short story

Santa’s Time-Warped Christmas

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It Is Only Six Days Until Christmas Eve!

It is only SIX days until Christmas…

This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

As Santa Claus guided his sleigh over the North Pole, the stars shimmered brighter than ever. It was Christmas Eve, and his magic sleigh, loaded with gifts for children worldwide, zipped through the frosty air. But something strange happened as he crossed a shimmering aurora—an inexplicable jolt rattled the sleigh.

“Dasher, what was that?”

Santa muttered, steadying his hold on the reins. The reindeer snorted in reply, uneasy.

The aurora enveloped him before he gathered his thoughts, and time seemed to twist and fold around him. When the light dissipated, the world below him was not the one he knew. Snow-covered cottages and horse-drawn carriages replaced the bustling cities of 2024.

Santa realized he had been thrown back in time to the mid-1800s. He recognized the period instantly from the distinct architecture of a village below. It was a Christmas during a dark chapter in history. A devastating plague had gripped the land. It forced him to cancel his rounds that year.

“Great gumdrops!”

Santa exclaimed.

“What are the odds?”

He gazed at the sleigh’s cargo. By a twist of fate, it had been stocked with emergency medical supplies. These were intended for a charity hospital in the modern era. Among the crates were antibiotics, syringes, and boxes of penicillin.

As he landed his sleigh in the village square, the grim reality of the situation became clear. Emaciated villagers huddled near fires, their coughs echoing through the silent night. Santa’s heart ached as he walked among them, his red suit standing out against the bleak surroundings.

A child approached him, her face pale and gaunt.

“Who are you?”

She asked, her voice weak.

Santa knelt, his jolly demeanor softening.

“I’m Santa Claus, my dear. And I’ve brought –– hope.”

He opened a crate, revealing the miracle medicines of the future. Doctors, initially skeptical, were astonished by how quickly the penicillin began to heal their sickest patients. Word spread, and soon, Santa was inundated with requests for help.

But as he worked tirelessly through the night, a troubling thought weighed heavily on him. He altered the course of history by introducing modern medicine to the past. He remembered the first rule of time travel: do not interfere. Yet how he stand by and let so many suffer?

Santa consulted his reindeer, who were no strangers to magical predicaments.

“What do you think, Comet? If we save them now, what happens to the future?”

Comet stamped his hoof thoughtfully as if to say,

The heart often knows what the mind can’t reason.

Santa decided to take the risk.

“If kindness is a mistake, then I’ll gladly make it,”

He said aloud.

By dawn, the village was transformed. People sang carols, their strength returning. They looked at Santa with gratitude and wonder as he prepared to leave.

“Thank you, sir,”

said the village doctor.

“You’ve given us a miracle.”

Santa nodded, but his heart was heavy with uncertainty. As he guided the sleigh back into the sky, the aurora reappeared, pulling him back to his own time.

When he returned to the North Pole, he checked the world’s records, bracing for the consequences of his actions. To his amazement, the plague of the 1800s had been recorded as miraculously subsiding in one particular region. Yet, history did not explain this occurrence. Furthermore, the trajectory of medicine had advanced more quickly than he remembered. The saved lives gave rise to several key figures. These figures contributed significantly to society.

Santa smiled, chuckling saying,

“History has a way of balancing itself after all.”

Santa pondered the night’s events on Christmas Eve as he settled into his chair by the fire. Sometimes, he thought, doing the right thing means accepting the unknown. In the spirit of Christmas, a little magic can change the world for the better. A lot of kindness can also make a difference, no matter the time.

The Year Joey And Jimmy Saved Christmas

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

Joey and Jimmy McAllister were known in the little town of Maple Hollow for their endless mischief. Like clockwork, Santa’s naughty list bore their names in bold, red ink every year. The brothers raided the cookie jar before dinner. They set off firecrackers in the backyard. They also sneaked frogs into their teacher’s desk drawer. The brothers always found trouble. Trouble always found them.

But this year was different. Something strange was happening in the McAllister household. Joey and Jimmy were behaving like angels. They shared their toys, completed their chores without being asked, and even helped old Mrs. Henshaw carry her groceries home. The town was surprised as the boys’ antics disappeared like melting snow. It wasn’t long before whispers reached the North Pole.

Santa Claus, peering over his list in his workshop, rubbed his spectacles in disbelief. 

“Joey and Jimmy?”

He muttered. 

“Good? All year?” 

He scribbled a note to Mrs. Claus. 

“Something isn’t right. I need to investigate.”

So, with Christmas Eve approaching, Santa decided to do undercover work. Disguised as a kindly repairman, he appeared at the McAllister’s doorstep one frosty afternoon.

Joey answered the door, his face pale with worry.

“Hello, sir,” 

He said politely. 

“Can I help you?”

“Just checking the neighborhood for chimneys in need of repair,” 

Santa said, glancing around. 

“I couldn’t help but notice you and your brother have been outstanding this year. What’s brought about the change?”

Joey’s face fell. 

“We just wanted to make sure we were good enough to get what we wished.”

Santa’s heart warmed. 

“Well, that sounds lovely. What did you wish for?”

Jimmy appeared behind Joey, his voice barely a whisper. 

“We don’t want toys or anything like that. We want Mom to get better.”

Santa’s heart ached. He noticed their pale and frail mother sitting by the fireplace. Her knitting needles trembled in her hands. He realized the boys’ sudden good behavior wasn’t driven by selfishness, love, and desperation. As only children can, they believed. If they were perfect, their Christmas wish would come true. Their mother’s illness would vanish like the morning frost.

Back at the North Pole, Santa sat in his armchair that evening, deep in thought. 

“How do I tell them?” 

he murmured. 

“How do I explain that even the magic of Christmas can’t fix everything?”

Mrs. Claus placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Remind them of what Christmas truly means,” 

she said softly. 

“It’s not about making everything perfect. It’s about love, hope, and being together, even in the hardest times.”

