Unknown Enchantments

The trouble with collaborative writing is the lack of participation by others who, when given certain parameters to follow, usually back off and opt out because of the confinements they perceive or the limitations they must endure to truly collaborate someone else's story. Collaborate as in "assist". But there is also the collaboration of "joining" and "adding-to", as one strives to show an equivalent experience or fantasy.
I was inspired today after reading a certain post about a lost pond. One of the words used to describe the pond was "enchanted".
I feel like there are many enchanted places out there, just waiting for a story or a narrative telling us about it. We probably all have some place we've thought about at one time or another that's "our own" take on enchantment and magical hide-aways. Care to share yours ?
In the coming days I will try to describe an enchantment of mine. If it interests you in any way, feel free to offer your enchantment whenever you wish. Even at the same time. It won't matter, it'll be yours. Think we can imagine
some good ones ?

Enchantment # 1

I was back-packing on the outskirts of our local small town last Saturday afternoon, heading home actually, when the sudden heavy rain forced me to seek shelter away from the tree-lined trail I had been following. Trees are okay in light to moderate rain, but in a heavy downpour with thunder and lightning they always seemed to attract unwanted attention from Mother Nature. I began to jog in the direction of a covered bridge nearby, and just for good measure I went down the bank and looked for a dry place to rest directly under the whole structure, taking no chances whatsoever. After having a bite to eat, I settled comfortably against a wall, prepared to wait out the
storm if I had to. Listening to rain can be very soothing, and soon I drifted off into an unexpected catnap.

It was probably an hour later when I woke up and saw the path ! Had it not been for the rain putting me there under the bridge, and the leaves bending with the weight of many raindrops, I doubt I would ever have seen it. But the leaves were moving aside . . and there it was. I got up, thinking I might climb back up to the trail and the bridge, but curiosity got the best of me and instead I walked to this newfound path as if unable to resist. The rain had stopped, the air was moist and clean, and I had discovered something . . something that brought back all of my exploratory ambitions, amplified two-fold. I actually felt a tingling sensation on the back of my neck and arms.
I set off down the path.

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The path ran parallel to a wide stream and following it turned out to be easier than I had originally thought. I noticed a complete calmness to the area, no background din of traffic, no artificial noise whatsoever. Just the slightest of breezes rustling through the tree tops. Otherwise, very tranquil. I picked up my pace and started around a long, sharp corner, where I was presented with a picture right out of some book . . I'm sure of it !
There, across the stream, was my fantasy cabin ! And it was just like I imagined, so many times . . daydreaming
my life away !

The cabin appeared large, yet, . . small too. A pile of chopped firewood covered one entire side of the cabin, extending from the ground right on up to just below the roof line. On the opposite side there was what looked like
a fine vegetable garden, surrounded by a sturdy fence made out of rocks and boulders. A crude, but comfortable-looking front porch over-looked the stream in front of me, and I noticed a padded rocking chair sitting by itself near the front door. I had to get closer ! Walking over to the stream, I stepped up onto a wooden foot bridge and carefully walked across, watching fish jump randomly here and there as I made my way. I now could hear birds singing and calling each other, and the air smelled cleaner than any fresh air I'd had the luck to breathe in a long while. I headed to the front porch.

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The porch didn't creak a bit as I stepped up to the front door, and opened it. What a comfortable looking place !
To the left a kitchen table and two chairs. To the right, a large fireplace, complete with a stone chimney and a small mantle. Above the mantle hung two rifles, two pistols, and two big Bowie knives, all appearing to be in excellent condition and ready for any emergency. The floor, though wooden, was clean, with small, dark-colored rugs scattered here and there. Another, smaller table with a water pail and wash basin concluded the simple furnishings in this front room. I walked further in, noticing a bed in the back corner, and above it yet another bed
built into a sort of loft. Very homey !

And that was when I saw the dying embers in the fireplace ! Someone must live here ! I quickly turned and was heading out the door when I saw the note on the table. It read "Hi honey, we've been waiting for you for so long.
Make yourself comfortable and we'll see you in awhile. Love, . . .Us !"

I got a little shaky right then and there, but I felt this wave of warm satisfaction wash all over me.

I went out and sat in that padded rocking chair on the porch . . and waited.

The chair was as comfortable as could be and I sat there enjoying the peacefulness of it all. Beautiful, yet unusual.

Across the stream a late afternoon hazy fog worked its way down the hillside, and I thought I saw movement once or twice. Yes, I did see something ! There, emerging into the clear, a woman . . . and a dog, side by side. She waved as they came closer, and I waved back. I could hear her laughing. Together they used the footbridge, the dog, and then her. As she crossed over the water I noticed something very strange. Behind her . . the footbridge seemed to be . . disappearing, melting into the mist. When they both reached my side of the stream, the old footbridge was no more ! It was as if someone had erased a road on a map . . no more access . . to this place!

