[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

The world is burning, and we’re all overworked and busy. At least it feels that way sometimes.

It’s seemed amplified in recent years: a world-wide pandemic, a change in the way many of us have worked…and those who don’t have the luxuries some of us have in our jobs, forced to risk their health and lives to make ends meet. (Or quit and figure out a new way to survive.)

At first, there were almost whimsical articles about how we’d all have time to write that novel…or do other things we always told ourselves we’d do…if only we had the time. But time is a weird thing when you see people getting sick and dying, and many of those people who told themselves they’d get to that passion project after their sourdough bread was done never did.

There’s no shame in that.

* * *

This might seem a rather maudlin way to open a behind-the-scenes look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks, but if you’ve listened enough, you know Behind the Cut sometimes isn’t even about the episodes. As we look ahead to a new year, it’s natural to wonder what lies ahead…especially in a time when we’ve become used to not being as sure about things as it may have seemed we were before COVID and other things hit.

Last year was a productive year for Not About Lumberjacks. Listenership practically doubled, and especially near the end of 2021, episodes flowed. What’s easy to forget is that I didn’t release a thing until June, when “A Deathly Mistake” saw a return to regular stories.

I was writing, but like so many other people, finishing things seemed exhausting. Granted, I was also working on a contract basis after being unemployed for much of 2020, when the COVID pandemic started. A novel I had been shopping around demanded more time than short stories…until querying ran its course, and I went into the annual writing retreat with a friend in May knowing everything I’d written toward as an adult had changed.

The book I felt was my best shot at traditional publication had more partial and full manuscript requests than anything else I’d ever submitted—some by agents I dreamed about representing me—but was ultimately rejected with the typical response I often get: “This is wonderful—you’re a good writer, and this is an ambitious project—but…I’m not sure how I’d market this…”

And I get it: looking at the stories I’ve shared on Not About Lumberjacks, there’s no real unifying element…other than everything’s written by me. One month, I’m sharing a ridiculous story about friends fighting a demon made whole by the torments of their younger days…and then we’re in the woods of East Texas chasing an ivory-billed woodpecker. Hell, this year’s Christmas episode was all over the place.

So, it’s not surprising that once fantastic elements creeped into an otherwise literary novel I was shopping around that agents stepped away. (That, and just like the rest of us—many agents were overwhelmed by the state of the world; in fact, some later discussed how they ended up behind on things and did their best just to stay afloat. Taking care of existing clients in a changing world was hard enough without wading through queries on top of everything else.)

And because the novel that was passed on is the first in a series—and I am one more into writing what I love than what I think might sell—I’m not willing to set that story aside and write something more commercial.

* * *

I thought I was going to be depressed when the end came to submitting A Magic Life. I almost prepared for it, but it never came. And then I thought, “Well…give it time, it will…”

It’s not that I felt nothing when that end presented itself, but…I think part of the reason it didn’t hit so hard is I have Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

There’s no other way I’d prefer to pay the bills than writing fiction. A perfect day for me is waking up and writing; then, puttering about after Cynthia wakes up, and hiking after breakfast. A nice lunch and then…more writing.

Writing novels was always the dream, but I also know most people who set out to write fiction full time never do. Some of the greatest writers who lived, who are alive right now, and who will write in the future do it all while maintaining a day job.

That’s another reason I think A Magic Life coming to an end didn’t hit like I expected: I have a good job. It’s obviously not what I prefer doing, but I work with a great group of people at a company that provides the most security I’ve ever had on my own.

Between work and knowing I can ultimately release A Magic Life (and all that follows) on Not About Lumberjacks, it was all a bit easier to take.

* * *

Last May was the first writing retreat with my friend, Deacon, that I didn’t work on A Magic Life. I worked on “A Deathly Mistake” for Not About Lumberjacks instead.

It’s not surprising that once I looked at traditional publication as a thing that wasn’t going to happen for me, I turned to the one thing I can count on when it comes to writing stories: this show.

No matter how weird or hard life might be at a given time (and the past couple years have definitely been different), I’m usually able to write and record a story for the show.

Even when the demands of my day job take priority, I can still find time to eke out the weird little tales I tell.