Christmas Eve arrived, and Santa climbed down the McAllisters’ chimney. He found Joey and Jimmy waiting by the tree, their eyes wide with hope. Santa knelt before them, his eyes twinkling but serious.

“Joey, Jimmy,” he began, “I know what you’ve wished for, and I need you to understand something significant. Your love for your mother is the most powerful gift you can give her. It’s stronger than anything I can put in my sack.”

Tears welled in Joey’s eyes. “But we thought if we were good, you’d save her. Isn’t that how it works?”

Santa pulled the boys close. 

“Sometimes, even the best magic can’t stop someone we love from becoming an angel. Your mother’s journey is not something you can control, but your love will make every moment she has brighter. And no matter what happens, she will always be with you.”

The boys sobbed quietly, and Santa held them until their tears slowed. Then he reached into his sack and pulled out a small, glowing star ornament. 

“Hang this on your tree. It’s a reminder that the people we love are never truly gone. They watch over us like stars in the night sky.”

When Christmas morning came, the McAllister family gathered around the tree. Weak but smiling, their mother held the glowing ornament in her hands. The boys’ hearts felt heavy but full, knowing their love was the best gift they gave her.

That year, Joey and Jimmy stayed off the naughty list for good. Though their mother passed the next spring, her love and courage became the foundation of their lives. Every Christmas, they hung Santa’s star on their tree. It was a beacon of hope, love, and the enduring magic of family.

The Christmas Bells of Valley Brook

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

Every Christmas Eve, the quiet village of Valley Brook transformed into a magical tableau. As snow blanketed the streets, an ethereal ringing of bells echoed through the valley. The sound was sweet and haunting, like a melody from another world. The villagers marveled at the phenomenon for decades, yet no one knew where the bells came from.

The mystery was part of Valley Brook’s charm. Some claimed the bells were angels’ gifts, while others swore they were the spirits of Christmases past. But to Ethan, a curious young man with a heart full of wonder, the mystery demanded answers.

Ethan had lived in Valley Brook his entire life. Each Christmas, he stood at the frozen brook’s edge. He strained to hear even the faintest hint of the bells’ origin. Now 19 and filled with determination, Ethan resolved that this year would be different.

On Christmas Eve, armed with a lantern and his father’s old compass, Ethan entered the night. The air was crisp, and the snow crunched beneath his boots. As the bells began their enchanting tune, he paused to listen.

“North,” he whispered to himself, turning toward the sound.

The first stretch of his journey led him to the forest bordering the village. The tall pines were heavy with snow, their branches arching over him like cathedral ceilings. The bells grew louder as he walked deeper into the woods. Then, they seemed to shift direction, drawing him toward the hills.

Ethan climbed steadily, his lantern casting long shadows against the rocks. At the top of the hill, he paused to catch his breath. The bells sounded closer now, but their source still eluded him. His compass needle jittered as if caught in some unseen magnetic pull.

After the sound, Ethan descended into a hidden ravine. At the bottom, he discovered an ancient stone bridge, its surface worn smooth by time. Beneath it, the brook that gave the village its name flowed silently, its surface coated in thin ice. Ethan crouched and pressed his ear to the stones. The bells resonated through the bridge itself.

“This must be it!”

he exclaimed, but as soon as the thought formed, the melody shifted again, beckoning him onward.

Ethan continued his pursuit for hours, weaving through snow-covered meadows and icy trails. Finally, the first light of Christmas morning touched the horizon. He arrived at the mouth of a cavern nestled in the cliffs at the valley’s edge.

Inside, the bells chimed more clearly than ever. He entered cautiously, the glow of his lantern illuminating crystalline walls that shimmered like diamonds. He found them at the cavern’s heart. Rows of bronze bells were suspended in midair. Their surfaces were adorned with intricate carvings of holly and ivy.

Ethan approached in awe, reaching out to touch one of the bells. When his fingers brushed the metal, a warm light enveloped the cavern. A figure appeared—a woman in flowing robes, her face serene and timeless.

“Who are you?”

Ethan asked, his voice trembling.

“I am the Keeper of the Bells,”

she replied.

“These bells have rung for centuries to remind Valley Brook of the spirit of Christmas—hope, love, and unity. Only those who seek their origin with a pure heart will find them.”

“Why me?” 

Ethan whispered.

“Because you dared to wonder,”

 she said with a smile.

“Now, you must decide: will you keep their secret or share their magic with the world?”

Ethan thought of his village and how the bells brought everyone together each Christmas. Their mystery was part of what made them special. He nodded.

“I’ll keep the secret.”

The Keeper’s smile widened.

“Then the bells will continue to ring, their magic preserved for all who believe.”

When Ethan returned to Valley Brook, the bells still rang as they always had, their melody echoing through the valley. But now, when he stood at the edge of the brook, he smiled. He knew he was part of their timeless magic. He was a secret keeper of the Christmas Bells of Valley Brook.

Santa Claus And The Tree In Apartment 828B

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

An apartment in a towering complex held a remarkable secret. It was located in the heart of a sprawling New York where high-rise buildings scraped the skies. Neon lights flickered day and night. Apartment 828B on Floor 39 was home to a Christmas tree unlike any other. The tree had glistening emerald branches. Its ornaments seemed to hum with a soft, otherworldly glow. This tree had the power to light up the entire city. It illuminated not just with light but with warmth, hope, and joy.

The tree belonged to an elderly widow named Mrs. Clarabelle, a retired teacher with a kind smile and a knack for storytelling. She had decorated the tree for decades. Her collection of ornaments included a porcelain angel from her childhood. She also had a wooden sled carved by her late husband. Former students gifted her glittering baubles. Each ornament carried a story. When the tree had its lights on, it radiated a magic that reached far beyond her tiny apartment.

The tree’s light flickered to life as Christmas Eve descended upon the city. Golden beams streamed through the apartment’s windows, spilling onto the streets below. Strangers paused to gaze upward. Their hurried steps slowed. The tree’s glow softened the sharp edges of their busy lives. For one night, the relentless hum of the city seemed to quiet.


