set a timer for five minutes, and began staring at the blank sheet on the desk in front of him. No veering of eyeballs. No wondering about sounds. At minute three, he pinch-held his pen from its very end and dragged it across the surface of the paper. It made a line like a stream falling through a forest and then curved back on itself. It looked like a lower case q. He wrote, “quest”. Then, “ion”. Then “ionic”. Then “tonic”. His father was coming to town. He should buy tonic water for his pre-dinner G & T. Circle that. Martini. James Bond. Tuxedo. He should get his suit cleaned. It hadn’t been cleaned since the last funeral he was at four years ago, for that was the space between suit-wearings. Circle that. The timer went off.

Later, he drilled a 1″ hole through the drywall and siding between his living room and the garden outside, so that creatures could get in and out. He finished it nicely with a piece of PVC pipe so the creatures wouldn’t wander into the wallspace.

His cousin worked as a clerk for the Chicago Board of Education. On a cork board by his desk, on dozens of thumbtacked post-it notes, he kept a collection of names that he had come across… variations of the phonetic “Kay-lee” (one of which had been his sister’s name).