Lumberjack Quotes

Think about a good memory, she whispers in my mind. Remember a moment when you loved him. And just like that, I do. "What did the fish say when it hit a concrete wall?" he asked me. We're sitting on the bank of a stream and he's tying a fly onto my fishing rod, wearing a cowboy hat and red lumberjack-style flannel shirt over a gray tee. So adorable. "What?" I say, he grins. Unbelievable of how gorgeous he is. And that he's mine. He loves me and I love him. "Dam!" he says.

Neither sleet nor rain nor a half inch of snow will compel me to dress like a lumberjack.

Professional wrestling is a lot like cuddling, I thought as I hugged a tree. As far as lumberjacks go, I’m slow, but when the tree finally falls for me, it falls hard.

What did the fish say when it hit a concrete wall?" he asks me. We're sitting on the bank of a stream and he's tying a fly onto my fishing rod, wearing a cowboy hat and a red lumberjack-style flannel shirt over a gray tee. So adorable. "What?" I say, wanting to laugh and he hasn't even told me the punch line. He grins. Unbelievable how gorgeous he is. And that he's mine. He loves me and I love him and how rare and beautiful is that? "Dam!" he says.

Why had I entered this profession? I could have gone in for something easier and gentler—like coalmining or lumberjacking.

the tallest oak in the forest is the tallest not just because it grew from the hardiest acorn; it is the tallest also because no other trees blocked its sunlight, the soil around it was deep and rich, no rabbit chewed through its bark as a sapling, and no lumberjack cut it down before it matured.

You have a tattoo of a woman's necklace on you back, Silas." She's smiling now. "Very lumberjack-esque." She's enjoying this. "Yeah, well. You have trees on you back. Not much to brag about. You'll probably get termites.

If I get pulled over on the short drive between here and my house I'll have to say, "I had only two beers in two hours, officer, but then I made out with a lumberjack. You know how it is.

the tallest oak in the forest is the tallest not just because it grew from the hardiest acorn; it is the tallest also because no other trees blocked its sunlight, the soil around it was deep and rich, no rabbit chewed through its bark as a sapling, and no lumberjack cut it down before it matured. We

I blinked deliberately, expecting my eyelids to act like lumberjacks. But the trees would not fall.

Sometimes I write about the forest, sometimes I write about the trees, and occasionally I’ll write about the lumberjack. Actually, the lumberjack is more the editing part, figuring what needs to be cut.

And you’re apparently made of mountain. Are you sure you’re an engineer and not a lumberjack?

Everyone knew that girls who admitted to liking girls stopped being whatever they were before and became a cross between a lumberjack and a punk-goth-anarchist. - Adena Galinksy, USA (p. 38)

You’re not a lumberjack trying to hack down a tree. You’re a dancer, and the sword is an extension of your arm. Move with the blade and keep your eyes on your enemy’s upper body, not their weapon.

You're a good man," Fang said. "You're the last good man in this whole town. All the good that could be squeezed out of this forsaken place was used to make you. That's why you're so small, my friend: there just wasn't that much left." Fang laughed. "and that's why you can see us, you know, and nobody else can. You see everybody, even that lumberjack.

I'm no light weight, mountain man. It'll take more than a couple of frou-frou Vermont microbrews to get me trashed." She leaned forward and bit his lip. "If you stop, I'm gonna kill you. With your own axe.

Vimes thought for a moment and said, 'Well, dear, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a man with a lot of wood must be in want of a wife who can handle a great big--

A week ago, if someone had told her she’d be sitting in a hillbilly hot tub with a bunch of sexy, shirtless lumberjacks, chucking darts at one of her paintings and smiling harder than she had in months, she would’ve told them they were crazy. And

I was very lucky to be offered a lovely piece of property to build a career on. I started building a house on it, but it wasn't necessarily a house I would want to live in. So I ripped down that house, and I worked with these great lumberjacks to build a really cool cabin—a place I want to drink whiskey in and hang out until the sun rises.

Zach tagged along after her, feeling like a stray mutt panting after a purebred poodle.

How Many Lumberjacks Does it Take to Ravish, Maim and Kill Five Feisty Female Co-eds? Read 'Lumberjacked' by Rich Bottles Jr. to find out! Lumberjacked: A Supernatural Tale of Murder and Mayhem in the Mountain State.

He’d done it again. Screwed up in a social situation and dragged the whole team down with hm. His new team. The ones who were counting on him to be a leader on and off the field. He’d led them, all right, almost into a brawl.

Take care of her? She isn’t Snow White, and we aren’t the seven dwarves. She

there’s probably a charged creeper lumberjack.

I am a lumberjack... I can never manage to be a chic.

There ain’t no such thing as lumberjack, that must be a Back East expression. Up here we call ‘em loggers.

