BAKER'S DOZEN

It's that time of moon again, when weird stories run amok.

A baker in California discovered a conch shell. It said, dig under the rock. So he used a mixing spoon and hoped no one would notice. And there was something. A bottle. Inside was a small slip of paper, like a fortune cookie. It read:

“If you can read this, you don't need glasses. And by the way, you're going to meet a mysterious woman with black hair, bearing a message. Avoid her gaze, but put the message in your pocket. She's an editor.”

He went back to the bakery and combed his hair. Nothing much out of the ordinary had seemed to happen. Except the weather, so hot, and the dough rising faster.

Next day, just after opening early, a Chinese woman was in the doorway. Where had she come from?

“Strange,” she said, “you're still here.”

“Yes. And why is that?”

“Automation,” she replied, “and please, a loaf of bread.” She fumbled in her purse for something.

Cash, he thought. She pulled out a slip of paper.

The moon had disappeared. He brought out a warm loaf that filled the air with its wonderful aroma, remembering to look slightly askance while taking her payment, however impolite. But it was not money.

When he looked, she was gone.

“This note,” the note said, “is just the beginning. Work is obsolete. No more slavery. No more bosses. Do what you want.”

He dissolved some yeast in warm water, adding sugar, salt, oil and the flour. Kneading was his favorite part, next to watching it rise.