Stones are falling from the ceiling of my apartment.  First one, then two, then dozens.  I take refuge beneath the kitchen table as they bounce and dance across every surface, denting the toaster, gouging into the old linoleum of the floor.  The falling stones are like a rain of hail, but so absurd in this setting that I want to laugh.

The first stone hit five minutes ago with a solid thump on the arm of the orange Naugahyde easy chair in the living room, then rolled into my lap.  It was egg-shaped and smooth and wet, as if it had just been dredged up from the bottom of the river.  A second hit the television and fell behind the gas heater in the fireplace.  I counted five more like warning drumbeats; then I ran for the table.  Now they bounce and roll all over, making quite a racket.  They don't seem to come from anywhere.  There are no holes in the ceiling.  The stones flash into air just below the tin egg-and-anchor molding and fall as if they are falling from a great height.

The whole manifestation lasts about ten minutes.  I wait fifteen minutes more before emerging carefully into the daylight from beneath the table.  The smooth stones lie in piles in the kitchen, in the living room across the rug, on the couch, and on the television set, which appears undamaged.  There are no stones in the bathroom or in my bedroom, but I find the largest pile heaped up on the bare floor in Molesworth's old room when I push open the door.

I take about an hour and a half to remove all the stones to the garden.  The job requires five trips with a full suitcase, which I empt...