The post-Halloween wind comes in, bearing its chill and a raspy cigarette-torn voice.  I feel its brush against the branches of our uselessly thin trees, hear its rough attempt at a tune.  It has been years now since your death and you have remained silent.  Only my own melodramatic mind can believe this voice is yours, can believe that you would still strive to contact me.  But it is just past Halloween and I am hungry for ghosts.  I taste the wind, hope against hope.


C.C. Russell lives in Wyoming with his wife and daughter.  His writing has appeared in such places as Wyvern Lit,  Rattle, Word Riot, The Cimarron Review, and The Colorado Review.    He is a Pushcart prize and Best of the Net nominee.  In the past, he has also lived in New York and Ohio.


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