[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

For this year’s anniversary episode of Behind the Cut, I asked listeners if they had any questions about Not About Lumberjacks, now that it’s crossed the five-year mark. I got some great feedback, and hope this even more-than-usual behind-the-scenes look at the show is as cool to you as it was to me.

As always, this is a peek behind the show and likely contains some spoilers. Also, I swear. You’ve been warned…

Now…onto the questions!

Question One:

Friend of the show, Curtis Hart, asked how I came up with the name, Not About Lumberjacks?

You’d think I would have covered this by now…

There’s a podcasting conference called Podcast Movement. The last time it was in Texas was 2015. I went into the conference knowing I wanted to do a solo show that would allow me to really focus on quality. A friend named Rick Coste does a show called Evolution Talk, and I’ve always loved the quality and effort of each episode.

One of the keynote speakers at Podcast Movement in 2015 was Roman Mars, who does 99 Percent Invisible. He mentioned that he’d love to see a show similar to his, but focusing exclusively on video games. Obviously, I’m not the person for that show, but I did think about creating a show like his, investigating the overlooked corners of things, but based on books. However…that would require a staff and a LOT of effort. Really, it would be a full-time thing.

The first podcast I ever did was recording and releasing my first novel, Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors, in 2010. Talking about Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors with people at Podcast Movement, I realized the new show I wanted to do would have to be fiction.

Because I was so focused on novels at the time, I’d not written short fiction for years. So, as I thought about it more, I knew I wanted to create a show focusing on my short stories…at least in part to get me back to writing short fiction.

Of course, it needed a name and tagline for each episode…and if you listen to enough things that I do, it’s probably apparent that I like strange names and taglines that become memorable. I do a podcast with a good friend called Men in Gorilla Suits, and our signoff is “Chill the fuck out, and make the damn thing.” People really like the name and that tagline. So I knew I wanted something sort of like that.

In 2015, the whole hipster lumberjack aesthetic was still kind of a thing. As I wandered the floor of Podcast Movement, the name popped into my head: Not About Lumberjacks. I wish I could say I put more thought into it and that there’s more purpose behind the name, but it just popped into my head. Something about lumberjacks, but not about lumberjacks.

And I knew I could play with that look for the site’s design…and maybe even do photo shoots in the woods in flannel shirts and stuff. It didn’t take long before the sign-off, “Be mighty, and keep your axes sharp,” followed.

I thought the name was funny because I could insist that I’d never write a story about lumberjacks, but each November, work in lumberjacks to the anniversary episode, while still not making the tale fully about lumberjacks.

Fans of the show love playing along with the name as much as I do, especially around people not familiar with the show.

So…with that much in my head, I left Podcast Movement early that Sunday and went home to brainstorm. That’s how it all happened.

Mary Salerno asked two things: One – Have you ever found yourself at a point where you should have a sound effect and you don’t have one ready? What do you do in a case like that?

And…Do you record sound effects and drop them in here and there? And if you do, how do you know where to drop them in?

Great questions, here!

Especially early on, I wrote stories, recorded them, and then…as I went through putting the audio files together and layering in music, I’d go to a site called freesound.org and get sound effects as I needed them.

Now that I’m more organized and familiar with the process, I read or listen to the narration track and make notes of sounds I might want to drop in. Where I can, I like recording my own sounds. A good example of this is in the recent story, “Geocached.”

There’s a scene where the main character finds a set of wisdom teeth in a metal container. I could have found a sound of something rattling in a canister on freesound.org…maybe even something being poured from the canister. But it’s a very specific sound effect.

The dentist who removed my wisdom teeth gave them to me after the surgery, and I kept them all these years, seriously thinking, “Ya know, one day, these might come in handy!” And they did.

I take the list of sound effects I need to make (and all the items I need to make these sounds), and I go back into a closet where it’s quiet and create these sounds. Later, I upload the sounds I make to freesound.org to return the favor.

Between sounds I create, some sound effects I have rights to, and freesound.org, I can always find what I need.

As far as knowing when to drop them in, I try not to complicate the sound design on Not About Lumberjacks. In the most recent episode, I could have layered in outside sounds and other effects. But I found that by adding just a few things, here and there, it keeps the imagination churning as though the listener is reading it.

I once read an interesting thing about the 60s Batman TV show…how they shot in an open space and created the illusion of rooms with fabrics and windows and doors, much like the set of a play. I kind of view my sound design like that. There’s enough to put the listener there, but not so much that it becomes distracting or leaves nothing to the imagination.

When I read or listen to the narration, certain sounds leap out at me: rattling teeth in a metal canister, footsteps, and opening letters from envelopes or Ziploc baggies.

If it seems like an important sound, I’ll include it. But I don’t approach it like one would a film, with layers of ambient sounds and every singlebreath.

If you hear a door open and some footsteps as a character enters a room, that’s plenty. Right there, you’ve put the listener in the place. I do admire those who create room tones and echo templates to create a sense of every single different place in a story, but at the same time, I often find it distracting. As a listener, when there’s that much sound going on, I focus on it instead to the story.

 In my mind, it becomes too much, like a Web designer in the mid 90s using the blink tag everywhere, or that manager who thinks every fly-in animation and sound is great in a PowerPoint presentation.

And so…I try dropping in just enough to put the reader in the story, but allow their imaginations to fill in the gaps.

Cynthia Griffith wonders if I’m planning on doing more with promotion, including something with Instagram? She likes Instagram Stories as a way to keep something more lively out there all the time. So…here are my thoughts on past, present, and future promoting:

In the past (and even presently), I’ve never really promoted Not About Lumberjacks; in part, because I had two reasons for creating and releasing the show:

One—I wanted to get back to writing short stories. And two—I wanted a body of work out there that I could point to when querying agents and others in publishing with novels.

Because of that, whether people listened or not didn’t really matter to me.

Now, though, the show has become very important to me. I’ve enjoyed few creative endeavors as much as I’ve enjoyed putting together episodes of Not About Lumberjacks. So, I finally do want to promote it more.

Of course, I’m doing well to keep chugging along with my day job, having a life, writing novels, doing Men in Gorilla Suits, and writing and producing episodes of Not About Lumberjacks.

Adding a YouTube channel or something on top of that would be even more. So…I’ve kind of avoided it, even though it’s something I’d love to do.

But I should promote Not About Lumberjacks more. Like Cynthia, I enjoy Instagram Stories. I have friends who enjoy discussing Not About Lumberjacks on Facebook, and I’m lucky to chat on Twitter with others creating audio fiction and audiodramas.

I’m friends with Sean Howard, one of the snazzy minds behind the audiodrama Alba Salix and the actual-play podcast, The End of Time and Other Bothers…among many other things. Sean’s a ridiculously busy person.

Sean is also the kind of marketer the marketing industry needs: he’s genuine and generous. He shares sooooooo much about how they promote their shows and all that they do on Patreon.

For years, I’ve always been a bit contradictory when Sean says all people creating shows must advertise them. Not necessarily paid advertising but promoting them and making an effort to track growth…and what causes those increases and drops.

Because my goal has always been using the show to keep me writing and presenting a body of work, none of those things mattered to me at the time. But now…as more people listen and let me know they enjoy the show, I want to do even more with it.

So, I do want to promote it more in 2021. I’m still not sure to what extent and on which platforms, but Sean’s right: if you’re putting a thing out there, why not put a little bit more effort in to let people know it exists?

