By Chip Houser
Trees creak in the steady wind rushing off the foothills.
Trustafarians dash from coffee shop couches into the streets to spin like bearded dust devils, worshipping the wind. They call the winds chinooks, just like the locals, not that they’ve met many of those. Rare birds, those locals.
The trustafarians zip-tie sheets to ankles and wrists and leap into the wind. Sheets snap taut, ballooning like 300-count bellies, lifting the trustafarians in elongated arcs down the streets.
Soon, fresh powder will lure the trustafarians to the slopes and the locals will emerge, reclaiming their streets and coffee shops until spring.
Chip maintains his cynical optimism—about the world, its people and animals, our collective future, all that weighty darkness—by banishing his less charitable thoughts directly into fiction. That way he can channel his good energy into his amazing wife and their several four-legged joy monsters.