fiction

Time-Travel Adventures in a Cozy Home

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

Jane and Mark lived in a cozy little house on a quiet street in nowhere. The house had a white picket fence. A porch swing creaked with every breeze was also part of the house. Life was simple and predictable—until the night the sky split open.

It happened just after dinner. A brilliant ray of golden light shot down from the heavens. It struck the roof of their home with a silent flash. Jane screamed, dropping her fork, while Mark rushed to the window, heart pounding, their minds filled with fear and confusion.

“What was that?” Jane whispered, staring at the glowing beam. It pulsed briefly, then faded away, leaving no trace but a faint shimmer.

They inspected the house, finding no damage, burns, or explanation. But they soon discovered the truth in the strangest way possible.

The next day, Mark walked out to grab the newspaper, and when he stepped back inside, Jane gasped. Jane saw a man in medieval armor standing in the doorway. His eyes were wide with confusion. It wasn’t her husband in his sweatpants and T-shirt.

“Mark?” she stammered.

“Jane! What –– what happened?” Mark looked down at the polished steel covering his chest and arms. “I was outside, and when I came back ––– this happened!”

Jane grabbed his hand and pulled him in. “We need to call someone.”

But before they could dial, their neighbor, Mrs. Clarkson, walked in uninvited, as she often did. When she crossed the threshold, her modern blouse and skirt changed into a flapper dress. Her gray hair was pinned into 1920s finger waves. “My word!” she exclaimed, waving a cigarette holder she didn’t own.

Mark and Jane exchanged terrified glances. Their house was cursed or enchanted or something far beyond their understanding.

Over the next few days, they experimented with the strange phenomenon. Stepping outside and re-entering would send them hurtling through time. Sometimes, they found themselves in ancient Rome. Other times, they landed in the Wild West. Occasionally, they encountered an unsettlingly dystopian future. Even Otis, their golden retriever, came trotting back inside with a Victorian-era bonnet tied to his head.

Jane kept a notebook. “Day three: Entered as myself, exited as a 1970s disco queen. Mark walked in as a cowboy. Not great.”

Eventually, they learned some rules. The effect only lasted while they were inside. Stepping back outside would revert them to their usual selves. But the moment anyone crossed the threshold again, the house chose another era at random.

It wasn’t long before the military took notice. When government agents approached their door, Jane panicked and tried to warn them. “Please, don’t come in!”

Too late. Five suited men instantly transformed into Renaissance courtiers with feathered hats and ruffled collars. “What sorcery is this?” one muttered, spinning in circles.

Mark sighed. “You’re gonna want to take this one up with NASA.”

Despite the chaos, they refused to leave. Strange as it was, the house was still their home. They learned to adapt. They stored era-appropriate clothing in a chest by the door. They prepared themselves for anything from caveman furs to futuristic bodysuits. This showed their resilience and courage in the face of the unknown.

In time, they found unexpected joys in their predicament. They hosted Gatsby-style parties, had tea with Victorian neighbors, and experienced life in eras they never imagined. Their sense of wonder and adventure grew with each new experience.

The little house with the picket fence became legendary. It served as a portal through time. In this house, history was just a step away. Mark and Jane embraced the adventure. After all, who wouldn’t want to live in a place where every day was a different century?

Harold Fenton: The Salesman Who Won Hearts

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

Harold Fenton was not the world’s most excellent salesman. If there were an award for persistence without progress, Harold would have won it year after year. His thick glasses always slid down his nose. He carried a briefcase that had seen better days. An ever-lasting mustard stain marked his tie. He wandered the same neighborhoods week after week. He sold an assortment of household knickknacks that nobody needed, but they bought them anyway.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jenkins!” 

Harold greeted cheerfully as he stepped onto the well-trodden path to her front door. 

“I have a brand-new shipment of vegetable peelers today! They’re sharper, sleeker, and—”

Mrs. Jenkins, a kindly woman in her sixties, smiled warmly. 

“Why, Harold, I still have the five you sold me last month. But you know, one can never have too many peelers. Come on in.”

Harold beamed and entered, opening his battered case to show an array of matching peelers. Mrs. Jenkins sighed as she handed him a few bills. She tucked the latest addition into her kitchen drawer. The drawer now resembled a peeler museum.

Down the street, Mr. Thompson, a retired mechanic, nodded at Harold as he approached. 

“Harold, my boy, back again? What do you have today?”

–––

“A fantastic deal on rubber jar openers!”

Harold declared with gusto. 

“These bad boys can grip the tightest lids with ease.”

Mr. Thompson scratched his head. 

“Well, I reckon I have about twenty of those in my drawer already, but why not?” 

He chuckled, handing Harold a crumpled bill. 

“You’re a persistent fella, I’ll give you that.”

Each household in the neighborhood had its own Harold collection. The Henderson’s had a mountain of Harold’s lint rollers stacked neatly in their laundry room. The Patel family had so many of his never-fail can openers that their entire garage shelf was dedicated to them. And the Cranstons? They jokingly called their basement “Harold’s Home Shopping Network.” It was filled with enough potato mashers to start a catering business.

But no one ever turned Harold away.

“He’s got such heart,”

Mrs. Jenkins often said over tea with the neighbors. 

“Bless him. He tries so hard.”

One day, Harold arrived with a new product—a miracle mop he couldn’t figure out how to show. 

“This mop… uh… well, you see, it swivels… I think. Or it wrings itself. Hold on, I had a pamphlet here somewhere…” 

He fumbled with his case, papers spilling onto the sidewalk.

Mrs. Jenkins and Mr. Thompson exchanged a glance and quickly stepped in. 

“We’ll take a few!” 

They chimed in unison.

Harold left the neighborhood beaming, waving to everyone as he wheeled his suitcase down the block. He whistled a tune with the satisfaction of a man who believed in his mission.

And so the cycle continued. Week after week, Harold brought the same products with the same pitches. The residents kept buying. They did this not out of necessity but of fondness for the bumbling salesman. He brought a little charm and harmless chaos to their otherwise predictable days.

One day, as Harold left Mrs. Jenkins’ house, she whispered to Mr. Thompson, 

“I sure hope he never realizes we’ve got enough peelers to last a lifetime.”

“He won’t,”

Mr. Thompson grinned. 

“And even if he did, I’d still buy another one next week.”

With that, Harold walked down the road. He was ready to bring his boundless enthusiasm. He also carried a suitcase full of peelers to the next unsuspecting yet ever-welcoming home.

Everyone needs to meet a Harold in life.

Warm Bread, Warm Hearts: A Touching Tale from Willowbrook

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–4 minutes

The Baker’s Extra Loaf

Willowbrook was a quaint town nestled between rolling hills and winding cobblestone streets. In this charming setting, a little bakery called Millie’s Breads stood. Millie, the baker, had spent decades perfecting her craft. She kneaded dough with love, and the air filled with the comforting aroma of fresh bread.

Every morning, without fail, Millie would bake precisely enough loaves to meet the demands of her customers—except for one. Each day, she would bake an extra loaf. The townsfolk often wondered why, but Millie never spoke of it. The extra loaf sat on the counter until closing time. It remained untouched and unnoticed. By morning, it would quietly disappear, adding to the mystery.

Speculations floated through the town. Some believed Millie kept it for herself. She always said she had little appetite for bread after a long baking day. Others whispered that she was feeding a stray cat or a secret admirer. But no one knew the truth.

One chilly winter evening, young Emma, the florist’s daughter, stayed behind after closing. She wanted to help her mother pick up an order of pastries for a town event. As they waited, Emma noticed Millie wrapping the extra loaf in brown paper and slipping out the back door. Emma felt curious, so she decided to follow at a distance. Her eyes were keen, and her heart was open to the possibility of a heartwarming discovery.

Hidden in the shadows, Emma saw Millie stop by an old wooden bench. An elderly man sat on it, wrapped in a tattered coat. His face was weathered, and his hands trembled from the cold. Millie handed him the loaf with a warm smile, exchanging a few kind words before returning to her shop.

Emma’s heart swelled with admiration. The extra loaf wasn’t a mystery after all. It was an act of quiet kindness. A small gesture of compassion that no one ever knew about. The man, known simply as Mr. Thomas, had once been a beloved schoolteacher but had fallen hard after losing his family.

The next day, Emma shared what she had seen with her mother. Word spread through the town, and the townspeople, inspired by Millie’s act of kindness, found their ways to contribute. Some would leave warm clothing on the bench. Others discreetly added a little extra to their purchases at Millie’s bakery. They knew it would go to someone in need.

One evening, as Millie once again delivered the extra loaf, she found Mr. Thomas sitting on the bench with a new coat draped over his shoulders and a gentle smile. He looked at her with gratitude and said,

“Your kindness has brought more than just bread, Millie. You’ve brought me hope.”

His words echoed the profound impact of Millie’s simple act of kindness.

Millie patted his hand, offering her usual warm smile, and returned to her bakery. She never needed recognition, for she believed that kindness, like bread, was best when shared freely.

The baker continued to bake an extra loaf each day. The town of Willowbrook learned that sometimes, the smallest gestures hold the most significant meaning. Millie’s simple act of kindness brought hope to Mr. Thomas and inspired the townspeople to look out for each other, fostering a sense of community and shared responsibility.

Surviving the Darkness: The Krieger Family’s Courage – Shadows In The Dark

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

In the spring of 1942, the Krieger family vanished from the small town of Marburg, or so their neighbors believed. The truth, though, was a testament to their resilience. Ernst and Klara Krieger lived concealed behind a false wall. Their teenage daughter Lotte was with them in the attic of their modest home. They clung to a fragile existence beneath the ever-watchful eyes of the Nazi regime.

Before the war, Ernst had been a respected tailor, his shop bustling with customers seeking fine suits and dresses. The war machine tightened its grip on Germany, and Jewish families like the Kriegers became targets. They had no choice but to vanish from public view. Ernst’s friend, Herr Becker, was a trusted carpenter. He had built a hidden compartment in their attic. It was a space just large enough for the three of them to survive.

Each day, Klara prepared sparse meals from the dwindling stock of supplies. She rationed every crumb with the precision of a soldier. Lotte, once full of life and laughter, now spent her days in silence. She read the few books they had managed to take with them. Ernst, ever resourceful, repaired uniforms in secret. He exchanged this favor with Herr Becker for smuggled food. They also shared whispers of news from the outside world.

Life under the radar was a delicate balancing act, but the Kriegers refused to let go of hope. They learned to move only when the town slept, their footsteps carefully muffled. They endured bitter winters without fire, their breath hanging in the frozen air like ghosts. Klara kept their spirits up with whispered stories of better days. She spoke of summers at the lake and the scent of fresh bread filling their home. They lived in fear but also in quiet defiance, their hope a beacon in the darkness.