It never failed to unnerve me that my general manager was a ten-year-old girl trapped in the body of a two-hundred-and-sixty-five-pound, forty-something lumberjack.

- I like my shirts. - It's plaid. - There are no rules for shirts. Plaid is good. - Plaid is bad. Although, if you went with a Scottish plaid in wool, it might be okay. - I'm not dressing like some damned highlander, Mercedes. - And the lumberjack look is okay? - You don't like my shirt?

If you're a lumberjack, you know what to do. You see trees, and you still have a job! If you're a writer, you see a blank page. You don't know if you still have a job. You might have great ideas—you may have no ideas.

The entrance hall was designed to impress. The floor was a buttery cream-colored marble and the walls were paneled in dark wood. I'm not a lumberjack, so I had no idea what kind of wood it was, but it looked expensive.

Bruiser stared in the mirror hanging in his locker and ran a comb through his blond hair, wishing he had dark hair like Harris, or a mean look like Zach, or even a guy-next-door like Derek. Hell no, he looked like a f***ing movie star and he f***ing hated it. –-Backfield in Motion

I’ve written all these stories without any pornography, without any obscenity. I grew up among sailors and miners and lumberjacks and the roughest kind men in the world, but I never found it necessary to use all that in the stories. I can make them real without that. I think much of that kind of writing is a coverup for lack of real skill.

I have two sisters, and I tell them this all the time. Be the marriage girl. Don’t be the hook-up girl. Don’t be her. She’s stupid and shallow. Yes, she gets lots of male attention, dressing in her sexy lumberjack or sexy nun costumes…for a time. But then she’s used up, hardened, disillusioned and desperate, because no one stays with the hook-up girl.

You were asking about the happy people: Well, they don't live on our planet, you see; we'll just have to wait, my boy! On this one human beings are not human beings. They are seamen and farmers and miners and lumberjacks; they are tramps and preachers and professors; they are this and that and the other. And happiness departed from them when they left off being human beings and became this other; for then strife began.

Biologists often talk about the “ecology” of an organism: the tallest oak in the forest is the tallest not just because it grew from the hardiest acorn; it is the tallest also because no other trees blocked its sunlight, the soil around it was deep and rich, no rabbit chewed through its bark as a sapling, and no lumberjack cut it down before it matured. We all know that successful people come from hardy seeds. But do we know enough about the sunlight that warmed them, the soil in which they put down the roots, and the rabbits and lumberjacks they were lucky enough to avoid?

What she saw, she felt. Her eyes went straight to her heart. The old man on the bench, for example, made her cry. The lumberjack ants made her laugh. The door of many colours put her in such a snit of curiosity that i had to drag her away;she felt she could not proceed with her life until she knocked on such a door.

Phish might’ve already given it away, but inside the white man rages a music festival for lumberjacks.

Girls are supposed to be a little more elegant when they put their cigarettes out. You did that like a lumberjack.

[Hatchetman – F-Grade, Rare. Their army is an endless forest, and I’m the lumberjack. Upgradeable.]

I continue to chop like a lumberjack on cocaine,

She’s still sleeping. She’s warm and sweet, and snores like a lumberjack. Bless her heart.

When I show up at a networking event, I’m like a tree in a forest. Sure, I look like everybody else, but I’m not saying anything to anybody. I’m afraid of meeting a lumberjack.

Hugh thought the women were as graceful as ballerinas, as strong as lumberjacks, as focused as scientists.

He looked so damn sexy sitting there, playing a soft, haunting tune, dressed like a lumberjack (with the shoulders to go with) and all that dark wavy hair and the five o’clock shadow.

Sacrifice is a requirement. The world rests on a Libra's scale. For new saplings to root, others must fall. To walk towards one home, you must turn on another. To nurture the right hand, you must neglect the left.

When Dad was a kid, he wanted to be a lumberjack, but unfortunately he'd been cursed with the build of an accountant and the brain of an astrophysicist. These qualities had combined to make him the third-most-visited orthodontist in northern New Jersey.

the tallest oak in the forest is the tallest not just because it grew from the hardiest acorn; it is the tallest also because no other trees blocked its sunlight, the soil around it was deep and rich, no rabbit chewed through its bark as a sapling, and no lumberjack cut it down before it matured. We all know that successful people come from hardy seeds. But do we know enough about the sunlight that warmed them, the soil in which they put down the roots, and the rabbits and lumberjacks they were lucky enough to avoid? This

Which didn't explain why Brant remained outside with Elizabeth, even when he started to suffer from heatstroke. Or maybe heatstroke was only the excuse he used for what happened next. With one eye pinned on Elizabeth, he stripped off his shirt, something he rarely did, and proceeded to perform feats of strength. He moved large rocks for no good reason, grunting as if he were leg-pressing a good five hundred pounds. He welded hedge clippers like Edward Scissorhands. And hoed like a lumberjack bent on clearing the Sierras. It was heatstroke. It had to be. There was no other way to explain a thirty-eight-year-old man flexing and posing for a woman like some goddamned body builder in a competition. And the worst part about it was she didn't even pay him the slightest bit of attention.

