Bathel Alta

There he sat, the true person of ages, at his great typewriter, writing his stories for the masses to read. He has no name, and nor should you think to give him one. You should refer to him by a title of no importance: The Writer.

He sits still, his mind wavering on the words that should but be placed on the portrait of his world. His inspiration limited only to his imagination, he strives for the world in a new light.

"Bathel Alta," he says, his eyes flittering across the paper propped in his typing machine. "My name, should it ever arise on these papers, would never leave Bathel Alta."

The dismay of his revelation crossing over the rough terrain of his rutted face, he arises from his stool, nearly knocking it over. He strides from his study into the hallway of his small home, the books stacked all over the walls of the room he once confided his career in seeming all too surreal for his tolerance.

"Bathel Alta. . ." he repeats. His words are now quiet and meek, echoing only in the chasm that is his blocked mind. The corrugated lengths of his brain spasming at the jolt of each new thought. But of all these thoughts, which shall he put to paper? The Writer crawled upon his two legs over to the window of his living room, the vacant house reverberating his footsteps. He stared out into the wild woods that surrounded his solitary home. Not many miles from where he abides there is a town that has laid claim to the property in which he inhabits: Bathel Alta.

He has lived in this town, Bathel Alta, for only two years, and ever since the tornado, which has struck the town and left it bleeding its fiscalities upon the pavement of the world, he has been required to stay put. His family, a once close and intimate idea in his mind, now a distant memory only to be served as thus, cried for his loss - his disconnection - but they know nothing truly of what he has experienced. He came here to learn about his profession. He came to find inspiration for his writing. The many eons that have passed where scholars, being known to all of history, have written such words upon paper to grant them world renown. That is what he wants to accomplish. He wants to be the next Plato, writing his manuscript to the next Symposium. He wants to be revered by his colleagues and seen as the true philosopher of the age.

But of all these aspirations, there is no true credence to the support behind his writings. He started off writing the philosophic essays one might find in a collection of essayists, which eventually grew into a love of language and composition that now, above all times, he has grown to cherish. The language of his forbears - English that is - has been passed on to him in such affluence so as to keep his literary prowess sharp, but yet, as he stands staring through the window of his home and into the wood that encompasses his creativity, he finds himself trapped.

It was once upon a time, not long ago, in fact, that The Writer found himself among other human beings, and, of course, surrounded by the building so representative of society. He, at that time in his life, grew to hate society. All the bad in the world he attributed to the faults of the civilized man; the murder that had claimed the lives of two of his good colleagues was a product of murder; the thieving brought on by poverty only due to society's mistakes wrecked his financial standing in the world. Society had not once benefited him in all of his life.

Through all of his hatred for society, however, he found the constant urge to find himself famous among the rabble of humanity. To find his name painted in bold upon a neon sign hung from the tallest bridge in the largest city. The brilliance of mankind laughing in joy of his brilliant works. He longed for this.

It was selfish, of course, for him to want this to avidly, but he was not going to be put on the side of his own dream just because the world lacked to inspire him. If the world would not bring the inspiration to his doorstep he would go to it. He would circumnavigate the entire globe until he finally found the implacable fountain of idea and fortune.

He stood for a spell longer, his stagnating on the image of the trees outside his window. Finally, he reverted his position back to the direction of his study, walking briskly and with purpose. He entered the study and found that his typewriter was untouched. It lay there on his desk yearning to be typed upon by the fingers of the most prestigious of authors.

You have the wrong person, my friend, The Writer thought to his typewriter.

He stood there staring at the human concoction of metal and ink, hearing almost a whisper of a response from the machine.

What? he said.

The whisper continued, calling him over to his chair, calling him to sit down and lay his fingers upon the keys once again. Alta, it seemed to say to him.

Alta? Can it be?

Yes.

He crossed the room and sat down in his chair, the breeze from his swift walk blowing the few papers of a worthless manuscript on the floor. He neverminded.