One night, in late 1944, as the war neared its end, a knock at the door sent their hearts racing. Herr Becker’s hushed voice broke through the silence. 

“The Americans are coming,” 

he whispered through the floorboards. 

“Stay hidden a little longer.”

Days passed like years until, at last, the sound of foreign voices filled the streets. The Kriegers dared to peek from their hidden vantage point. What they saw made their hearts swell with cautious hope. They observed Allied soldiers marching through the town. Their uniforms were different, and their faces were filled with determination rather than cruelty.

The danger had finally passed. Ernst and Klara stepped out into the light of a new morning. They held Lotte’s trembling hand. Their survival was a quiet miracle. It was a testament to the resilience, cunningness, and kindness of those who risked it all to help them. Their hearts were filled with gratitude for these unsung heroes.

Life was difficult in the next years, but the Kriegers rebuilt what they had lost. Ernst reopened his shop. Klara baked bread that once again filled their home with warmth. Lotte found her laughter in the sunlight. Though they had lived in the shadows for so long, they emerged stronger and free.

And in the attic, behind the false wall, they left a small inscription: 

We survived. We endured. We are free.

Finding Peace in a Day of Upset

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

Maggie sat on her porch swing. The soft creak of the old chains was the only sound in the still afternoon air. The sun hung low, casting golden hues across her small Arizona town, but inside her chest, a storm raged. The day had been a whirlwind of mishaps. She missed deadlines at work. She had an argument with her sister. She also nagged worry about her aging father’s health. Each problem was stacked like bricks on her shoulders, weighing her with unresolved concern. She was in the midst of a battle for her Peace.

She sipped her tea. She hoped the warmth would soothe the ache. Yet, peace felt distant, like a mirage on the desert horizon. Her mind churned with “what-ifs” and “should-haves,” a relentless cycle that robbed her of the quiet she desperately craved.

Maggie took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She listened to the distant rustling of mesquite trees. Occasionally, she heard the bark of a neighbor’s dog. The natural sounds around her conveyed a message of resilience and adaptability. Slowly, she exhaled, reminding herself of her grandmother’s words: “You can’t stop the wind, but you can learn to bend.”

She stood and walked to the edge of her yard. Her fingers brushed over the delicate petals of the wildflowers. They had sprung up after last month’s rare rain. Their resilience struck her—fragile yet persistent, thriving even in the harsh desert soil.

Realizing she couldn’t control everything, Maggie focused on the now. She let the day’s stress settle, acknowledging it but not giving it power. She watched the sky darken into twilight. The first stars peeked through. She felt a little lighter with each breath. It was the power of being here, of living in the moment, that brought her Peace.

She realized Peace wasn’t about escaping the chaos but finding a quiet place. And tonight, as the desert cooled and the cicadas began their evening song, she finally let herself rest. The relief was palpable, like a weight lifted from her shoulders, as she surrendered to the tranquility of the night.

The Fall and Rise of David Caine

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

David Caine was a man who seemed to have it all. His sprawling estate overlooked the city, a tangible reminder of his success. He owned a fleet of luxury cars. He mingled with the elite. He was celebrated as a visionary in the tech world. At 42, he had reached heights most can only dream of. But in a single day, it all crumbled.

It started with a phone call. A risky investment had failed spectacularly. The bank froze David’s accounts. His business partner vanished, taking what was left of their company’s assets. By the evening, creditors were knocking, and the media painted him as a cautionary tale of hubris.

Within weeks, David had lost everything—his mansion, cars, friends who had once hung on his every word. He was left with a single suitcase, crashing on the couch of a former employee who pitied him. But even in this dire situation, David’s resilience shone through.

David was once a figure of power and influence. Now, he walked the city streets for the first time in years without recognition. He bought coffee with coins from his pocket and scoured job boards at the local library. The life he had meticulously built felt like a distant dream, a stark contrast to his current reality.

But starting over gave David something he hadn’t had in years: clarity.

As he wandered the city one morning, he noticed a small bakery with a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. He stepped in, drawn by the scent of fresh bread. The owner, a kind woman named Maria, hired him on the spot. The work was simple—baking, cleaning, running deliveries. It was a far cry from the boardrooms he once commanded. But it was honest, grounding work. His days were filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread and the warmth of human connection.

David began to change. He rediscovered the joy of simplicity, the value of community, and the satisfaction of a hard day’s work. Baking bread was a simple act. The warmth of the oven comforted him. The laughter of the regulars at the bakery brought him a joy he had long forgotten.

Months turned into years. David saved enough to rent a modest apartment. Impressed by his dedication, Maria offered him a bakery partnership. Together, they expanded, opening two more locations. This time, David didn’t chase grandeur. He focused on creating jobs, helping others, and finding balance.

One crisp fall morning, David stood outside his bakery, watching customers laugh and chat as they sipped coffee. He had no mansion or luxury cars. His wealth was no longer measured in dollars but in smiles and connections.

David had lost everything, but he found what truly mattered in the process.

And for the first time in years, he felt rich beyond measure.

The Opinionated Gentleman: “I used to like him before I heard what he had to say.”

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

Richard Pearce considered himself a fair man, a gentleman of discernment. His friendships were plentiful, his network expansive, and his reputation as a conversationalist well-earned.

He had a knack for summing people up with a single statement, a phrase he used so often it had become a trademark:

“I used to like him before I heard what he had to say.”

It wasn’t meant to be cruel—at least, Richard didn’t think so. It was his way of assessing character, of sorting wheat from chaff. But those who knew him best saw it differently.

One sunny afternoon, Richard found himself at a small café in the park. A friend of a friend, Henry Townsend, joined him unexpectedly. Henry, a boisterous man with a ready laugh, was a newcomer to their social circle.

“I hear you’re a man of strong opinions, Richard,”

Henry said as he stirred his coffee.

Richard tilted his head, amused.

“I suppose you can say that. I have a good read on people.”

“Well, let’s see then. What do you think of me?”

Richard smiled politely, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re affable, sharp-witted… but prone to over-explanation.”

Henry laughed heartily.

“Fair enough! And what do you think about James Potter?”

Richard leaned back, swirling his tea.

“Ah, James. I used to like him before I heard what he had to say.”

Henry’s smile faltered.

“What did he say?”

“Oh, something about how he sees charity as a personal failing in those who accept it. Can you imagine? A man with such shallow views.”

Henry’s brows furrowed.

“Did you ask him why he thought that? Maybe he has a deeper story.”

Richard waved the thought away.

“One’s words show their heart, Henry. Why dig further?”

~

Months passed, and Richard’s circle seemed to shrink. The people he dismissed began avoiding him, and conversations grew shorter. Henry, nevertheless, remained a steadfast presence. One day, Richard couldn’t help but ask.

“Why do you stay, Henry? Surely, I’ve said something to offend you by now.”

Henry grinned.

“Oh, plenty of times! But if I left, you would not get the chance to hear what you haven’t heard yet.”

Richard frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“You write people off after hearing one thing. But people aren’t books you can skim, Richard. They’re libraries. If you only read one page, you miss the whole story.”

That evening, as Richard walked home alone, Henry’s words lingered. The café, once bustling with friendly faces, seemed quieter now. For the first time, Richard wondered if he’d been too quick with his judgment, too harsh with his words. He couldn’t help but think, —-

And he couldn’t help but think, ––––

And he couldn’t help but think, that he had been too quick to judge, too eager to dismiss. He couldn’t help but think ––––

I used to like myself before I heard what I had to say.

And, before I realized the impact of my words and the depth of my own biases.

Gerald The Goose Goes Mad On Park Goers Until He Finds Officer Tom A Friend For Life.

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

In the heart of a bustling city, there was a quaint park known for its serene beauty and vibrant wildlife. Among the ducks and swans was one particularly notorious resident—a mad goose named Gerald. Gerald had a reputation for chasing unsuspecting park-goers, honking furiously and flapping his wings in a display of avian aggression.

One sunny afternoon, the park was filled with families enjoying picnics and children playing games. A commotion erupted as Gerald began his usual antics, sending people scattering in all directions. Exasperated by the chaos, the park’s caretaker decided it was time to call for help. Enter Officer Tom, a kind-hearted police officer known for his patience and love for animals.

Officer Tom arrived at the park, his calm demeanor contrasting sharply with the commotion around him. As he approached Gerald, the goose stopped, tilting his head curiously. Something about Officer Tom intrigued Gerald. Instead of chasing him away, Gerald shuffled to the officer and nuzzled his leg affectionately.

Seeing the unexpected bond forming, Officer Tom decided to take Gerald home. He became the goose’s sole caretaker, and they developed a deep friendship. A gentle loyalty to Tom replaced Gerald’s wild antics, and the two became inseparable. They were a familiar sight around town, with Gerald waddling faithfully beside Tom on his daily patrols.

As the years passed, Officer Tom grew older, and his hair turned silver. Gerald, too, showed signs of aging, but their bond remained as strong as ever. The townspeople grew fond of the duo, often stopping to chat with Tom and feed Gerald treats. They became beloved characters in the town’s story, symbolizing friendship and loyalty.

One day, the town was struck by the sad news of Officer Tom’s passing. The townspeople mourned the passing of their beloved officer, but their hearts also went out to Gerald, who was now alone. Concerned about the old goose, the townspeople gathered to decide what to do.

In a touching display of unity, the town took turns caring for Gerald. Each day, a different family welcomed him into their home, ensuring he was well-fed and loved. Though he missed his dear friend, Tom, Gerald found comfort in the townspeople’s kindness.

And so, Gerald lived out his days surrounded by the love and care of the community. The story of the mad goose and the kind-hearted officer became a cherished legend, reminding everyone of the power of friendship and the importance of looking out for one another.

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Toby and Spitfire The Horse That Had Never Been Rode!

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro.

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© 

Ranch Hands told stories of Spitfire on the Whispering Pines Ranch—a wild and untamable horse that earned his name with every snort and stomp. Cowboys from every corner of the county had tried to ride him, only to find themselves airborne within moments, landing with bruised pride and sore limbs. Spitfire’s eyes would glimmer with a defiant fire as if daring the next rider even to try.

But one summer day, the world shifted on its axis when a nine-year-old boy named Toby visited the ranch. Toby’s light frame was offset by the quiet resilience of a child who had learned to conquer more obstacles than many seasoned ranchhands. Born with legs that didn’t work like other kids, Toby’s movements were careful and deliberate, assisted by crutches that clinked softly with each step.