She shut her curtains, locked the door, and lifted her mattress, pulling out last year’s Sustainable Logging Lumberjack Calendar. She flipped through the pages and sighed. Yes, the lumberjacks had chiseled jaws, warm eyes, and broad shoulders beneath flannel shirts.

I groan and she throws her arms around me, laughing. “We’re going to have so much fun, Sissy! And you’re going to fall in love with a lumberjack.” “If there’s one thing that makes me horny,” I say, “it’s deforestation.” “An ethical, sustainable, organic, gluten-free lumberjack,” Libby amends.

Mr. April enjoys roasting vegetables over a fire and the company of kind, modest young women. For every tree Mr. May takes down with a single ax stroke, he plants three seedlings with his own callused hands. When Mr. September isn’t hard at work lumberjacking, he loves to take his pet dogs on long walks.

The exuberant Husky crew gingerly hoisted Walling out of the shell and sent him off to the hospital. Astonished fans and journalists gathered around them on the dock, peppering them with questions: Was the University of Washington in the District of Columbia? Where exactly was Seattle, anyway? Were any of them really lumberjacks?

Biologists often talk about the “ecology” of an organism: the tallest oak in the forest is the tallest not just because it grew from the hardiest acorn; it is the tallest also because no other trees blocked its sunlight, the soil around it was deep and rich, no rabbit chewed through its bark as a sapling, and no lumberjack cut it down before it matured.

His pectoral muscles were shaped, and the six-pack lining his abdomen, and the V of muscle that disappeared beneath his jeans had my inner muscles clenching.

How about we cut the shit, Vivian?

You want to pretend like you’re not eyeing every part of my body, maybe wondering how big my cock is?” Oh.

He did this for a few more minutes before setting his ax against the block and removing his shirt. Well, shit, it was like my very own porn movie.

the things that scared her the most were always worth the risk.

I think my ovaries just exploded. Of

The cruelest act a person can commit is to leave a gap.

Gratitude tempers sorrow.

Five years without a woman has made me feral, Vivian.” I lifted my gaze and looked at her eyes. “And once we start, we won’t be stopping until you’ve come on my cock more than once.

Slackers were not well dressed, because there was no reason to dress smartly. Their uniform was old jeans, Converse trainers and warm, practical lumberjack shirts. They were not career-minded, for there was no reason to pursue the corporate dream. They were seen largely as apathetic, but it was an apathy born of a logical assessment of the options rather than innate laziness.

Simply put, the emphasis was therefore on maintaining a society of farmers and lumberjacks, with a small cadre of lawyers, priests, doctors, and politicians to oversee it. Money and business were left to les Anglais. This situation grew untenable, of course, by the mid-twentieth century, and a number of thinkers, artists, and writers (of whom my father was one) fomented the Quiet Revolution, making education, urbanization, and secularism key pillars of modern Quebec.

When you attempt to multi-task, your focus, attention, and energy is spent switching between your tasks and re-orienting yourself to exactly where you were before you switched. It’s like swimming against the current. Every time you take a stroke, you might only get one quarter of a stroke forward because of the current, and sometimes you might even go backwards despite your best efforts.   It’s an inefficient use of your time that ends up in your becoming well-versed in the beginning stages of many tasks, but never quite seeing them to completion.   The better approach is to be willfully ignorant of everything else you need to do, while giving full attention to one task at a time. In a sense, a lumberjack can only chop the tree in front of him or her, and can’t do anything with a bunch of half-chopped trees. Chopping the tree in front of you will allow you to make better progress on everything more than actively working on it while multi-tasking.

Holy shit, you showed up. And early. You weren’t supposed to be here until next week. Hypothetically. If you showed up.” He frowned. “Which I never thought you would actually do, because look around. This ain’t ideal for a vacation.” “That’s

Speaking of makeovers, anyone notice Hort’s looking even juicier than he did at school?” chirped Dot, biting into the cocoa-pizza she’d swiped off the floor. “Saw him when we came in and he has this swarthy tan from working the moors and mud stains on his cheeks, like he’s Captain Lumberjack or something. But you know how I like woodsy types, with my crush on Robin Hood and all. Anyway, I sneak behind and give him a good sniff and notice he smells like a man now, nothing like that boy who used to wear frog pajamas and reek of baby powder, and all I could think was since there aren’t too many rooms in this place, I wonder if I can get Merlin to put me and him in the same—” “Over my dead body,” bellowed Hort, who stuck his head out from around the corner. Hester glared back, demon twitching. “That can be arranged.” Hort muttered something obscene and vanished behind the wall. Hester saw Dot goggling at her. “What now?” “Did you just defend me?” “Only because you look so stupid in that crown,” Hester grumped. All the girls laughed, even Dot.

