Ugly Dog

Dialated Sun

Ugly Dog, Ugly Dog, sniff out the clues
Ugly Dog, Ugly Dog, find something to use!

~
Pictured above is the beautiful Jaylen Barron, whom I always envisioned as Valentine.
~

Waking up early must be one of the most comforting feelings in the world. Being alone, the whole house asleep, town still dormant and ready to be encountered. You're awake before all else, watching the mysteries as they run from the light and hide themselves in shadows. You watch it all from a vantage point, savoring your temporary god like abilities and feeling the environment in new ways you never had before. The air was crisper, your bare feet on wooden floors were colder and louder; voices couldn't be spoken above a whisper, and every movement or creak captured your attention like you were a bird of prey hunting small rodents in a field. That's how I saw my phone this morning.
I never pay much attention to it. I don't have many friends, and in a small town like this if they want my attention a sharp knock on the door would do the trick. I put it on the kitchen breakfast bar as I made coffee, and as there were no rings or vibrations I forgot it there. At roughly six o'clock I was sitting at the breakfast table on my laptop. I was scrolling through the worldwide news on my most trusted websites, sometimes looking off out my window and wondering why nothing so interesting happened here. A sip of coffee, an article read, look out the window, and repeat.
Wendell is as boring as the next town, except we get freezing cold weather ten months out of twelve and we have no sports team to speak of! Well, the latter isn't very true. We have a small, inconspicuous hokey team that randomly shows up to town after eleven months of "away games" and binges on free beers. Other than that, nada.
We're located way up in the ass crack of Alaska, and Wendell itself is settled nice and comfy halfway up HindogSkate mountain. The most action we get are happy go lucky thrill seekers who are too hesitant to actually try their luck on a big mountain, so they settle for Hindog, have a nice beer, and head home with an exaggerated story to tell. You can't write too much on that.
Outside, you could feel winter creeping up. Any out-of-towners would have a hard time telling winter from spring in this place, but is locals have a sixth sense. Fall is light, lighter than spring. Spring is the end, when the last heavy drops of snowfall are coming down and the trees and plants are just begining to struggle against the flooding waters of melted ice to grow. Fall is the beginning of the end, light snow falls like the sky is dancing, leaves litter the ground weakly and quickly become compost: or are just swished away. Fall is dying, when everything living gives up and just drops. They already know what's coming, they can't push their deaths off any longer than the seasons can contain themselves. If you know your end is coming, it is rare that you fight.
For this reason, almost everyone in the town tends to shrivel up and hibernate too. The cold is inevitable, and just like the trees we prepare too. Rakes become heavy duty shovels, plows and heavy duty shovels take the place of bikes and sidewalk chalk. Kids playing outside are now kids shoveling for their parents and neighbors. The old and frail stop making their frequent appearances, and in the depths of the month even the young and strong hide away too.
Outside I see the nights light snow on the ground. I don't need to touch it to know that it is heavier than even the worst fall snow, and that the air outside must be crisp to the touch. I could read the ice on the windows and tell that today would be a lazy day. Much to my loss.
Looking out the window bought a chill on me, so I turned my gaze inwards. The house was tan and comfy. A little cold, sure, but warmer than outside. From my position I could just see the beginning of the hall, my brother has his door opened just a creak. I could imagine him sweat strangled in his sheets, he was always warm no matter what the temperature was. My room was at the end of the hall, shut tight and locked as always. A good journalist always keeps her sources information safe. Moms was next, the only white door in the house. Always open, no secrets to hide. She says that she doesn't like to feel closed in, but I think she just wants to know if anyone's sneaking out. Then there was our little roommate, Sir OldLady Maggie LeFon. Her door was always sealed shut, and whenever you walked past it you could smell incents of lavender and potent burning oils. She was an old, grumpy french lady who barely spoke a lick of english. However, she is to say, unattached. Family, grandkids, nothing prominent to speak of. Not even any close friends. So, when LeFons natural time comes, more likely than not her legacy will be coming for the people who sheltered her during her life.
I felt a little guilty about the plan at first. I mean, we weren't doing anything illegal, but the humanity in waiting for someone to die to get their money is extremely depressing. However, after the insults started coming, I felt much less bad about it.
She never insulted my mother or brother, no, only I was the lucky duck here. It started off as angry French grumbling when we were alone in a room together, nothing I could understand but I could hear the contempt in her voice. It didn't bother me much, it'd stop after a couple of minutes and I could go about with what I was doing.
Now, it's English phrases. Bits and pieces of would be sentences - she sounded like an insane woman. It didn't stop, either. Every single time we were alone together, she would grumble, and it only gets louder as time goes on. Her favorite words seem to be 'very' and 'bad', although oddly enough she never used them in the same session. She also had a fondness of  'blueberry', but that doesn't seem very ominous.
There was a change of light to my right, towards the living room and kitchen. I snapped my head towards it, half expecting LeFon to be standing there staring at me. Luckily, it was not, it was only the blue glow of my phone.
I got up and made it to the breakfast island in two long steps. On my phone I was subscribed to my towns local news website, which mostly consisted of sale updates and the occasional debate drama from our school. An update was flashing on my phone, and in initial disappointment I almost set it back down without another thought. However, the word 'body bag' grabbed my attention and held it. I unlocked the phone and read the article like it was a best selling novel.

Jacob Leverin, a resident of upstate Wendell, had a surprising encounter this morning while walking his dog. While passing the towns local technology school, NorseSkies, Leverin and his dog came across a body bag sitting right outside the property.
"It was black, like the ones you see in the movies." Leverin In stated to the Wendell Police Force. "My dog, he started biting at it and I thought - maybe it's just garbage? I mean, it had the NorseSkies logo on it, why would you put that on a body bag? It was even piled all up next to the trash, who would do that?" Leverin then called the police in a panic, but when the force showed up there was no sign of the claimed body bag. A statement from Leverin says that he only walked a few steps from the body, and has no idea how the bag could have moved. NorseSkies is now threatening to press charges if any warrants are made about an empty call.

And just like that, my day went from boring to to action packed. I could tell that the article was written quickly, which must mean that the drama was still going on. I cursed to myself, checking the little silver wrist watch my brother had gotten me for my birthday. It was 6:45, and the next shuttle bus up the mountain would be at seven. I could make it, but it would still take half an hour to get up there. Still, there was no way I could ever let myself miss out on this. Even if I didn't get anything good, it would still make a hell of a learning experience.
I slammed my computer closed and rushed to my room. So maybe I lied at first, my door wasn't actually 'locked', but there was a trick to opening it that nobody seemed to get, so they all blamed it on the 'lock'. I turned the handle to the right, jiggled, kicked lightly two times at its bottom right corner, and turned the handle to the right. The door swung open, and I shoved my NOTEbook into a duffel bag along with my camera and lucky pen. I closed up the blue bag and shot back out of my room again. I stopped before my brothers door. He had a little heart carved into the wood of his doorframe with our names inscribed with messy purple and red pen. Valentine & Novice. Odd names, yeah, but we are just equally as odd. I saw his messy black hair underneath a tornado of baby blue covers. He had beautiful, intricate sketches taped all over his walls. Gorgeous meadow scenes, nighttime drawings where you could almost see the windy air. He drew much too good for a twelve year old, and he was much too smart too. I slipped silently into his room and tiptoed over to his desk. I took a pencil from his bin of colors and scribbled a note onto a post it, then taped it onto his end table, right next to his lamp. He was always the first one up in the mornings, not counting me. He'd tell mom where I went.
With one last look at my sleepy bro, I threw on my boots and jacket and stomped out the door.