Trip by C.C. Russell

Outside of us, there were visions—an orange sort of aura over the range. Third sunset since you last slept, your eyes a stranger to themselves. You threw your hands out in a wild sudden gesture, flapped them across the sky; encompassing. “This,” you said. “All of this.” And then you fell silent, the evident depth understandable only to someone as stoned as yourself. The irrepressible urge to describe everything in succinct movements, as few words as you could afford.

C.C. Russell currently lives in Wyoming with his wife, daughter, and two cats. He holds a BA in English from the University of Wyoming and has held jobs in a wide range of vocations. His poetry has appeared in the New York Quarterly, Rattle, and Whiskey Island among others. His short fiction has appeared in The Meadow,, and, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and for inclusion in The Best Small Fictions.