the BASK-8 had finally arrived! The Cyborg Queen and Commander Newters observed the park from the window of the Command Bridge. “I believe this is the park we’ve been looking for, Your Majesty,” Commander Newters said. “Oh yes, this is definitely Washington Square Park, I can see it’s filled with the boxy soldiers we agreed to defeat.” “This city has more square parks than all my planets combined,” the Cyborg Queen said. “Anyhoo, I can see we’re a little tardy. Send the Cyborgs to assist the metallic lumberjack and his vertically challenged friend.

Ami leaned into his side and inhaled the fresh scent of man. “Uh, no. Sometimes my biological clock threatens to explode like a ticking bomb, that’s all. Rachel is so lucky. Nat is a doll. Doug adores them. Don’t mind me, I’m just wishing my laundry pile was filled with boxer shorts and Cinderella T-shirts. I’ll get over it.” “Why do you have to get over it,” Marcus asked gently. “Sounds like a nice dream to me.” ...a few pages later Things were looking up. If he could just convince her his boxer shorts belonged in her laundry basket, he’d be right on board with her six-month plan

Girls are supposed to be a little more elegant when they put out their cigarettes. You did that like a lumberjack. You shouldn't just cram it down in the ashtray but press it lightly around the edges of the ash. Then it doesn't get all bent up. And girls are never supposed to blow smoke through their noses. And most girls wouldn't talk about how they wore the same bra for three months when they're eating alone with a man." "I am a lumberjack," Midori said, scratching next to her nose. "I can never manage to be chic. I try it as a joke sometimes, but it never sticks. Any more critiques for me?

My cold-weather gear left a lot to be desired: black maternity leggings under boot-cut maternity jeans, and a couple of Marlboro Man’s white T-shirts under an extra-large ASU sweatshirt. I was so happy to have something warm to wear that I didn’t even care that I was wearing the letters of my Pac-10 rival. Add Marlboro Man’s old lumberjack cap and mud boots that were four sizes too big and I was on my way to being a complete beauty queen. I seriously didn’t know how Marlboro Man would be able to keep his hands off of me. If I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the feed truck, I’d shiver violently.

No women up here. You know the rules. We aren’t into renting to strangers, either. Especially not high fallutin’ city slickin’ judgy judgertons like this one. No offense,” he said as he flicked his attention to her, then away. “None taken.” She didn’t want to hunker down in hillbilly town any more than Bruiser wanted her here. Connor

Right up until he looked around at a Bon Iver concert and saw a thousand copies of himself, and realised that he belonged to a group, a group of people who more than any other—at least in theory—hate everything about belonging to a group. He was a hipster. As a hipster he hated hipsters, and especially male hipsters. There was something insubstantial, unmanly, about that dreamy, idealistic striving for the natural, the original, the authentic; about a hipster trying to look like a lumberjack who lived in a log cabin and grew and shot his own food, but who was still an overprotected little boy who thought modern life, quite rightly, had stripped away all his masculinity, leaving him with a feeling of being helpless

The devastation of the lumberjacks appeared more atrocious at this time of year when everything is getting ready to come back to life. In the warm air some twigs were already growing, some buds were opening, and each branch that had been chopped was crying with sap. I advanced slowly, not feeling so sad because I was exalted by the pain of the countryside, feeling a bit gray perhaps by the strong vegetal odor that the dying trees and the earth exhaled. I was barely sensitive to the contrast of these dead trees with the renewal of springtime. In this state the park was more open to receive light which bathed and gilded both what was dead and what was alive. However, from far away the tragic song of the axes filled the air with a funeral solemnity, secretly

