Archive for Weird stuff

Blood On The Moon ~ the story

This is a short story and poem I wrote when I first started writing. It’s one of my personal favorites. Read it if you have time. I think you’ll find it very interesting.

Marbles In My Pocket ~ The Official Blog of Charles L. Mashburn ~ Poems, Short Stories, and random thoughts from the author of "Be Still... and know that I am God"

001 Blood On the MoonBlood On the Moon was the first short story I wrote when I decided I wanted to try and write. This is the 2015 rewritten version (I hope it’s better than the original). It’s 2170 words long (5 single spaced pages), so print it and read it later if you want. I’ll even email it to you, if you can’t print it off the blog. Click the picture to enlarge and read the poem by the same title.

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Big Brother is Everywhere!

Sometimes the Internet really irritates me. Maybe some of you have had this happen; someone puts a post on Facebook, and you jump right in with an opinion or an example of how you agree with said post. Then… nothing. Right! Nothing! Ten—maybe fifteen—others throw out their opinions, apparently conversing with one another, but your comment seems to have been rendered invisible. What’s the deal?

A good example was a post yesterday. A friend—not a good friend, I admit—posted a concern about how it seems we just have to think about something and, BAM, we start getting ads on Facebook about whatever it was we were thinking about. It’s downright eerie, right? Well, I’ve experienced such phenomena, and so I jumped into the fray to commiserate and discuss the fact that, um, that uh, guy… you know the Facebook honcho… yeh yeh yeh… that guy, seems to be spying on us. All 300 billion or so of us.

minion cell phoneWhat’s been happening to me is truly bizarre. It’s my phone. Since Sherry’s been out of pocket, my diet has not been, well, it’s been pretty bad. Lots of Fritos and bean dip, and easy to cook stuff. You know, like… Fritos and bean dip. So, the strange thing is—the Facebook dude is no doubt behind it—and Verizon, too, I’m sure.

What happens is, every time I eat Fritos and bean dip, my phones ring tone changes, and it’s not a pretty sound, if you get my drift. What really gets me though—makes me mad, if you want the truth—is when I answer the phone, there’s no one there. And, this awful smell comes out of nowhere!

minion in thongHappened at the grocery store checkout the other day. The checkout girl looked at me funny and giggled when my phone blasted its irreverent “ring tone”, and she really cracked up when I pulled out my phone and answered it. Then—the smell, ya know—her eyes got wide and she covered her mouth and nose with a hand, while waving the other one at me like she was shooing flies, and said, “You ain’t right!”, before promptly vacating her station. I just grabbed my stuff and skated on outta there.

It’s all annoying. I’m thinking about getting off Facebook and switching to Cricket.

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Don’t Go There

the veil(2)It’s happened several times in the past, but it seems to be happening more frequently as I get on in years. I’ll be sound asleep in the early morning hours when a voice—clear and audible—awakens me with but one word; my name. “Charlie?” Yes, it comes in the form of a question; an almost searching but perhaps curious lilt to it. Sometimes I feel as though the voice is asking for my help, other times it seems to be reaching out to help me; as in, What are you doing, Charlie? Don’t go there.

I’m never quite sure who the voice belongs to, but after I’m fully awake for a few moments I discern the voice to be my mom’s. Always though, I’m never certain.

Afterward, I feel no fear or dread, but it does make me wonder. First, I wonder if there’s something wrong with mom—she lives 400 miles away—and then, sometimes, I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. This morning, for the first time since this began happening, I wondered if this happens when I come to close to “the veil”, as in dying.

I know, it’s a morbid thought, and maybe nonsensical too, but it came to me this morning, so I’m writing it down. What if—for reasons unexplainable—I approach death in my sleep and God uses Mom’s voice to call me back from the edge because, quite simply, it’s not my time to go.

I wonder.

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It’s A Furniture Thing

For years, my pal, Rooster, and I worked together and lived in the same area. During those twenty-plus years, we spent many hours debating the various topics of the day. Well, not so much debating as discussing in what was typically a humorous vein. We’d hash things out quite thoroughly, until at some point one or the other of us would say, “But you know what?” To which the other would always respond, with a knowing nod, “It doesn’t matter.”

And usually, it doesn’t. In the overall scheme of things, we (people in general) tend to get all riled up about things that usually… well… just don’t matter. Or, at best, if they do matter, there’s not a doggone thing we can do about them.

rv couchThe point of this non-mattering diatribe is this; I’ve changed my response from, “It doesn’t matter”, to, “It’s a furniture thing.” I did this after a recent conversation with Sherry. We were talking about our upcoming move to our new-to-us house, and at some point the topic of furniture came up. We discussed it for a bit, her telling me what she wanted, me agreeing some, disagreeing some, until I finally ended the conversation with this statement; “You know. I have an opinion about furniture, and I like furniture, but in the overall scheme of things, I don’t really care about furniture, so whatever you want is cool with me.” What I was saying was, furniture doesn’t matter to me.