I can point agents and others to the show as a body of work, but it would be even better if I could also point them to a following eager to support all I write and record. So, much of what I plan to do the rest of 2020 is thinking about how I’m going to promote Not About Lumberjacks in 2021. If you have any ideas, let me know.

Mark Felps asked a trio of questions:

• One—How long does editing take?
• Two—What’s the most common editing procedure?
• And Three—What software do you use?

All great stuff, here.

If I think about the time I put into episodes and weigh it against what people would normally consider a return on investment (that is, does it make money, raise one’s profile…stuff like that), I’d be wise to quit doing Not About Lumberjacks.

With thirty-three episodes, I’ve probably put one-thousand six-hundred hours into the show. On average, most episodes get 40-50 unique listens in the first week, with most creeping up a little above 100 downloads. Quite a few of the older episodes are over 200, and the few most popular episodes are up around 300 unique listens. (It’s a good thing I’ve not been after a large audience these past five years.)

So…specifics. Okay, writing a story usually takes me eight to forty hours, depending on length and complexity. If it’s something literary, it takes me a lot longer than something like “Geocaching,” [sic] which I almost knocked out in a day.

Recording usually takes me one to two hours…and then cutting all the takes and closing gaps up to make it sound like I read out loud much better than I actually do can take four to eight hours. (Reading out loud is very difficult for me, and sometimes it takes a dozen tries to get through certain lines.)

Finding and layering music usually takes an hour or two…and sound effects can run two to four hours of searching or making them…and then dropping them in.

I spend probably two to four hours on transcripts, and then another one to two hours working on processing things and getting it all online. So, it can take 20-60 hours in total to produce an episode from idea to getting it in your ears. (And that doesn’t even account for these behind-the-scenes episodes, supporting each story.)

It’s likely that I could get some of the editing done faster if I used a better program to put things together. I use an open-source program called Audacity, which does the job, but there are much better programs out there. I wouldn’t recommend the way I edit things because I cut everything from beginning to end and Audacity is a destructive program. By that, I mean if I cut some sound, it’s gone…whereas most audio programs allow you to remove unwanted takes and trim bits in chunks, but get things back easily if you need them.

When I see others share their editing processes, I see all these pieces of audio that are easy to move around if you need to insert something new. It’s likely that Audacity can shift all the tracks into alignment if I drop something in later—not just the one track that I add to—but I’m very cut and paste in putting things together.

My process looks like this (again, I don’t recommend you do things this way): I have one longass audio track of the narration. I open the previous episode’s mix and save that file with a new name. I cut out the previous narration track, sounds, all those things…leaving just the intro and outro music and sounds. (Yeah, I know I should have a template with those things already set up. This is just the way I do things.)

I paste the current narration track in and then…I start at the beginning and think, “Okay, I need music here…I need it to come in, fade out, and then linger until going away at this point…” I drop sound effects on other tracks and, if needed, paste in room tone (which is essentially silence in my case), that extends the gap in narration if a sound takes up some space and runs longer that the pause in narration.

On the rare occasion I’m like, “Oh, shit, I forgot something major and I must put something new in at this point!” I paste in the same amount of silence on every single track so everything shifts farther down in my timeline. And then once it’s in place, I trim all that until everything’s back in alignment. (Seriously, don’t do things the way I do!)

I often think about changing to a better program or spending more time learning all I can do with Audacity, but my time is limited. I know that I’d save time in the long run, but it would also mean quite some time spent learning instead of releasing more episodes…and I’d rather get new stories out than spending even more of my free time working on the show.

With a few exceptions, most people I know who become obsessed with productivity tinker to the point they never produce much—if anything at all.

It’s always been my nature to jump in and figure things out on my own, and rarely is the way I do something ideal. But…despite that, I usually have a larger creative body of work than most people who tell me to try doing things their way.

So again…while I wouldn’t recommend my process to anyone, it works for me. (At least right now.)

Finally, Jennifer Moss asks two questions:

What fiction podcasts and novels do you enjoy listening to and reading? And…Is it easier to do a solo episode or have guest narrators?

Good questions…

I don’t listen to a ton of fiction podcasts. When Rick Coste was producing audio fiction, I was a fan of what he did—particularly The Behemoth and its sequel, Izzy; Bryar Lane, which is my favorite piece of audio fiction I’ve ever listened to; The Fiona Potts Interview; Inhale, which is a really cool superhero tale; and Pixie, which is so damn charming. I’m also a fan of Fable and Folly’s, The Axe and Crown, which is the kind of tavern you hope to come across when playing Dungeons and Dragons.

When it comes to narrated fiction, Levar Burton Reads is always great. And even though it wasn’t a podcast, when Ben Loory was reading fiction live on his Instagram account, I loved that. Also, I think Taylor Zabloski’s The Dog is Dead is the most overlooked fiction podcasts ever! Seriously, go listen to it. It’s fourteen stories told in second person, which isn’t easy to pull off, and then a really cool fifteenth episode where he shows how all the stories tie into each other.

Mostly, though, when it comes to podcasts and fiction, I listen to far more interviews with writers, with Brad Listi’s Otherppl being my favorite podcast. I prefer reading fiction, which brings me to the novels Jennifer asked about…

Novels and short stories influence Not About Lumberjacks more than anything. The show is very different than others in that it’s not based on genre or following any particular theme. There’s a fair bit of literary fiction on my show, and literary fiction tends to not do so well when recorded…unless, of course, it’s Levar Burton narrating a more famous work.

My favorite novel is Robert Olmstead’s A Trail of Heart’s Blood Wherever We Go, and I’ll always adore Jeffrey Ford’s The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque. In fact, I adore everything Jeffrey Ford does because he could write genre fiction and then turn around and write one of the most literary things you’ll ever read.

Looking at some recent books back here in my office (and on my phone), there’s stuff by Peg Alford Pursell, Chuck Wendig, Tayari Jones, Stephen Graham Jones, Natalia Sylvester, Rubén Degollado, Alex George, Ann Patchett, Jess Walter, Charlotte McConaghy, and Peter Geye. Currently, I’m finally reading On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong, which is just so damn beautiful.

But I’ve also been working through Fritz Leiber’s Lankhmar novels again and, when I just need a random short story, I read the next thing in The Big Book of Modern Fantasy, edited by Ann and Jeff Vandermeer. Also, until my end, I will always maintain that comic books and graphic novels are some of the best things ever created!

I do lean toward literary fiction with quirky—or even outright fantastic elements woven in—but mostly, I just grab what sounds good to me. (I’ve found so many good books just by picking up something I never heard of.) It’s rare that I’ll read for escape, but not everything has to challenge me, either.

Regarding solo episodes or guest narrators, uhm…

The goal since the start has always been to feature my own writing. I’ve had people ask if I’d publish their stories on Not About Lumberjacks, and the answer is always going to be a resounding no! What makes the show its own thing is it’s a place for my quirky or sometimes serious little stories.

So, while all the stories are all my own, I’ve never been insistent on being the sole narrator…especially when a story features a female protagonist.

The first Not About Lumberjacks story narrated by someone else if the fourth episode, “Horus,” about a writer’s assistant who gets more than she bargained for with her boss’ parrot. My wife, Cynthia Griffith narrated it because…it seemed weird for deep-voiced me to narrate a story in which all the characters are women. Nobody wants to hear that!