The end of 2021 was not just productive for Not About Lumberjacks, but “A Deathly Mistake,” “Calling Out of Time,” “Milkboy,” and “In Cypress Slough,” are among my favorite stories on the site. And they were all written when I was facing down the end of a work contract (and possible unemployment again), and then…while starting a full-time position in September.

* * *

I understand the past couple years have been a rough time to be creative. Some days, it’s enough just to get out of bed and make it through the day.

I spent most of the COVID pandemic hovering: waiting to see if this virus could be defeated and…waiting to hear back from agents if they were interested in the best book I’ve written to date.

It was agonizing at times…especially when the interest was there for A Magic Life, and it seemed like something more might finally happen with it.

But sometimes things don’t work out like we hope. A Magic Life faced rejection, and COVID rates began to climb again. Sitting still is good for only so long; it became clear to me that waiting longer wasn’t going to change anything. So, I wrote and recorded a story about Death collecting the wrong person, and that kicked off a great half a year of writing during a busy and turbulent time.

* * *

I don’t know what 2022 holds. I hope it’s the year COVID becomes a thing we largely tame with an annual vaccination, like the flu. I hope it’s the year people get back to selling books in person and that those sending stories around the traditional way see great things happen with them. And, of course, I hope those doing things on their own have a great year as well.

I do know—at least for me—that it’s possible to write and record stories I love during busy and choppy times. Six or seven episodes in 2022 is the goal for me, no matter how busy life gets. The time is there for the effort if I claim it, and the effort ensures there’s time—it’s a good cycle for me, and definitely one of the bigger things I plan to focus on in 2022.

Thank you for coming along…

* * *

And thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

After writing and recording five episodes in seven months (well, eight stories if you factor in the recent Christmas episode), I’m taking January off. I have plenty of stories in various states of readiness, so we’ll all see what comes along in February…and the rest of 2022.

I hope we all have a great year, in spite of anything that may get in the way…

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s the now-annual Christmas episode. For 2021, it’s three stories…or four, depending how you look at it. And one of them features a character from a previous tale…

And now, the usual content advisory…

Some of the stories in this year’s Christmas episode contain violence, loss of loved ones, arguing, mention of affairs, corporate crime, car accidents (in fact, if you’re driving, be aware that the last story—“Drifted”—contains sounds of a single-car wreck), wilderness survival, mention of smoking and alcohol consumption, and—of course—swearing. You’ve been warned.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

Stories of Fine Taste

UPBEAT MUSIC PLAYS AS A CROWD APPLAUDS

MALE HOST

Welcome back to the holiday edition of Stories of Fine Taste, the show that shares the tales behind all your favorite recipes.

FEMALE HOST

[High pitched laughter.] Yes! We’re getting closer to a wonderful Christmas treat, but first: a recipe that will make you miss the warm days of summer picnics…

* * *

NARRATOR

Grandma’s Olive Jell-O Mold

SOOTHING MUSIC FADES IN.

NARRATOR

I always loved summers and the family gatherings that came with them. I can still see and smell tables full of food out back at Uncle Bud’s house in the hills, where we gathered for annual family reunions. I was amazed those tabletops didn’t break under the weight of such a beautiful bounty. But there was one dish my cousins and I always had a tough time with: Grandma’s Olive Jell-O Mold.

This is the story of the summer we all came to love it…

As much as I loved the food at family gatherings, the best part was seeing all my cousins in one place. As the adults drank lemonade and cold canned beer, we kids ran wild with no calls to be careful. The only rule the adults insisted we follow was to never to go back into Kirkland’s Holler.

Of course, during that fateful summer, that’s exactly what we did…

Kirkland’s Holler was a dark place between two hills on the back side of our family’s birthright lands. Even in the heat of summer, the leaves of fall never seemed to clear out, despite the constant wind racing through that gap. It was the year I read The Hobbit in school, and I can say with every confidence that Mirkwood had nothing on those woods in West Virginia.

EERIE MUSIC FADES IN:

NARRATOR (CONT.)

It was cold back there, but not just a chilling wind against our bare arms and legs—this was spectral ice boring deep into everything we were, something dark stirring in the minds of six innocent children.

