woodcutter - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The lumberjack picked up his axe and headed back to the camp. His back ached and his shoulders felt like they were on fire, but his spirits were high. It was Friday night and they'd all be bundling in the back of the wagon to take their money to the town. Tonight there would be booze, women and song. It's what he lived for during the week.
With hands as gnarled as the bark he hacked and a face as browned as timber, the woodcutter was a sight only his bride could love. In the whole town only she knew what he looked like with the beard clean shaved after months of being out in the wilderness, and what he looked like in clean clothes. For when he came for those seven days with her in their cottage he never left, not once. Home was home, outside was for work. He would sing to her in gravelled tones and dance light-footed to their shared music. He would sleep heavily all night and watch her bewitched as she prepared their meals. After listening to her tales of the town he would draw her back into the bedroom. On those long trips felling trees she was all he thought about, so much so that he felt like he had to cram eight weeks worth of affection into one before he was gone again. No matter what she always cried on the seventh day, begged him to find a job in the town...but this was the best money he would ever make.
The woodcutter stood back to admire his freshly cleaved pile of kindling wood. With both hands on the small of his back he straightened up, and turned his face to the sun. This first kiss of warmth after the winter months was a blessing and a curse. He had months of fine weather to stockpile for winter, but the fine weather sales were far leaner. Now in his forties he was still fitter than many men half his age in the town, while they toiled at desks in their superior way, totting up figures and writing ledgers he was out in the elements. While they crammed their lives into two days a week he truly felt that he lived all seven.
In the clearing was a man who could have stepped crisply from the pages of Hansel and Gretel. Clad in earthen grey pants with straps right over his burly shoulders and leaning on the handle of his axe, he eyed us without suspicion. Quite the contrary, his face lit up like we were his long lost children. Hailing us in broad German and nodding genially he took out his kerchief and wiped his brow. On seeing the look of non-comprehension on our faces he laughed and gestured for us to follow. I turned to Freddie, "Just so long as it's not a gingerbread house."