Late that night, a figure appeared on Mrs. Clarabelle’s balcony as snowflakes began to fall. Santa Claus was dressed in red. A twinkle was in his eye. He had a heavy sack slung over his shoulder. He stepped into the cozy living room. The tree’s magic had drawn him there, as it had every Christmas Eve for years.

“Ah, my old friend,”

Santa said, touching the tree’s sturdy trunk.

“How bright you shine, even in a world that’s grown so dim.”

The tree’s ornaments twinkled, and its branches swayed gently as if responding to Santa’s words. The tree couldn’t speak like humans. Its magic allowed it to communicate with Santa. He understood its every rustle and shimmer.

“Yes, I know,”

Santa said, settling into Mrs. Clarabelle’s armchair.

“People have forgotten the spirit of Christmas. Fewer homes are decorated, and fewer hearts are open. It’s as if they’ve lost their way.”

The tree’s lights dimmed momentarily, mirroring Santa’s sadness.

“Do you remember,”

Santa continued,

“When was every street filled with twinkling lights? When children left milk and cookies by the fireplace, and families gathered to sing carols by the fire?”

He sighed, his shoulders drooping.

“Now, so many homes are dark. It’s harder to find my way. And harder still to find the joy I once felt.”

The tree’s glow brightened as if to comfort him. Its magic reached out, filling the room with warmth. It reminded Santa of the countless small acts of kindness that still existed. A child shared their toys with a friend. A neighbor shoveled snow for an elderly couple. A stranger paid for someone’s coffee. Though the world seemed dim, the light of Christmas still flickered in the hearts of many.

Santa smiled, his spirits lifting.

“You’re right,”

He said, his voice steady.

“The spirit of Christmas isn’t gone. It’s just harder to see. But it’s there, in the small, quiet moments of love and generosity.”

He stood, his boots crunching softly on the rug.

“Thank you, old friend. Your light reminds me of why I do this, year after year.”

The tree’s lights shimmered, a silent acknowledgment of Santa’s words.

Before leaving, Santa placed a small, wrapped package beneath the tree. It glowed faintly, infused with his magic.

“For Mrs. Clarabelle,”

He said.

“A thank-you for keeping the spirit of Christmas alive.”

With a final nod to the tree, Santa stepped onto the balcony, his sleigh waiting above. The tree’s golden light followed him, illuminating the city as he soared into the night sky. For a brief moment, every window glowed with its reflection. The people below felt a spark of warmth they couldn’t quite explain.

In Apartment 828B on Floor 39, the tree’s light continued to shine. It served as a beacon of hope in New York City. The city needed it more than ever. And in the hearts of those who paused to look up, the spirit of Christmas found a home once again.

The Guardians of Christmas Eve

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

In the heart of the bustling city, the frigid December air carried the soft hum of holiday cheer. Festive lights adorned streetlamps, casting warm glows onto the snow-dusted streets. For the officers of the 8th Precinct, Christmas Eve was far from quiet. Calls came in relentlessly: domestic disputes, stranded travelers, and even a wayward reindeer reported near the city park. These dedicated officers were on duty, ready to serve and protect.

What the officers didn’t know was that they had three spectral protectors watching over them—The Guardians of Christmas Eve.

Each of these ghostly policemen had once served the city. They were bound by duty. A deep sense of loyalty held their spirits. They lingered to make sure that no harm would come to those who now walked the beat.

Inspector Miles Hanley

Miles Hanley was a tall and imposing figure. He had been the precinct’s first chief when the station was founded in the late 1800s. Known for his wisdom, he fiercely protected his officers. He carried his ghostly silver pocket watch. He used it to guide the others through the city. On this night, Hanley floated above a lone patrol car. It was parked at the edge of a dark alley. His translucent form shimmered in the moonlight.

“Johnson’s heading into a bad spot,”

Hanley muttered, watching the young officer approach a shadowy figure rummaging through garbage bins. With a flick of his watch, he whispered through the veil of time, nudging Johnson’s instincts. The officer hesitated, then called for backup—averting a potential ambush. Hanley grinned.

“Still got it.”

Officer Rosie McKinney

Rosie, affectionately called “Mama Mac” by her peers, had patrolled the city during the 1940s. She had an uncanny knack for reading people, even in death. Tonight, she hovered near a busy intersection where Officer Emily Torres was directing traffic midst a chaotic pile-up.

“Stay sharp, Emily,”

Rosie murmured, spotting a distracted driver barreling toward the scene. With a wave of her ethereal baton, she sent a gust of icy wind straight into the driver’s face. The man slammed on his brakes just in time, his car skidding to a halt inches from the officer. Rosie chuckled, tipping her ghostly hat. “That’s one less hospital visit tonight.”

Detective Lou Vargas

Lou had been a beloved detective in the 1970s, known for his quick wit and unshakable resolve. He now roamed the precinct’s cold case archives, whispering clues to frustrated officers. But tonight, Lou focused on Officer Brandon Lee. Officer Lee had just been called to investigate a suspicious package left near a crowded shopping district.

As Brandon approached the package, Lou materialized briefly behind him, a shadowy whisper in the winter night. “Check the wires, kid. Look left before you kneel.” Obeying the faint warning in his gut, Brandon discovered the package was harmless—a forgotten Christmas gift. Still, he felt the hairs on his neck stand like someone had been there with him.

A Christmas Morning Promise

As dawn broke over the city, the officers returned to the precinct, exhausted but safe. Unseen by human eyes, Miles, Rosie, and Lou gathered on the station’s rooftop, gazing at the snow-covered streets below.

“We did good,”

Lou said, leaning on his ghostly cane.

“Not a single officer lost,” Rosie added softly.

Miles held up his pocket watch, the spectral clock hands freezing as the sun rose. “Until next year,” he said, and the three faded into the morning mist.

Below, Officer Torres rubbed her arms against the chill. “Did you feel that?” she asked Officer Lee.

“Yeah,” he replied, staring at the horizon. “Like someone was watching over us.”