To say that I was a happy man would be an understatement. It was . . . my new home. Sort of magical. The end.

Enchantment # 2

Went to sleep the other night in front of a "blue" moon. You know, the second full moon in a month type moon.

Dreamed I visited Washington D.C. What a place ! Talk about passionate possession ! I was entranced !

Heard they did away with all lobbyists. No more influence peddling. Very nice. Heard they won't allow any "riders" on any bills that will be voted on. Guess that means our representatives have to vote on the issue . . and only the issue. No other excuses for exercising a yea or nay vote. Rumor has it that term limits of no more than five years for any politician in Congress will become the law.
Heard that rich elitists are being phased out of the government, as they do not truly represent the "average" citizen.
Members of Congress now have to pay for their own health insurance like the rest of us. Now that's fair isn't it ?
Heard that pensions for ex-politicians have been reduced to reasonable amounts.

What an enchanting dream ! I woke up feeling more refreshed than I've felt in a dog's age !

As I figured . . the collaboration/input is overwhelming . . .

Once there was a man named Jack. We all thought him quite the quack. He, . . and his magic sack. But none of us would dare untie, the sack to see what inside lie ! Why ? To do so . . was to die.

The ruins appeared out of nowhere. Jack slowed to a stop, admiring the old foundation and partial chimney sticking up through the ferns and wild raspberries. He felt elation running through his body . . this was the first sign of any human habitation he'd seen in over three weeks. Somehow he felt that he wasn't alone anymore, even though it was just battered brick and rotten boards greeting him here in the deep woods of Mag. But it did appear to be the
ruins of . . humans, and that comforted him greatly.
Taking off his backpack, he decided to rest here and have something to eat. Crackers, a slab of cheese, and a handful of raspberries picked on the spot made his brief meal very enjoyable. As he finished, he took a long swig of water and leaned back against the chimney to rest. It gave out under him immediately, causing him to fall back
and roll to the side ! ZOW !! Scared the hell out of him ! This place must be older than the hills he told himself !
Scrambling to his feet he pushed the rest of the rubble away, watching as the rest of the chimney crumbled onto
the foundation. Great, it'd been setting here for years, maybe centuries, and he'd come along and finished it off in a manner of minutes ! Why ? And why him ? Why now ?
Where the bottom of the chimney had been he could now see a small hole that he guessed to be about two feet deep. Peering down into the darkness he thought he saw a small box or something similar. What do we have here he asked himself. A secret cache ? A hidden treasure maybe ? He knelt and gingerly picked it up with his hands and brought it out into the light. Indeed, it was a box ! Made of wood and leather ! Old ! Very old ! And on
the side, he read the words of old Mag . . . "The Quill" !

Mag was old. Probably the oldest wooded land anywhere. When someone mentioned old, invariably the term "old as Mag" would suffice to describe whatever it was as "very old". Sparsely populated, it offered nothing to pique the interest of commoners. But if you were historically smitten, Mag had stories and legends that beckoned and dared you to enter the forest to see for yourself. Some who entered were never seen again. Others, like Jack, became entranced by its perpetual eeriness, finding both excitement and solitude as he passed through, following faded trails of yesterday. Mag always let him in and out, knowing that he had become one with Mag.

Jack set the box down onto the foundation, careful not to damage it. A green stone covered what appeared to be a snap-key, and he reached under and turned the key . . until it did indeed snap. Up popped the lid, showing him the contents inside. A small brown sack, leatherly and dry. And a scroll, rolled from both ends and tied with a silver chain.
Removing the sack, he painstakingly untied a leather tie and opened it. At first he thought it was only a feather. But upon closer inspection he knew he was looking at a Quill. A writing implement ! The barrel of the Quill measured four inches, with the feather shaft measuring another seven. Eleven inches altogether. It fit his writing hand as if made for it ! (Which was amazing considering Jack had big hands and fat fingers). But it felt natural.

The scroll came next. The delicate chain simply fell away on its own, and he began to unroll in both directions. The message read : BEWARE YE WHO WRITES YOUR WISHES WITH THIS QUILL,
LET NOT YOUR GREED BECOME THE INK-FILL, . . .
STILL, . . . BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR, . . OR, . .BE STILL.

Jack admired the Quill. It was, of course, from a rather large bird, probably a goose. It was a flight feather, from an annual moulting no doubt, and he could see where the hot ashes had hardened the barrell into a smooth, glass-like stem.
He took it up, wanting to write something, . . anything.
He had never felt like writing as much in his life ! He had to write something, quickly!

