Leather clad human bats circled the dark grey Gothic castle with its’ four steeples. The castle lay in a hollow. It was further sheltered by a pine forest which completely surrounded it. There was no road in and no road out.
The inhabitants were writers. They wrote only for themselves. They slept during daylight hours and wrote by night. While asleep they dreamed of the past, present and future in technicolour. It was their inspiration. Their opiate.
Every Sunday evening they would gather around the main table and critique each others work. Honestly and fairly.
On weeknights they would wander around the cobblestone grounds perfecting their art in preparation for Sunday and sharing ideas.
Nobody knew of the inhabitants. They lived in no period in time but were very much real. Mere mortals would never see them, however.
Occasionally someone would accidentally stumble across the castle. The inhabitants were notified by the human bats. The unwitting strangers were never seen or heard from again. Vanished without a trace.
The writers gave this not a thought. It was of no concern to them. It did not pertain to their writing….nor would it. To discuss such matters would only serve to distract them from their dreams and how to interpret them to prose. A distraction that they would not tolerate. They existed only to write.
Eating and drinking did not enter their lives. Dreaming and writing were their only required sustenance.
To the writers their lives were full and enriched. In the world that was unknown to them and unknown by them, however, their words meant nothing.
Words going unheard. Stories gone untold except to their tiny circle. Talent and energy that is worth nothing.
Pointless but to them.