Our oldest cousin started it by picking up a stick and hitting cousin Ronnie across the back. None of us—not even cousin Ronnie’s parents—liked him all that much. So, when the youngest of us, my seven-year-old cousin, Susie, joined in, it was enough to turn us all against Ronnie.

I don’t know which one of us dealt the blow that killed him, but the rock I wielded in my two hands was slick with Ronnie’s thoughts by the time the cold wind stopped and we came to our senses. We covered Ronnie’s body with stones and then washed up in Miller’s Creek on the way back to the family reunion. For some reason none of us could explain, we all went straight to the table with Grandma’s Olive Jell-O Mold. To eat it was to devour our sins against poor Ronnie.

As we gorged ourselves on olives suspended in a cloud of mayonnaise and gelatin, something in the look of all the adults’ eyes told us we weren’t the only ones to kill a cousin back in Kirkland’s Holler and acquire a taste for Grandma’s favorite dish…

Anyway, on to the recipe…

* * *

RETURN TO UPBEAT MUSIC AND APPLAUSE.

FEMALE HOST

Wow! To think, I used to like Jell-O.

MALE HOST

Hey, Marie—did you know gelatin is made out of kneecaps and knuckles?

FEMALE HOST

Why are you like this?

(BEAT)

Anyway, you can find links to all these recipes—and more—on the Stories of Fine Taste website.

(BEAT)

Which brings us to the story behind our final recipe of the day…

* * *

NARRATOR

Fred’s English Muffin Garbage Pizzas

SOOTHING MUSIC FADES IN.

NARRATOR

My parents divorced when I was five and my sister was ten. Every other weekend, we visited our dad (and his roommate, Fred) in the city.

The house my father and Fred shared was like a fort built by kids, a ramshackle place that looked like it could be toppled with one good shove. It consisted of a small mud room where people entered. A bathroom, a kitchen, and a front room rounded out the tiny abode.

There were no bedrooms. My father had a single bed in the mudroom, and Fred slept on the couch in the front room with his cat, Rat. When winter in Chicago settled in, my father slept in the kitchen—where my sister and I slept when we visited. It was like camping, the two of us in sleeping bags on the floor. Once, my dad set up his tent in the kitchen, and we made what Fred called English Muffin Garbage Pizzas in the oven—and roasted marshmallows over a burner on the stove top.

On weekends my sister stayed home, my dad and I huddled together in the mudroom bed, where he’d read Fantastic Four comics to me, and then rub my head until I fell asleep. I slept so soundly on those nights that if I never woke up again, it would not have been a bad way to go.

Even as a kid, I recognized that my father and Fred were broken men. Somehow, existing in the same space together helped the other—and on weekends my sister and I visited, that tiny house was filled with a happiness they seemed to need. We ordered pizza, listened to music, and spent time in the front room reading. Fred and my father told stories, and we played a game called Truth or Lies in which the two made us guess if the stories they told were made up or not. Fred convinced me he could fly during a round of the game. When I asked him to teach me, he shared with me a magazine article about lucid dreaming and said that first, I had to be able to fly in my dreams. It’s only now, looking back on those times, that I realize why I believed so many of their lies: they were the stories my father and Fred wished were true. They were always told with a particular yearning excluded from their truths. I recognized that early in my life.

There was one strange thing about that tiny house where my father and Fred lived: a door the led to nowhere.

It was in the front room, and I figured it must have originally been the main entrance to the house. But wandering around outside to where it should have been, there was no sign a door was ever there—and this was not a house worthy of any remodeling. When I asked my dad where it went, he said he didn’t know. It was behind Fred’s big stereo and the TV—and he said he never felt the urge to move everything to check. When I asked Fred what was on the other side of the door, he said, “A safe place…”

My sister died when I was eight years old. I was in the middle of reading through The Chronicles of Narnia with her when she lost her battle with leukemia. She loved the series, and I wanted to read the same books she read.