So, since that conversation I’ve stopped saying, “It doesn’t matter, and I’ve replaced the statement with, “It’s a furniture thing.”

Now… just between you, me, and the post turtle, I don’t expect my little saying to catch on but, hey, Rooster likes it, the Duck likes it, and … it’s a furniture thing.

 

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A Fidget Spinner Samich!

pbjIt’s not anything like the Tide Pod thing, so don’t even go there, but I ate a fidget spinner samich for lunch today. Sort of. Actually, it was a grilled peanut butter and jam sandwich, the eating of which spun out of control. We were down to the bottom of the jar of peanut butter, you see. There was more than enough for the sandwich, but so little was left in the jar, I figured, why not and just put it all on the sandwich. I saw it as a challenge, and it was! You know how it is. You take a bite, and the jam and peanut butter squish out everywhere. So, what do you do? Well, me, I spin it around and take a bite where the most stuff is squishing out, then repeat the process. Sure, some fell onto my plate, but that just made me spin it faster, and by the time I got finished, I was quite calm and satisfied. I never put much stock in the fidget spinner craze, but now… I’m thinking they might be onto something.

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The Rest of the Story

Okay, it was a beautiful day, and playing golf was almost a necessity. I love to take pictures while I golf and share them on Facebook with all my friends and family. Some of them—mostly those that work during the day—aren’t as appreciative of the beautiful pictures and funny quips attached to them as others but, hey, you can’t please everybody all the time.

orange ballSo yesterday, I posted this picture of the brightest orange golf ball I’ve ever seen (the picture doesn’t do it justice) and said some funny things about it. It’s a good thing I took the picture, because I put the ball in a water hazard a few holes later. (It would have stayed in the fairway if it hadn’t hit that tree.) Anyhow… here’s the rest of the story:

I found the orange ball behind the third tee box, which happens to have a major thoroughfare running behind it. The ball surprisingly was inside a bank bag. Yep. One of those big ones that looks like a canvas trash bag. I’m sure you’ve seen them in a movie—or cartoon—on TV. It had the name of a local bank on it, so after I finished my round (by the way, there wasn’t any money in it) I drove down the street behind said third tee box to see if there was a branch of the bank nearby. Sure enough, at the first big intersection, there it was.

So… being the upstanding citizen I am, I pulled in and walked into the bank with the bag. They must’ve all thought I was somebody important, because every teller and two guys sitting at desks immediately began to stare at me. A couple of the gals looked scared, which I could not make sense of. I’m not the handsomest fella you’ll run into but jeez, y’all.

I didn’t notice the security guard when I went in, but he was suddenly behind me, and had a gun in my back. “Don’t move,” he said. I moved.

Not only did I move, I yelled, “Bank robbery!” then turned and slapped the gun out of his hand. He lost all his nerve at that and ran out the front door waving his arms. My first thought was he wasn’t much of a bank robber, and then I grinned, thinking, what kind of idiot wears a rent-a-cop uniform to rob a bank. Amazingly—much to my delight—a police car slid to a stop in front of the bank, and two cops jumped out. Nice! I thought. They got him before he could get away. Imagine my confusion when the cops ran right past the robber and busted in the door pointing their guns at me. I thought maybe they’d seen another robber behind me, so I turned and looked toward the teller windows. Everybody was gone. I found out a few minutes later they were still there, but they’d ducked down behind the counter, and the two guys at their desks had crawled under them.

One of the cops yelled, “Freeze!” The other one shouted, “Don’t move!” Then the first one said, “Drop the bag!” And the second one said, “Put your hands in the air!” Seemed they might’ve done this before. They were very well rehearsed.

I turned around to face them and said, “You talkin ta me?” In what I thought was a good Italian accent. They were not amused.

It took some doing, but I finally convinced them I wasn’t a bank robber, and after a trip to the station where they fingerprinted me and told me not to leave town, they let me go. So… if you want some good advice; If you find a bank bag on the golf course—anywhere for that matter—leave it there.

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Laughing Horses

horseI seldom edit my poems–if that’s what they are. I’m not sure what the definition of poetry is, so I’m assuming, and you surely know what’s said about that. I put my thoughts down and toss them to the world; easy to do these days with this Internet thing we have. My thoughts are sometimes strange, and I love to picture a classroom full of students trying to figure out what I meant, or what I was trying to say. And then the one–there’s always one–mumbling, “That guy was messed up.” Read the rest of this entry »

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