Plodding down well-hewn gashes of the south Arroyo, we escape grand houses that question our presence. Laughter splashes up from the regimented pool of extracurricular children. We joke that, not long enough ago, we would’ve found an idealized underbrushed overlook to share the revelations found in a cloud of skunk. Reigniting that haze promises madness. Age has saddled us with reputations and tremulous futures that depend on them. The grand houses lurk aloof, waiting to withhold their equity. Stay the trodden trails. The dead squirrel merits half a pause, and we continue descending. We give no time for its truth.
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Rachel S. Reed is a Pasadena-adjacent writer spinning whimsy during her down-time. She has a soft spot for sci-fi and quells her irrepressible penchant for nostalgia with frequent hops on the lindy circuit. You can check in with her on Twitter and relive the adventures of inanimate objects by subscribing to her newsletter.