Drawn by a gentle breeze and the soft nickering sounds, Toby found himself near Spitfire’s corral. The horse stood apart, tossing his white mane like a storm cloud, eyes wary and sharp. But as Toby watched, something stirred in Spitfire’s gaze; a flicker of curiosity outshone his usual mistrust.


Before anyone could stop him, Toby set his crutches by the fence and used the railings to hoist himself. Spitfire’s ears flicked, muscles tensed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he watched the boy with an intensity that made time pause.


With tiny movements, Toby approached. He whispered soft words that only the horse could hear, offering no challenge, only companionship. Spitfire took a cautious step forward, then another. The horse’s powerful head bent down a moment later, and his breath warmed Toby’s outstretched fingers.


The ranchhands who came running, yelling warnings, froze as they witnessed the impossible: Spitfire, the proud, untamable beast, knelt in the dust as if making a silent vow. Toby’s smile lit up his face as he settled onto Spitfire’s broad back, and for the first time, Spitfire carried a rider not with rebellion but grace.

They could remember when the horse was born in a south pasture four springs ago and got herded into the corrals for the first time. That someone had got that close and made peace with the critter.


“You couldn’t get close enough to feed him,” ––– said Harland the leadhand.

“Given how cantankerous he is, how could the kid get that close to him?” ––– said Orville, an outfitter.

The stunned onlookers could only watch in awe as they moved in perfect harmony. Toby, the boy who faced each day with quiet determination, had found his match in the fierce spirit of a horse that would allow no other. And Spitfire, known for his wild, unbroken heart, found a rider worthy of his trust in a child who saw him as a friend. Not as a challenge. Teaching the ranchhands, as opposed to spurs and whips, a gentle touch can go a long way!

Unpacking ‘Make America Great Again’: What MAGA Overlooks in Its Vision of the Past

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

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The fall of 2024 found a vibrant small community town hall filled with locals from every walk of life. The walls became lined with a diverse array of familiar faces of the neighborhood—retired teachers, young activists, military veterans, and longtime friends who had lived through decades of change, some of it hard-won, others bittersweet. On the stage, with a sign reading “Let’s Talk About Greatness,” stood a panel, each holding their idea of what that greatness looked like.

Jared, a man in his late sixties with a MAGA hat perched atop his head, leaned forward as he spoke, –––

“I want my kids and grandkids to grow up in a country that feels strong, proud, and united—like it was back then. We all knew our neighbors. Families were close-knit. There was a sense of American unity.”

Dolores, a retired history teacher, nodded beside him. But as the crowd listened, some exchanged looks. –––

“So, Jared, I get what you’re saying,” a young local journalist interrupted Lena. But when we say ‘back then,’ do we mean the same thing?”

Jared paused, looking thoughtful, as Dolores took the microphone. –––

“We tend to remember the good and forget the rest,” she said gently. I remember growing up in the fifties and sixties. It was stable and ideal for some of us, but not everyone. This ‘great’ past we want to go back to meant certain people couldn’t vote. Others had to hide who they loved. And women—our dreams were seen as distractions to a family.”

There was a hush as Dolores’s words hung in the air.

“I don’t think Jared meant that,”

––– came a soft voice from the audience. It was Naomi, a single mother and community organizer.

“But when we say we want to ‘Make America Great Again,’ we have to ask—for whom? The history we’re returning to was not the same experience for everyone.”

The community members exchanged glances. Jared turned back to the crowd. –––

“I respect what you’re saying, Naomi,”

he replied, genuinely thoughtfully. –––

“When I say ‘greatness,’ I’m not talking about racism or inequality. I’m talking about hard work, pride, patriotism—things that feel like they’re slipping away.”

Naomi nodded understanding, fostering a sense of mutual respect and value for each other’s perspectives, highlighting the importance of open and respectful dialogue in the community.

“But the word again implies that we want to go backward,”

––– Lena pointed out.

“And, for me, that’s concerning. I love this country and respect what’s gone into making it better. I mean, we have interracial marriage, legal protections for LGBTQ+ people, voting rights for everyone.”

––– Lena paused, looking at Jared.

“To me, that’s American greatness—now.”

As the meeting unfolded, the debate deepened. Various members shared stories of progress and hardships. Kayla, a small business owner, spoke about her pride in balancing work and motherhood.

“When I hear traditional values, I think of something different than my grandmother might have,”

––– she said.

“My values include family, hard work, women’s rights, and equal opportunities.”

Another voice said,

“Look, I served in the military, and I believe in protecting this country,”

––– said Tom, a retired Marine and a man with a thick gray beard.

“I fought for an America that moves forward and doesn’t leave anyone behind. ‘Greatness’ is complex—strong enough to protect everyone’s rights.”

The meeting wrapped up with the group realizing that “greatness” was many things, each person’s version holding personal meaning. Dolores took the microphone one last time:

“Maybe we can remember this—our vision of a truly great America embraces both the good of the past and the advancements we’ve made. To build greatness, we don’t go backward. We keep moving and evolving, ensuring that each generation has the opportunity to contribute to a better America, instilling a sense of hope and optimism in the audience for the future.”

The room echoed with nods of agreement, and as the townspeople filed out, they carried forward a renewed understanding: that the road to greatness was not paved with nostalgia alone but with a willingness to grow beyond it.

The term “Make America Great Again” has a different meaning, and it stands on the grounds that to make America Great Again, there has to be the revoking of rights that have been attained by groups over the last fifty years. Those groups include blacks, Native Americans, Hispanics, Asians, the LGBTQI+ Community, and others. Because of that angle, this space will discuss the topic in the November 1st, 2024 posting.

Understanding the range of meanings attributed to “Make America Great Again” offers insight into the complexities of contemporary American identity and the societal debate over what “greatness” truly entails in an evolving multicultural landscape.

Where Will An Individual Be When They Get There?

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An Insight By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Gregory Halloway, a man who had spent much of his life navigating a world filled with expectations and routines, found himself unable to shake a persistent question: “Do you know where you will be when you get to where you are going?” This question, seemingly simple at first, grew more complex and intriguing the more he pondered it.

One morning, he decided to take this question to the streets. He asked his co-workers, neighbors, and even strangers passing by in the park. Everyone offered a different answer, often shaped by their immediate concerns—a promotion, a dream home, or retirement. However, to Gregory, none of their answers captured the depth of what he sought.

As days went by, the question began to evolve. It was not about a physical location or a milestone. Gregory realized he was asking about something more profound: the essence of one’s journey in life. Did societal pressures predetermine it, or was there a self-will that guided each step? Were people truly aware of where their decisions were taking them, or were they drifting from one event to another on autopilot?

Gregory sat down with an old mentor, Mrs. Callahan, who had always seemed to possess a quiet wisdom. Over tea, he asked her the question. She looked at him thoughtfully and replied,

“Where I am going is not a place on a map but a state of mind. It is peace, it is fulfillment, it is the discovery of who they are beyond the roles I play. The ‘where’ is fluid and shaped by what they are willing to confront within themselves.”

Her answer struck Gregory deeply. Was this the missing piece? Realizing where they are going is not just external but internal—a product of understanding themselves, their desires, their fears, and their drive.

For the next few weeks, Gregory delved deep into his own life, questioning his motivations. Were they truly his, or were they borrowed from the expectations of others? He noticed how often he pursued goals without considering their significance, and how fear and insecurity often dictated his path, steering him away from uncomfortable but necessary choices.

And then, the revelation dawned on him: self-will. The ultimate destination was not just about achieving a tangible goal but about aligning with one’s inner purpose. Gregory’s understanding of life’s journey shifted. It was less about a final destination and more about the transformative process of becoming who one was meant to be.

Gregory returned to his question, but this time, he asked himself: 

“Do I know where I will be when I get to where I am going?”

Gregory smiled, realizing he did not need an answer. The beauty of the question was that it forced him to confront the process, not the end. It was a way of understanding that wherever Gregory ended up, it would be shaped by how consciously he lived each moment, how much of his true self Gregory brought into each decision, and how deeply he understood his drive.

The ultimate journey was not about getting to a place but about who Gregory would become.

The World Of One

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A Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Tom Richardson awoke one ordinary morning with an extraordinary conviction: he was the sole individual of significance. He did not consider himself to be isolated—others still surrounded him. However, in his perception, they were merely silhouettes, existing solely to fulfill his desires, frustrations, and caprices. The needs, emotions, and experiences of all others were simply ambient noise, inconsequential to the grand narrative of his existence. In this self-centered realm, Tom stood as the sole inhabitant, a solitary monarch in a realm of his own creation.

Tom was entitled, cutting to the front of lines, talking over people in meetings, and driving through red lights without hesitation. He believed the world should move at his pace, bulldozing through daily interactions with unchecked arrogance.

At work, Tom’s behavior was incredibly disruptive. His coworkers noticed how he monopolized conversations during meetings, often interrupting others and steering the discussions towards his own agenda. He frequently dismissed ideas he did not like, making it challenging for his colleagues to express their opinions freely. Additionally, Tom had a habit of taking credit for work he had not done, which created a toxic environment of mistrust and resentment among the team. His colleague Melissa, in particular, had spent months pouring her energy and creativity into a project, only to watch Tom take the spotlight during the presentation without acknowledging her contributions. Her face burned with frustration and disappointment, but Tom was already basking in the praise, completely unaware—or uncaring—of the hurt he had caused. As a result of his actions, the morale of the team suffered, productivity decreased, and valuable talent began seeking opportunities elsewhere. The tangible consequences of Tom’s behavior were felt deeply by those around him, and the weight of his actions continued to impact the work environment.

  • Outside the office, Tom’s interactions were just as callous. In a crowded coffee shop, he snapped at the barista for taking too long with his order. When the woman in front of him politely asked if she could move ahead to grab her drink, Tom scoffed and said, “Wait your turn, like the rest of us.” It never occurred to him that her child was crying in the car outside or that her day might unravel.

In relationships, Tom’s selfishness is all-consuming. His girlfriend, Kate, was initially patient, excusing his behavior as stress. However, as time passed, she realized that Tom’s wants and needs dictated every conversation, every plan, and every moment they shared.

“Can we ever do something I want?”

she asked one evening. Tom shrugged, dismissing her words as if they were background noise.

“It is not that important,”

he replied, flipping through the TV channels as she sat beside him, feeling smaller every second.

The world began to push back.

  • At work, Melissa and other colleagues stopped inviting Tom to meetings. His input was more a hindrance than a help. Projects moved more smoothly without his constant interruptions. The team thrived in his absence, but Tom remained blissfully unaware, believing that his exclusion was a sign of jealousy or resentment, never his behavior.
  • On the streets, strangers grew cold. People who once offered pleasantries started to avoid him. The barista, usually polite despite his rudeness, began greeting him with silent, stony indifference. Tom, of course, assumed they were having bad days.
  • “Not my problem,” ––– he muttered each time.