There’s another reason I like having others narrate stories: I’m dyslexic. I have a very hard time reading out loud.

So…making the solo episodes is not easy for me, but I like having control over sound and schedule. With Cynthia narrating, it’s still done in-house, so to speak, so it works out well.

But, obviously, I’ve had others narrate episodes. In some ways it’s easier because, like I said, narrating isn’t easy for me, but in other ways it’s harder because there’s more to organize. In episodes like the annual Christmas show I do, where there are a handful of stories, if I use different narrators, the stories sound different because they used different microphones and they’re all in different spaces.

There’s an anniversary episode, which is an audiodrama called “Waking the Lumberjack,” that I both love and hate. I loved working with a cast of voice actors, but…I hate that the quality of some of the recordings didn’t match up. Even having help equalizing everything, it sounded disjointed to me, even when laying in more sounds to mask these differences.

But I do love working with others and seeing how they interpret something I’ve written. There are a couple moments in the latest story, narrated by Jesse Harley, that I definitely couldn’t have pulled off as well as he did.

I recently asked people online if they like episodes with other narrators, or if they prefer me telling my own stories. Results were mixed, with a preference toward me narrating my own stories.

So, I’ll likely pull back most narration to my wife and me…especially for the more heart-felt stories I guess I’m kind of known for. Stories that seem more “me…” even though it’s an effort for me to narrate, are still—in many ways—easier to do on my own (or with Cynthia). I can record and edit according to my schedule, and there will always be a consistent sound from episode to episode.

But other times, I’m not the right voice for certain characters. So even though it can be a bit more difficult working with others, it’s worth it to me to have a story seem more genuine when narrated by the right person.

Ideally, I’d love to be able to bring narrators in and record on my gear while I run sound. I’ve had some narrators run through some recordings because sometimes life gets in the way of things…or I find myself spending more time cleaning up plosives—those little p-p-pops—because someone narrating didn’t use a pop filter or decent windscreen.

But none of my recordings are perfect. I record in a space that has some echo, which is something I want to fix with a portable sound booth soon. So, I don’t mind that some episodes sound different than others.

This is all a very long way of saying I prefer doing everything on my own, but that also, I do love working with friends. I find it easiest to do all on my own, even when guest narrators deliver solid narration with no mistakes…while I might read the same line a dozen times before finally getting it right.

Maybe if this were a fulltime thing, I’d find it much easier having others narrate—even though there are more logistics to consider. There are times day job responsibilities pop up and even get in the way. Being able to adapt and create the show around life’s demands is easier than giving someone a deadline and then realizing I have time to get ahead of schedule, but…I can’t expect others to adapt to my schedule during those times.

If I weigh all the pros and cons, it’s easiest to do it all on my own, but probably not as fun.

Thanks for the questions, everybody. Here’s to the next five years!

* * *

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.

The now-annual Christmas episode is right around the corner. It’s four somber tales with a light-hearted story about a genie breaking things up. Seeya in December!

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 Not About Lumberjacks’ anniversary show, the most Not Not About Lumberjacks story of the year!

When Wayne finds strange items in geocaches along the old lumber roads of northern Minnesota, he becomes obsessed with discovering who’s leaving the items behind. What he discovers changes his life forever…

And now…the usual content advisory: This story deals with divorce. There’s also swearing and some crude humor.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

Geocached

On Saturday morning, Wayne pulls a dildo from the ammo container nestled against the base of a white pine. He looks at the blue dick in his hand and drops it when a thought occurs to him: “This might be used.” He instinctively sniffs his hand, which fortunately smells like cardamom—not silicone and a moment of pleasure. He gets the toe of his trail runner beneath the rubber penis and kicks it as far as he can into the woods, watching it wobble in the air and out of view.

He shakes his head and thinks, “What sort of person leaves such a thing in a geocache?”

* * *

Wayne’s therapist suggested a hobby, something that would get him out moving his body after the divorce, rather than sitting at home and feeling sorry for himself. He’d overheard two guys in the cafeteria at work talking about geocaching, and he figured that was as good as anything. He quickly discovered it appealed to his sense of wonder, each new cache holding the promise of logbooks full of signatures and—sometimes—key chains, tiny plastic toys, or stickers and patches from state and national parks. The surprise of what might be found keeps him going.

In return, Wayne leaves behind coins from an old collection he’s had since childhood—nothing worth too much, but still…things rare enough that he imagines the surprised faces of people finding Mercury dimes from the 1920s.

* * *

A half mile down the trail he comes to another cache, something only a day old. Wayne puts on a pair of garden gloves and digs through the leaves at the base of a paper birch. He comes out from the debris with a small metal cylinder with a screw-top cap. It’s not much larger than a pen. He lightly shakes it side to side and listens to something rattling inside.

“Probably some stones,” he thinks—a fairly typical find. Instead, after unscrewing the cap and rocking the opening toward his palm, out roll four human teeth like dice. Molars. He pokes the tip of his tongue into the void in his mouth where, twelve years ago, wisdom teeth presided over the back.

With the second strange find of the day, he decides to call it quits.

* * *

Sunday morning, Wayne finds a Ziploc baggie containing a logbook and a wad of hair. It’s soft and red, like an Irish setter’s fur, but upon closer inspection it’s definitely human. It smells of cardamom.

Wayne looks through the logbook and doesn’t notice anything strange—just the usual names and dates people leave behind as proof they were there. It’s been over three weeks since the last entry.

At the end of the trail is another cache, a fake, hollow rock held shut by magnets. Inside is another mass of hair, about the size of an egg. Wayne pulls on a glove and, using his thumb, separates the mass. Inside, he finds a tiny bone. It looks like something from the inner ear, and he panics, wondering if a serial killer is leaving behind pieces of his crimes in geocaches. It would be easy for someone to step out from the trees and take Wayne’s life while he focuses on strange items he’s found over the weekend. Even if he screamed for help—out deep on trails and old lumber roads—even if he was heard, it would take time to reach him. By then, his throat could be slit, he’d be dragged deep into the woods, and his thumb or big toe could end up in the next cache.

He’s relieved when he notices a clump of feathers and a tiny, mouse-sized leg bone. Wayne is far from an outdoorsman, but he knows enough about wildlife to realize he’s holding the regurgitated contents of an owl’s gizzard in his palm—another peculiar thing to place in a geocache.

The rest of the morning’s finds continue the path of oddities: a pocket watch that runs backwards, a small silk pouch of what appears to be toenail clippings, and—in some ways the strangest find of all—a copy of Herbie Goes Bananas (on VHS tape).

* * *

In the week that follows, it becomes an obsession. Vacation days are taken in the hope of catching the culprit leaving behind doll heads, a vial of coyote urine, and a glass eye featuring the Ace of Spades instead of an iris and pupil. A week later, he finds an actual monkey paw in a capped length of PVC looking like a pipe bomb.

Wayne reads through the list of recent finds he keeps in a small notebook he carries everywhere, hoping to find some connection. He wonders if it’s a puzzle—are all the items somehow related? What would he win if he could figure it all out? Or maybe it’s just a running prank. Perhaps he’s being recorded at each geocache and is now a minor YouTube celebrity—“DildoMan” kicking a rubber penis into the woods in slow motion for the amusement of teenagers.

