The Runaway

The tiny yellow butterfly landed on the young man’s single outstretched finger. He dared not move in fear he might frighten it away. He kept his eyes trained on the creature, on its sheer beauty and innocence. It distracted him for a moment from the destruction around him.

His world had gone gray, and this little flash of color was something for him to hold onto…even for just a little while.

“Hello.”

The whisper was so slight that at first he wondered if he’d dreamed it.

“Hello, mister.” This time he was sure of what he’d heard.

Careful not to disturb the tiny butterfly, he craned his neck, eyes moving over the field around him searching for some sign of movement, for the source of the whisper.

Nothing. For the first time in months, he was immersed in silence.

Except for that slight whisper. That quiet voice…

A chill ran down his spine as he realized he was completely alone. He looked back at the butterfly and tried to ignore the sensation of being watched.

It wasn’t long until he heard the whisper again, except that this time it was more insistent. “Mister, are you ignoring me?”

He jumped up from his position on the ground. Butterfly be damned. And it did fly away, only to return moments later to flit in front of his face.

Could it be?

He blinked at it, wondered for a moment if he had in fact his lost his mind. Had he waited too late to get out? Had he finally arrived at the doorstep of madness?

“You’re not crazy,” the butterfly said. “You’re just a coward.”

The young man stared as the butterfly landed again on his outstretched hand.

The war had gotten to him, the gunshots and blood, dead comrades and bombing, all of it had finally taken their toll. He’d escaped from it too late; his mind was gone.

“You’re not crazy,” the butterfly repeated, exasperation coloring its tone. “You’re just a coward.”

The insect was so tiny, and its voice matched it perfectly: slight, incredibly quiet, and yet, the words it spoke resounded loudly in the young man’s mind, as if they’d been screamed at him.

His defensiveness kicked in, and he swatted a hand at the pesky insect. “I’m not a coward!”

The butterfly easily dodged the swipe and came back to fly in front of the soldier’s face. “Cowards run away.”

It was true. He had run away, left his friends--his fellow soldiers--behind without a thought. “I’m not a coward.” He repeated quietly. This time his words held less conviction, as if maybe he doubted them.

“Fear does not make anyone a coward, but quitting does.” The butterfly hovered for a moment, then flew silently away towards the sound of a whistling train in the distance, leaving the young man with nothing but his guilt for company.

Somehow he knew without seeing that the train was one full of Jewish people on their way to some horrible fate, a fate in which being able to fight would be a luxury. He knew also that the people on that train were full of fear just like him, but unlike him, they had no means of escape. Quitting and running away weren’t options for them.

It made him ashamed.

It made him turn back.






Author's Note: This piece of fiction was written in response to The Lightning and the Lightning Bug's Flicker of Inspiration prompt. This week's prompt was the picture below, taken by my lovely and talented friend Whitney:

Story Songs

I guess it's the storyteller in me, the constant need to search for the meaning behind, the characters within, but I've always had a love and appreciation of story songs, or ballads as they are more traditionally called. Now I personally believe that all music tells a story one way or another, but story songs are beautiful narratives brought to life by notes and instruments and melodies. Some of my favorite artists are incredibly adept at telling stories through their music and voices, and I'd like to introduce you to some of my favorite "story songs" today.

Most of these songs have been covered time and again; I'm including my favorite covers.

Please note: I'm not a horribly morbid person, but for some reason, I do enjoy "murder ballads," as you'll see...

"The Long Black Veil" by Dave Matthews, lyrics by Danny Dill and Marijohn Wilkin

Story: Told from the point of view of a man falsely executed for murder. He dies for his crime, because his only alibi is his best friend's wife, whom he was sleeping with at the time of the murder. 

"Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" by The Killers, lyrics by Mel Tillis

Story: Told from the point of view of a war veteran who was paralyzed during The Korean War. He pleads with his wife, Ruby, to "leave her love at home" and not "take it to town," as she seems wont to do.

"Cocaine Blues" by Johnny Cash, lyrics by T.J. "Red" Arnall

Story: Told from the point of view of a convict who kills his wife during an enraged high. 

"Delia's Gone" by Johnny Cash, lyrics by Blake Higgs

Story: A song told from the point of view of the murderer of Delia Green. Read about Delia's true story here.

"Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits, lyrics by Mark Knopfler

Story: Pretty obvious here, but one of my favorite story songs ever. :)

What are some of your favorite "story songs"? Share them in the comments section and maybe we'll all discover some new favorites.