At home, Kate left. Her final words echoed through their now-empty apartment:

“You do not see me, Tom. Tom, never will you see me!.”

Tom stood in the doorway, confused and angry, unable to comprehend why she was so upset. As far as he was concerned, everything had been fine—because everything had always been about him.

However, despite the growing distance between him and the world, Tom did not connect the dots. The problem, as far as he was concerned, was not him. It was everyone else. Why didn’t people understand that he was in charge of his life? Why didn’t they see that his needs were urgent, his time valuable, his presence essential? His self-centeredness was creating a chasm between him and the rest of the world, a gap that was widening with each passing day.

The final straw came one quiet evening. Tom sat in a restaurant, dining alone —–– a common occurrence now. He waved the waiter over impatiently, complaining about the wait for his meal. The waiter, a man in his late fifties with graying hair and tired eyes, looked at Tom and sighed.

“You are not the only person in the world, you know,” the waiter said softly, his voice edged with exhaustion. “You act like we are all here just for you, but we are not.”

Tom bristled at the remark, ready to retort with something biting to remind the man of his place. However, the waiter’s words hung in the air momentarily, their truth unsettled. The weight of his words, heavy with truth, began to sink in, stirring something deep within Tom.

For the first time in a long time, Tom looked around. The restaurant was filled with people—couples sharing meals, families laughing, servers rushing between tables. Each of them had their own stories, struggles, and lives. They were not shadows. They were not here for him. They were living their own lives, just as vivid and real as his.

The weight of it settled on Tom like a cold wave. For years, he had moved through the world as if it were his stage, oblivious to the people around him. He had interrupted their lives, stepped over their feelings, and demanded their attention without a second thought. He had bulldozed his way through, never considering the damage he left behind.

And then, in a moment that would change his life, he saw it. For the first time, Tom indeed saw the world around him, not as a stage for his performance, but as a rich tapestry of lives, each as important as his own.

Tom left the restaurant without finishing his meal, the waiter’s words echoing in his mind. As he walked down the street, past people he had never noticed, a strange feeling stirred in him—something akin to humility, though he would not have called it that. It was a shift in his attitude and his perception of the world.

The world did not revolve around him—it never had. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, Tom realized just how much he had lost because of it.

As just as he did, not expecting for it to happen, Jesus Christ popped in and said he is going to vote for Kamala Harris!

The End

Barry’s Trip To Space To Rescue Boeing’s Starliner

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A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Barry Figg, renowned for his practicality and unconventional approach, was on the brink of an interstellar journey. His mind was ignited with possibilities as he readied his trusty 1968 Ford pickup truck. He had hauled many things in his lifetime, from trailers to farm equipment, but a Boeing Starliner? This was uncharted territory. The fact that no one else had dared to use a pickup truck for such a task only fueled Barry’s determination, a determination that was unwavering in the face of skepticism.

“Beau, you ready for a road trip? Or should I say space trip?”


Beau cocked his head, giving his usual “I’m not sure about this” Look. But he followed Barry, hopping into the passenger seat as Barry checked his supplies. Duct tape, check. Extra gas cans, check. A spare tire, in case outer space, had potholes—check. He’d even brought along an old CB radio, thinking it might work in zero gravity, though he had no clue how radio waves worked in space. Barry didn’t care; he figured he’d wing it like most things.

Once NASA learned of Barry’s mission, skepticism was immediate. Experts in aerodynamics and astrophysics laughed but turned to dead silence when Barry’s truck, rigged to a makeshift launch system, somehow lifted off without a hitch.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Barry muttered as he and Beau cruised past the stratosphere.

“This ol’ girl’s still got it.”

Barry marveled at the view as the Ford ascended through the layers of atmosphere. Earth, a glowing blue marble beneath him, seemed serene. And there, floating ahead, was the broken-down Boeing Starliner its silver hull gleaming in the sunlight. Inside the Starliner, astronauts Mike and Sarah, who had been stranded for days, stared in disbelief as the pickup truck came into view, their shock and awe palpable even from a distance.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Mike asked over the radio.
“Is that a pickup truck?” Sarah’s voice crackled over the radio, disbelief evident in her tone. “Did NASA send a guy in a truck?”

As Barry carefully maneuvered the truck closer to the shuttle, he saw their faces peering through the small windows, wide-eyed and in shock.

“Do you need a lift?”

Barry asked through the CB, unaware it was probably not connected to any NASA frequency. Luckily, the two astronauts got tuned in to a general frequency, and Mike responded,

“Uh… yes. Yes, we do.”

Barry pulled alongside the shuttle and threw his hook—a custom-made towing rig he’d welded together using old chains and farm parts—around the back of the spacecraft. The starliner got securely latched to his truck with a few hard pulls.

“Hold tight, fellas. We’re goin’ home,”

Barry said, grinning from ear to ear as Beau barked in approval.

Barry set his course for Earth with the astronauts safely aboard and the spacecraftin tow. The news of this unprecedented rescue spread like wildfire, catching the attention of NASA, SpaceX, and Boeing engineers. Always hungry for a good story, the media began reporting on the ‘Miracle Towman’ who was bringing the astronauts home.

The shuttle’s re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere was tense. The heat shields were supposed to disintegrate, but they managed to hold with Barry’s truck pulling it at just the right angle and speed. Barry Figg was a hero when the Ford’s tires hit the ground, rolling onto the Kennedy Space Center runway.

The crowd went wild. Reporters rushed to the scene, cameras flashing, as Barry and Beau stepped out of the truck. The two astronauts emerged next, dazed but alive.

The media was abuzz with the story of the ‘Miracle Towman,’ who had defied all odds to bring the astronauts home, and the story was soon making headlines around the world.

“Barry, how did you do it?”

A reporter asked, thrusting a microphone in his face.

Barry scratched his head, looked down at Beau, and then back at the reporter.

“I dunno. I just did what I always do—haul stuff. It didn’t matter if it was a broken tractor or a spacecraft. You hook it up, pull it, and ensure it doesn’t fall apart.”

NASA and Boeing executives stood in the crowd, their faces a mixture of awe and disbelief. Melon Lusk tweeted,

“Sometimes the simplest solution is the most unexpected. Well done, Barry.”

Barry couldn’t believe the attention. He had never asked for fame but was a national sensation here. As the praise rolled in, he felt a mix of pride and humility. He thought,

“Maybe space haulin’ ain’t so bad after all.”

But deep down, he knew that he was just a small-town hauler who had done what he thought was right.
Later that evening, after all the interviews and handshakes, Barry climbed back into his pickup with Beau and started the engine. As he pulled out of the space center parking lot, he turned to his loyal dog.

“Well, Beau, we’re not just small-town haulers anymore, are we?”

Beau barked once, agreeing they now head for more than just earthbound odd jobs. The Beau began to speak human, saying


“You are one lucky son-of-a-bitch, Barry!”

Then, he began barking using his dog voice—Wolf, Wolf, Wolf, Wolf, Wolf. This caused Barry to wake up from the most incredible dream he had ever experienced!

When Barry woke up, he realized he had to go to work at the job he had been doing for the last 18 years, 11 months, 14 days, and 16 hours: folding boxes at a candy-making company. ––– The End.

The Man Who Worked Everywhere

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A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Leroy Jones lived a simple life three towns away from the bustling city where he believed he worked. Each morning, he would wake up at precisely 6:00 a.m., put on his neatly pressed work clothes, and head out the door with his lunchbox. The route was always the same—past the old gas station, through the sleepy neighborhoods, and over the rickety bridge that creaked with every car that crossed it. Leroy never noticed the subtle changes in his surroundings as he arrived at his “workplace” each day.

But Leroy’s workplace wasn’t just one place. Each day, he entered a different building, convinced it was the office where he had been employed for the last 25 years. On Monday, he might stroll into a bakery, slipping on an apron as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He would knead dough, chat with customers, and even operate the register when needed. The bakery staff never questioned his presence; he was just another part of their daily routine, his dedication to the ‘job’ unwavering.

On Tuesday, Leroy would find himself in a mechanic’s garage, wiping grease from his hands and sliding under cars to fix mysterious engine problems. He’d swap stories with the other mechanics, his laughter echoing through the shop as if he had been working there for years.

Wednesday brought Leroy to an office building downtown. He would sit at a desk, typing furiously at a computer, answering phones, and filing paperwork. The office workers treated him like any other coworker, nodding in acknowledgment as they passed by his desk.

Thursday saw him behind the counter of a small bookstore, recommending novels and arranging displays with a meticulous eye. Customers appreciated his suggestions, never questioning why a man in his mid-fifties seemed to know every book in the store by heart.

By Friday, Leroy had somehow found his way into a local diner, flipping burgers and pouring coffee for the regulars who called him “Jonesy” with fond familiarity. The servers giggled at his jokes, and the manager would give him a friendly pat, grateful for his hard work.

The strangest part was that no one noticed anything odd about Leroy’s ever-changing jobs. It was as if he belonged everywhere he went, seamlessly fitting into each new role without question. And Leroy himself was blissfully unaware of the peculiar situation. He was content, believing he was fulfilling his duties as an employee, no matter where he happened to be.

The only thing that remained constant was the distance Leroy traveled each day. Three towns away, in his cozy tiny home, his family never suspected a thing. They would ask about his day, and Leroy would share stories that seemed to fit together perfectly, a jigsaw puzzle of experiences from countless workplaces. His wife would smile and nod, proud of her hardworking husband, who, in her mind, had always been reliable and steadfast.

But as the weeks turned into months, a subtle shift began. The people in the various businesses Leroy frequented started to notice something odd. The baker couldn’t recall hiring him, the mechanic couldn’t remember his first day, and the office workers had no recollection of his name on the payroll. Yet, none of them could bring themselves to confront him. After all, Leroy was a good worker and brought a certain charm to their lives that they didn’t want to lose.

One crisp autumn morning, as Leroy entered a flower shop he had never seen before, something unusual happened. The shopkeeper, a kind older woman with silver hair, watched him arrange a bouquet with practiced hands. She approached him with a gentle touch, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Leroy, do you know where you are?” she asked softly.

Leroy paused, looking around the shop as if seeing it for the first time.

“Why, I’m at work, of course,” he replied warmly.

The shopkeeper nodded, her eyes filled with understanding and sadness.

“Yes, Leroy. You are. But perhaps it’s time to go home now.”

Leroy looked at her, confusion flickering across his face. “Home?”

She guided him to the door, her voice calm and soothing.

“Yes, home. Where you’ve always belonged.”