Later that year, Christmas fell on a weekend my dad got me. My mom dropped me off Friday while my dad was still at work. I was reading in the front room with Fred when he got up and said he had to run an errand. He hopped on the Triumph Trident motorcycle he’d later sell to my dad and sped away. (Even in the cold of winter, that’s how Fred got around.) Left with an empty house with a bit of time, I wheeled Fred’s stereo system far enough away from the door to open it and squeeze my way inside.

It was a closet.

Still…I knew there shouldn’t have been enough room, there, even for coats. So, I pushed my way through until I found myself outside in the snow. It wasn’t the tiny yard in front of Fred and my dad’s house, though—I was in a forest. When I saw the light post, I wondered if it was all a lucid dream.

Someone was walking toward me—my sister! In the glow of the lamplight, we talked about her favorite books, and I told her how much she was missed. She told me everything would be okay, and I believed her. When she said she had to go back, I didn’t cry.

When I returned to the front room, I smelled cooking from the kitchen. Fred was there with a couple hot English Muffin Garbage Pizzas fresh out of the oven. He handed one to me.

“You didn’t really have an errand, did you?” I said.

“Nope.”

“You knew I’d go through the door?”

“Yep.”

“What is that place?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. But any time you need it, it’s there for you.”

Fred was right: each time I went through, what existed on the other side of the door changed. Sometimes it was a forest; other times, I floated through space. It was always what I needed in the moment. There was no explaining it, but each trip in and out changed me. No matter how bad things got in the real world, it was there waiting…until my dad met someone new and moved into her house with her son.

After the move, we lost touch with Fred. He sold what few things he had and wandered off with Rat. I always suspected he went through the door and never came back. I like to think he’s still there.

These days, I don’t have a physical safe space like what was beyond that door. These days, when I need to feel safe, I make Fred’s English Muffin Garbage Pizzas…and everything works itself out.

Here’s the recipe…

* * *

Reply All

On Cheryl’s last day at Globotek, when she sent the obligatory, “Thanks so much—I’m moving on,” email to roughly two hundred people, she forgot to use the blind carbon copy feature. So, when Brad Anderson accidentally replied to all and said he’d miss being sent to the Chicago office together and sneaking into each other’s rooms at night, it didn’t take long for news of the affair to spread throughout the company.

All morning, as people passed her desk, they stared at her as though she were on display: “The Globotek Jezebel.” Meanwhile, on the other side of the floor, Brad kept his head down as a seemingly endless parade of salesmen flashed him a thumbs-up as they wandered by.

Cheryl’s phone buzzed.

“I’m so sorry,” the text message said.

“Don’t worry about it. I should have BCCed everyone.”

“Want to get lunch later?”

“Sure. I have a going away thing with my team at 11:00. After that?”

A heart emoji.

* * *

They gathered in a conference room with the intention of wishing Cheryl good luck with her new endeavor, but instead, everyone fell silent when she entered. When the tension became too much to bear, Cheryl said, “Look. About that email…”

Roger Simmons snickered like a little boy who finally said “Hell” for the first time.

“Is something funny, Roger?”

“No. Just…”

“Just what?”

“The email. From Brad.”

“What about it?”

“It’s just…”

“Juuuuuust?”

“Nevermind.”

“No. You’re all acting like Brad and I did something wrong. You want me to clear the air? Fine!  All any of us do, here, is work. Constantly. It’s one of the many reasons I’m leaving.

“Look—Brad and I are consenting adults. So what if he and I sometimes had drinks and scratched an itch? Most of the people in this room will do anything to travel or stay late at the office and avoid your home lives. Brad and I are at least honest about it. It’s not even against company policy, as long as one of us wasn’t the other’s manager.

“I mean, Hell—Bill, here’s, been fucking Tracy over there since the company Christmas party, what: three years ago! We all know it! And you know what? Last time I checked, you two are both married. Brad and I are at least single.”

Roger looked down and chuckled.

“There you go laughing again, Roger. You know what I find funny? How anytime one of us gets you alone, you spend the entire time ranting about what a dick Steve is. But you’d never know that by how far up his ass you’ve shoved your nose!”

