This is a draft version of a chapter from John Saye’s book, Longevity and Other Stories. If you are daring, why not subscribe to my newsletter (they come few and far between), and I’ll send you a PDF copy of the book?

Mrs. Smith worked the bread. She pounded it out on the counter. Flour went everywhere. Out the window of her little shop, she could see the city, covered in the smoke of coal, yet the sun shined down through her windows and onto her work board. She kneaded the dough, rolling it out, and then braiding it up into perfect plaits and the oven. Donuts were down, pastries doing their magic, and cookies were lined up to go.

Younger mice scurried around and ran from corner to corner, keeping up with her in a flurry of activity. Their job, if it hits the floor, get it up. They ran around behind her, sweeping stray flour, wiping up minor spills, and eating stray globs of jam that had only moments ago gone in a blintz or spread onto a bagel.

There was a definite flurry around her.

She waved to another team, who ground coffee and brew it into large kettles for customers who were already walking by up and down the cobblestone outside.

She dropped a load of donuts while another team of field mice, all in hats and scarves, arranged the morning’s goods in the front window of the shop.

The door opened with the tinkle of a bell and a mole came in with her family on the way to school.

“Mrs. Smith, any of those fine bread sticks, the ones with the chocolate swirl in them?”

“I know you love them.”

 Mrs. Smith pulled a basket of them up from beneath the counter and handed them across as the woman and her three children took them.

“Can you give Mrs. Smith the money?” The lady said to her youngest. The young mole handed her three pieces of silver. They thanked each other, and shortly they were gone. Outside, Mrs. Smith saw a carriage go by, drawn by a Scottish terrier who was clearly in charge of the whole situation.

He poked his nose through the door.

“Hello there Theo,” she said. She threw him a loaf of bread that he ate in one bite.

“Good morning,” he said as she came out.

“You have anything for me?”

“Only the usual.”

“Come on then,” she called into the shop, and several of the younger mice came out to help take several packages off the back of the carriage.

“Flour,” she said as the first ones went by.

“Sugar, okay,” she said as the second big bag went into the shop.

“Should be one more. Here it is.” She picked up a small bag containing a bottle. “Vanilla, very good. See you, Theo.”

“Good day Mrs. Smith.”

He was away, padding down the lane, pulling his carriage. He turned a corner. Other carriages were out. Folks were coming out on the street as the sun continued to rise.

“Morning, Mrs. Smith,” said a passing fox.

“Good morning.”

She went back in.

“The donuts!”

She jumped across the counter and lifted them from the oil. They were perfectly golden brown. She set them aside to drain as she lowered a fresh bunch in.

The door jingled and two rats came in, dressed in sweaters and hats.

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Smith. She crushed a tuft of fur out of her eye.

“Hello there,” said one of them. “Hi,” said the other.

“What are you looking for this morning?”

“Danishes?” They said together.

“Cheese or cherry?”

“Cheese,” said one while the other said “cherry.” Then they switched.

“I’ll get you one of each, then.”

They nodded their heads happily while she looked through the danishes in her display case, picking the best ones.

She handed them over in a paper bag as the two rats gave her a coin each.

As they passed through the door and back out on the street, a frog, slender and young, and a turtle on two legs, came through the door.

“What can I get for you, gentlemen?” She looked up and recognized the frog. “Oh, how are you? You’ve got that party later in the day, right?”

“Yes ma’am,” said the frog. “It’s for the reception at the clock tower.”

“Right. I’ve got a box for you right over here. Hang on a second.”

They nodded to her. The frog tipped his hat with his tongue and put it back on again.

Mrs. smith left the counter. Her help was doing fine behind her. One of the mice was filling a cream-filled donut while another helped someone to coffee.

With her back turned to them, she looked over a table through several boxes already set aside for larger orders she had ready for the day. There were several birthday cakes, several boxes of assorted sweets, one box of soft pretzels, and then the box she was looking for.

“Here it is.” She opened it to confirm it had an assortment of jelly donuts in it, then she lifted it and turned to hand it to them as something green quickly slipped behind the table and out of sight.

“There you go.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith.”

“Oh, thank you for the order, dears.”

She patted one on the shoulder and sent them on their way.

“Now, where was I?”

“We’ve got it, Mrs. Smith,” said one of her helpers. One of them took her by the hand and guided her to a table in the front window and pushed a cheese danish into her hands and then brought her a cup of coffee. She sat down and just enjoyed watching her place of work. The busy morning was always her favorite. Most of the help went home after lunch, and by the time she closed, she’d be on her own, but for now, it was nice.

Outside on the street, she could see carriages trotting down the road, driven and owned by the dogs pulling them. That’s when she remembered we were on the way.