As Leroy stepped outside, the fog that had clouded his mind for so long began to lift. He looked around at the unfamiliar street, realizing for the first time just how far he had wandered. He turned back to the shopkeeper, who gave him a gentle smile and a wave.

Leroy walked slowly back to his car, the pieces of his life starting to come together in a way that made sense for the first time in years. He drove back the three towns to his quiet, tiny home, where his family waited for him, unaware of the strange journey he had been on. As he stepped through the door that evening, a profound sense of peace washed over him. He was truly home, and he knew he would never leave again.

The businesses he had worked at never saw him return, but they never forgot the man who had, for a brief time, been a part of their lives.

And Leroy? He never spoke of those days again, content to leave the mystery behind, embracing the life he had always known, finally at peace with the place he truly belonged.

A Step Out of Time – The Day That Kept Repeating –– A Detective Wakes Up Lost In The Future 

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Experiencing A Different Version Of The Same Day Over And Over.

A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024 © Truth Endures

Detective James “Jimmy” O’Connor had seen it all—or so he thought. O’Connor had been on the force since 1951 when respect meant something and a good cop could solve a case with his wits and a firm handshake. But nothing could have prepared him for the day he woke up in 2024, a world so different from the one he knew. It was as if he had stepped into a parallel universe.

It started like any other morning. Jimmy rolled out of bed in his modest home, built solidly after the war when families were booming and life was good. He yawned, stretched, and reached for his old fedora, a relic from yesteryear that still sat faithfully on the bedpost. The sun streamed through the window, but something in the light felt –– off. A glance at the calendar confirmed it. The year read 2024.

“What in the Sam Hill…”

he muttered, running a hand through his graying hair. Had he been in a coma? Had he somehow slept through sixty years of his life?

Still dazed, he dressed in his usual attire: a crisp white shirt, suspenders, pleated trousers, and polished leather shoes. His well-worn and comforting hat sat snugly atop his head. The mirror reflected a man who had not aged a day since the early 1960s. Time had played its tricks, but Jimmy O’Connor remained the same.

Determined to make sense of things, he grabbed his keys and headed out. His faithful 1954 Chevrolet two-door coupe sat waiting in the driveway as he’d left it. The car was nothing fancy—back in the day, it had been the biggest clunker in the department. The boys at the station used to rib him about it, but Jimmy liked it just fine. It had character, just like him.

The drive to the station was surreal. Buildings towered over the officer, sleek and modern. People walked down the streets glued to strange devices, barely looking up. The air buzzed with a thousand sounds, none of which he recognized. And the cars—by God, the cars! They whizzed by silently as if propelled by magic. Jimmy’s old Chevy chugged along, a relic in a world that had moved on without him, a world that felt utterly alien.

When he pulled up to the station, he first noticed the gawking. A group of younger officers stood in the lot, eyes wide and mouths agape as they saw him and his car. One of them, a kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, stepped forward.

“Is that…a ’54 Chevy?”

He asked, awe dripping from his voice.

Jimmy nodded, confused.

“Sure is. Why?”

“That thing’s a classic! How the hell did you get it in such good shape?”

“Just took care of it, I guess,”

Jimmy replied, still trying to process everything.

“Now, what in blazes is going on around here?”

Inside, the station was a hive of activity, but nothing looked the same. Computers sat on every desk, glowing with images Jimmy didn’t understand. Phones weren’t phones anymore; they were slim, glass rectangles everyone seemed glued to. And the fashion—if you could call it that—was wild—bright colors, strange fabrics, and hair that defied gravity.

Jimmy made his way to the chief’s office, nodding at a few familiar faces, now older men. They all stared back as if they’d seen a ghost. When he finally entered the door, Chief Morales looked up from his desk, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“Jimmy?”

Chief Morales croaked, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“What the hell?”

His voice was a mix of shock and disbelief, mirroring the sentiments of everyone who had laid eyes on the seemingly unchanged detective.

“Chief, I don’t know what’s happening, but I woke up this morning, and the whole world turned upside down. I need answers.”

Morales gestured for him to sit, still in shock.

“You mean to tell me you remember nothing past…when? The 1960s?”

“Last thing I remember, Kennedy was in office, and I was working a case with the old squad,”

Jimmy replied, sinking into the chair.

“Now it’s like I stepped into one of those science fiction movies.”

The chief rubbed his temples.

“Jimmy, it’s 2024. A lot has changed. I don’t know how or why, but you look like you haven’t aged a day.”

“Tell me about it,”

Jimmy grumbled.

“And what’s with the kids these days? I was on a case involving students before this, whatever it was. Are they all this –––different?”

The chief sighed.

“Different doesn’t begin to cover it. Kids these days are a whole new breed. They have connected to the world in ways we couldn’t have imagined in the 60s. Social media, smartphones, instant communication –– They’re more outspoken and more aware but more distracted. It’s a different world, Jimmy.”

Just then, a young officer burst into the room, his face excitedly lit.

“Chief, we’ve got a situation at the high school. Some fight—might be gang-related.”

Jimmy’s ears perked up. A case involving students? An assignment with students –– was familiar territory.

“I’ll go,”

he said, standing up.

“Jimmy, wait—”

Morales started, but Jimmy was already out the door.

On the Case

The high school was a chaotic scene. Teens were scattered everywhere, shouting and recording the commotion on their phones. Jimmy strode in, commanding attention despite the odd looks he received. He spotted a group of kids at the center of it all, some dressed in clothes he could barely comprehend, others with tattoos and piercings that would have been unthinkable in his time.

“Alright, break it up!”

Jimmy barked, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. The kids looked at him, confused, but the tone was unmistakable. They started to disperse, grumbling under their breath.

A young girl with brightly colored hair and a nose ring approached him.

“Who are you supposed to be? You look like you just walked out of a history book.”

“Detective O’Connor,”

he replied gruffly.

“Now, what’s going on here?”

She shrugged, unimpressed.

“Just a fight. It happens all the time. We caught it on video if you want to see it.”

Jimmy blinked.

“Caught it on video? You mean you filmed it instead of stopping it?”

The girl rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it’s what we do. Upload it to TikTok, get some likes.”

“Tik…what?”

Jimmy shook his head, feeling like he was slipping further into the twilight zone.

“Never mind,”

she said, dismissing him.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

As he tried to piece together what she meant, a senior officer approached, relieved to see him.

“Detective O’Connor, right? I’ve heard stories about you. The chief said you might be ––– helping out today?“

“Helping out, yeah,”

Jimmy replied, still feeling out of place.

“What’s the story here?”

The officer explained the situation—two students from rival groups had fought over something posted online. Jimmy listened, but the details were baffling. Back in his day, fights happened face-to-face, not through the internet.

“Sounds like the same old story, just with a new twist,”

Jimmy said.

“I’ll talk to them.”

He approached the two students, who were now sulking on the sidelines. They looked up at him with a mix of defiance and confusion.

“Alright, you two,”

Jimmy started,

“what’s this all about?”

They exchanged glances before one finally spoke up.

“This boy posted some crap about my sister on Instagram. I wasn’t going to let that slide.”

“Instagram?”

Jimmy repeated, trying to keep up.

“Back in my day, you settled things like men. You talked it out—or, if it came to blows, you did it without an audience.”

The other boy scoffed.

“What do you know, old man? Times have changed.”

“Maybe so,”

Jimmy admitted,

“but respect doesn’t. You don’t solve problems by hiding behind a screen. If you’ve got an issue, you deal with it face-to-face, like men. And you sure don’t let it become a circus for everyone else to watch.”

The boys looked at him, considering his words. It was a message from another time, but something about it resonated. Eventually, they both nodded, muttering apologies under their breath.

As the situation defused, Jimmy felt a strange sense of accomplishment. The methods might have changed, but the core principles still needed to be. Respect, honesty, and responsibility still mattered, even in this brave new world.

The World Keeps Spinning

Back at the station, the day wound down, and Jimmy found himself in the parking lot, staring at his old Chevy. It was the one constant in this sea of change, a reminder of where he came from and who he was. But as he climbed in and turned the key, he couldn’t help but wonder how long he could hold onto the past in a world that seemed determined to move forward without him.

As the engine roared to life, Jimmy tipped his hat, adjusted his rearview mirror, and drove into the setting sun. The road ahead was uncertain, but he’d face it the only way he knew how—one mile at a time, just like he always had.

He’d find his place in this strange new world somewhere along the way. But for now, he was content to be a man out of time, doing his best to keep up with a world that had left him behind.

A Step Out of Time The Next Morning

Detective James “Jimmy” O’Connor had seen it all—or so he thought. O’Connor had been on the force since 1951 when respect meant something and a good cop could solve a case with his wits and a firm handshake. But nothing could have prepared him for the day he woke up in 2024, a world so different from the one he knew. It was as if he had stepped into a parallel universe, a world where the very fabric of society got rewoven.

It started like any other morning. Jimmy rolled out of bed in his modest home, built solidly after the war when families were booming and life was good. He yawned, stretched, and reached for his old fedora, a relic from yesteryear that still sat faithfully on the bedpost. The sun streamed through the window, but something in the light felt –– off. A glance at the calendar confirmed it. The year read 2024.

“What in the Sam Hill…it seems like I’ve been here before.”

he muttered, his voice trembling, running a hand through his graying hair. Had he been in a coma? Had he somehow slept through sixty years of his life?

Still dazed, he dressed in his usual attire: a crisp white shirt, suspenders, pleated trousers, and polished leather shoes. His well-worn and comforting hat sat snugly atop his head. The mirror reflected a man who had not aged a day since the early 1960s. Time had played its tricks, but Jimmy O’Connor remained the same.

Determined to make sense of things, he grabbed his keys and headed out. His faithful 1954 Chevrolet two-door coupe sat waiting in the driveway as he’d left it. The car was nothing fancy—back in the day, it had been the biggest clunker in the department. The boys at the station used to rib him about it, but Jimmy liked it just fine. It had character, just like him.

The drive to the station was surreal. Buildings towered over the officer, sleek and modern. People walked down the streets glued to strange devices, barely looking up. The air buzzed with a thousand sounds, none of which he recognized. And the cars—by God, the cars! They whizzed by silently as if propelled by magic. Jimmy’s old Chevy chugged along, a relic in a world that had moved on without him, a world that felt utterly alien.

When he pulled up to the station, he first noticed the gawking. A group of younger officers stood in the lot, eyes wide and mouths agape as they saw him and his car. One of them, a kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, stepped forward.

“Is that…a ’54 Chevy?”

the young officer asked, his voice filled with awe and disbelief as if he had just seen a relic from a forgotten era.

Jimmy nodded, confused.