The most perplexing thing of all is the occasional whiff of cardamom…in the geocaches, but sometimes Wayne swears he smells it on the breeze. He wonders if it’s all in his head, like how some people say they smell toast when having a stroke. What bodily function fails and triggers the smell of cardamom, he wonders?

* * *

It is a morning of lumberjack finds when Wayne comes across a letter.

The first cache of the day held Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox figurines in the olive-green Tupperware bowl everyone seemed to own in the 1970s. After that, in a tiny metal box hanging from the branch of a white spruce like a Christmas tree ornament, he found a vintage button for the Lumberjack World Championships in Hayward, Wisconsin. Then: wrapped in plastic and placed in the crook of a silver maple, a copy of a book called The Art of the Lumberjack. But it’s what Wayne finds in a baggie weighed down by a pile of perfectly stacked rocks that startles him.

He examines the baggie, wondering how to pull it out from beneath the waist-high stone tower without toppling it. Through the clear plastic, written in gold calligraphy: WAYNE.

They know his name! Maybe his initial thoughts about a serial killer were correct after all; maybe some giant man with a coarse beard and perfect handwriting is about to step out in a knit cap, checkered shirt, and an ax. The Lumberjack Killer, the news will call him—a crazed man of the Northwoods who shouts, “Tim-ber!!!” as he cuts his victims to pieces.

Wayne kicks the stones over and picks up the baggie. He unfolds the piece of paper and reads:

Dear Wayne,

I know you are trying to catch me, and that makes this all the more exciting. The two of us out in the forest playing cat and mouse. You, wondering if there’s a reason to any of this—and who could blame you? Yesterday, it was 80s hair bands on cassette tape. Today, it’s all about lumberjacks. I wonder what tomorrow will bring? Any requests?

Sincerely,

Me

There is no clue to who left the letter by the handwriting, but Wayne has known more women to practice calligraphy than men. For a moment he wonders if it’s his ex-wife toying with him, but Patricia hated being outside—restaurants, stores, and hotels were her style, not old lumber roads in middle-of-nowhere Minnesota. Besides, calligraphy is not a thing she would have ever deemed worth doing.

Wayne looks at the last line of the letter—Any requests?—and smiles.

He licks the tip of the golf pencil he keeps with his pocket notebook and writes: An Old Plaid Thermos.

Wayne puts the letter back into the sandwich bag and places the largest stone from the stacked tower on top. Then he goes to work collecting the stones he kicked away. He piles them one on top of the other, until it looks like a good clearing in which to practice yoga beside balanced stones.

* * *

Since childhood, Wayne has lived by the Boy Scout motto: Be prepared! He hikes back to his car to retrieve a sleeping bag and his store of emergency food and water. When he returns to the stones, he half-expects the letter to be gone, already retrieved by whomever has been teasing him for weeks. But it’s still there when Wayne comes back to the clearing. He hides in the trees, wrapping himself in the sleeping bag as he waits for the prankster. He finally falls asleep around two in the morning.

Wayne opens his eyes at the first light of day, a blue light before the sun climbs above the horizon and trees. It’s always been his favorite time of day: a head still hazy from dreams—a daily do-over every twenty-four hours.

He slowly makes his way toward the teetering stone pillar, keeping an eye out as he goes. The letter is gone. On the side of the stones opposite his view he sees it: an old plaid Thermos and something wrapped in Christmas paper.

* * *

Wayne picks up the Thermos and sees the Post-it note stuck to its side. In perfect calligraphy, two words: DRINK ME.

He sets it down and then unwraps the gift, revealing what might be a first edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. A smaller sticky note marks a spot in the book. Wayne flips it open and reads two underlined passages:

It was all very well to say “Drink me,” but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. “No, I’ll look first,” she said, “and see whether it’s marked ‘poison’ or not.”

And…

“What a curious feeling!” said Alice; “I must be shutting up like a telescope.”

Wayne removes the cup from the top of the Thermos and unscrews the cap. One of his favorite things about cool mornings is how every sense seems heightened—particularly one’s sense of smell. The clearing fills with the scent of cardamom coffee.

Poisoned or drugged coffee be damned, he does as commanded and takes a sip straight from the Thermos. Wayne waits a few minutes and then pours a cup, savoring the rising vapor as it cools. It’s the best cup of coffee he’s ever had.

As he drinks, he ponders the opening of the book: Alice chasing a rabbit down a hole. Alice drinking a potion that makes her tiny enough to pass through a small door into Wonderland. Is there some bigger meaning to all this, Wayne wonders? Patricia always said he lost himself in his obsessions, never content to simply let a thought go until rolling it around from every direction and understanding everything about how it worked. Down his rabbit holes and locking himself behind his tiny doors.

When the sun is fully up and he’s consumed too much coffee, Wayne goes home, showers, and eats a proper breakfast. He laughs while looking at the Thermos on his kitchen counter.

* * *

Wayne is at Annie’s Attic antique shop the moment they open. In much the way surprises found in geocaches appeal to him, the random finds in antique shops have always had the same pull. What stuck in his memory most from his last visit to Annie’s Attic was the plaid Thermos, just like the one his grandfather used for work and brought along on fishing trips.

“Good morning,” Wayne says as he enters and goes straight to a shelf in the back of the shop. The Thermos is not there—the bait was taken!

“Excuse me, I was here the other day, and you had an old plaid Thermos in the back. It’s not there. Did somebody buy it?”

“Let me ask my wife,” the man behind the counter says.

“Annie? Did we sell that Thermos?”

“What Thermos?” a woman says from another part of the shop.

“The plaid one. Gentleman up here is asking about it.”

A woman in her 60s approaches. She smiles and says, “I remember you.”

Wayne nods and says, “Thank you. I like shops like this.”

“You’re looking for a Thermos?”

“Yes,” Wayne says. “But it appears to be gone.”

Her eyes widen. “We’ve not sold it. Let’s go have a look.”

As she leads Wayne to the back of the shop, it occurs to him the only time the person who left the note in the clearing could have read his request for the Thermos and then purchased it was when he went to his car for provisions and his sleeping bag. They had to have been right there the whole time. He wonders if they are watching him now.

“It was right here,” Annie says when they reach the back corner of the shop. “That’s strange.”

On a closer look, Wayne notices the envelope on the shelf where the Thermos should be. He hands it to Annie, who opens it and pulls out a note and two twenty dollar bills.

In calligraphy:

The Thermos that was here cost twenty dollars. Here is forty.

“How strange,” Annie says.

* * *

Wayne returns to the clearing and shouts, “I know you’re here! Show yourself!”

He pauses and listens, hearing only the calls of crows and pipping of cardinals.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

Nothing.

He looks at the stone pile and notices another note. This time, in a woman’s handwriting:

Wayne,

We don’t know each other, but I saw you mention your divorce on a geocache forum a while ago. It’s not hard to discover things about a person by piecing together a few things online.

I guess we all look for things to pass the time when we’re sad. I lost someone very dear to me last year. I guess I needed the laugh, but also, I wanted to honor his mirth.

My husband was a fan of leaving things behind: notes tucked in places all around the house, some that I’ve only just found while packing to move away from here. It wasn’t just for me, though. In bookshops, restaurants, or just while out hiking, he left behind notes and strange little trinkets, hoping to inspire people…or at least make them smile.

I’ve missed smiling and laughing, and it seemed like it’s been a while for you, too. I’m sorry if you’ve felt picked on—that’s not been my intent.