And so they were.

97-Year-Old Country Doctor Delivers 14 Miracle Babies in Small Town Meadowview

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A Golden Story Repost From 2024

5–8 minutes

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

The town coroner was also the same man who delivered most of the people’s babies in town. He was nearly 97 years old and still doing business. His name was Dr. Doodley. Dr. Doodley began working as a doctor when he graduated from Medical School at age thirty in 1957. He made his home in Meadowview. He had a significant other. He was a gentleman Dr. Doodley had met in college. Together, they raised Dr Doodley’s two nephews. They were the sons of Dr. Doodley’s brother, who got killed in an auto accident along with his wife. The community never questioned the couple’s union. They never questioned the children raised by the two men. Everyone welcomed the couple as they joined in events.

Dr. Doodley was the only doctor in the county. He was on call twenty-four hours a day. He would be available seven days a week. With such a schedule, it was common for the family only to see the older family member on the go. He was known for delivering nearly every child in the county for over 70 years. In as much, he declared dead nearly everyone who passed away in the county. This spanned the past 71 years. He had brought into the world and seen many of the same people leave it. He was known to many as an indirect member of their family for his declarations.

On a foggy Tuesday morning, Dr. Doodley received a call for his services. It was from a lady twelve miles from town. At the home, there was also a man. His wife was gravely ill too. It wasn’t until Dr. Doodley arrived that he discovered two other expecting mothers were present. There was also an older man who appeared about to die.

Dr. Doodley was 97 years old and thought to himself, ––

“I hope I am up to this chore. If all these people require my services, I will have my hands complete.”

A young lady at the home received Dr. Doodley, took his hat, and directed him to the kitchen. She had prepared several pans of hot water, clean towels, and sticks there. Dr. Doodley always required those three things to be available. He liked to have hot water for cleaning. Towels for drying and sticks for placing in people’s mouths to bite down on and grit through pain.

The doctor was known to use the sticks himself on occasion to avoid using curse words when he was stressed.

Mildred was a big lady. She was also Dr. Doodley’s first patient and was expecting twins. Her water had broken, and she was about to deliver. The conditions at the home were not ideal for privacy; there was only one room, and everyone was in it.

Mildred yelled ––

It is happening. They’re coming!

Dr. Doodley crunched his 97-year-old body down while Mildred sisters held her hands, trying to do breathing exercises.

Dr Doodley said to Mildred ––

Honey, you have to push, push like there is no tomorrow.

Mildred yelled ––

I’m trying. They’re fighting.

Dr. Doodley trying to soothe Mildred replied ––

They’re not fighting. They’re just taking their time.

Dr. Doodley smiled and, with a cough, shouted.

Looky here, they are here. Mildred! You did it! You got three! Boy, Girl, Boy!

Mildred, exhausted and sweating, shocked stewed back

What’s that, doc? Did you say Three? I was expecting two. Where is the third one from?

Dr. Doodley smiled and laughed,

Mildred, the third one is from you. You had a little hider in you—what a surprise!

The doctor went to announce the new arrivals to the rest of the family. Upon hearing that Mildred had triplets, two of the older family members dropped dead.

The triplets were the first ever born into the family since the 1800s. It was a blessing of riches for the family to get them. An old Irish family tale had always suggested such. The doctor tried to revive the two family members, but their aged bodies were nonrevivable. So he put on his Coroner hat, declared them dead, and called for the funeral home.

Dr. Doodley turned to the family. He told them their two older family members, Elmer and Magnolia, had passed away. He offered his condolences. As he explained the situation, Mildred’s sister, Ethel, entered labor.

Ethel was bigger than Mildred and only slightly smaller than Minnie, her twin sister, who was also expecting. Neither sister knew what they were expecting. They wanted to keep it a surprise for their families. It was also a surprise for the doctor.

Dr. Doodley barely had time to catch his breath before Ethel’s cries filled the room. With a weary but determined look, he wiped his brow and prepared for the next round. He had seen many things in his 97 years. Yet, he had a feeling that today would be one for the books.

Ethel’s contractions came fast and fierce. Dr. Doodley quickly realized that this delivery would be anything but ordinary. He moved swiftly, calling for more towels and hot water, his voice steady despite the chaos around him.

Ethel, gripping her sister Mildred’s hand, screamed out as the first baby appeared.

“Push, Ethel, just a little more,”

Dr. Doodley encouraged. To his astonishment, another head was crowned instantly after the first.

“Twins!”

He announced, but as he cradled the two newborns, he felt another tiny foot.

“Wait—triplets!”

The room buzzed with excitement and disbelief. But Ethel’s labor still needed to be done. With one final push, a fourth baby emerged, making history in the small town of Meadowview.

“Quadruplets!”

Dr. Doodley gasped, his voice cracking with the thrill of the moment. The room erupted in cheers, even as Minnie, the third sister, began to feel the unmistakable pangs of labor herself.

Dr. Doodley was now running on pure adrenaline. He had delivered quadruplets in his nearly seven decades of practice, but never had he faced such a succession. As Minnie’s labor intensified, he steeled himself for what was to come.

Minnie, the largest of the three sisters, began laboring with a determination that matched her size. The room grew quiet, anticipation thick in the air. The first baby arrived, the second, then the third, and when a fourth followed, the room collectively held its breath.

But Minnie wasn’t done. To the astonishment of all, a fifth baby emerged, followed by a sixth. Dr. Doodley, his hands trembling, delivered each child with care, his heart pounding with the sheer impossibility of it all.

“Six babies!”

He declared, his voice a mix of awe and exhaustion. Minnie lay back, breathless but smiling, as the room buzzed with the excitement of the extraordinary event.

Then in the back of the room a cousin named Sissy screamed ––

Doc I think I need you!

As the doctor walked back to her, he could see she had given partial birth to a child, and he said ––

Oh dear, lets get this corrected, and cleaned up. Lay back and hold your aunts hand while we help you!

And that is when the last baby of the night entered the world.

