Some door of a bakery, somewhere in the busy Sour Cluster which enshrouds the Sun of Brump somewhere in the galaxy, yes, this somewhere door reads (and read it careful for its letters are loose and worn by now): “unreal yeast makes for unreal bread.”

Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, lived in an Oob-TwoB. ‘Dough Fish’ was not his birth name but the name translated onto him by the General, who did it with a twitch of his ‘stache. The General, with a twitch of his ‘stache, would say, each morning with bread in hand, “Hi-ho, Dough Fish.” And Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, would say back, “Ho-hi, General.”

The General, with the twitch of his ‘stache, was a product of his art, his smile like the cut across the top of a sourdough. He was an adorned man, too. His stomach, it sat on his front like a truck hood, strapped on with an apron, white and tight. And, for flair, he covered it with a-hundred medals and ten more which were in fact awards of the highest calibre. One pinned near his shoulder that shone brighter than his scalp, shaped like a star, it read: The High Star of Jupiter (Best in Yeast Management).

A customer – it was Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer – once asked the General, “Why that’s a fine star shimmering and shining on your shoulder just so. But where do I put my head or tail when it comes to ‘yeast management.’ What a concept – what a concept, I’ve never heard.”

The General, with the twitch of his ‘stache, had a moustache, one alive and possibly (probably) completely self-aware and self-operating. He spoke straight and gruff, always only addressing the bread before him, “Good manager trusts his yeast. Better manager crusts his yeast.”

One morning, with a “Ho-hi, General,” Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, strode leg-first into the bakery, his second leg close behind. And he went no further than a stride, for he saw inside an unfamiliar picture: The General, with the twitch of his ‘stache, a hand raised high, pointed at the ceiling like a golden angel were descending. Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, looked to the ceiling and saw wooden crossbeams and that was all. But then – slap! – the General, with a twitch of his ‘stache, brought down his arm down on some wobbly dough – slap!

Dough Fish, still the delicate dreamer, walked up to the counter to get a better look. “Why slap this dough so?” said Dough Fish.

“This is –“ slap! “– bad yeast.” slap! “Must be –“ slap! “– tamed.”

Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, lived in a space that was two foot square, not a hair more, and six foot tall and it was called an Oob-TwoB. It was room enough for his body and his arms and his legs, and a loaf of bread by his head when he slept. From above, looking down, the Oob-TwoBs were a marvel, a congestion, ten-thousand identical vessels with identical dreamers. At night, they dreamed of dough, at day they dreamed of bread. Tucked tight, bathing in their yeasty chambers.

My, Dough Fish was lucky (and was he a delicate dreamer), for the top of his little tube had a window, and it pointed directly at the Sour Cluster and the Sun of Brump, unobstructed. They hung large like a low moon. Some call the Sour Cluster the “highest rising city in this arm of the galaxy,” and its the yeast that make this true. Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, awoke each morning, reached for a slice of bread by his head, and watched all the hundred million bakeries in its orbit spin, dance, like a shell of a nut, spin, dance, about the sun. All those bakers and bakeries sharing that one giant oven. And yes, sweet, sour, smoked, Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, could taste the very solar flares of Brump in the crusty walnut rye slice he nibbled.

Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, on a particularly good morning (he elated, having seen a comet in the shape of the Queen of Venus on his space flight), asked the General how he might learn to make bread. Tearing from the rack of receipts a strip of paper, the General, with a twitch of his ‘stache, scrawled upon it in terrible handwriting:

Water

Flour

Yeast

Dough took the paper and turned it three ways, but still rubbed his eyes to be sure. “Surely,” said Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, “there is more to it than that.”

The General, for the first time, and with a twitch of his ‘stache, took his eyes off his dough and showed them to Dough Fish – all two. Not one blinked as he spoke, “Do not let others tell you how to make bread. You only ever make other’s bread then.”

And then it was on a dark day, where the Sun of Brump was under great strain and burned cooler, quieter, colder, that things changed. Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, he had finished a tea with a friend who was newly engaged to a spelt-based tiger loaf. His ship flew fast for he was eager, bread on his mind. He set down on Starch Street which was soldiered by brick and wood bakeries. Their chimneys gasped into the atmosphere great puffs of glutinous stuffs. With twenty long strides and thirty deep breaths, Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, was at some door, a somewhere door that read: “unreal yeast makes for unreal bread.”

On cue, his mouth grew, wide with a smile, and his hand pushed at the door – twice to be sure – but it was stuck, or needed a whack? A glance through the window, he ventured, and found not a bakery beaming, the window its eye decorated with pupils of bread. No, he found total darkness. Could it be? Almighty, he started to shake and he felt unwell and sat down for a second and no more before standing up, checking his watch, checking his shoes, double-knotting his laces, rubbed his hands, his pants, paced, hopped, danced, he thought he saw – yes? – the General in the back about to open up – no!, a reflection, his, and he lost it, he ran, sprang, felt a hunger pang, and – alone? But so many other breads about, thousands! Any bakery could satiate, alleviate, bring him back, but no, it was the General’s bread or naught, he thought.

And with his stomach in a knot (not a bow), he was not looking straight where he was going. Dough Fish, the delicate dreamer, hit hard the side of a man and careened and spun but remained standing.

“Woah,” said the man, a little perturbed but not badly injured or anything.

“The General?” said Dough Fish, the desperate dreamer, pointing with his longest finger to the only bakery with its lights out.

“Ah,” the man looked away and started to walk on. “Imprisoned.”

Dough Fish, the drained dreamer, called after him, his voice dry, “How for? What for?”

The man only turned his head a little, for his mouth was preoccupied with a double-seeded rye, but he spoke between bites, “Why, for crimes against the yeast.” The man then walked on but spoke softly, “Hi-ho,” before vanishing around a corner.

“Ho-hi.”