To make up for it, get here quickly: N 47°25’39.1″ W 93°36’36.3″.

Rebecca

* * *

Wayne steps off the Soumi Hills Trail and finds a small wooden box hidden beneath some ferns on the shore of Hill Lake. Inside is another note and two coins: nineteen-hundred Liberty head twenty-dollar golds. He looks around, making sure he is alone before admiring the coins in the sunlight. Holding them tightly in his left hand, he unfolds the paper and reads:

Wayne,

I found two of your Mercury head dimes and figured leaving these for you was the least I could do for all the trouble I may have caused. My husband collected coins; I’m sure he’d be honored these found their way to a keeper who respects them for what they are and not their worth. But if you need money, do not feel bad selling them. Or cash them in and use the money to make somebody’s day better or different.

That’s what I hope for you: better days full of unexpected surprises.

Thank you, and goodbye,

Rebecca

Before placing the note and coins back into the box, Wayne inhales slowly, savoring the faint scent of cardamom from inside.

He knows what he must do…

* * *

It doesn’t matter where Rebecca is going or what Patricia is doing—Wayne lets it all go. Still, he wishes he could thank the woman who sent him on a chase for weeks. The best he has, though, is hoping she knows she changed him and pulled him from a rut. His actions will have to suffice.

Wayne places the dildo into the ammo container and nestles it against the base of a white pine.

He shakes his head and smiles, now knowing what sort of person leaves such a thing in a geocache …

* * *

[Quirky music plays…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

And a huge thank you to Mr. Jesse Harley…one half of Canadian Politics is Boring, a history and comedy podcast. Find it wherever you get your podcasts, or just go to canadianpoliticsisboring.com.

A little bit more about Jesse:

When he’s not singing sea shanties at kitchen parties or streaming video games, he can be found flipping and tumbling all over the piers of Halifax. And I’m not kidding about the flipping stuff…he can really tumble and do all kinds of cool acrobatics stuff, to the point I’m positive, if he so desired, he could become Nova Scotia’s premier breakdancer.

But what Jesse really does best is make movies, and that’s pretty impressive because whatever he puts his mind to, he really does well. His films have won multiple awards and allowed him to travel all around Canada and the United States. So really, you should check out at least a couple things Jesse does, because he really is a great person.

All right, onto the rest of the end credits…

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Headlund, licensed from Epidemic Sound.

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

December brings the annual Christmas episode: a handful of micro-fiction anchored by something a bit longer. There’s a tale of friendship, a story of a strange reunion, a genie story, something about suburban vandalism, and a somber Christmas story because that’s what I do.

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

[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:

I should probably begin episodes of Behind the Cut with a spoiler alert. Something like, “Behind the Cut is usually a behind-the-scenes look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the latest episode. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

I didn’t like my latest story, “The Cold of Summer,” until its final days.

I mean, I loved the idea of it—a group of strangers contracting a virus that allows them to share dreams? What’s not cool about that? But it became a story that seemed to do only what was expected of it: hitting all the right points, but feeling rather stale in doing so.

For me, a story that goes through the motion of its telling with little more than the effort leaves me flat. And for much of “The Cold of Summer’s” creation, it was that kind of story. It’s not that there was anything really wrong with it, but it definitely lacked that certain je n’est sais quoi.

* * *

Writing is an act of discovery, and for me, I often go into stories with no idea how they end. In the writing world, I’m what’s called a pantser, someone who writes by the seat of their pants…not according to any plan.

Because of this, I often put a great amount of trust in myself and the story…believing it’ll all come together through the effort of putting my ass in a chair and writing.

It’s not that I’ve never tried planning, but I can’t truly know a story until wading in and spending time with it—no matter how much I try. Writing begets writing; ideas lead to more ideas, and it’s often during that effort that the best pathways appear. (Sometimes, granted, too many trails at once, but you work with it and trust the journey.)

* * *

One of the problems with “The Cold of Summer’s” creation was how it quickly bloated. The structure was there: people contract a virus, they get sick, they have dreams, we see how it affects them, and…there, well…I planned another round of full dreams in which the characters crossed over into each other’s dreams.

It was a neat idea, but aside from adding to the story’s length, it became strangers helping strangers in dreams. It all seemed too forced, like, “Hey, I don’t know you, but aren’t you the person I saw the other day in line at the pharmacy? Here, let me fix all that’s wrong in your life…”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it was definitely not good.

* * *

The first time I really considered scrapping the story, I did what I usually do in that rare instance and I sat with it. And in doing so…I knew the old woman needed to play a bigger role. But I had no idea what that was until, in another rare instance, I talked about a story in progress with my wife.

She said something to the effect of, “Maybe the old woman is full of regrets…?”

I ran with that idea, but I still had the bloated dreams issue—and all the stuff that I came up with for the old woman seemed hokey. (Even now, her line about the ripples in the final dream still seems very on the nose to me.)

But those are things that can be fixed. I’m sure some people would have liked seeing the characters crossing over into each other’s dreams instead of the quick info dump, but here’s the thing with any story: any decision you make along the way will be liked by some and hated by others. (I mean, some people like chocolate, others like vanilla…and then there are people who are like, “Oh, yuck!” to it all and want something savory.)

So, the second round of dreams was cut short and the old woman offers some pat advice we all already know, but ya know, hey: sometimes you do that in a story. And in making those decisions, the ending seemed more realistic to me: It wasn’t rushed—it was four strangers who haven’t quite come to grips with what just happened to them, and they’re all like, “Now what?” instead of things concluding in a neat little package where everything is resolved.

* * *

Another thing I need to remember when a story seems off is the stories on Not About Lumberjacks are heard—not read. (Although I’ve been catching up on providing transcripts for people with hearing impairments or those who would rather read fiction than listen to it.)

Lines that might seem a bit heavy-handed while writing can be tempered through narration. Sounds fill in the gaps, and sometimes a music bed can do more for a piece than trying to describe it in greater detail.

When all those elements finally come together, I’ve enjoyed all the stories on Not About Lumberjacks even more.

* * *

I also need to remember these stories are not for me. Sure, obviously, I write the things I want to write, but once they’re out there, they belong as much to the readers as much as they do to me.

I recently shared the opening story of December’s Christmas episode with someone…and they saw in it something totally different than my intent. But, once I think about it, I’d argue that their view is even more valid than mine because they lived through the very subject of the story in a way I never did.

I’m not precious about controlling what people take from the things I write. If I wanted to control it all, I’d not share the stories at all…or I’d only share them with people primed to see in them exactly what I see in them.

Fortunately, the people I hear from—people I know and even a bunch of strangers—like what I’m doing. And when they talk about liking stories I’m apprehensive about, I see those stories affected listeners and readers in ways I might never have imagined.

It’s in those moments that I’m happy I let something go, even if I wasn’t sure about it…because some of the things that have entertained and even helped people are not always the stories that mean the most to me.

And that makes the effort worth it every time I sit down to write and record a story for the show…

* * *

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.

Later this month, a guy down on his luck who takes up the hobby of geocaching begins finding the strangest caches out along the lumber roads of northern Minnesota. So strange, in fact, that his obsession with them changes his life forever. Oh, and of course, since it’s November and the anniversary episode of the show, I PROMISE…there is no mention at all about lumberjacks!!!

