Matte Hearse

Written by Septia.

“Mm, hmmm mm hmm, mm.” A hum of wind chimes echoed through the bakery. A tap still dripping into a sink ladene with clumped up dust and crumbs on empty shelves. The silence announced the bakery's vacancy, and left the hum to haunt the walls.
Behind the sales counter stood Cofn, the oven taur humming as she curved out lines on cards with a black marker. Soon, lyrics surfaced.
“~Lustum Lyg, Lustum Lyg, Swoot, swoot, tweona~.” The melody hung heavy in the air – as a ripe apple tugging on the branch that keeps it stable. She rose. Floorboards creaked as the cast iron behemoth waddled up through the store-front.
“~Lustum Lygen, Lustum lyg~,” she sang, and pushed the sign against the door's glass, “~Tweona min, deora~.” Her hands lingered on the sign which display but one word to those outside: 'Dyvors.' An announcement, of failure.
Yet, as long as the confines stood, she would be holding on, for just a bit longer. One deep, long sigh, expelled through the chimney hatch on her back – as a grey cloud of soot. She stepped back.
“Deora me…” she mumbled. She sauntered back. The thumps of three metal legs echoing in her mind as she headed back into the bakery.
The empty shelves stared her down. Outlines of spun flour remained, painting up silhouettes of spice jars, flour bags and books. She had stashed the same ingredients in her packing, the rest of it along with what didn't sell off her bread stock, had been claimed. She could hope the inspector kept her word, to distribute the food to those in need throughout the Tygla-fast. But, that was all she could do.
She brushed a finger along the counter, a country of crumbs and spices taking hold on her digit.
“Gesotig, With no batch, no foda, and deoras go without brod.” She mumbled, thinking that she could have done better. Her mind wandered back, thinking of one too many delivery workers, or customers, or inspectors. Those that had plunged past her one hatch, embraced by the perpetually plump cast iron abdomen, and kneaded through soft teflon flexes into dough. There was only so many times one could claim accident, in the case of having a swot deora lodged in their chamber. Their wriggles leaving her belly to rattle as a chiming bell, the resonance of cast iron and flesh melding into melody, and the warmth which made her feed hatch toast spark as the piping fresh loaves seamed and baked…
Cofn found herself blushing, clasping her cheeks, she shook her head, her whole body swaying along with the motion.
“Those poor deoras”, she mouthed, holding over her rotund abdomen, laying vacant. “Though, least they brew into swoot brod.” She shook her head through her mumbling. This kind of attitude had gotten her in this situation. It didn't matter how, delicate and comfortable it felt to knead a body till it softened and arose dough, spiced and flavored just right so the swot deoras within could be the best brod that-.
Cofn clasped her cheeks and wheezed. Then her arms fell limp to her side -Cllngks- knocking into her abdomen, to reverberate a peel through the black iron. It was strange for these thoughts to penetrate her mind, far from lies, yet still, she would take back every accident if it were within her grasp. Instead, she could only mull on how, despite all accidents, it might not have helped. Atop the disappearances were misconduct and irresponsibility… She had hired an assistant off the books, and still taken advantage of benefits aligned to a single person driven business. Along with expensive bureaucracy which had allowed her to stay on top of bills and loans, yet they had piled up too far, and cheating the system to pay it back, was unfavourable, were she found out.
“Deora, thank you.” She thought back to Met, he had been a great help. And now, Cofn couldn't hope to pay them back properly.
-Chhrt- -Tfdht- -Thffd-.
Cofn shone up, the noise, a light scampering of tiny feet, a shuffling against the wall.
“You a little deoras?” she called out, but there was nothing on the shelf, expect, for where she had stashed a few spice mills and notebooks. The taur rushed over to the centre counter.
“Wait,” she called, a memory fierce in her mind. It was important, the little ones had been important, if she could find them then…
She parted the curtain of books and spices, some toppled on the shelf and some others clattered onto the counter below.
-Chrhthsh- -Shhrrfft- The Ruckus scared the critter hiding behind them, it scuttled off, down the shelf, edge, and vanishing in the spaces between, a realm only small critters could visit. Cofn stared at the spot where it had disappeared. Puzzling in her mind. That, couldn't have been it, was it? The more she thought about it, the less she could remember. They had not made themselves known for moons on end. Why should they now? She held over her cast iron belly, dreading that they had been swept up without her knowledge. The more she considered it, the more it became her truth. Her sight shifted down. She gathered the toppled wares.

~ 1 ~

Cofn opened the door to her loft, her little hideaway from the bakery. One large knapsack and a dufflebag left sitting in the center of the cramped space; a totem to broadcast reality. She sighed, and stuffed the last ingredients in her packings.
To her right rose a short bookcase, still containing an arrangement of notebooks for recipes, in a wildly unstructured order, along with baking and history tomes. She shifted towards the corner, sitting down on the crater of a bed frame. The splinters still creaked as she placed her weight upon it, though it was destined to break, and Cofn appreciated the curvature cradling her form. Above it hung a calendar, one gifted as a promotion from the nU-fU company, bundled together with their shipments. Each day was riddled with scribbles and cursive, moments of each day written down, others underlined and vague schedules portrayed. Today's date was circled; the 3rd august. Though, there was nothing written on the day. Or, anything else, on the rest of the month. A blank canvas.
Cofn looked up, to the one other fixture of furniture; her workbench laid littered with papers jamming out of every drawer, documents containing too many words, too many numbers, too many rules. She tried. Though, at times, trying was not enough. Though among the jungle of legislation and reminders, laid an envelope. Met's final paycheck, from the bakery.

~ 1 ~

The address matched. Though, it was not Met's name printed on the door of the apartment complex. Cofn looked from the letter, to the name plate, again and again. Comparing, she knows it was right. But, if she had arrived, it would imply…
She reached for the door, hesitation reeled her palm back. Another long breath. The sunday evening air crisp. A distant holler flowed through the city of Prosonull. She slipped the envelope underneath the doorframe. A moment spent lingering. Then she took her leave. Back down the stairs ricketing and creaking under her weight, plus that of her luggage, and her bookshelf strapped and rattling on her back. There were some words, which implied so much, it was difficult for simple ones to formulate them.

Back on the streets, she remained, standing upright, strapped with luggage, and gazing out over the lamp lit, desolation of city in twilight. Her feet began to shift, in the direction of her bakery. An instinct she had to suppress. The letter had given her measure, an excuse to depart. Doing so again, would not be imparted further willpower.
She closed her eyes, and hummed.
“~Lustum lyg, Lustum lyg, Swoot, swoot, tweona~.” Cofn turned, putting Cast-dough bakery at her back, and began her trek into the city.
As the sunday twilight made way for night, the black cast iron of her body melded in with the city's darkness, so only her song lingered on the breeze.
"~Lustum lygen, lustum lyg. Swoot. Swoot. Tweona.”