DON'T TELL LUCILLE
We found some psilocybin in the woods yesterday and with the fishing being rare as nuns in a bar, had taken them with the last of our Jack. Like always, the early conversation went, “I’m not feeling it, should we take some more?” and ended with, “Ohshitohshitoshit.” At one point, Stevie leaned over to me and said the phrase that usually indicated what we were doing was too dangerous, stupid or fun to share with his wife: “Don’t tell Lucille.” I looked seriously at him for .3 milliseconds and then ended up rolling around in the pine needles for what seemed an hour. Every time one of us would stop and contemplate, say, taking a drink of beer, the other would say, “Don’t tell Lucille,” and we would be off again.
I was on my second or third dead-cat bounce of my comedown, when you think you are done tripping, but you are not. I had been lying on my back on a big rock near the river with my hands and feet in the air cloud-climbing, when Stevie jumped up, “Can’t you hear them?”...
Subscribe for access to this article plus the entire archive of The Flyfish Journal content—and receive a discount on all products. Subscribe Now