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, four strangers are brought together when affected by a strange virus.

And now…the usual content advisory: This story deals with illness, including mentions of COVID-19. It’s also not without moments of anxiety, regret, abandonment, nightmares, and even death. I know that makes it sound like it’s a rough tale, but this is still a story of hope.

Oh—and just like almost every episode—there’s some swearing. You’ve been warned.

All right—let’s get to work…

The Cold of Summer

The old woman in line at the pharmacy couldn’t stop coughing. During cold and flu season, it would have been bad enough, but in early summer during an expanding pandemic, it was cause for alarm.

The two people in line who were keeping their distance stepped back ever farther, while two others appeared to regret crowding the old woman seemingly on the verge of producing a lung from the depths of her torso and letting it hang from her wide-open mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” she said between hacking fits. “I’ve had a catch in my throat for weeks that just won’t go away.”

Meesha Salib pointed to the mask she was wearing and said, “Madame, you should be wearing one of these.” Before vowing to come back when it was less crowded, she pointed at the other two and said, “You, too, as well. I am not angry—just concerned.”

“Well, you should be angry,” Todd Bancroft said from the back of the line. “We should all be angry thatthere are still people not wearing masks. They’re putting us all at risk.”

“I forgot mine,” Darnell Walker said. “Seriously…it’s just been one of those kinds of weeks.”

Todd’s mask inflated as he let out a dramatic sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” the old woman said to the remaining three in line.

Keighla Murray said, “It’s okay,” and took another step away.

* * *

Meesha Salib was lying on the couch before bedtime when she started to sniffle. She didn’t feel right—like a balloon was slowly expanding in her head and on the verge of popping.

She got up and raced to the bathroom, head tilted back and continuing to sniffle in an effort to make it to a piece of Kleenex before having her nose run everywhere. Her skull pounded as she blew.

She grabbed the box and headed to bed.

* * *

It felt like a bloody nose when it first hit Todd Bancroft. He was at his desk, posting on Twitter about how rude people were at the pharmacy earlier—how an old woman was likely to give him COVID-19; how only one other person in the pharmacy line even wore a mask. Right before clicking the Tweet button, his nose ran, falling from his face and onto his keyboard.

“Shit!”

He pinched his nostrils together and ran to the bathroom for a wad of toilet paper. Pressing it to his nose, he grabbed another wad and returned to his desk, trying his best to clean what he could reach on his keyboard. It would take more to clean beneath the keys, but as his head began to pound, he said, “Fuck it,” and went to bed.

* * *

Darnell Walker’s nose ran into the open copy of Biochemistry & the Molecular Biology of Plants resting on the kitchen table. He’d been struggling to keep his eyes open through a section about using biotechnology to create genetic diversity in plants for an hour, wondering the whole time why he thought returning for a master’s degree was a good idea. But he wasn’t the first parent with two young kids and a busy job to put in extra time in the hopes of a career that would afford him more time doing what he preferred—not what he had to do to make ends meet.

“Aww, fuck!”

As he rushed to the kitchen and wiped his nose with a paper towel in the kitchen, his wife, Kara, wandered in and said, “Did you say something, babe?”

“Yeah, I just…my nose ran into my book. I’ve felt kinda crappy all day. Think I’ll clean up and head to bed…”

* * *

Keighla Murray was binge-watching the second season of Stranger Things for the third time when her nose began to itch. On screen, as Steve was surrounded by monsters in a junkyard, her nose began to run.

She wiped it with the back of her hand, but it wouldn’t stop.

“Dammit!” She picked up the remote and paused the episode before stepping to the kitchen and grabbing a paper towel. It felt like sandpaper as she wiped at her nose, as though every nerve in her face had poked through skin and invited the pains of the world into her head.

She turned off the TV and went to bed.

* * *

Meesha plops down on the floor with a handful of loose papers, a pencil and pen, and a set of thin markers. She feels like a kid as she draws panels and thumbnails for the next page in a comic book story about a girl whose curiosity shapes the world around her. Her super power: if she wonders why people are cruel to each other, after rolling the reasons around in her head for a bit, the problem is solved.

She’s moved beyond the grand designs, and is now left with smaller stories. In them, she sees the greater purpose of the comic book: a character who can see how people feeling like they need permission are given the freedom to pursue their dreams, all from a seemingly chance encounter with a stranger who appears, helps them, and moves on.

It’s better than superheroes beating each other up and rescuing weaker people in need of their help. What’s more heroic, Meesha believes, than helping others help themselves?

The colors of the markers bleed through the paper, staining her older sister’s copy of COSMOPOLITAN used as both a drawing surface and something to catch color instead of the floor. Zahra will throw a fit when she sees another one of her magazines covered in marker colors, but none of that matters. Right now, Meesha’s made something from nothing. A story of hope.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” her mother says.

“What?”

“Wasting your time drawing cartoons.”

“They’re comic books.”

She knows her mother doesn’t see a difference.

“Your sister might not amount to much, but your father and I except better from you.”

“But Zahra’s is popular, Mother; she has it made.”

Something about Meesha’s childhood home does not seem right. It’s a feeling more than anything tangible, like something bad lives inside the walls…like the house itself is alive and ready to close in on them all.

Meesha’s mother says, “It wasn’t easy for us, you know?”

“I know.”

“We just want what’s best for you. You have opportunities your father and I never had. You’d do well to read or study—not draw your little cartoons.”

The room seems darker than it should be. The nearby dining room is lost to moon glow, even though it’s the middle of the day.

Even something about Meesha’s mother seems off. She looks no different, but some primordial instinct deep down says, “Run!”

She wakes to the bright light of a new morning.

* * *

The moving truck pulls away from Todd’s fifth childhood home. There are no friends to say goodbye—no neighbors gathering to wish his family well as they move to a new military base. “What is it like to stay in one place for more than a couple years?” Todd wonders.

He watches the moving truck climb up the street and disappear from view as it turns left at the stop sign. Looking back toward the house, his parents are gone—the family car is nowhere to be seen. Todd tries the front door, but it’s locked. Peeking in the front window, something moves from the living room to the hallway.

He bangs on the front door.

“Mom? Dad?”

He tries the doorknob again, and the door opens wide.

Of all the houses he’s lived in, this one let in the most light. But the house is dark, like twilight settling in, even though it’s a bright morning outside.

Todd hears the door to the basement close.

“Dad? Are you here?”

He wanders the house, listening to his steps echoing in the empty space. It doesn’t even smell like they were ever here. He finds himself in the short hallway, staring at the basement door. He reaches out.

A must settles in his nose. One more breath, and it’s joined by the stench of burned plastic and ozone, like insulation scorched from a wire. Todd descends the stairs by the light of a flickering TV.

It’s not the basement belonging to the house. It’s the basement of the first home he remembers, when his father was stationed at Great Lakes Naval Training Station, in Illinois. A large room with a musty red and black, indoor/outdoor tartan carpet covering hard concrete. A blue couch shoved against one wall, and a TV on an old dresser against another. Metal groaning from the utility room on the other side of the cheap door at the bottom of the stairs.

Todd sees someone sitting in an oversized chair just feet in front of the television. He can almost hear his mother say, “Toddy, you need to move farther back so you don’t hurt your eyes watching shows or playing your games.”