Angie Bates got as far as, “Cheryl, calm down—” before Cheryl said, “Coming from you, that’s a riot, Ang. You know they call you Backstabbing Bates, right? If anyone needs to calm down it’s you. I might have screwed Brad, but you? You’ve screwed over everyone in this room!”

Anthony Cavett shifted in his chair.

”What do you want to say, Tony?”

“Nothing.”

“No. You were about to say something. I could see it in your face.”

“Okay. I was about to say you’re not being very grateful. Why don’t you just leave early if you’re going to be like this?”

“Good idea. But before I do, I want you to know my botched email isn’t the only one I sent this morning. Remember that time you treated me like your personal secretary last month? Well, uhm…I noticed some strange payments to a non-existent company when I was working with you. Did a little research and traced it back to you making fake invoices, sending them to Globotek, and depositing the funds into an account you own. That’s big-time fraud right there. So, I also sent email and documents to local news stations and the FBI this morning, letting them know what you’ve been up to.

“You can close your mouth, Tony. You had to know someone would eventually spot that. Or are you really that full of yourself?

“So go ahead, all of you, and make me out to be some horrible person. What Brad and I did never affected our performance at work or anyone in our lives. The rest of you can’t really make that claim. Thanks for this little going away party—it’s been fun…”

When Cheryl opened the door to leave, Brad was on the other side about to head in.

“What’s up?” she said.

“I figured I’d stop in to say goodbye. And if anyone was giving you grief, tell them to mind their own business. You’d think we stepped back to junior high school the way people are acting about that email.”

He surveyed the blank faces in the tiny conference room.

“What’s with them?” he said.

“Oh, you know these guys—always busy thinking about work…”

* * *

Drifted

No winter weather warning was going to keep Robert Johnson from visiting his parents for Christmas. He’d made it through Colbert’s Pass without tire chains in worse conditions—he’d be damned if a bit of rain and snow flurries would stop him. Even when the storm grew to whiteout conditions the higher he climbed, he put faith in the all-wheel drive of his Mercedes G-Class SUV; or rather, faith in what the salesman told him the day he’d bought the vehicle with cash: “You’ll not find a better combination of function and luxury on the planet. This thing? It eats Range Rovers for breakfast.” And so he climbed, on and on, up and up—a methodical ascent like everything else in Robert’s lush life.

He was near the top when he felt the tires break free from the road. As the SUV pulled to the right, Robert realized it was the road that had broken free, a packed layer of snow and ice separating from a slick layer below and sliding toward the edge of the pass. There’d be no guardrail to stop him—it was buried several feet beneath the snowpack. Robert gunned the engine, giving him just enough forward momentum to miss a hundred-foot fall before rolling even further down the mountain. But it wasn’t enough to stay on solid ground. He turned into the direction of the slide and rode the ice into a massive snow drift at the bottom of a hill.

No matter how careful Robert was or how hard he struggled, he had no luck backing out. He tried his phone and the SUV’s Emergency-Call button, but the pass was disconnected from such comforts. He undid his seatbelt, climbed over the driver’s seat, and forced one of the back doors open. The front half of the SUV was buried. Powdered snow gave way beneath Robert’s feet when he tried climbing up to the road. At least the exhaust was free from winter’s clutches—if nothing else, he’d be able to run the engine and have heat.

Before returning to the warmth of the SUV, something caught his eye in the trees. One moment it was there, and then it wasn’t.

“It’s just a stag,” he told himself, even though it moved more like a man…

* * *

Robert’s night on the mountain was made bearable by an idling engine providing heat, a bag full of convenience store snacks serving as dinner, and a tall bottle of alkaline water promising perfect hydration. When he stepped out to relieve himself in the morning, he couldn’t tell if snow was still falling or blowing off the mountain by the wind. Thick flakes drifted like volcanic ash, consuming the glowing silver eye of the sun on the horizon—a mocking promise of warmth shut out by snow. The drift had grown during the night, consuming all but the rear driver’s side of the Mercedes and a spot in the back near the exhaust. If the snow continued to fall, his next night on the mountain would not be as forgiving. Robert needed a plan.