On the third day after all hell broke loose, I come upstairs to the apartment, finished with my shift and so looking forward to a hot shower. Well, lukewarm—but I’ll pretend it’s hot. But when I pass Ellie’s room, I hear cursing—Linda Blair-Exorcist-head-spinning-around kind of cursing. I push open her door and spot my sister at her little desk, yelling at her laptop. Even Bosco barks from the bed. “What’s going on?” I ask. “I just came up but Marty’s down there on his own—he won’t last longer than ten minutes.” “I know, I know.” She waves her hand. “I’m in a flame war with a toxic bitch on Twitter. Let me just huff and puff and burn her motherfucking house down…and then I’ll go sell some coffee.” “What happened?” I ask sarcastically. “Did she insult your makeup video?” Ellie sighs, long and tortured. “That’s Instagram, Liv—I seriously think you were born in the wrong century. And anyway, she didn’t insult me—she insulted you.” Her words pour over me like the ice-bucket challenge. “Me? I have like two followers on Twitter.” Ellie finishes typing. “Boo-ya. Take that, skank-a-licious!” Then she turns slowly my way. “You haven’t been online lately, have you?” This isn’t going to end well, I know it. My stomach knows it too—it whines and grumbles. “Ah, no?” Ellie nods and stands, gesturing to her computer. “You might want to check it out. Or not—ignorance is bliss, after all. If you do decide to take a peek, you might want to have some grain alcohol nearby.” Then she pats my shoulder and heads downstairs, her blond ponytail swaying behind her. I glance at the screen and my breath comes in quick, semi-panicked bursts and my blood rushes like a runaway train in my veins. I’ve never been in a fight, not in my whole life. The closest I came was sophomore year in high school, when Kimberly Willis told everyone she was going to kick the crap out of me. So I told my gym teacher, Coach Brewster—a giant lumberjack of a man—that I got my period unexpectedly and had to go home. He spent the rest of the school year avoiding eye contact with me. But it worked—by the next day, Kimberly found out Tara Hoffman was the one talking shit about her and kicked the crap out of her instead

Ricky Marigold was his name up at the commune. He was seventeen, had run away from home in Pacoima and was a righteous grasshead. He wasn't a bad kid, just fucked up. He was for: love, truth, gentleness, getting high, staying high, good sounds, pleasant weather, funky clothes and rapping with his friends. He was against: Viet Nam, the Laws with their riot sticks, violence, bigotry, random hatred, nine-to-five jobs, squares who tried to get you to conform, grass full of seeds and stems, and bringdowns in general. He met Jack Gardiner on the corner of Laurel Canyon and Sunset, across from Schwab's where the starlets went to show off their asses. He saw Jack Gardiner as a little too old to be making the scene, but the guy looked flaky enough: lumberjack shirt, good beard, bright eyes; and he seemed to be friendly enough. So Ricky invited him to come along. They walked up Laurel Canyon, hunching along next to the curb on the sidewalkless street. "Gonna be a quiet scene," Ricky said. "Just a buncha beautiful people groovin' on themselves, maybe turning on, you know." The older man nodded; his hands were deep in his pants pockets. They walked quite a while, finally turning up Stone Canyon Road. A mile up the twisting road. Jack Gardiner slipped a step behind Ricky Marigold and pulled out the blade. Ricky had started to turn, just as Connie's father drove the shaft into Ricky's back, near the base of the spine. Ricky was instantly paralyzed, though not dead. He slipped to the street, and Jack Gardiner dragged him into the high weeds and junk of an empty lot. He left him there to die. Unable to speak, unable to move, Ricky Marigold found all the love draining out of him. Slowly, for six hours, through the small of his back.

My cold-weather gear left a lot to be desired: black maternity leggings under boot-cut maternity jeans, and a couple of Marlboro Man’s white T-shirts under an extra-large ASU sweatshirt. I was so happy to have something warm to wear that I didn’t even care that I was wearing the letters of my Pac-10 rival. Add Marlboro Man’s old lumberjack cap and mud boots that were four sizes too big and I was on my way to being a complete beauty queen. I seriously didn’t know how Marlboro Man would be able to keep his hands off of me. If I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the feed truck, I’d shiver violently. But really, when it came right down to it, I didn’t care. No matter what I looked like, it just didn’t feel right sending Marlboro Man into the cold, lonely world day after day. Even though I was new at marriage, I still sensed that somehow--whether because of biology or societal conditioning or religious mandate or the position of the moon--it was I who was to be the cushion between Marlboro Man and the cruel, hard world. That it was I who’d needed to dust off his shoulders every day. And though he didn’t say it, I could tell that he felt better when I was bouncing along, chubby and carrying his child, in his feed truck next to him. Occasionally I’d hop out of the pickup and open gates. Other times he’d hop out and open them. Sometimes I’d drive while he threw hay off the back of the vehicles. Sometimes I’d get stuck and he’d say shit. Sometimes we’d just sit in silence, shivering as the vehicle doors opened and closed. Other times we’d engage in serious conversation or stop and make out in the snow. All the while, our gestating baby rested in the warmth of my body, blissfully unaware of all the work that awaited him on this ranch where his dad had grown up. As I accompanied Marlboro Man on those long, frigid mornings of work, I wondered if our child would ever know the fun of sledding on a golf course hill…or any hill, for that matter. I’d lived on the ranch for five months and didn’t remember ever hearing about anyone sledding…or playing golf…or participating in any recreational activities at all. I was just beginning to wrap my mind around the way daily life unfolded here: wake up early, get your work done, eat, relax, and go to bed. Repeat daily. There wasn’t a calendar of events or dinner dates with friends in town or really much room for recreation--because that just meant double the work when you got back to work. It was hard for me not to wonder when any of these people ever went out and had a good time, or built a snowman. Or slept past 5:00 A.M.