Our carriage stopped in front of the bakery, and she could see us coming. She perked up, slurped down her coffee, and absently brushed at the flour on her apron.

Our carriage stopped and Mr. Curtis popped out of the door. He was more of a large bulbous head with little legs, and his skin was gray-green in the sun. He adjusted his monocle and his top hat.

“Dr. James, I believe we have arrived,” he said as he paid the corgi at the helm a hefty sum.

I stepped out of the carriage, stroking my mustache and squinting into a brief wind from down the street. “I believe you are correct,” I said.

“It smells fabulous,” said the bullfrog, who swept into the bakery and twirled on the spot.

“Thank you both so much for coming to see me,” said Mrs. Smith as I came through the door.

“It’s our pleasure.”

“That’s right!” said Mr. Curtis as he hit the floor. Crouched down, one eye closed, and another eye open to a bulbous extent, he eyed a crack in the cobblestone of the floor like he was looking through a microscope.

“What’s down there?” said Mrs. Smith as I rolled my eyes.

“Interesting,” said Mr. Curtis. He dug his finger into a crack in the floor and then tasted the result. “Interesting and delicious.” He stood back up, this time stretching his legs to appear taller than I am. It was a failure even with his top hat on.

“Please come and sit with me in the window.”

“Of course,” I said.

I sat at the table with her and Mr. Curtis rolled into a chair next to her. He never knew what to do with his feet, and I could see him having difficulty with whether he should be there and let them dangle or just sit on them, they weren’t long enough to reach the floor which is odd because I’ve seen how far the old boy can jump.

He eventually landed on sitting on one while letting the other one hang, but he just couldn’t figure it which one to let hang.

“Can we get you anything before you look around?”

“Oh I’m already looking around Mrs. Smith,” said Mr. Curtis, who was currently bulging his other eye out at the window, watching foxes, moles, mice, and the occasional dog or rabbit go by.

“That turtle is still trying to cross the street,” said Curtis.

“Yes, he is. Could I have tea?” I said.

“Coffee,” said Curtis. He stopped for a second and remembered himself. “Please?”

“Johnny?” she said.

A mouse ran by.

“Coffee and tea for my guests, a coffee for me, and bring the tray.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He scurried off and ran behind the counter to retrieve a wooden tray with a silver lining. He pulled an assortment of pastries from the display case, several donuts, several rolls, a couple of danishes, and a bagel. Then returning, almost fluidly from the coffee and tea stand, brought it all back to the table, along with a short stack of appetizer plates everyone could pull what they wanted onto.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Curtis, sniffing his coffee with a couple of over-sized nostrils. “I never miss a thing. Jamaican?”

“Columbian,” said Mrs. Smith.

“Quite right, yes,” said the bullfrog. While she wasn’t looking, I watched him remove his hat for a moment and store a donut and a roll in there for safekeeping.

I scowled at him, and he stuck his tongue out at me and mocked my outrage.

“Tell us more about when you first noticed something was off around here,” I said.

She coughed and sat on one paw in her chair. Mr. Curtis absently switched feet to match her.

“Well, it was about a month ago when the eclipse happened. Everyone was shielding their eyes, and the bakery was going bananas. It was so busy we didn’t get a chance to go outside to see it. We were too busy selling blintzes and rolls to do much more than see folks outside.”

“When it became dark?”

“You probably know most everyone did their best to return home like it was night or resisted their primal instinct to stay outside so they could watch the shadows on the street.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Curtis. “Shadows.”

He licked his eyeball.

“Yes, and there was this moment of calm, then as the sun came back out, kapow! There was this enormous bang.”

“Kapow…” Mr. Curtis was writing in a little notebook of his. I noticed he was using one of my favorite fountain pens in his hand.

“There was this clatter from the back by a loading dock on the back alley behind the bakery. Every night as I told you, we give away what we can’t sell. I went back there to see several boxes I had lined up sliding for a drain we have back there.”

“Can we see it?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s this way.”

She got up, and of course, I stood as quickly as I could, Mr. Curtis also following suit. I took a quick sip of my tea and put it down, while Mr. Curtis simply took his cup with him, besides nabbing another roll and following us, hiding the roll behind his back.

Mrs. Smith showed us through the bakery, past the ovens, and through to the back entrance. The stone floor was slick and made of cobblestone, closer to what was outside in the alley.

“Is this the drain?” I said, kneeling to look.

“It is.”

Mr. Curtis was looking at the ceiling while we talked, gaging when he could take a bite of the bun head behind his back.

It was a large drain, with bars far enough apart to fit my hand through. It was wet and smelled filthy, even though I could tell someone had sprayed the floor recently, probably pushing something down here.

“Curtis?” I said. “Thoughts?”

“None yet,” he said before pulling the not-so-well-hidden bun out from behind him and taking a bite like it was an apple.