He pulled the spare tire cover off the back of the SUV and scratched HELP into the paint with his keys. Below that, and arrow pointed down to the drift just out of view. Robert propped it up along the side of the road, hoping if a plow came along that it would be legible enough that they’d stop and save him from the storm. After that, he assessed his gear. A suitcase full of clothes could serve as layers and covering if the SUV ran out of gas and heat was no longer available. A fruitcake and tea biscuits for his mother would sustain him for days if needed. He could use the plastic bag from the convenience store to collect snow and let it melt to the closest thing to room temperature to stay hydrated. If it took days to find him, he’d make it—and Robert figured his parents had already alerted others that he never arrived as planned.

* * *

He was dozing in the front seat when he felt something shaking the SUV. At first Robert thought the snow drift, like the road, had broken free of the layers below and was sliding down the mountain. Or maybe enough snow had fallen to cause a mini avalanche from the road above and had slammed into the side of the vehicle. But as the haze cleared from his head, he realized the Mercedes was bouncing up and down.

He checked the rearview mirror, but the back window was caked in snow—the backup camera covered in ice. Still, he could see a large shadow moving from the rear of the vehicle and into the woods.

“A bear,” he thought. “Or an injured mountain goat moving on its hind legs…”

Hours later, when the storm cleared and the urge to defecate became too much, he crawled out through the back door with some leftover napkins from his convenience store stop and squatted beside the SUV. “What a way to go—eaten by a bear in the most vulnerable of positions.” But no attack came his way. He buried what he could in the snow just as the engine finally puttered out of gas. Before returning to the SUV, he checked the back for any sign of what shook the vehicle. A set of tracks emerged and returned to the woods. A massive bare foot like every Sasquatch casting he’d ever seen on TV and…an unsettling round print. If it was a Bigfoot, it appeared to have a single peg-leg, like a pirate.

Robert quickly cleared the snow from the back window and removed the tire iron from the foot well of the rear bench seat.

If something was going to attack him, he’d not go down without a fight.

* * *

Sleep that night came in short bursts between falling into deep dreams and waking up cold. A bit of movement and repacking clothes around his body warmed him just enough to fall back asleep.

When Robert opened his eyes during one of his waking cycles, a massive creature surveyed him through the windshield. It had long, curved horns like an ibex. Its face, twisted and grotesque, shined in the moonlight. Its fur rippled in the breeze. A long tongue lolled from its mouth. The beast grinned at Robert with a mouth full of fangs.

He waited to wake up but couldn’t. “A lucid dream?” he thought. But unlike a movie where an audience is led to believe something on screen were real—until revealing it was all just a dream—Robert knew he was wide awake.

He reached to the passenger seat and felt for the tire iron. The cold steel made his hand ache as he clenched it in defense.

With a long, sharp fingernail, the creature tapped on the windshield. It dragged its hand across the glass and grinned.

Robert swore it laughed as it turned away and disappeared into the woods.

* * *

Nothing, not even the call of nature, could convince Robert to leave the SUV the following morning. His water bottle became a urinal; the plastic bag from the convenience store, a toilet. By afternoon, he’d grown used to the stench. As Christmas Eve fell, he’d convinced himself to go on the offense. He grabbed the tire iron and left the safety of his vehicle.

“You want me, come and get me!” he shouted.

Something moved in the forest. Two icy-blue eyes glowed brighter with each step. Robert readied the tire iron in his hand—it was not the first time he faced fear on Christmas Eve.

The beast held a chain in its left hand and a bundle of birch branches in its right.

“Why are you doing this?!”

Robert was surprised to hear the creature say, “You still carry with you the scent of a naughty child…”

“I’ve atoned for who I was.”

“Have you? How many people under your command worked today, while you set off to visit your parents? How many of those people fear you, as you fear me?”

“I’m not a monster like you!”

“Saying something is so does not make it a truth…”

It only took two strides for creature to close the distance. Robert swung the tire iron with all his might, but Krampus wrapped it up with his chain. With one tug, Robert’s only defense disappeared into the woods.

The beating came next, a rapid-fire swatting of branches flaying flesh with each strike. The defeat came quickly, at least. Krampus raised Robert up and over his head, but something happened as the beast prepared to drop Robert into the basket strapped to its back. There came the sound of other chains…and jingling.