Chicago, Illinois 1896 Opening Night Wearing her Brünnhilda costume, complete with padding, breastplate, helm, and false blond braids, and holding a spear as if it were a staff, Sophia Maxwell waited in the wings of the Canfield-Pendegast theatre. The bright stage lighting made it difficult to see the audience filling the seats for opening night of Die Walküre, but she could feel their anticipation build as the time drew near for the appearance of the Songbird of Chicago. She took slow deep breaths, inhaling the smell of the greasepaint she wore on her face. Part of her listened to the music for her cue, and the other part immersed herself in the role of the god Wotan’s favorite daughter. From long practice, Sophia tried to ignore quivers of nervousness. Never before had stage fright made her feel ill. Usually she couldn’t wait to make her appearance. Now, however, nausea churned in her stomach, timpani banged pain-throbs through her head, her muscles ached, and heat made beads of persperation break out on her brow. I feel more like a plucked chicken than a songbird, but I will not let my audience down. Annoyed with herself, Sophia reached for a towel held by her dresser, Nan, standing at her side. She lifted the helm and blotted her forehead, careful not to streak the greasepaint. Nan tisked and pulled out a small brush and a tin of powder from one of the caprious pockets of her apron. She dipped the brush into the powder and wisked it across Sophia’s forehead. “You’re too pale. You need more rouge.” “No time.” A rhythmic sword motif sounded the prelude to Act ll. Sophia pivoted away from Nan and moved to the edge of the wing, looking out to the scene of a rocky mountain pass. Soon the warrior-maiden Brünnhilda would make an appearance with her famous battle cry. She allowed the anticpaptory energy of the audience to fill her body. The trills of the high strings and upward rushing passes in the woodwinds introduced Brünnhilda. Right on cue, Sophia made her entrance and struck a pose. She took a deep breath, preparing to hit the opening notes of her battle call. But as she opened her mouth to sing, nothing came out. Caught off guard, Sophia cleared her throat and tried again. Nothing. Horrified, she glanced around, as if seeking help, her body hot and shaky with shame. Across the stage in the wings, Sophia could see Judith Deal, her understudy and rival, watching. The other singer was clad in a similar costume to Sophia’s for her role as the valkerie Gerhilde. A triumphant expression crossed her face. Warwick Canfield-Pendegast, owner of the theatre, stood next to Judith, his face contorted in fury. He clenched his chubby hands. A wave of dizziness swept through Sophia. The stage lights dimmed. Her knees buckled. As she crumpled to the ground, one final thought followed her into the darkness. I’ve just lost my position as prima dona of the Canfield-Pendegast Opera Company.

What did the fish say when it hit a concrete wall?” he asks me. We’re sitting on the bank of a stream and he’s tying a fly onto my fishing rod, wearing a cowboy hat and a red lumberjack-style flannel shirt over a grey tee. So adorable. “What?” I say, wanting to laugh and he hasn’t even told me the punch line. He grins. Unbelievable how gorgeous he is. And that he’s mine. He loves me and I love him and how rare and beautiful is that? “Dam!” he says.

Just looking at him and I felt like I hadn’t been with a man in years, like I’d never been properly fucked.

It was as though Diane had The strength of Ten Men. She looked like an Evil Lumberjack on Steroids. Holding The Hammer high above Her Head, looking Ray straight in The Eyes now, Diane slammed The sharp Hammer down onto Ray’s face. Hitting Him again and again, each hit more savage than The last. There was no escape from The blows, Ray’s only Hope, was to somehow reach The real Diane, to get past this Devilish Entity, That had Invaded The Woman He Loved before it was too Late.

Having accepted a graduate fellowship in the Department of Philosophy at Cornell, I duly presented myself to begin studies for a Ph.D. One of our assignments during the first semester was to read Kant's Critique of Pure Reason from cover to cover, along with Norman Kemp Smith's commentary thereon, which was almost as voluminous. Pondering this literature, it did not take me long to conclude that these Kantian ratiocinations, brilliant though they may be, have little to do with that Sophia—that more-than-human Wisdom—of which authentic philosophy, by its very designation, is literally the love. And so, three weeks into the semester, I resigned my fellowship and left Cornell University. "I had always been attracted to the natural world, to forests and mountains especially; and so I resolved to proceed to the great Northwest, henceforth to earn my keep as a lumberjack. No doubt I had an unrealistic and overly romanticized conception of what this entails; but in any case, at that point fate abruptly intervened. I had made my intentions known to my brother, who at the time was studying chemical engineering at Purdue University. He immediately proceeded to the chairman of the physics department to tell him about my case, going so far as to put my letter in his hands. The verdict was instant: 'Tell you brother to present himself in my office Monday morning to assume his duties as a teaching assistant.' It seems the voice of Providence had spoken: despite my very mixed feelings regarding the contemporary academic world, I was destined to pass most of my professional life in its precincts—but not in departments of philosophy!