“Sure is. Why?“

“That thing’s a classic! How the hell did you get it in such good shape?”

“Just took care of it, I guess,”

Jimmy replied, thinking he’d answered the same question a day before, he was still trying to process everything.

“Now, what in blazes is going on around here?”

Inside, the station was a hive of activity, but nothing looked the same. Computers sat on every desk, glowing with images Jimmy didn’t understand. He’d been here before. This is the same thing he had done yesterday. Phones weren’t phones anymore; they were slim, glass rectangles everyone seemed glued to. The fashion starkly contrasted Jimmy’s traditional attire—bright colors, strange fabrics, and hair that defied gravity. The world had become a place where technology and individual expression reigned supreme, a far cry from the simpler times Jimmy was used to. I am repeating yesterday in the future, Jimmy thought to himself.

Jimmy went to the chief’s office, nodding at a few familiar faces, now older men. They all stared back as if they’d seen a ghost, they hadn’t seen Jimmy looking that young in fifty years. When he finally entered the door, Chief Morales looked up from his desk, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“Jimmy?”

Chief Morales croaked, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. The shock and disbelief in his voice mirrored the sentiments of everyone who had laid eyes on the seemingly unchanged detective.

“Chief, I don’t know what’s happening, but I woke up this morning, and the whole world turned upside down. I need answers,”

he declared, his voice unwavering despite the chaos around him.

“We did this yesterday, and now it is happening again!“

Morales gestured for him to sit, still in shock.

“Like I told you yesterday, when we went through this the last thing I remember, Kennedy was in office, and I was working a case with the old squad,” Jimmy replied, sinking into the chair. “Now it’s like I stepped into one of those science fiction movies.“

The chief rubbed his temples.

“Jimmy, it’s 2024. A lot has changed. I don’t know how or why, but you look like you haven’t aged a day.”

“Tell me about it,”

Jimmy grumbled.

“And what’s with the kids these days? I was on a case involving students before this, whatever it was. Are they all this –––different?”

The chief sighed.

“Different doesn’t begin to cover it. Kids these days are a whole new breed. They have connected to the world in ways we couldn’t have imagined in the 60s. Social media, smartphones, instant communication –– They’re more outspoken and more aware but more distracted. It’s a different world, Jimmy.”

Just then, a young officer burst into the room, his face excitedly lit.

“Chief, we’ve got a situation at the high school. Some fight—might be gang-related.”

Jimmy’s ears perked up. A case involving students? An assignment with students –– was familiar territory.

“I’ll go,”

he said, standing up.

“Jimmy, wait—

” Morales started, but Jimmy was already out the door.

On the Case

The high school was a chaotic scene. Teens were scattered everywhere, shouting and recording the commotion on their phones. Jimmy strode in, commanding attention despite the odd looks he received. He spotted a group of kids at the center of it all, some dressed in clothes he could barely comprehend, others with tattoos and piercings that would have been unthinkable in his time.

“Alright, break it up!”

Jimmy barked, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. The kids looked at him, confused, but the tone was unmistakable. They started to disperse, grumbling under their breath.

A young girl with brightly colored hair and a nose ring approached him.

“Who are you supposed to be? You look like you just walked out of a history book.”

“Detective O’Connor,”

he replied gruffly.

“Now, what’s going on here?”

She shrugged, unimpressed.

“Just a fight. It happens all the time. We caught it on video if you want to see it.”

Jimmy blinked.

“Caught it on video? You mean you filmed it instead of stopping it?”

The girl rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it’s what we do. Upload it to TikTok, get some likes.”

“Tik…what?”

Jimmy shook his head, feeling like he was slipping further into the twilight zone.

“Never mind,”

she said, dismissing him.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

As he tried to piece together what she meant, a senior officer approached, relieved to see him.

“Detective O’Connor, right? I’ve heard stories about you. The chief said you might be ––– helping out today?”

“Helping out, yeah,”

Jimmy replied, still feeling out of place.

“What’s the story here?”

The officer explained the situation—two students from rival groups had fought over something posted online. Jimmy listened, but the details were baffling. Back in his day, fights happened face-to-face, not through the internet.

“Sounds like the same old story, just with a new twist,”

Jimmy said.

“I’ll talk to them.”

He approached the two students, who were now sulking on the sidelines. They looked up at him with a mix of defiance and confusion.

“Alright, you two,”

Jimmy started,

“what’s this all about?”

They exchanged glances before one finally spoke up.

“This boy posted some crap about my sister on Instagram. I wasn’t going to let that slide.”

“Instagram?”

Jimmy repeated, trying to keep up.

“Back in my day, you settled things like men. You talked it out—or, if it came to blows, you did it without an audience.”

The other boy scoffed.

“What do you know, old man? Times have changed.”

“Maybe so,”

Jimmy admitted,

“but respect doesn’t. You don’t solve problems by hiding behind a screen. If you’ve got an issue, you deal with it face-to-face, like men. And you sure don’t let it become a circus for everyone else to watch.”

The boys looked at him, considering his words. It was a message from another time, but something about it resonated. Eventually, they both nodded, muttering apologies under their breath.

As the situation defused, Jimmy felt a strange sense of accomplishment. The methods might have changed, but the core principles still needed to be. Respect, honesty, and responsibility still mattered, even in this brave new world.

The World Keeps Spinning

Back at the station, the day wound down, and Jimmy found himself in the parking lot, staring at his old Chevy. It was the one constant in this sea of change, a reminder of where he came from and who he was. But as he climbed in and turned the key, he couldn’t help but wonder how long he could hold onto the past in a world that seemed determined to move forward without him.

As the engine roared to life, Jimmy tipped his hat, adjusted his rearview mirror, and drove into the setting sun. The road ahead was uncertain, but he’d face it the only way he knew how—one mile at a time, just like he always had.

He’d find his place in this strange new world somewhere along the way. But for now, he was content to be a man out of time, doing his best to keep up with a world that had left him behind.

A Step Out of Time The Morning After

Detective James “Jimmy” O’Connor had seen it all—or so he thought. O’Connor had been on the force since 1951 when respect meant something and a good cop could solve a case with his wits and a firm handshake. But nothing could have prepared him for the day he woke up in 2024, a world so different from the one he knew. It was as if he had stepped into a parallel universe, a world where the very fabric of society got rewoven.

It started like any other morning. Jimmy rolled out of bed in his modest home, built solidly after the war when families were booming and life was good. He yawned, stretched, and reached for his old fedora, a relic from yesteryear that still sat faithfully on the bedpost. The sun streamed through the window, but something in the light felt –– off. A glance at the calendar confirmed it. The year read 2024.

“What in the Sam Hill…” he muttered, his voice trembling, running a hand through his graying hair. Had he been in a coma? Had he somehow slept through sixty years of his life?

Still dazed, he dressed in his usual attire: a crisp white shirt, suspenders, pleated trousers, and polished leather shoes. His well-worn and comforting hat sat snugly atop his head. The mirror reflected a man who had not aged a day since the early 1960s. Time had played its tricks, but Jimmy O’Connor remained the same.

Determined to make sense of things, he grabbed his keys and headed out. His faithful 1954 Chevrolet two-door coupe sat waiting in the driveway as he’d left it. The car was nothing fancy—back in the day, it had been the biggest clunker in the department. The boys at the station used to rib him about it, but Jimmy liked it just fine. It had character, just like him.

The drive to the station was surreal. Buildings towered over the officer, sleek and modern. People walked down the streets glued to strange devices, barely looking up. The air buzzed with a thousand sounds, none of which he recognized. And the cars—by God, the cars! They whizzed by silently as if propelled by magic. Jimmy’s old Chevy chugged along, a relic in a world that had moved on without him, a world that felt utterly alien.

When he pulled up to the station, he first noticed the gawking. A group of younger officers stood in the lot, eyes wide and mouths agape as they saw him and his car. One of them, a kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, stepped forward.

“Is that…a ’54 Chevy?” the young officer asked, his voice filled with awe and disbelief as if he had just seen a relic from a forgotten era.

Jimmy nodded, confused. “Sure is. Why?”

“That thing’s a classic! How the hell did you get it in such good shape?”

“Just took care of it, I guess,” Jimmy replied, still trying to process everything. “Now, what in blazes is going on around here? This has got to stop!”

Inside, the station was a hive of activity, but nothing looked the same. Computers sat on every desk, glowing with images Jimmy didn’t understand. Phones weren’t phones anymore; they were slim, glass rectangles everyone seemed glued to. The fashion starkly contrasted Jimmy’s traditional attire—bright colors, strange fabrics, and hair that defied gravity. The world had become a place where technology and individual expression reigned supreme, a far cry from the simpler times Jimmy was used to.

Jimmy went to the chief’s office, nodding at a few familiar faces, now older men. They all stared back as if they’d seen a ghost. When he finally entered the door, Chief Morales looked up from his desk, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“Jimmy?” Chief Morales croaked, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. The shock and disbelief in his voice mirrored the sentiments of everyone who had laid eyes on the seemingly unchanged detective.

“Chief, I don’t know what’s happening, but I woke up this morning, and the whole world turned upside down. I need answers,” he declared, his voice unwavering despite the chaos around him.

Morales gestured for him to sit, still in shock. “You mean to tell me you remember nothing past…when? The 1960s?”

“Last thing I remember, Kennedy was in office, and I was working a case with the old squad,” Jimmy replied, sinking into the chair. “Now it’s like I stepped into one of those science fiction movies.”

The chief rubbed his temples. “Jimmy, it’s 2024. A lot has changed. I don’t know how or why, but you look like you haven’t aged a day.”

“Tell me about it,” Jimmy grumbled. “And what’s with the kids these days? I was on a case involving students before this, whatever it was. Are they all this –––different?”

The Chief sighed. “Different doesn’t begin to cover it. Kids these days are a whole new breed. They have connected to the world in ways we couldn’t have imagined in the 60s. Social media, smartphones, instant communication –– They’re more outspoken and more aware but more distracted. It’s a different world, Jimmy.”

The Chief then confided to Jimmy, only to tell people two years ago that I came here in 1972. Nixon was still in office. I have no idea what happened, but like you, this day of mine has repeated; until you came, I thought I was going looney. Now I know it is something else.

There is a glitch in the world’s timeline, and it is realigning where everyone is supposed to be. A clerk in fingerprints came here from a 1910 timeline; she has to have had that, or she has nasty tastes in clothing styles. It is all that I can conclude. I wonder if this is a broad-spread matter, and besides the two of us, who would we bring the matter to the attention of? They would lock us up in the looney house if we went to higher-ups and tried to explain this issue.