Krampus howled as he was pulled up the hill toward the road. By the time Robert’s vision cleared, the beastly cries stopped. A comically large red tow truck with a plow attached to its front was parked at the top of the hill, its emergency lights flashing in the night. A red flare sailed through the air and landed near Robert’s feet as Not-Santa slid down the hill on his grimy boots. The smell of forest gave way to cigar smoke.

“Well, if it isn’t little Bobby Johnson.”

“Not-Santa?” Robert said.

“The one and only! Looks like you got yerself into a bit of a bind, huh?”

“Yeah. I was coming through the pass and ended up down here. Was that…?”

“Krampus? Yeah. He’s not a bad guy in his own right—we have some things in common, in fact—but each year, he steps a bit deeper into my turf. That Bavarian baddie gets his own night earlier in the month, but his lore’s spread a lot in recent years. Now he’s everywhere. And that’s good, and all, ‘cause the world is full of naughty people needing to be taught lessons. But tonight belongs to my brother and me.”

Not-Santa ran his fingers through his dirty beard. Robert looked at the word tattooed across his knuckles: PAIN. He remembered that night from when he was a kid…

 “Anyway, let’s get you outta here so you can get on to see your folks.”

Not-Santa raised his MOJO hand. A clattering chain with a large hook at the end flew through the air and landed in his palm.

“We’ll get your SUV oriented the right way and then haul you up and outta here!”

* * *

When Not-Santa was done towing Robert’s Mercedes up the hill and onto the road, he handed him a cup of cocoa.

“I’d normally put whiskey in that, but you’ll soon be driving. Mustn’t be naughty, ya know?”

“Yeah.”

As Robert took a sip, Not-Santa said, “He was right, ya know?”

“Huh?”

“Krampus. What he saw in you is right. You can work however the hell long you want, but your insistence that the people you manage be invested as much as you is bullshit. This fuckin’ SUV is worth more than most of their houses…that is, if they’re lucky enough to be upside-down in a mortgage. What incentive do they have to do what you demand of them, other than fear of being in the streets? Most of them will never make a fraction of what you make, even if they do everything by your rules. Keep this up, and in a few more years, don’t be surprised if you’re visited by a series of ghosts trying to scare you straight. Now, let’s get you off this mountain…”

* * *

On Christmas morning, Robert handed out gifts from beneath the tree to his parents. When the piles of wrapping paper were cleared, just like that fateful morning when Robert was seven, his father, Ted, spotted additional gifts behind the tree.

“What’s this?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Robert’s mom, Deidre, said.

Three gifts, one for each, all with a tag reading FROM: NOT-SANTA

Robert’s mom opened the most perfect fruitcake, and his father—a bottle of Louis XIII cognac. A note read, “These should make for some cozy evenings. N.S.” They looked at Robert.

“It wasn’t me,” he said.

Ted sniffed the air. “Did you smoke a cigar last night?”

Robert shook his head no.

Deidre said, “I smell it, too. Do you remember that one Christmas morning…?”

Robert’s parents’ words fell away as he unwrapped his gift, a first printing of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol from 1843. Included was a note, written on a fast-food burrito wrapper. “To Bobby. Don’t become a Scrooge, ‘cause next time you find yourself stuck on a mountain fighting a soul-eating entity, you’re on your own. Keep Christmas well, and keep an eye on your dad…that hooch goes down smooth. Your ever-watching pal, Not-Santa.”

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks…Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Frizz Oli, Earle Belo, Golden Fern, Howard Harper-Barnes, Martin Landström, and pär, all licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

It’s been a good and busy year for Not About Lumberjacks, and I can’t thank everybody enough. While the show doesn’t reach a very large audience, listenership has almost doubled in 2021. Thanks so much for that!

I’m taking January off to plan for another great year of stories. I have a list of what I plan to write, some roughed-out sections of tales already started, and one beefy story (the mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois I planned for 2021) pretty much ready to go. My goal for 2022 is a story every other month. As busy as the second half of this year was for me, it was also a very productive time for the show.

So happy holidays to you all—here’s to a snazzy new year ahead!

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!