 

A Good Soul, or Today I'm a Cat Blogger

Over the weekend, The Lightning and Lightning Bug community linked up posts about their blogging identity, who they are as a blogger, what they write, that kind of thing. A great link up because I got to learn so much about my blogging/writing buddies and how they got their start blogging. It also helped me think about who I am as a blogger. In fact, I discovered that Chicken Noodle Gravy is a blog with no identity and that I'm completely okay with that.

The best thing about having a blog with no identity? It can be whatever it wants to be whenever it wants to be that. And tonight, Chicken Noodle Gravy wants to be a cat blog.

My regular readers may already know that I have three cats: Poe, Sushi, and Kisa. They are characters in their own right and definitely make mine and Jeremy's lives more interesting, but today's post is not about them. No, today's post is about the fourth cat that almost joined our family. The fourth cat that I managed to successfully avoid.

Kisa, posing with my owl pajamas on our unmade bed

Sushi, hiding her face and evilness from the camera

                                     

Poe being Poe

At work a couple of weeks ago, I was quietly minding my own business in my office. I was probably on the verge of solving the debt crisis or something else incredibly brilliant, when I was interrupted by my coworker. She had a huge grin on her face. "Umm...can you come out here for a minute?"

I heaved a sigh. I figured a student wanted me, that's what I usually have to go to the lobby for, but when I got to the front desk, I knew why my coworker had been grinning. A student was waiting for me, but this student wasn't interested in our admissions process, and she didn't need to be counseled on what to do with her life. This student held a kitten.

He was about 9 weeks old, a grey and black tabby. He was cuddled up in the student's arms and smiling. My heart melted, and I immediately felt that old sensation, the sensation that I was about to do something incredibly stupid.

The student smiled at me, probably knew I was a sucker the moment she laid eyes on me. "He was dumped in the parking lot."

Without wasting a moment to think, I opened my big, stupid mouth. "I'll take him."

And so I did. My coworker (a fellow animal lover) had her dog's cage in her car. She let me use it for the kitten. We found him a bowl and filled it with water; another coworker shared a bite of ham sandwich with the little guy. A makeshift litter box was added to the cage, and the kitten was set. I knew at the end of the day I would take him home. I knew Poe, Sushi, and Kisa would hate him on sight. I knew feeding another cat would be expensive, that adding another litter box to our spare room would be pushing it. I knew all of this, but I saw no other choice.

The kitten was one of the sweetest animals I've ever met. Every time someone came by to visit, he would reach his paw through the cage as if to shake hands. When we picked him up, he'd cuddle up close, purring loudly. In the cage, he would simply curl up in the corner, keeping one eye on me and smiling his sly cat smile. I don't know how else to describe him except to say that he had A Good Soul.

Bad picture taken with my cell phone of A Good Soul

As the afternoon wore on, we asked nearly every student that came through our doors if they wanted a cat. Most made awful faces at the mention of the feline.

"I hate cats!"

"Cats are only good for target practice!"

"I'm a dog person!"

Even Whitney, my friend who doesn't care much for cats, felt sorry for our kitten after awhile. No one seemed to want to even give him a chance. And in the end, it was Whitney who ended up saving him. She was talking to a mother and her little girl in her office. She'd just got done describing the admissions process, and as we had done all day, she rounded out the meeting with a simple question, "Do y'all need a cat?"

The mother was excited! Turns out, they'd been looking for a kitten for her daughter. Turns out, our kitten was the perfect kitten for them. As soon as I pulled him out of the cage, he was their's. It was obvious to everyone. No more than five minutes after Whitney had asked them that question they were out the door with that great little kitten.

Personally, I think it was fate. It was definitely a happy ending to the tale; we ended up saving a kitten and making a little girl's life brighter. All in a day's work.

And even better for me? A fourth cat for the Ross household was successfully averted. My crazy cat lady days are delayed for a little while longer...



And to round out this very long post that already includes one of my favorite things (cats), I'd like to send a shout out and a HUGE thank you to another of my favorite things (my buddy Neens!) My friend Nina over at The Adventures of Artsy Nina and Camp Honeybelle (her wonderful Etsy shop) did an amazing thing for me. She sent me a gift in the mail, a handmade gift made with love and heart. Check out the Word Owl she made me! Nina's a wonderful friend, one who has been there for me lately with words of support and wisdom. I cannot tell you how much this simple gift lifted me up. She's one incredible lady, a "good soul"...and yesterday was her birthday! Happy Birthday, friend! Love you and thanks again! Stop by Nina's blog and wish her a happy birthday, and be sure to check out her Etsy shop that's filled with unique vintage and retro treasures!