For now, we should try to blend in and manage it between us and be there for others we suspect of being travelers like us. Detective O’Conner, for the first time, realized that he was no longer in his time and had somehow been moved through generations and life to end up in a year he would probably not have lived to see. He and the Chief had an opportunity to share their values with a generation that sorely needed guidance, and the Chief felt a deep sense of responsibility to do so.

An Old Truck For The Twins – A Promise From The Farm

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A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Jessie and Frank, twin brothers, were not just ordinary farm boys. They were the backbone of their father’s farm, taking on the most challenging tasks that even grown men often avoided. They hauled hay, built fences, chopped wood, and tended to the livestock. Their relentless dedication and resilience inspired all who knew them. As they reached high school, they dreamt of a future beyond the farm, envisioning themselves attending an out-of-state university on agriculture scholarships.

At 17, the twins were nearly indistinguishable in appearance, voice, and mannerisms. Their mother, Ann, often found herself confused by their playful antics, while their father, James, could always tell them apart with a steely blue-eyed gaze that seemed to pierce straight through to their souls.

The boys had always known that their father had set a challenge for them: the one who excelled in school, worked hardest on the farm, stayed out of trouble by the time they turned 18, and would inherit their grandfather’s old truck. This truck, a symbol of their grandfather’s dedication to the farm, had been kept out of sight, locked away in a shed the boys were forbidden to enter. James had made it clear that if they ever crossed that line, the promise of the truck would vanish.

The truck was not extravagant, just an old farm pickup—a 1972 Chevrolet Cheyenne. Yet, in its prime, it was the epitome of rugged style, loaded with air conditioning, an AM radio, tilt steering, and optional cruise control. The dimmer switch was a silver push knob, and the wipers had three speeds: delay, slow, and fast. Its 350-horsepower engine with a four-barrel carburetor and dual exhaust pipes made it rumble in a way that the twins found irresistibly cool.

The story goes that their grandfather bought a brand-new truck when the twins were still in grade school. Disappointed, he told James to lock it away for one of the boys and returned to his old Cheyenne, never repurchasing another vehicle. He swore that nothing could replace the reliability and charm of that old truck.

As graduation approached, Jessie and Frank received their final transcripts and were thrilled to learn they both got accepted to their dream college. They had met all of James and Ann’s conditions, and the day of reckoning arrived on a Sunday before Memorial Day. The family gathered for a noon meal when Frank, unable to contain his excitement, suggested they finally see who would inherit the shed’s contents. Little did they know, the surprise of a lifetime was waiting for them.

James, with a knowing smile, opened both transcripts. –––

“Boys, you’ve always given your best on the farm and never brought shame to our family. But as you grow older, you’ll realize that in an instant, you can destroy everything your name stands for. You must protect it with everything you have by always being your best. Now, about these school results…”

Jessie and Frank exchanged curious glances. They knew they had done well in school, but their father’s words left them on edge. As James continued, his grin widened, and he looked at Ann and their grandfather. –––

“Damn it, I told both of you this would happen. I knew it!”

Ann, perplexed, interrupted. –––

“What are you talking about, James? You knew what?”

James continued with his monologue –––

“Ten years ago, when we locked that shed, I told you this would end in a tie. Those boys are identical in everything they do, even when they take different courses. And sure enough, they tied on their transcripts!”

Their grandfather chuckled. –––

“Well, it’s good I had another shed at my place, too. I knew they’d tie, and what was in that one shed wouldn’t be enough for both of them.“

Jessie and Frank, quietly processing the unfolding events, began to understand the lesson their family had taught them all these years—hard work, equality, and family values.

James asked, –––

“Ann, did you know Pop had another shed down at his place?”

Ann shook her head, still in disbelief. –––

“No one told me a thing! You’d think someone would, but no—never a single word.”

James, towering over the dining table, spread his arms wide and declared, –––

“Let’s put an end to this and see what’s in the shed.”

Their grandfather suggested waiting until morning, but James insisted –––

“No, Pop. Let’s show the boys what’s in my shed. It may not be what they’re expecting, but it is what it is.”

The twins were baffled, unsure of what to expect. At the shed, James paused before unlocking the door and turning to Ann. –––

“What if they aren’t pleased? We’ve only fed, schooled, clothed, and sheltered them for 18 years. What if they don’t like what’s inside?”

Jessie, ever the joker, quipped, –––

“Well, only one of us will be disappointed, so you’ve got that going for you.”

As the shed door creaked open, lights flickered on inside, and their grandfather exclaimed, –––

“Hey! You’ve brought the stuff from my shed down here! How’d you do that?”

Inside were the old truck and two brand-new pickups—precisely like the ones Jessie and Frank had admired recently at a local dealership. The old truck, as promised, would go to both boys on one condition: they had to promise to keep farming the land when they returned from college.


True to their word, Jessie and Frank returned after college, not just as graduates, but as committed farmers. They continued the legacy of their family, working the land with the same dedication and resilience they had shown in their youth. They went into business together, selling signature meats and grains. The old truck became the symbol of their brand, preserved in pristine condition in a showroom at their farm headquarters. With under thirty miles on the odometer, it remains as good as new, touched only by the twins. Anyone else wanting that privilege must work on their farm for over ten years without complaint, earn top grades, and uphold the family’s good name.

The Legend of Chuck McCready: The Philly Cheesesteak Incident

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A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

In the late 1980s, in the heart of Philadelphia, there was a small, hole-in-the-wall cheesesteak joint called “Tony’s Grub Hub.” The scent of sizzling beef and onions filled the air, and the line for a classic Philly cheesesteak often wrapped around the block. Among the regulars was a local character named Chuck McCready, a fierce, well-loved figure in the neighborhood known for his larger-than-life personality and his deep, almost spiritual love for Philadelphia’s favorite sandwich.

Chuck was a man of principle and passion who never took kindly to the concept of “rules,” especially those that got in the way of a good meal. One fateful evening, Chuck was seated at his usual spot in Tony’s, about to dig into his third cheesesteak of the night—a massive, dripping monster of a sandwich stuffed with extra meat, onions, and a double helping of cheese whiz.

But as Chuck was about to take his first bite, a group of police officers entered the establishment. They had received reports of someone fitting Chuck’s description causing a disturbance in the area earlier that day. They approached Chuck, asking him to step outside for questioning.

Not one to back down, Chuck looked up from his cheesesteak, his hands still clutching the sandwich, and growled, “What’s the charge? Eating a cheesesteak? A succulent Philly cheesesteak?”

The officers, taken aback by his unexpected response, insisted he come quietly. Now fully immersed in the moment, Chuck stood up, holding his half-eaten cheesesteak high like a wand. “This is America, baby!” he bellowed, “Home of the free, where a man can enjoy his meal in peace!”

What happened next was a chaotic scene of Chuck getting dragged out of the restaurant, still holding his cheesesteak, shouting about his rights, and demanding to know why a man couldn’t enjoy a simple meal without being harassed. As the officers tried to force him into the squad car, Chuck continued his tirade: “Is this how we treat a cheesesteak lover in Philly? America is a democracy! My actions are freedom manifest!”

The incident was caught on camera by a passerby and quickly went viral. With Chuck’s impassioned defense of his right to eat a cheesesteak, the video resonated with people across the country. Memes of Chuck McCready declaring “This is freedom manifest!” while clutching a cheesesteak became an overnight sensation.

Years later, Chuck McCready became a folk hero, a symbol of defiance and the right to enjoy life’s simple pleasures. His story was told and retold, often with embellishments, but always with the same core message: no one comes between a man and his cheesesteak in America. His iconic catchphrase, “What’s the charge? Eating a cheesesteak?” became a rallying cry for those who valued freedom and a good meal.

Chuck McCready, the man who stood up for his right to enjoy a succulent Philly cheesesteak, became a legend in the city of brotherly love and is forever remembered as the Cheesesteak Defender.

Horace Thistle’s Clocks ––– Capturing A Family’s Most Precious Moments!

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A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

A unique and gifted clockmaker named Horace Thistle resided in the quaint town of Willowbrook, nestled amidst rolling hills and whispering pines. Horace’s talent surpassed the ordinary mechanics of time. His clocks were not mere timekeepers; they were enchanting devices that could capture and immortalize moments in a delicate dance of gears and hands.

Horace’s shop, Timeless Treasures, stood at the heart of the town square. Its windows were full of clocks, each more intricate than the last. People from all walks of life visited his shop, drawn by the promise of clocks that measured time in a way no other timepieces could.

“Good day, Mr. Thistle,” David greeted, eyes scanning the wondrous creations that lined the walls.
“Welcome, Thompsons,” Horace replied with a warm smile. “How may I assist you today?”

One crisp autumn day, the Thompson family, filled with anticipation, stepped into the shop. Sarah and David Thompson, accompanied by their two young children, Emily and Ben, had been intrigued by the rumors of Horace’s magical clocks. They had come to see if these whispers held any truth.

Sarah stepped forward, holding Emily’s hand. “We’ve heard that your clocks can mark special moments in our lives. Is that true?”

Horace’s eyes twinkled. “Indeed, it is. My clock’s design is to capture the essence of your family’s milestones. Each tick is a memory; each chimes a celebration.”

Intrigued and excited, the Thompsons made a decision that would forever change their lives. They chose to commission a clock from Horace. He asked them to share their most cherished moments, and as they spoke, he listened intently, his hands working with the precision of a maestro composing a symphony.

Over the next few weeks, Horace poured his heart and soul into crafting the Thompson family’s clock. He inscribed the day Sarah and David met on the clock face, their wedding day marked with a delicate engraving of intertwined rings. The birthdates of Emily and Ben are each adorned with tiny, twinkling stars.

When the clock was finally ready, the Thompsons returned to the shop. Horace unveiled the masterpiece—a grand wooden clock with ornate carvings and delicate details. As the family gathered around, he wound the clock and set it in motion.

The clock’s hands began to move, but not steadily. Instead, they danced, slowing down during moments of joy and speeding up during excitement. Each tick resonated with the laughter of birthdays, the warmth of holidays, and the quiet comfort of everyday moments.

The Thompson family’s clock became a cherished heirloom as the years passed. It recorded Emily’s first steps, Ben’s school achievements, and countless family gatherings. Each time they look at it, they will remember the love and memories that had shaped their lives.

Word of Horace’s extraordinary clocks spread far and wide, and families from distant towns came to Willowbrook, seeking their own Timeless Treasures.

Horace welcomed them all, listening to their stories and weaving their memories into the fabric of time.

So, in the little town of Willowbrook, the clockmaker who could capture moments continued to craft his magical clocks, ensuring that no memory was ever lost to the relentless march of time.