He spots his old Nintendo precariously situated on the dresser beside the TV. The screen is now black, except for Mario’s score, total coins collected, which world he’s in, the time, and the words GAME OVER. It’s funny how much illumination a few white words on a black screen on an old tube TV can give off.

A frail, adult hand holds the game’s controller. Todd moves around from the side of the chair and looks at the hunched frame sitting alone in the basement.

Todd is forty-five years old, but if he had to guess what he’d look like in twenty years, it’s exactly like the dead man in the chair.

He wakes up in bed, covered in sweat.

* * *

Darnell rushes through proofreading a study about improving drought tolerance in corn. He looks at the only personal thing on his desk at work: a photo of him with his wife, Kara, son, Myles, and daughter, Zoey. They keep him going on days like today, when everyone in the lab seems on edge, even though there are no funding issues or pressing deadlines. But somehow, Darnell always has pressing deadlines; the newest person on the receiving end of the all the things at work others believe are beneath them.

Words run together as Darnell watches the clock on his computer creep toward five-o’-clock. He’ll grab a bite to eat on the way to his kids’ school, where he’ll take a saved seat beside Kara and watch a group of sixth graders struggle to play a selection of popular tunes Darnell wouldn’t recognize if they were played by professionals. Zoey will have her moment on bassoon, an instrument Darnell has come to love when he’s not busy trying to cover its honking during practice sessions conflicting with his studies.

“Walker,” his boss says, “when you’re done with that, we need you to take a look at these.”

His desk vibrates as a stack of paper several reams thick is plopped down.

He points at the lower right corner of his computer monitor. “I have to leave by five today.”

“We need this reviewed before you leave, today” his boss says.

“I can’t miss another thing with my kids.”

“You either want this, or you don’t. We’re paying for you to finish school. I understand that family’s important, but family doesn’t pay the bills.”

Darnell thinks about how he imagined it would be: no more field studies. Lab work and then jumping to a museum that would allow him evenings and weekends with his family.

He runs a finger along the stack of papers and picks up his phone.

He types, “So sorry—I have to work again.” and sends the text message.

When he arrives home, the house is dark. No dinner left out for him, just a note from his wife reading, “It’s getting old.” He sees pillows and a blanket tossed on the couch.

He looks at Biochemistry & Molecular Biology of Plants on the dining room table, but he’s too tired to study tonight. He opens the refrigerator door, but nothing looks good.

He goes to check on Zoey. She stirs and sits up as he cracks the door and peeks in.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, sweetie,” he says. He sits on the edge of the bed and pats her arm.

“I’m sorry I missed your solo.”

He listens to her sniffle and force an, “It’s okay,” meant to make him feel better, even though they both know it’s not.

It’s dark, but Darnell can make out something wrong with Zoey’s face. Her mouth is a black hole.

“What happened to your teeth?”

“They fell out, Daddy.”

“What? What happened?”

“I was playing bassoon and saw you weren’t there and they started falling out. Everyone laughed at me. They said I ruined the concert.”

Darnell rubs her arm; skin flakes off in big chunks, like dry, cracked earth. Before he can say anything more, Zoey is reduced to dust, and he bolts upright in bed.

* * *

It’s such a slow morning at Crofter’s Crafts that a fourth cup of coffee does nothing to help with Keighlas’ focus. The empty cups in the small garbage can by her feet—hidden away from the view of customers—remind her nothing will help get her through the long day ahead. One register over, Haisley Nash watches TikTok videos at full volume, despite being told by their manager not to. When Manager Brad walks the floor near the registers, a burst of adrenaline from the anticipation that Haisley is about to actually get in trouble—maybe even fired—does more for Keighla than caffeine.

“’Mornin’, Haisley,” he says.

She stops smacking her gum long enough to say, “Huh?”

“I said good morning.”

“Oh…yeah.”

As he walks off, Keighla calls after him. “Hey, Brad?!”

He turns back toward the registers, and Keighla points at Haisley.

“Oh, yeah.” He walks to Haisley’s register. “I’d normally have this conversation in my office, but…we’ve decided to give you a two-dollar-an-hour raise.”

Haisley pops her gum and says, “Cool,” and then returns to her phone.

Keighla chases Brad down as he heads toward his office.

“You gave her a raise?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She deserves it.”

“What?! Why?”

“She’s our best cashier. We’d hate to lose her.”

“She’s the worst! She ignores customers and blares her phone all day. She smacks her gum and takes breaks whenever the fuck she wants to.”

Brad’s eyebrows come together; his face turns red.

“You need to get back to your register.”

“There’s no one here, Brad. We need to have this talk.”

“You need to get back to your register…now!”

“Or what?”

“Or we’ll have to let you go.”

Back at her register, Keighla breathes deeply—in and out; in and out. Between Haisley’s phone and Brad’s chiding, she realizes maybe the four cups of coffee did have an effect.

When Keighla’s nerves settle, Haisley turns down her phone and says, “So what did you do this weekend? Did you work on that novel you’re always talking about?”

Keighla’s face grows warm; she tugs at a burning pink earlobe. “Yeah.”

“Did you really?” Haisley says.

“Yes, I did!”

“Don’t lie to me, Keighla. I can see in your face you didn’t do shit this weekend.”

Keighla’s earlobe droops. She brings her hands to her cheeks and feels loose flesh. She pulls her phone from her pocket and opens the front-facing camera. A face lined with wrinkles; hair brittle and white.

“You’re never going to finish that book,” Haisley says. “If you’ve even started it at all.”

She turns the volume on her phone back up, and Keighla wakes up covered in sweat.

* * *

Meesha rarely called in sick to work, even though a teaching assistant could always fill in for her. She had her father’s work ethic and a strong desire to make her mother proud. This cold, though…she knew it made no sense that she could get it that quickly from the pharmacy line. COVID took days—even over a week—to appear. This was a matter of hours.

She thought about keeping her work laptop on after sending email to the department head, telling them she would not be in. There seemed to be no line between work and life now that she was home all the time on lockdown. But she logged out and closed her laptop, tucking it away into the backpack usually used when going in.

Meesha made a cup of mint tea and headed back to bed. From her nightstand, she pulled out a pencil and sketchbook. She wondered if her parents were right, that she wouldn’t have the life she had if she had kept drawing all the time. She did everything she was supposed to do. But as she drew a woman sitting on a tree stump on the sketchbook page, she wished she knew how her other life would have turned out, had she not done all that was expected of her.

When she was done with the drawing, she set it in her lap and cupped her hands around the warm mug. She brought it near her face and inhaled, letting the steam soothe her; for a moment, taking away all the pain from whatever it was she picked up at the pharmacy.

Is this what days could have been like? Slowly waking up instead of rushing to the university? Time to ease into the days before doing what she always wanted to do, rather than all she did for others?

She placed the mug and sketchbook on the nightstand and stretched. It didn’t take long before she returned to sleep.

* * *

Todd typed, “COVID dreams” into a Google search and was not surprised to see a list of results. The first thing he read: “People are reporting strange, intense, colorful, and vivid dreams—and many are having disturbing nightmares related to COVID-19.” Another link, and he was surprised to find a WebMD article that didn’t attribute a condition to cancer. Ten minutes later, after scanning several articles, he was convinced he didn’t have the virus—but he definitely had something.

The dream seemed so real, and the lingering dread didn’t ease its grip on him. He hated moving so often while growing up—not having a sibling or any friends. The closest thing he had, now, were a few people on Twitter who were as ready to pounce on others as him.