The river Seer flowed through the woods of Mag, carrying cold, pure water laced with uncommon nutritional additives found only in the boundaries of Mag. Jack raced to the riverbank and scooped some of this water into a
shallow dish. Next he added black soot from the old chimney, and tree gum. Over a small fire he stirred them together again and again, until finally he had an ink worthy of using. Setting the mixture aside to cool, he began a search for something to write . . on.
Now Mag had hundreds of different plants and trees to choose from, but Jack decided on a particular Birch tree
that appeared to be a cross between a White Birch and a Sugar Pine. He wasn't sure what kind of tree it was, but in the past he had sustained himself on the the inner bark of this tree by using it as an emergency food supply. The outer bark though, was soft and dry and after some initial stretching he was able to produce what could probably be called . . a type of parchment. Something to write on !

Dipping the Quill into the ink, he slowly scribbled the word "Bird".

And just like that the Falcon landed on his shoulder !

A bit stunned, Jack extended his arm out and watched the Falcon walk down to his forearm. The talons gripped but did not scratch or draw blood. The bird watched Jack watching the bird. It appeared to be a staring contest. And then suddenly the bird lifted and flew to a nearby tree branch, where it began to pace back and forth. Back and forth, but always watching Jack as it did so. Quiet . . but back and forth . . back and forth.

Jack scratched his head, leaned over, and wrote the word "dog".

A yelping black wolfhound crashed through the trees and bounded up to his feet, where it laid down and became silent. Jack petted the creature's massive head, rubbing him behind one ear, then the other. The wolfhound whined but did not growl or bark. Its eyes watched Jack closely. But it did not move from his feet.

Picking up the Quill, Jack stared at it for a long time, turning it over and over in his hands. Was it magical ?

A sudden gust of wind blew through the trees, a harbinger of imminent rain. He wrote the word "shelter". And just like that he found himself surrounded by a stone cottage of considerable size and stout craftsmanship. He was sitting in what appeared to be a kitchen, the bird on the table in front of him and the dog still at his feet. Outside it began to pour mercilessly. Booming thunder followed quick bolts of lightning and he looked around for a place to lie down and wait out the storm. Over against a wall he found what could pass for a bed, and even though it was formed from rock, straw topped it off and he was quite pleased with the way things were turning out. Stretching his aching frame out, he settled down and waited for the dog to get comfortable by the bed. Noise from the battering raindrops encouraged his sleep. He thought of other words . . to come.

And come they did.
After a brief nap, he wrote the word "Food". Before he could lay the Quill down stocks of food suddenly filled the kitchen and pantry shelves. Bags of flour, bags of potatoes, fruits of all kinds, cheeses, vegetables of every variety, and loaves of aromatic breads.
The word "Wine" brought casks that filled empty spaces under the table.

He stopped and poured himself a hefty tankard. It was strong and delicious, sweet, . . yet demanding respect.

Two refills later he wrote the word "Wealth".
Outside, horses and cows and sheep and pigs all appeared . . in corrals for each. On the table in front of him a bag of gold coins nearly pushed the bird off onto the floor when it magically showed up in front of him, spilling its
shiny contents everywhere. Jack's breathing became heavy and irregular. He yelled with glee, shuffling the coins into different piles here and there.
He was now . . "somebody".

Days passed, turning into weeks. Jack spent most of his time tending to his animals. Feeding, grooming, providing.
One night late, sitting in front of a warm fire, his thoughts turned to Kathrine. How he missed her laugh! Her eyes!
A bartender and cook at The Back Door pub, she had caught Jack's eye the moment she'd served his favorite dish of ham and cabbage over fresh-baked rye bread. No one had ever prepared it quite like Katie, and no one had ever enjoyed watching him eat it as did Katie. They took to each other immediately and it was always Katie he danced with and drank with when he came into town and stayed over at the pub. She was quite the woman.

He leaned over, unwrapped the Quill, and wrote the word "Woman".

Nothing happened. He wrote "beautiful woman"! Still nothing. He thought the Quill may have run its course.

One last time, he wrote . . "Kathrine".

And she appeared suddenly, looking at him with wondering eyes. Wondering, but beautiful eyes.

Now, just as I thought, there is little or nothing here, . . when it comes to Collaborative Writing input.

And what the hell have you done to my thread ? Where is it, in limbo ? It's not in the Collaborative forum anymore!

I didn't find it in Short Stories ! Who has messed with this and why ? WHY ?

How can someone collaborate if they can't find the damn thread ? But I see other threads in the Collaborative forum that are just . . dead, . . unworked. But that's okay isn't it ?