By the end of that foggy Tuesday, Meadowview had welcomed fourteen new babies. It made history in the sleepy little town.

Dr. Doodley, despite his age, had once again proven why he was the most revered doctor in the county. As he looked at the fourteen newborns swaddled and cooing, he couldn’t help but smile. It was a significant day in the history of Meadowview. An elderly man, nearly a century-old, delivered a miracle. No one would ever forget this event.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

The Island – A Serialized Dystopian Story * Chapter Eight

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1–2 minutes

Haven’s Reach: The Spark

It happened on a rainless night in early winter. The Council had banned music in the public square, but a child’s voice broke the silence. A boy no older than ten sang a lullaby his grandmother had taught him, his voice rising above the wind. For a moment, the crowd froze in fear. Then another joined. And another. Soon, the plaza filled with song.

The guards stormed in, batons raised, but the people didn’t scatter. They sang louder. The air trembled with a sound that was part hymn, part rebellion. Harper, standing among them, felt her chest swell. For the first time since Eli’s disappearance, she felt less alone.

The spark was not fire or violence—it was courage in harmony. By dawn, the Council declared the singers enemies of Order. But they had already lit something no decree extinguished.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

The Man Who Fell Asleep One Night-Dreaming He Became A Sheriff In The Wild West.

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He awakes the next morning to find he is still there.

2–3 minutes

Sheriff Without a Gun

Harold was an ordinary man living in a small house on the edge of town. He spent most of his evenings quietly—reading, cooking for one, and watching old Western movies before bed. One night, after drifting off in his recliner, Harold dreamed he was a cowboy riding across the dusty plains.

When he awoke the next morning, he nearly fell out of bed. The world outside his window was no longer his quiet backyard—it was a wild west frontier town. And tied right outside his kitchen door stood a horse named Gus, saddled and ready. Harold blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, and muttered,

“Well… this is new.”

Stepping outside, he was greeted by the townsfolk calling him Sheriff. Sheriff Harold, that is. The twist? He wore no gun.

“Best sheriff we ever had,”

they cheered,

“because you don’t bring trouble.”

But soon, trouble found them anyway. A group of gunslingers rolled into town, looking to cause mayhem.

Harold had no firearm to fight back. Thinking fast, he filled the pockets of his vest with smooth river rocks. When the gunslingers strutted down Main Street, Harold let fly. Whack—right in the shin—crack—one to the forehead. Pebbles rained down like hail until the bandits doubled over, tears streaming, too humiliated to continue.

Harold yelled –

“You get the hell out of here and don’t come back!”

They scrambled for their horses, chased out of town by the rock-throwing Sheriff himself.

From that day on, Sheriff Harold became a legend. The townsfolk swore he was the greatest Sheriff they’d ever known. This wasn’t because he outgunned the bad guys. It was because he outsmarted them. Every morning, Harold would pat Gus on the neck and tip his hat. He remembered that sometimes the simplest tools—a rock, a clever mind, and a little courage—are enough to keep the peace.

But somewhere else, in another world, Harold lay still. His daughter sat quietly at his bedside, holding his hand, eyes brimming with worry.

“Do you think he’ll ever regain consciousness?” 

She asked the doctor softly.

The doctor shook his head. 

“I don’t know. Stroke victims sometimes choose to stay where they are. Maybe Harold is better off living where he is. In that other place, he’s strong and needed. He is riding tall as Sheriff.”

His daughter squeezed his hand, whispering through tears, 

“Then I hope he knows we’ll always be proud of him—here, or there.”

And in the world of his dreams, Sheriff Harold tipped his hat, smiled, and rode Gus into the golden horizon.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

The Haunting Experience of a Small Town Funeral Home

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2–4 minutes

The Dead Has Gone – A Night Call to the Funeral Home

Jake Roff was a man of routine. Up before the sun, station lights on by 4:30, coffee brewed by 4:35. He liked the quiet hours before the town woke up. There was no traffic and no gossip. Just the hum of the soda cooler and the smell of gasoline.

That’s when the hearse pulled in.

The local funeral director appeared. He was a man who had perfected the art of wearing a solemn face. He maintained this expression even when discussing baseball scores. He leaned out the window and said,

“Jake… I can use an extra set of hands unloading a client.”

Jake wasn’t sure “client” was the right word, but he was too polite to argue. He locked the station door and climbed into the passenger seat. The ride was short. It was a ride where the air feels colder than it should. You can’t shake the notion that someone in back is listening.

At the funeral home, the place was dark. A single light illuminated the hallway. It was the light that leaves more shadows than it removes. The two men wheeled their passenger toward the prep room, the floor squeaking under the gurney wheels.

That’s when Jake’s hip clipped something.

The “something” was another gurney, parked just out of sight. The bump sent the sheet sliding to the floor in slow, terrible motion. It was like a curtain rising before a play no one wants to see.

Underneath was a woman. Her hair was a halo of white, frizzed and jutting out like she’d been caught mid-scream in a lightning storm. Her eyes were wide and glassy, locked on Jake as if she’d been waiting for him specifically. Her jaw hung slack. Her teeth were just visible. It was an open-mouthed stare that made him wonder if she was about to say something.

Jake didn’t stick around to find out. He backpedaled so fast he nearly tipped the “client” he’d come to help with. His heart was pounding. He mumbled something about

“forgetting to check the oil at the station.”

Then, he made a break for the door.

The funeral director called after him. By then, Jake was halfway down the block. He vowed never to set foot in that place again. For the rest of his days, he’d open his station early. Yet, if a hearse rolled in before sunrise, Bill always ensured he had a sudden, urgent appointment anywhere else.

This is a true story as told to the author. JD Groff experienced it first-hand. He passed it down through generations. Other family members kept it alive over the years. JD had a flair for telling this tale at family gatherings—something this written piece can only hope to capture. One thing’s certain. After that night, he never again helped unload another “client.” That was the case for as long as he lived in Cordell, Oklahoma.

