Unincorporated old Sumpterville.
A few sparse crickets and June Bugs whizzed by, enacting a droning and chirping chorus upon his ears, silhouetted in the soft clickety-clack of the percussion gears of his bike. A few greenish-gold trees of the stubborn early-autumn forest rolled right easily by as Bart slowly lost all of his bearing amongst his numerous thoughts. Unfortunately for him, he was oblivious to the breath-taking scenic view of the looming yellow, red, green, and brown magestic mountain that the thin trees at its wide hilly base frequently allowed.
A view kings and magistrates could kill for, Bart had once thought. Truly a sight to behold.
A sight that a few, not from around these parts, have had the pleasure to behold. Sumpterville seemed to almost innately keep out travelers of any sort looking to vacation on top of its cool Appalachian slopes. And yet, it quite firmly managed to stay vital without the slightest strain on the townsfolk or business within the wide city limits.
Bartholomew's tire hit a bump and he blinked.
Sumpterville's industry was made of its own people. Made of Its own family and friends and long-winded relationships that were as old as the people they attached themselves to. Bart himself had a large family, he knew that to be a fact. They weren't hicks. In fact, they were surprisingly a very well cultured bunch, that is, the people of Sumpterville. Extremely polite and friendly, but not the kind of friendly nosy over-eccentricssm often wrote of in Stephen King-esque horror isolationist novels. No, they were good, good people.
Bart needed time to think, and that's what nature gave to him. Time to think and a space to do his thinking in. A need others thought no one needed. A need evident in his determined half-daydreamed push up the wispy autumn road.
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