This Rain of Life

It rained last night. I think I know before I even wake up, or maybe I’ve just dreamed it. For the last few weeks, I’ve dreamed of it nightly, only to wake time and again to the bitter disappointment of yet another dry day.

Papa worries about the rain, and so must I as well. He paces back and forth across the field in some kind of attempt to summon the rain gods, and I follow closely behind him, trying to match each step with my much smaller stride. I see the worry in his eyes below the brim of his straw hat, as he stares from the sky to the ground and back again.

We measure time and success by the whim of the rain, and now as I struggle to come awake, I believe I can nearly smell the scent of rain, and the hope that comes alive in me so suddenly is overwhelming and bittersweet.

As I crawl out of bed, I rub the sleep from my eyes and swear that I can smell rain. I run to the window, push back the thin curtain, and see the ground still wet from the overnight showers. The shout I give wakes the entire house, and before long, we’re all out on the front porch, marveling at the puddles in the yard and the beauty of our red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water.

The gift of the rain will save our crops for another few days, maybe even a week. Soon enough, we’ll be hoping for it again, praying and worrying because so much depends upon this, this rain of life.

But for now, we celebrate.

via

Join us at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug for writing prompts and fellowship! 

For this week's prompt, I'd like you to be inspired by the poem below by William Carlos Williams. "The Red Wheelbarrow" has long been a poem that holds an air of mystery and intrigue for me. For it to be so few words, I feel it tells a complex tale with a lot hidden just below the surface. Take any word, image, or feeling evoked from "The Red Wheelbarrow" and turn it into your masterpiece. Oh, and like Williams, let's do things short and sweet. Write your piece in 300 or fewer words.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

A Blog with No Identity

In a month or so, Chicken Noodle Gravy will be turning one year old. Can you believe it? The last year has flown by. They always grow up so fast, don't they? I mean, it was only yesterday that I was blogging about chicken noodle gravy and spam and all things yummy and good to eat. It's true. For the first eight months or so of Chicken Noodle Gravy's first year, I was a Food Blogger.

As a Food Blogger, I always felt a little stifled, a little trapped by the implications of a LABEL. What if I wasn't in the mood to blog about food one day? What if I wanted to blog about owls or possoms or socks in the door? Plus, just to be completely honest, I sucked as a Food Blogger. I take lousy photos. I never follow a recipe. I can talk about food sure, but let's get real: there are ten thousand other, BETTER food blogs out there, and trying to identify with and label myself and Chicken Noodle Gravy as one of them just wasn't working.

So I dropped the label and blogged about whatever, and CNG became a blog with no identity. Whatever crossed my mind made it to the blog, but even during this period of no label and no identity, I felt lost as a blogger. I didn't have a place. In a world full of Mommy Blogs and Giveaway Blogs and Craft Blogs and Fashion Blogs, CNG seemed to not have any purpose or direction; it didn't fit anywhere.

Source: volvereneevo-templatesblock.blogspot.com via jimtown on Pinterest

And then one day it hit me.

CNG doesn't have to fit anywhere. It doesn't have to be a Food Blog or any other type of blog. The only type of blog it has to be is MY BLOG. Blogging for me isn't about fitting in anywhere or being the most popular or the best blogger out there. Blogging is about recording my thoughts and my stories and my poems. It's about connecting with other people, people who have similar thoughts and worries and people who provide inspiration and motivation and support. It's about connecting with friends. Friends who also don't fit neatly into one category. Friends who have come to mean so much to me in such a short time.

I'm a writer. Quirky and weird and unique. A person not a blogger. Blogging doesn't define me, and it doesn't define my words. It's just a way to record them. Chicken Noodle Gravy is a blog, but more than that, it's a safe harbor for bad days, good days, rough patches, and sunlight. It's the place where I was finally brave enough to share my stories and poems with people outside of my family, people who didn't necessarily have to tell me something was good just because they were related to me.

As you make your way across the so-called blogosphere, you'll see a lot of good advice about blogging identity. Finding your place. Finding your audience. But if you find yourself without an identity or a place or an audience, consider this: maybe blogs are a lot like people. Each one is different and unique. Sometimes they'll fit into an easy category, and sometimes they just won't. Don't force the issue. Be yourself, and let your blog be YOUR BLOG.



This was written in response to Dare to Share Link Up: Blogging Identity. Come join us, link up your blogging identity post, and meet some talented writers!