Winning Big, By Realizing How Not To Spend It – A Jackpot In Vegas

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A Story by: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media2024© Truth Endures

Vernon and Bernice had traveled from Pumpkin Center, Oklahoma, to Las Vegas to attend a conference paid for by Bernice’s employer, the Magic Pipe Copper Company. The company was not involved in magic, pipes, or cups despite its name. Its primary function was to handle hotel bookings, changes, and cancellations. Any calls unrelated to these services got transferred to another company, Heads Turning Company, which was not affiliated with the Magic Pipe Copper Company.

Bernice’s conference was to begin tomorrow, and Vernon had saved for his part of the trip for nearly a year, knowing he would get to go about Las Vegas alone while Bernice attended the conference during the daytime. Bernice had told Vernon that she didn’t mind if he gambled but didn’t want him to go overboard and go broke. He promised her that he would tell her immediately if their finances changed. She told him that if you win something big, it better be enough for us to live forever because the company would probably fire me for it. She was kidding, but Vernon thought she was serious. He had read about a company in Russia that had all but killed an employee who won big in Las Vegas and tried to stay in the USA with their winnings. Vernon was from a small town and never caught on to the more significant influences of life.

As Bernice left for her conference, she kissed Vernon and said,

“You behave today, and we will go to the all-you-can-eat buffet tonight!”

He agreed and returned her kiss. After she left, Vernon hurried around, finished dressing, and checked his cash. He was sure he kept his big bills hidden. Some were in his zipper-hidden belt; some were in his socks under his feet and inside his shoes, and some were in a pocket hidden inside his waistband. Then he had a hundred and fifty folded into a money clip. In his wallet, he kept fifty-ones. To make it look like that was all his money should a robber hold him up. He checked the news for a quick update, and the headlines reported that a horse was blocking Fremont Street near downtown Las Vegas. Suitable for Vernon, he had planned to stay inside the casino most of the morning.

As Vernon left the couple’s hotel room, he double-checked to ensure he locked the room door and had the key card to get back in. Check. Everything was in order. Vernon walked to the elevator and proceeded to the ground floor.

The doors opened onto the Gaming Floor, and one-armed bandits were ringing and rolling, lights were flashing, and loud sounds were banging. All of the attractions caught Vernon’s attention and drew him in closer.

A lady sitting behind one of the machines screamed,

“I just won $1000!” and began jumping up and down.

A man a few rows over hollered,

“I won $100!”

Vernon thought, here I am with my money clip and $150. I have to see what I can win. Vernon sat down, put $20.00 in a slot machine, hit ‘bet everything,’ and rolled suddenly. The screen lit up with “JACKPOT,” and the machine went wild. Nothing came out of the machine, but the sounds were incredible. And people began crowding in around Vernon. People were making all kinds of gestures and comments; Vernon, not knowing what he had just done, said, I don’t know what happened; did I break it? A lady in the crowd said,

“Did you break it? Ha! HE WANTS TO KNOW IF HE BROKE IT”

The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers, their excitement palpable.

The lady replied to Vernon,

HONEY, you didn’t break it. You might have broken the house but didn’t break the machine. You just won a bunch of money—from the looks of things, you just won about Fifty Million Dollars!

Vernon was left in a state of shock. How did a mere $20 bill transform into this? And how was he going to break the news to his wife? He still needed to collect the money, but should he? These thoughts raced through Vernon’s mind when a man in a suit suddenly approached him.

Are you the one who played this machine?

Vernon replied,

Yes, I put in $20 and played, and it started doing this.

The man put a key into the machine, printed a paper, and told Vernon to come. The crowd cheered him as he left. The man took Vernon to the Hotel’s office and asked him to be seated. He then told Vernon that he had just won $92 million and asked if he would like that paid out in cash, check, or wired to his bank. The man told him the law requires him to pay taxes on the winnings, which the bank had already performed. That is why he was only getting $52 million. Vernon was speechless. He said his wife was attending a conference and asked if she had to pay her share too, and the man said no, this takes care of everything. Vernon said how about the business that she works for? Will they get any of it like the guy from Russia had to? The man laughed and said no, this is the United States; for now, with our form of government, those things do not happen here. However, if we allow the wrong people into leadership, that could easily change. So be careful of who you support when you go to vote.

Vern told the man he wanted all but twenty thousand deposited in their home banking account and would take the twenty thousand in cash. Vernon liked it in a bag that wouldn’t draw attention. So the man went to the casino and obtained shopping bags for children’s toys. He returned to the office and showed it to Vernon, letting him pick which bags he wanted to put money in. Then, Vernon left carrying twenty thousand dollars out of the office in children’s toy bags. Vernon returned to the hotel room and waited for Bernice to return from her conference.

At 4:00 PM, Bernice returned from her conference. Vernon asked if she was attending the sessions the next day. She said she was. He told her he had seen all he wanted of Las Vegas and was about ready to go home. She suggested he could surely play poker or slots tomorrow, or wondered if he might have lost all his money. Vernon explained he had not lost all his money, but they would be going home with more than they came with, and that is where he wanted to leave it.

Bernice said,


Let me go to the morning session, at least. There will be a bonus for us doing that. Lord knows we can use the money.

Vernon replied

You know we have all the money we need. More than we will ever need.

Bernice suggested he must have fallen and hit his head. Or he had been drinking the tall drinks the bartender was trying to sell because they always needed more cash come payday.

Vernon explained to her that has changed.

Today, Bernice, that all changed. I won a jackpot, and they put $52 million in our checking account and looked in these toy bags. That is the cash I kept for us to go home on.

Bernice nearly fainted as she looked at the cash and suggested he must have robbed a bank. He explained to her he had won on the first spin of the one-armed bandit and showed her a photo of him accepting the winnings at the hotel lobby. She pointed out they offered an increase in comfort for the two to experience, like a suite, free meals, and bar service. They were giving you a complete complimentary setup.

Vernon dryly said –––

They did, but I told them we already had this one paid for.

Bernice, shockingly looking amazed, –––

You know they would give you a suite and a nice upgrade for free.

Vernon, in his state of innocence, pleaded –––

You are the only sweet I want, and I don’t need to upgrade.

Bernice, looking defeated, thinking out loud –––

What do we need all that money for? You will always need help understanding how to use it.

Vernon agreed with her.

The moral of this story is that the people who win jackpots are rarely the ones who truly have any business access to one.

About that dinner on The River Banks At THe Olympics…A rednecks explanation of what was going on…

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Up and dated by the weekend guy B.S. Daily.

Roman sarcophagus depicting the Triumph of Dionysus and the Seasons
Jug used for cooling water into wine.

Well, let me tell you about Dionysus (y’all can just say “D”) in a way that’s as plain as a hog on ice. Dionysus (D) isn’t just some fancy-pants Greek fella; he’s the god of wine, parties, and having a good ol’ time. U know ‘getting shitfaced.’ Picture him like that one buddy who’s always ready to crack open a cold one and throw a rager out by the bonfire. Take it easy; you might think you be at your last supper, especially is shootin’ starts!

da man in stone

Now, Dionysus (D) ain’t just about drinkin’; he’s got a wild side too. He’s all ’bout lettin’ loose, dancin’ like nobody’s watchin’, and just forgettin’ all your troubles. He’s the life of the party, makin’ sure everyone’s havin’ a blast and feelin’ free as a bird. He’s got that divine touch, turnin’ water into wine and makin’ sure there’s always a good time to be had, showin’ his transformative power in every revelry, getting laid. He will have a long table so all his buds can be bellied up.

Many paintings in Renaissance art depict similar scenes of dudes and chicks gathered around a table for a feast. Many polaroids (photos) do the same in America, we call ’em bar-b-ques. ’em guys on the river bank didn’t have many ticks to get their point across, time was spiraling, especially if you’s a Badtist in Texas watchin’ da’t on TV or if you ain’t in jail – you phone.

So, if you ever wonder why folks love to gather around and get drunk, think of Dionysus (D). The French and Greek’s amit do it more than us’n’s. But if you don’t runn offt before the story is ended you’ll hear he’s the spirit of all those good times, reminding us that every now and then, it’s okay to cut loose, have a nip, fetch u a snort-full and enjoy the ride. Cheers to Dionysus (D), the god of gettin’ down and having a heck of a time. Just remember the gathering is not the last supper, no matter how many bubba’s you have. Some say it was just not clear it was a ho-down, and that was Aunt France’s greatest sin!

A-dam-d-en-dum: NEWS MAKES HEADLINES! MEDIATE NEWS WEBSITE CONFIRMED JUST THIS INFORMATION. BUT USING MORE LIVE BODIES TO CONFIRM DETAILS.

Addendum: NEWS MAKING HEADLINES REPORTED BY MEDIATE NEWS WEBSITE CONFIRMED THE ABOVE INFORMATION. BUT USING MORE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

Addendum-update edited by Benjamin Groff© Groff Media2024 ©Truth Endures

Friday night’s Paris Olympics opening ceremony angered people across the world as many interpreted it as a mockery of Leonardo da Vinci’s “The Last Supper ” but the man who organized it said it was actually a nod to Greek mythology.

A portion of the ceremony featured semi-nude drag queen performers around a table, which was immediately interpreted by many — particularly on the right — as an attack on Christianity. The man who choreographed the tableau claimed it was anything but on Sunday morning.

Thomas Jolly, the ceremony’s artistic director, claimed to the French media on Sunday that he was not mocking anyone but merely putting on a “celebration of Greek mythology.”

“There is Dionysus who arrives on this table. He is there because he is the God of celebration in Greek mythology,” Jolly told BFMTV, according to an interpretation from NBC News. “The idea was to have a pagan celebration connected to the gods of Olympus. You will never find in me a desire to mock and denigrate anyone.”

The Paris Olympics X account shared the Dionysus portion of the show Friday, describing it as “interpretation of the Greek God Dionysus” which the organizers said “makes us aware of the absurdity of violence between human beings.However, the scene identified as a parody of “The Last Supper” and the appearance of the blue-painted Dionysus were 44 minutes apart in the ceremony.

While Jolly distanced himself from the controversy, TheWrap and many other outlets reported on an official statement from the Olympics which clearly stated Jolly took his inspiration in that scene directly from Da Vinci.

“For the ‘Festivities’ segment, Thomas Jolly took inspiration from Leonardo Da Vinci’s famous painting to create the setting,” the statement read. “Clearly, there was never an intention to show disrespect towards any religious group or belief.”

Two days and one American company’s boycott of the Olympics later and the controversy has yet to die down. As of Sunday, there were still calls to boycott the Olympics.

UPDATE: This story has been updated with a comment from officials with the Paris Olympics, who said Jolly was inspired by da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” mural. Read the report at Mediate here