Lumberjack

Lumberjack By R.W. Clinger “What the f**k?” I stopped keying words on my laptop and said to myself, listening to the echo of thunderous chopping in the distance, outside the living room’s window. How distracting that noise became, bothersome to the nth degree. How irritating. Chop! Chop! Chop! “What’s going on out there?” I saved the document on the laptop and loosened the ball-and-chain that forced me to work for hours on top of hours. Truth shared, I needed a little break from chapter three of Lost and Beguiling, my third novel, a work in progress that had seen a hint of life but felt is if it were plummeting to its death right in front of me, specifically my fingertips, plagued. At twenty-six I had my first novel, Hardship Rebound, published through a New York house called TBB, Thomas Blister Books. The 309-page read did well on domestic and international charts. It went to number twelve on the bestseller’s list here in the States, and number seven across The Pond. Blister seemed to enjoy my work, and sales, and decided to publish my second novel on the day I turned thirty-three—happy birthday to me! The book worked well with the title The Nelson Reformatory and went to number two on the New York Time’s Bestsellers list, short of beating Stephen King at the number one spot; no surprise. Again, Blister had made some green from my second novel and decided to pay me a hefty chunk of front money to write a third book; I didn’t need it because of the trust fund left behind from my father, Dillon Raymond Trumble; eleven-point-three million, if you want to know such a detail. But I took the money, said thanks a bunch, and left Pittsburgh, driving north with an unfinished tale under my left arm. Currently, Lost and Beguiling had my attention near Lake Erie; a third novel in the works, but not necessarily under my belt as of yet. Aunt Mirabella Trumble, my dead father’s sister had a small cottage by the lake she no longer used. Sarasota, Florida called to her five years before and she never looked back. The cottage spoke of smallness, but comfort. One bedroom. Two floors. Simple. Sweet. Some would have called it charming, but I thought too feminine to label it as such. I drove from Pittsburgh to the cottage in late October, set up house there, and forecasted to be finished with the novel by January 1, turning it over to TBB. Fingers crossed. Thereafter, I would return to Pittsburgh, back to my Tudor on Missile Street, to my few friends, and the city’s dirty, creamy brown rivers. Chop! Chop! Chop! The noise nauseated me. Leaving my tiny workspace—a card table, notebook, pencil, and a laptop—I went to the window overlooking the neighbor’s property and closed it. Thereafter, I returned to my seat and set out to work. Chop! Chop! Chop! “f**k!” I said, ending my writing time for the day, overtly frustrated. I napped, but barely. * * * * It happened again the next afternoon. Insidious chopping noises from next door, which kept me from my labor. “Enough!” I yelled at myself, fully irritated, and went to battle. The autumn wind grazed my cheeks as I walked through the short pathway—a mere ninety feet—of oaks, maples, and pines between my aunt’s property and the next door neighbor’s. Bundled in a sweater, jeans, and Timberland boots, I trotted towards the disruptive noise. Chop! Chop! Chop! In the distance, through the smattering of thin and skeletal woods, a male figure worked in the distance, chopping wood. Upon closer inspection, a change of heart regarding my full-throttled anger, I became dazzled by him, disbelieving my eyes. An unmistakable attraction and interest for the gentleman heightened my senses. He stood approximately at six-four, showcased a blond beard and thick mass of head hair. Jeans clamped to his thick thighs, and sweat clung to his hairy, naked chest. Pointed n*****s and a rippled stomach almost caused me to gasp, inebriated by the stranger’s good looks. I almost fainted but didn’t. But I did feel log-hard between my legs, alert of the stranger. Frankly, I couldn’t believe the hulking man bare-chested since it topped forty-one degrees Fahrenheit during that first week of November. Not that I complained, though, since he resembled a Greek god in the distance, a Brawny model of sorts, or a Colt porn star, tempting the easiness of my pent testosterone, and toying with my s****l drive. Chop! Chop! Chop! A long piece of timber stretched on the ground in front of him. He swung an axe upwards, over his right shoulder, pivoted its silver blade against the gray afternoon, quickly dropped it forward, and planted it into the oak wood near his feet, creating a V-shape, attempting to chop the twenty-foot trunk into smaller pieces. Tongue hanging out, eyes wide, and having my balls tingle between my legs, I watched him chop! chop! chop! again and again. I must have accidentally moved where he saw me because he stopped his manly exercise. The stranger dropped the ax’s blade to the ground and positioned its handle against his left side. Its silver head rested on the crisp earth near his left boot. c*****g his stare in my direction (it was the first time I had seen his piercing and glinting and reflecting Adonis-blue eyes and felt the earth tremble beneath my Trumble legs) and called out to me, “Who’s there?” I said nothing at first, deciding exactly how to respond to his calling. One, I could run back to my aunt’s cottage and make myself believe I hadn’t witnessed his Herculean and sexy body in action; a total turn-on for me. Two, I could step forward, be a brave neighbor, willed to confront the stud, and introduce myself to the man. Or three, call out to him in a derogatory tone, starting s**t with him. Sadly, I chose option three and hollered in his direction, “None of your business! Who are you?”