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

The Legend of Ghost Mound: A Heartfelt Tale

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

3–5 minutes

The Story of Ghost Mound

There’s a story my dad loved to tell. It was one of his favorites. He told it often to friends, family, and customers in his barber shop. He shared it with anyone who needed a good tale. He and his friend GH rode out on horseback one afternoon. They went to a little rise in northern Caddo County called Ghost Mound.

Ghost Mound – Caddo County – Oklahoma

Ghost Mound is one of those landmarks that doesn’t quite belong to any one town. It’s south of Hydro, north of Eakly, east of Colony, and west of the Sickles community. It’s a rocky, oddly-shaped hill. It looks like a miniature volcano. It is steep on one side and more gradual on the other. Back in the 1930s, it was open country. Kids would ride or walk out there on lazy afternoons. They climbed the rocks, explored the cracks, and wasted time in the best way.

On that particular day, my dad, JD, and GH set out. They had nothing more in mind than a good ride. They were also looking for a little adventure. GH had just celebrated a birthday and was proudly carrying a brand-new wallet in his back pocket. Before they saddled up, he showed JD the five-dollar bill. It was tucked inside and was quite a lot of money for a kid in those days.

Once they reached the Mound, the boys began to climb, making a show of how tough it was. About halfway up, GH lagged behind. Suddenly, he shouted:

“HELP! I’ve lost it!”

JD turned and saw GH crouched down, peering into a narrow crack in the rocks. Sliding back to him, he asked what was going on.

GH pointed. He said his birthday wallet had slipped out of his pocket and fallen deep into the crack. The wallet was whole with the five-dollar bill. The boys tried everything to retrieve it. They rolled up their sleeves, dug around, tried moving rocks, even tried widening the gap—but nothing worked. The wallet was gone.

From that moment on, the story of the wallet lost in Ghost Mound became family legend. I grew up hearing about it. Over and over, my dad would retell the tale. Sometimes it was a quick story; other times it grew with detail. Always, it ended the same way. The wallet was still there. It was wedged in the rocks with a crisp 1930s five-dollar bill, waiting to be discovered. He told it with such conviction, I was sure it had to be true. Dad told people whose hair he cut. Keeping an entire room of waiting customers spellbound. Sometimes GH would be there to re-enforce what dad was telling.

The day of my father’s funeral arrived. It was deeply emotional. The house was full of people who had known and loved him. Among them was GH. I had a chance to sit with him, and naturally, I asked him about the wallet. He threw his head back and laughed.

“Yeah,” he said, “the wallet did fall out of my pocket. But your dad was the only one with arms skinny enough to reach in and get it. We got it back that same day.”

I was stunned.

“Then why did you say it was still up there?” I asked.

GH grinned and said, “Because your dad was the biggest joker in the world. He made me promise not to tell anyone the truth. After that, we’d ride our horses out. We would just sit back and watch folks climb all over that Mound looking for that five-dollar bill. We’d laugh and laugh. If anyone had found it, they wouldn’t have brought it back to us anyway!”

And suddenly, a memory clicked. Every time we’d drive past Ghost Mound, we’d see someone out there climbing. It was usually someone who had been in my dad’s barber chair just days before. My dad would start laughing to himself. I never understood why. Not until GH let me in on the real story.

So maybe there’s no wallet up there after all. But the legend my dad spun from that day? That’s still very real. And just like Ghost Mound itself, it’s stuck with me for good.

Kids Raise Funds for Shelter with Lemonade Stand

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

1–2 minutes

“The Lemonade Stand That Changed Everything”

It started with a folding table, two plastic chairs, and a hand-painted sign that read, “Ice Cold Lemonade – 50¢.”

Emma, who is ten years old, and her little brother Caleb had a plan. They decided to spend the first real summer day doing something “big.” Not big like a vacation or fireworks—big like making a difference.

Their mom had mentioned that the animal shelter was trying to raise money. They needed some extra dog beds. They also needed fans for the kennels. That was all Emma needed to hear. She got to work squeezing lemons. She mixed sugar and water. She convinced Caleb that “lemonade manager” was a very important title.

By noon, their little stand was drawing a crowd. The lemonade was refreshing and generously poured. Additionally, Emma had placed a tip jar with a note: All proceeds go to the shelter pups! People smiled. They left five-dollar bills. Some handed over twenties and refused change. One elderly man left a fifty and simply said, “Thank you for reminding me what kindness looks like.”

By the end of the day, they had raised $237.50. They delivered it in person, with sticky hands and sunburned noses, to a surprised and teary-eyed shelter worker. Emma and Caleb even got to name one of the rescued puppies. They chose “Sunny.”

That evening, their mom posted a photo of the kids and their lemonade stand online. It went a little viral. Local news picked it up. The shelter ended up receiving over $3,000 in donations that week. This happened because two kids wanted to do something “big” on a warm summer day.

Now every June, Emma and Caleb set up the stand again, same folding table, same handwritten sign. Only now, the line stretches down the sidewalk. And Sunny? She got adopted. By them, of course.

Where am I going? In July I will be going places…So watch for me here!

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

A Little Heads-Up About July

Next month, you will notice I won’t be posting daily. Don’t worry—some content will still show up, thanks to the magic of pre-scheduled posts. The reason for the slowdown? I’m finally getting a long-overdue back surgery.

It’s not a procedure I’m exactly excited about. There’s a good chance it’ll knock me off my usual rhythm for a while. That is, of course, if everything goes according to plan. But, there are plenty of ways it not happening:

  • I can experience a sudden, miraculous recovery and cancel the whole thing.
  • My insurance will decide it’s a luxury item and deny the claim.
  • The orderly will wheel me into the wrong operating room.
  • The doctor disappears right before showtime.
  • Or, I will be the one who disappears—just as the doctor walks in, ready to go.
  • Or, the operating table goes missing on the day of the surgery.
Benjamin’s Profile

My hope is that the surgery will go as planned. If so it will ease the constant, gnawing pain I feel. It affects me whether I’m walking, sitting, standing, or trying to sleep. The sharp, stabbing, burning sensations mostly travel down my left leg. Though, they sometimes jump to the right when they get bored. They’ve also been known to zap my arms and hands. This happens especially in the middle of the night. It leaves a tingling, numbing wake.