He did another Google search: “Fisher Vitale.” The first search result displayed a Facebook link. The second: an obituary.

He clicked the Facebook link. Todd hadn’t seen Fisher since fifth grade, but from what he was able to see, it looked like what he’d imagine one of the few friends he ever had with a few decades added on. He saw old photos posted by Fisher’s longtime friends with messages about missing him. Birthday wishes, even though it looked like he’d been dead for three years. One photo in particular caught Todd’s attention: a group of kids at a birthday party he attended. There were comments below the image about how much fun that day was; how great it was being a kid. They were right: Todd remembered how excited Fisher was when he unwrapped the Grimlock Transformer Todd bought him with his saved allowance.

And then he saw it: a comment from someone he didn’t remember and a response from Fisher:

“Who’s that kid on Mikey’s right?”

“Oh, man…I can’t remember his name. His dad was in the Navy, and he moved away that year. He gave me a Grimlock Dinobot. I bet it’s still in my mom’s attic…”

The day seemed already done, so Todd went back to bed.

* * *

Darnell wandered out to the kitchen, where Kara was making a pot of coffee.

“You okay, babe?” she said.

“Yeah. Just wiped. Why?”

“You were doing that weird dreaming snore where I know you’re alive, but you were kicking and muttering and doing that nose whistle thing.”

“I had a bad dream.”

“About what.”

“Just…” He didn’t want to talk about it. It was one of those dreams that seemed so real, the kind that take over all thoughts the rest of the day. “I don’t remember much about it, other than it was bad. I’m so damn tired. I’m not going into work today…”

“Want me to make you breakfast?”

“That sounds great, but I think I’m going to call Tom and head back to bed…”

* * *

When she woke up, after checking her phone, Keighla called her boss. She was happy to get his voice mail.

“Hey, Brad…It’s Keighla. I’m sick and I won’t be in today.”

Not a minute later, her phone buzzed. She thought about not answering, but not enough time had passed to say she fell back asleep and missed the call. At least she didn’t have to put on a fake sick voice.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Keighla—what’s up?”

“I’m sick.”

“Can you try making it in today? We really need you.”

“I have the Coronavirus.”

“What? Have you been tested?”

She hadn’t, but she still said, “Yeah.”

“How long ago?”

She wanted to say, “This right here? This is why no one likes you, Brad.” Instead, she said, “Last week.”

“What?! You’ve thought you had COVID for a week and you kept coming into work?!”

“Well, Brad, it’s not like you let us use what little time off we have. People gotta start their pandemic scrapbooks while the rest of the world burns.”

“You need to fax me the results?”

It came out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Who the fuck has a fax machine in their house these days, Brad. I’m sick! I’m not going out to fax anything. I’m going back to bed…”

She hung up, not caring if she’d still have a job when she was better. She wondered if she actually did have the virus. It wouldn’t be so bad, being so sick that in days, she might go to sleep and not wake up.

She put her phone back on the nightstand and closed her eyes.

* * *

The dreams continue for days: struggles with desires versus expectations; a lifetime of abandonment; time always seeming to slip away; trying to figure out what to do with a hollow life.

Meesha is shocked when the man without a mask at the pharmacy steps into a dream one night and tells her mother to let her be. In return, Meesha’s there for him the following day, telling him to relax and breathe during a nightmare—that soon, he will have more time with his family. Todd apologizes to Keighla for his outburst in the line at the pharmacy, and she tells him she was also raised by a parent in the military and understands. 

None of it makes sense.

* * *

On the final night of the cold, the old woman stands in a sunlit meadow in an otherwise dim forest. Her hair is loose, long and gray and hanging down to her thighs. Before her on the stump is a dark-gray stone basin. Meesha, Todd, Keighla, and Darnell approach to see what she is looking at. The basin is full of water, the color of the stone dark enough to create a mirror effect on the surface. The old woman from the pharmacy smiles when their four faces come into view of the water’s reflection.

“I’d like to show you something,” she says.

She touches the center of the water with her fingertip, sending out ripples to the edge of the basin. They bounce back, and when they meet in the center, the water swirls in a kaleidoscope of colors. Minds are awash in the strange haze of dreams, where understanding is compressed by time, where a lifetime can be felt and comprehended in a moment.

The life of the old woman unfolds before them: her mother telling her only good girls find good husbands; they see no friends outside of her family. All the hard work she put into keeping a home that, in the end, became an empty vessel holding only regrets.

The colors in the water basin stop swirling. The old woman turns to the group and says, “None of you need permission. But if you feel you do, I give it to you. In the end, the happiness you feel and the ripples you send out is what really matters. I wish I had known that sooner.”

She touches the water’s surface again, and the four others feel it’s where they belong.

“I’m going to sleep, now,” the old woman says.

For the first time in days, they awaken feeling refreshed.

* * *

Meesha Salib was looking at a cluster of flowers along the side of Hosack Meadows Trails when Darnell arrived.

“Claytonia verginica,” he said. “Virginia spring beauty. It’s one of my favorite flowers in the area.” He pointed to his face. “I remembered my mask this time.”

Keighla arrived next, kicking her way through the long grass ebbing and flowing like a green tide. Her eyes crinkled into a smile when she spotted the other two.

“So this is for real?” she said from behind her mask. It wasn’t a question—it was a lifetime of hoping one day something bigger would happen that would change the way she looked at everything.

“So it appears,” Darnell said.

Todd Bancroft lumbered his way along the trail, huffing the entire time.

“Do you still have the cold?” Meesha said.

“No,” Todd replied. “I’m just that out of shape. I need to get out more.”

After giving Todd a moment to catch his breath, Darnell said, “All right—question: how did you all know to come here?”

“I don’t know,” Keighla said. “I had a dream last night about the old woman from the pharmacy. She touched a bowl of water on tree stump in the dream. I just knew to come here.”

Darnell looked at the other two. “I assume we all had the same dream?”

Todd and Meesha nodded. When they all turned to look, growing from the stump’s center was a red and yellow flower that looked like a tiny fire in the breeze.

“That shouldn’t be here,” Darnell said.

Meesha was the first to approach. “What is it?”

“A pine lily. They don’t grow up here.”

“Her name was Lily, wasn’t it?” Todd wasn’t alone in the knowledge.

“This does not make sense,” Meesha said.

Darnell crouched down for a closer look at the flower. “And yet, here we all are.”

“So, what do we do now?” Keighl said.

Meesha pointed down the trail. “I suppose we go for a walk and figure it out.”

“That works,” Darnell said. “But first, I think we should all agree right now to stay out of each others’ dreams…and if anyone gets sick…stay the hell away from the rest of us…”

[Quirky music plays…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Oscar Colling and Ethan Sloan, licensed from Epidemic Sound. Haisley’s tune is “Toss the Salt” by Sionya, featuring Emmi…also from Epidemic Sound.

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

November’s tale is Not About Lumberjacks’ anniversary episode, which is always the most NOT about lumberjacks story of the year. It’s narrated by Jesse Harley, an award-winning filmmaker and one half of Canadian Politics is Boring, a history and comedy podcast.

You probably want to know what you’re in for, eh? Well, When Wayne finds strange items in geocaches along the old lumber roads of northern Minnesota, he becomes obsessed with discovering who’s leaving the items behind. What he discovers changes the way he looks at life…

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