illphated

The poster had ruffled more than a few feathers in Addison. Dusty, leaning against the counter of Miller’s General Store, overheard Mrs. Gable’s indignant sniff from the pickle barrel aisle. “Beautiful is better than ugly?” she’d huffed to Agnes Pruitt, who was meticulously weighing out dried beans. “Honestly, the things that girl comes up with.”

Dusty sighed, taking a long sip of her lukewarm coffee. The “girl” in question was, of course, her. Or rather, her likeness, splashed across town in vibrant hues of red, white, and a startlingly accurate rendering of Shadow’s glossy black fur. The slogan, however, was all hers.

It wasn’t meant to be a judgment on anyone’s appearance, though she could see how folks might take it that way in a town where hard work etched lines on faces and practicality dictated attire. No, Dusty’s “Beautiful is better than ugly” campaign was aimed squarely at the blight that had started to creep into Addison’s edges – the litter piling up by the creek, the neglected flowerbeds in front of the town hall, the general air of downtrodden resignation that seemed to settle over the townsfolk like a persistent fog.

Ever since the mill had downsized, taking with it a good chunk of Addison’s prosperity, a certain shabbiness had taken root. People seemed to have stopped caring about the small things, the niceties that made a town feel like home. Dusty, with her unwavering optimism and an eye for the pleasing, found it deeply unsettling.

“It’s about pride, Mrs. Gable,” Dusty had tried to explain at the town meeting, her green eyes earnest. “If we let things become ugly, inside and out, what hope do we have?”

Mrs. Gable had merely pursed her lips, unconvinced. “Looks ain’t everything, Delilah.”

“No, ma’am,” Dusty had conceded, her real name feeling formal and distant in this debate. “But beauty can inspire. It can remind us of what’s worth fighting for, what’s worth keeping clean and bright.”

Shadow, sensing her slight agitation, nudged her hand with his wet nose. He didn’t care about slogans or town morale; he just liked a clean porch and a scratch behind the ears.

That afternoon, Dusty and Shadow took their usual walk by the creek. The discarded soda cans and crumpled chip bags seemed even more jarring against the backdrop of the late summer wildflowers. She knelt down, picking up the trash, Shadow patiently holding a particularly offensive-smelling wrapper in his gentle mouth until she found a proper bin.

As they continued their walk, they passed by old Mr. Henderson’s garden, usually a riot of colorful blooms, now overgrown and neglected. Dusty stopped, a new idea forming.

The next morning, armed with borrowed shears and a determined spirit, Dusty and Shadow tackled Mr. Henderson’s unruly flowerbeds. By afternoon, the riot of color was beginning to re-emerge. A few townsfolk stopped to watch, curiosity piqued. Mrs. Gable even paused on her way back from the market, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

Dusty straightened up, wiping sweat from her brow. It wasn’t about superficial prettiness. It was about effort, about caring, about choosing to cultivate something good and bright even when things felt bleak. Maybe, just maybe, the poster’s simple message, amplified by small acts of tangible beauty, would start to take root. Maybe in ill-fated Addison, choosing beauty over ugliness was the first step towards finding a little bit of hope again, one cleaned-up patch of earth at a time.

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