I still manage to write here and there. I try to sound semi-coherent. I cook the occasional meal. I do my best to avoid going completely coo-coo. This journey has been a slow burn, building over more than fifteen years of other health concerns.

Sometimes, I see people out in the world. They are screaming into the void. I think, Wow, what must it be like to be them? But then I look around at my home, my dog, and my better half. I realize they’re probably looking at me thinking the exact same thing.

Until then, I’ll keep doing what I do—telling stories, filing reports, and generally pretending everything is completely under control. I’ll keep you posted on the surgery prep as it unfolds. Yes, I’m still obsessively checking my doctors’ reviews on Healthgrades.com. So far, there are no red flags. There are just a few mildly worrying Yelp comments about cold hands and questionable playlist choices in the OR. 

1753360200

  days

  hours  minutes  seconds

until

Ben’s Surgery!

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Eight – The Devil Knows The Way Out

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

3–4 minutes

Chapter Eight: The Devil Knows the Way Out

The blast had sealed the main vault door and collapsed part of the tunnel behind them. Smoke choked the air. Brick and metal groaned under stress. Chester blinked through blood and dust, pulling Wren up from the rubble.

“You alright?”

He asked, coughing.

“Been worse,” 

Wren muttered, cradling her left arm. 

“Dislocated, not broken. I’ll pop it back.”

Chester pulled out a penlight and scanned the room. 

“No exit. That was the only way in.”

Wren smiled through the pain. 

“You thought it was.”

She limped to the far wall. A section of decorative tiling was there—old, Spanish-style. It jutted out from the stone like it didn’t belong. She knocked three times in a rhythm that echoed deeper than it should have.

A hollow click responded.

“Cain didn’t build the vault himself. He took it from a man who did. The original owner had escape routes.”

She traced a tile shaped like a broken star and twisted it counterclockwise. With a faint hiss, the tile wall slid inward, revealing a narrow stone chute, half-collapsed and riddled with centipedes.

Chester stared into the black.

“I don’t suppose you brought rope,”

He said.

“Nope.”

“Alright then,”

He grunted, and they vanished into the dark.

In the Streets Above

Petal stood at her shop counter grinding roots when the front door exploded inward.

She ducked instinctively, drawing her old revolver, but it was too late.

Two men in black tactical gear moved in fast, grabbed her arms, and yanked her across the counter. The third figure entered last—calm, silent.

Mr. Gallow.

He picked up a vial from the shelf, sniffed it, and set it down.

“I’ve read your name,”

He said, voice flat. 

“You’re a known associate of Wren. Harboring her. Aiding a rogue federal.”

Petal spat blood and smiled. 

“You got a badge?”

“No. I have jurisdiction.”

He signaled.

The men dragged her out.

They disappeared down the street. Julep Jake watched from his cell window. He was whittling a miniature guillotine from an old broom handle. 

“And now the harvest begins,”

He muttered.

The Long Climb

Chester and Wren emerged two hours later through a rusted maintenance grate behind the abandoned Serenity Theater. They were scratched, covered in brick dust, and exhausted—but alive.

Wren wiped grime from her face. 

“He set us up. Knew we were coming.”

Chester nodded grimly. 

“Means we rattled him.”

She held up the two ledgers she’d saved—one in each hand.

“He loses if these go public.”

Chester took them, tucking them into his coat. 

“Then let’s make sure they do.”

Suddenly—gunfire cracked in the distance. Three pops.

Wren froze. 

“That was near Petal’s.”

Chester’s face hardened. 

“We’re not the only ones he’s playing.”

They moved quickly down the alleys. Even as they ran, Wren stopped cold. She saw the mark scorched onto the alley wall: a circle with a horizontal line through it.

She grabbed Chester’s arm. 

“That’s not Cain’s symbol.”

“What is it?”

Wren’s voice dropped to a whisper. 

“It’s Gallow’s.”

Chester turned, scanning the rooftops.

“Then we’re out of time.”

What exactly did the symbol mean? Chester had the answer—or at least a regulation book with the answer—tucked away in the saddlebags on his moped. The problem? He didn’t bring it with him. And it’s too far to walk back now. Truth is, he hasn’t laid eyes on that moped since he rolled into town. So, is it hidden so well that he forgot where it is? Or is he protecting a strategic location he’s not ready to reveal? With only two chapters left, the Marshal better get moving!

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Five – The Clock In The Dust

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

3–5 minutes

Chapter Five: The Clock in the Dust

The bell above Petal’s shop rang twice—slow and deliberate.

That was the signal.

Wren waited until the third cloud passed over the moon before sliding off the schoolhouse roof. She moved like a whisper down the alleyway, avoiding the creaky boards and broken glass with practiced ease. She paused behind the horse trough near the sheriff’s office and whistled once—two notes, flat and low.

Chester was sitting inside the dim jailhouse with his boots propped up on a barrel. His bruised rib was bandaged with a strip of curtain. He heard the sound and stood up.

He opened the door.

Wren stepped into the lamplight. She was small and wiry, wrapped in an oversized coat that had seen better days. Her eyes were dark and deliberate, scanning the room, the exits, the Marshal.

“I watched you fight the Gentlemen,”

She said without greeting.

Chester gave her a nod, cautious but not cold. 

“You’re the girl from the roof.”

“I’m the girl from everywhere,”

She replied.

He gestured to a stool. 

“You hungry?”

She hesitated, then sat. 

“I want something else.”

“Alright.”

“I want Cain gone.”

Chester leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. 

“That makes two of us. But wantin’ it and surviving it are two different things.”

Wren pulled her notebook from her coat and opened it. She showed him a crude map—of underground tunnels, secret entrances, schedules.

“I’ve been tracking his movements for six months,”

She said. 