His fingers, laying themselves gently upon the keys of his beloved, typed. They typed more and more, faster and faster until the words that he laid down became almost foreign to him. They moved so fast from his mind that he never had a second thought of what they truly meant.

Alta.

I know. I am writing it.

The impatience of the typewriter edging him faster and faster through the story. The verbiage coming from the once empty chasm of his mind was now becoming cohesive. The words made sense when they were read. A smile waltzed its way upon the physiognomy of The Writer, his true love had returned to him, such ecstasy as being a writer was so long from his life that he felt to be in splendor unprecedented. His fingers twittered upon the keyboard of his archaic friend, pushing keys with assurance and dignity that he had once dreamed of beholding in himself. Faster and faster and faster did his fingers flutter. Skipping over the keys neglectable to his language, he put such an understanding down that his mind grew in its outage.

His ecstasy so long perpetuated by his peace had begun to increase beyond its limits when, finally, a loud audible knock happed upon his door. His streak upon the keys crashed from their literary height, plummeting to the darkness of his once again empty chasm of a brain. His fingers, in shock of the knocking, slammed with unexpected force on the keyboard.

His upright position slumped over. He stared at the words that had grown over the paper of his typewriter. He read it quickly. The words were perfect. They were the most eloquent language he had heard in a very long time.

Now it was lost.

He arose from his seat, his hands buried deep in his hair, brushing and tugging furiously with the teeth of his fingers.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

The door again.

He exited his study room, his hands burrowed deep into his pockets awaiting the winter of his literary absence to be over. He approached the door. Looking through the small spyglass of his door, he saw nothing but the outside that bordered the walls of his abode. He opened the door.

"Sir!" a small and childish voice.

He looked around, seeing nought until finally, lowering his eyes, he laid a gaze upon the culprit of the knocking. It was a group of children.

There were three of them. The first one closest to the door was wearing a striped shirt with khaki cargo shorts and a small baseball cap. The second, on the left of the first, was wearing a solid green shirt with a pocket and the same generic-looking khaki cargo shorts. The third and final child laid his large shoes upon the concrete of The Writers porch and stared at him. His bare feet like slabs of detestable flesh upon the cool stone floor. This child wore a solid grey shirt with silver athletic shorts.

"Do you have any candy, sir?" said the third child.

The Writers' eyes widened to such a degree that if any of the children had actually made eye contact with him, they would have most definitely been frightened.

Regardless of all the pain and labor he had put into waiting for his writing to come to him, he was just as lost as he had been to begin with. Why? What was the reason to have him disrupt his spree of words?

Candy.

Rich fickle candy.

His eyes receded. "Of course I have candy. Let me get it for you."

He marched through the hallway of his house and into the room he called his study. He transversed the terrain of his once promised success and opened the drawer of his desk.

In the drawer there sat a bowl of mints that he had enjoyed snacking on while he was writing.

Next to that bowl was a pistol.

The next morning The Writer grabbed his wallet and his keys and drove into town. The secluded village in the center of a large forest wailed its dismal cry to any who could hear it; to no avail. He had not passed a single person on his way over to the town. He had decided that it was more healthy for him to walk around the outside and enjoy whatever he could about his being trapped here in Bathel Alta.

He worked his way to the marketplace after parking his car on the village outskirts. He decided it would be better for him to walk the majority of the time. He only needed a few things from the market now that he thought of it. He needed some toilet paper, a few gallons of water, and some oranges. These things would not be all too difficult to find.

He approached the produce stand and saw the woman meant to oversee the transactions sitting morosely upon her stool behind the stall of her business. Her eyes averted to the ground, a frown had branded itself upon her face.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" The Writer asked politely.

The woman stirred gently from her ponderation and looked up to see who had spoken to her. She noticed The Writer and arose from her stool.

"Would you like to buy something?" she asked.

"Yes, but I would also like to know what is making you look so glum if it is not inappropriate for me to ask."

The woman's frown increased.

"My child is missing."