Your parents thought about it, and the name they came up with for their child was Bruiser?” “Aren’t

Ambrose was ejected from the arena by Triple H. Later that night, Rollins came out and announced that he had won their match by forfeit. Ambrose would then burst into the ring and attack Rollins and a vicious brawl ensued where both men had to be pulled apart by both The Authority and security. Rollins was then shown leaving the arena into the parking lot, where Ambrose was hiding in the trunk of a car and attempted to attack Rollins with a tire iron before Rollins managed to drive away. On the August 4 edition of Raw, Ambrose won the Beat The Clock challenge against Rollins when he distracted him on his match to pick the stipulation for their match at SummerSlam. Later in the week on Smackdown, Ambrose revealed the stipulation to be a Lumberjack match against Rollins at SummerSlam. They fought at the SummerSlam pay-per-view where Ambrose lost to Rollins. The following night on Raw in Las Vegas, Nevada Triple H allowed the WWE Universe vote on the match stipulation for a rematch between Ambrose and Rollins that night on Raw. The stipulation ended up as a "Falls Count Anywhere" Match. During the contest Kane made his way out assisting Rollins. Kane uncovered a stack of cinder blocks at ring side and held Ambrose down to allow Rollins to perform his curb stomp on Amborse against the cinder blocks. Ambrose was then sent to a local medical center, had he not thrown off his restraints, refused treatment and escaped from WWE officials altogether and he hasn't been seen since that night. On Night of Champions, Ambrose returned and attacked Seth Rollins after Rollins issued an open challenge. On the October 6th episode of Raw, The Authority would make the first match of the Hell in a Cell pay-per-view to be Ambrose against John Cena with the stipulation of the winner facing Rollins in a Hell

Scotty” is not his real name, by the way; I only call him that because of his obsession with Star Trek, the same way he calls me “Ursula” because of my love for bears. Scotty’s brother, Trevor, is also waiting on the sofa. My stomach does its usual flip-flop when I see him. I knew he would be here, of course—he and I have an appointment to talk privately after the movie—but I can’t help the effect he has on me. Trevor Lehto is twenty-eight, ten years younger than Scotty and two years older than me. Today he’s wearing a lumberjack shirt with the sleeves turned up to his elbows, Converse sneakers, and jeans, which work well with his brown hair and eyes and a scruffy beard that manages to look both natural and groomed. I also have brown hair and eyes and am wearing jeans and plaid because this is practically the uniform for men and women in the U.P., but Trevor pulls off the look in a way that people tend to notice. I’m reasonably certain I’m not the only person at the hospital who has a crush on him.

In my little house I have my worktable, I have my Smith-Corona, my mattress, my box springs, my bed frame. I have a couch I found on the street in Pacific Grove. I have kitchen utensils—a pot, a teakettle, a frying pan. I have one spoon and one fork. I have a knife. I have no TV, no radio, no stereo. This is before computers, so no email, no Instagram, no social media. I have no correspondents. I write to nobody—not friends, not family. Nobody. And nobody writes to me. My day goes like this. I wake before dawn, eat a breakfast for a lumberjack. Four eggs, raw milk, potatoes, tomatoes. Bacon or sausage are too weak for me. Liver. A big slab for power. I walk for an hour. The sun is coming up now.

Posters of skeletons are far less motivational than actual skeletons...The dead win every game they ever play.

Sometimes the abandoned never makes it free of the forest.

Never ask a story for answers.

