Ugly : clifford a.u

Michael

Here’s the thing about Gut Ditch. It’s tiny, really tiny, like teeny tiny. If you want groceries you go to Olaf’s, everything else you get at the Pick-Real-Quick and if you want to go out to eat you better like Pizza Americanized Italian because those are your only options.

There’s two schools, one for little kids and one for everyone else. There’s a church, a small Library stock full of outdated books with booger filled pages, there’s the small building on the edge of town where the single doctor, who’s also a dentist practices, and then there’s the fire and police station.

Combined into one the building is small and doesn’t earn enough to pay its workers so they work on a volunteer basis. Being a fire fighter or police officer in Gut Ditch is like being toilet scrubber. You don’t get paid, you don’t get any action, other than the Fourth of July parade every year, and you’re kind of looked down upon by all the guys that work in the factories a half mile down the road.

So when I heard sirens whizzing past the house one evening, I couldn’t help but imagine all sorts of crazy scenarios. Perhaps someone had choked on a breadstick at the Olive Garden, or maybe Mrs. Gleaner the oldest woman in town had finally bitten the dust. Perhaps there was a fire, or an accident, or a murder.

Gut Ditch didn’t have its own news station, so there was no way of knowing until my Mom returned home from her job as the Gut Ditch dispatcher, operator and poison control receptionist.

My mind elaborating on my supposed theories until I’d determined that there was a killer on the loose and I’d be receiving a call any minute asking what my favorite horror movie was and telling me to check my closets, I was so startled when I heard the front door opening that I let out a less then manly shriek.

“Michael?” my Mom questioned, because of course that’s who it was, and not the knife fingered boogieman I’d imagined.

“I’m in the kitchen.” I called out, cursing quietly as I burned my fingertips on the hot in pan which I was attempting to make grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the mystery soup I’d picked out from work.

I wasn’t exactly sure which I had opened but it didn’t smell awful. I’d narrowed it down to either be baked potato with cheddar or baked potato with stake, cheese and bacon. I was strongly hoping it was the former rather than the latter, however I’d also set out some variety of potato chips in case the soup was inedible.

Flipping Mom’s sandwich out of the pan and dropping it to the floor, I hastily picked it up and set it on the counter before I heard her footsteps approaching on the linoleum.

“Oh wow,” she said sounding surprised, “You made dinner.”

 Nodding proudly, I hid the hand I had cut on the lid of the sup can behind my back.

“This is nice.” She praised sounding exhausted, “But can I have the sandwich you didn’t drop on the floor?”

“You saw that?” I muttered.

“It’s fine.” She laughed, “Is the soup fini…oh my, yeah it’s done.”

“What do you mean?” I questioned, leaning over the pot, “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, it’s burned.” She said slowly, “And stuck to the pot and is lamb, potato and cheddar.”

“Lamb?” I shrieked, horrified “Like baby sheep?”

“That’s what lamb is.” My Mom said slowly.

“Why a baby sheep?” I cried, “What kind of sick twisted individual can kill a baby sheep?”