You’re covered in blood,” Felix noted. Jericho snorted. “Yeah, kind of a hazard of the job.” Felix scoffed. “Yeah, but you’re also wearing that weird smug, smirky look you only get whenever you get laid, and since you were in an abandoned cabin with Trevor the perv, we’re…alarmed.” He flicked his hand dramatically. “Alarmed,” Jericho echoed. Arsen leaned in, his tone conspiratorial. “Did you fuck Trevor the perv, Coe?" Felix pulled a face. “I’m just hoping he fucked him before he killed him, not after. Once you cross that line, you don’t come back.” Jericho tried to follow their dizzying thought process, but before he could formulate a response, Nico and Levi arrived. Fuck. Levi looked like a wanted poster had fucked a tattoo model. His inky dark hair fell in his face, and he sucked on a Dum-Dum lollipop. Nico’s springy blond curls hung in his face. He looked surprisingly angelic for somebody who was such a little monster. “What’s up? Why’s everybody looking so constipated?” Levi asked. “Coe fucked Trevor the perv,” Arsen said, as if this was fact and not their wild speculation. Levi wrinkled his nose. “That dude was gay? Or was he, like”—he mimed a blowjob—“trying to bribe his way out of it?” Jericho’s face contorted at the idea of a blowjob from greasy ass Trevor, but they paid him no mind. Nico also looked disgusted. “What the fuck, man? Like, I get it. Who hasn’t wanted to fuck somebody they killed or kill somebody they fucked? But it’s a slippery slope, man.” “This is what I told him,” Arsen said, shaking his head. “Once you cross that line…” “Jesus Christ. I didn’t fuck Trevor the perv. I killed Trevor the perv,” Jericho said, walking around the four of them to head to his office, attempting to close the door behind him. His brother caught it and swung it back open. “If you didn’t fuck Trevor, then who was it? And don’t lie and say it didn’t happen. Your after orgasm glow never lies,” Arsen said, flopping down into a chair hard enough to rock it back dangerously far before it righted itself. “I—” Jericho shook his head. “I ran into a guy.” “With your dick?” Levi asked. Nico’s brows knitted together. “In the middle of the woods?” “Like, a homeless man in the woods? A… What’s the word? A hobo?” Arsen asked. Levi elbowed him. “We don’t call them that anymore. Show some respect.” Arsen shrugged. “Sorry. What do you call a man roaming the woods looking for sex?” “A lie,” Felix said, his mouth set in a hard line. “No way my brother banged some hot, sweaty lumberjack in the woods. That’s not his type.” His long, elegant fingers trailed over his collarbones, a slow smile spreading along his face as his brother seemed to get lost in his own lumberjack fantasy. “I—” “There’s nothing in the woods but animals and Sasquatch,” Nico said. “Sasquatch?” Levi parroted. Nico nodded. “Yeah, you know. Bigfoot.” “Did you fuck Bigfoot?” Levi asked, pulling the lollipop from his mouth with a pop.

knowledge of the environment helped her: she just walked calmly by the creatures, confident that they generally do not attack humans. The stream supplied her with ample clean water and a natural path through the dense rainforest. But it gave her no real food. The only sustenance she had was some candy she had found scattered by the wreckage. She also had several open lacerations which were vulnerable to parasites. After a few days, Juliane became aware of an unusual sensation in one of the cuts on her arm. It felt a bit like an infection, but it became increasingly irritating, as if there was something in the wound. When she looked she discovered that a fly had laid its eggs in the hole in her arm. They had hatched and now maggots were writhing within her flesh. Terrified that she would lose her arm, there was little she could do without proper medical attention. As each day passed she became weaker and more vulnerable. Was she right to have followed her father’s advice? What if there were no human settlements for hundreds of miles? Maybe she should have waited to be rescued. But then, on the tenth day, she stumbled out of the jungle and almost tripped over a canoe. There was a shelter beside it, and there she waited. A few hours later, the lumberjacks who lived in the shelter finished their day’s work

My family lives in Canada. My omega father is a helicopter pilot, and my alpha father used to be a lumberjack. He’s retired now.” Leo’s lips quirked. “A proper Canadian lumberjack?” “Yes. Except a dragon shifter one.” “Wow.

I had spent my thirty-four years on this planet on autopilot. Waking up every day to do what others wanted while ignoring myself and my needs. Living in a perpetually numb state while I lived the life others expected of me. Day by day, I smiled and nodded and behaved, paralyzed by the need to please those around me.

So, you want to tell us about that hockey lumberjack or what?" "Hockey lumberjack?" Marcus asked, setting his phone on the coffee table facedown in a gesture of absolute interest in the conversation.

If Theo fit the lumberjack bill, Noah was written for lumberjack porn.

We had special moves like Pretty Poisons, Sleepy Eyes, Shark Attacks, and Biggie Fries; Bottle Caps, Bus Stops, Double Touches, and Bunny Hops; Death Rallies, Dot-to-dots, Best Friendsies, and Mystery Spots; Lumberjacks, Passbacks, Blackjacks, and Hackysacks. It sounds more like something out of a Dr. Seuss book rather than a sport.

Maybe he was a serial killer? Shockingly, that didn’t bother me. Shit, I needed to stop reading so much dark romance.

Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.

I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but when I first saw you, I thought you looked like, well…” I coughed, second-guessing my moment of truth. “Like a lumberjack.” “Nah. It’s a compliment. And if we’re on the subject of honest first impressions…” He leaned forward, his face softening. “When I met you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

He’s not a sexy lumberjack making thirst traps for social media. He’s the man holding me hostage, and I need to get the fuck away from him.