“He’s gotten sloppy. He trusts the wrong people. There’s a weak point—down in the old mines under the vault. He thinks no one remembers it exists.”

Chester raised an eyebrow. 

“And you want to hit him there?”

“I want to expose him first. Show Serenity what he is. Not just a tyrant. A liar. A coward. I can get you inside. You have to decide if you’re willing to break the rules you came here to enforce.”

He looked at her for a long moment. 

“You ever worked with a marshal before?”

“No,” 

Wren replied. 

“You ever work with a kid who knows where all the bodies are buried?”

Chester smiled. 

“Can’t say that I have.”

She closed the notebook. 

“Then we’re even.”

They shook hands—hers small and cold, his calloused and warm. In that moment, something changed. Not in Serenity. Not yet.

But it had started.

Meanwhile –––

Five miles west of Serenity, in a ravine that didn’t show on most maps, a boxcar shuddered to a halt. It stopped on rusted rails.

A figure stepped out—tall, dressed in black, face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Beside him, four others disembarked—mercenaries, by the look of them. Not local. Not from this state. Not from this country, maybe.

They called him Mr. Gallow.

No one knew if that was his real name. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, people obeyed—or disappeared.

Gallow held up a leather-bound dossier stamped with the faded seal of the Bureau of Internal Affairs. Inside was a photo of Chester Finch, clipped to a thick file marked:

“CLASSIFIED – OPERATION ASHWOOD.”

He flipped the page and revealed a second file—one that bore the name Braddock Cain.

And then a third.

Subject: WREN (Alias Unknown).

Status: Missing / Witness Protection Violation.

Gallow smiled faintly.

He turned to his team and said only two words.

“Kill quietly.”

They vanished into the desert night like wolves on the scent.

Back in Serenity

Petal watched the train lights fade on the horizon, her face tense.

She reached behind the counter, pulled out a dusty revolver, and said to herself, 

“They’re all waking up now.”

And somewhere, far below, in the tunnels beneath Serenity, a clock that had long stopped ticking began to turn again.

So, Chester’s past is coming back to haunt him. What exactly are contained in the files OPERATION ASHWOOD Files? And, how much of it did Chester do or not do? He now cares less about the moped. If the contents of the file sees light of day, what would it mean for our Marshal? The man trying to cleanup this dirty town? And the tunnels, are another thing? Just a quick way to get about town or something more sinister?

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Four – Pieces on the Board

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

3–5 minutes

Chapter Four: Pieces on the Board

Braddock Cain stood in front of a pool table inside The Assembly, lining up a shot with surgical calm. His eyes didn’t leave the cue ball even as Poke relayed the report.

“He bloodied Silas’s nose, bruised Dutch’s ribs, broke Miles’ fiddle, and made Jonas fall on his ass,” 

Poke said, leaning against a cracked marble column. 

“Didn’t even draw his gun.”

Cain took the shot. The cue ball clicked sharply and sank the eight-ball in the corner pocket.

He stood slowly, placed the cue stick back on the rack, and poured himself a drink.

“And the town?”

“They watched,” 

Poke replied. 

“They didn’t help, but they didn’t laugh either. Some of ’em even looked –– curious.”

Cain stirred his drink with one finger. 

“That’s the worst part.”

Poke blinked. 

“Sir?”

Cain turned toward the window. 

“Fear keeps Serenity in check. When people get curious, they start to hope. And hope’s just a prettier way of saying ‘trouble.'”

He walked back to his velvet chair, every step echoing in the hollow room.

“I want to know everything about Marshal Finch. Where he came from. What he’s running from. Who sent him? And,”

He added, narrowing his eyes, 

“who he’s willing to die for.”

Poke nodded and disappeared.

Cain sipped his drink and muttered to the empty room,

“Let’s see what kind of man rides into Hell on a scooter.”

Across the Rooftops

Wren sat cross-legged on the corrugated roof of what had once been Serenity’s schoolhouse. The sun was setting in a blood-orange smear across the sky. She held a spyglass in one hand and a half-sharpened pencil in the other. A leather-bound journal rested in her lap.

Inside were names. Maps. Notes.

She turned to a fresh page and wrote:

Chester Finch – Marshal – Took a hit, didn’t fall. I watched the Gentlemen leave bruised. He won’t last a month. He might last longer.

Beside her sat a worn revolver wrapped in canvas, untouched. Wren didn’t shoot unless necessary. 

Observation was safer.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a newspaper clipping, old and faded:

“LOCAL DEPUTY DIES IN FIRE — WIDOW, CHILD UNACCOUNTED FOR”

She stared at it for a long moment before tucking it away again.

Wren wasn’t born in Serenity. She was left here. Left during the chaos, after the fire, after the men in black suits came and went. Cain had taken her in—not out of kindness but calculation. He saw her silence, her memory, her talent for hiding in plain sight.

He never asked questions. Neither did she.

Until now.

She looked back toward the jailhouse, where Chester Finch was lighting a lantern in the window. He moved stiffly, but there was something in the way he held himself. Like a man who wasn’t afraid to die—but was trying real hard not to.

She flipped back through her notebook. She found a sketch she’d drawn weeks ago. It was a map of Serenity. The map had dotted lines marking the tunnels under the old mines. It showed the abandoned telegraph station and the hidden entrance to Cain’s private vault room.

Wren circled Chester’s name, then drew a faint arrow pointing to the vault.

It was almost time.

Elsewhere in Serenity ––

  • Petal wiped the dust from her apothecary shelves. She stared at a cracked photo of her brother. He was killed by Cain’s men for refusing to cook meth in the back room. She kept smiling, but her smile was starting to slip.
  • Julep Jake, now back in his cell by choice, was building something with matchsticks and chewing gum. “Civic infrastructure,” he explained to no one.
  • Silas Crane dipped his bleeding knuckle into holy water and laughed softly. “He’s gonna make me preach,” he whispered. “And I do love a sermon.”

Back in The Assembly, Cain sat alone in the dim light, polishing a gold coin between his fingers. One side bore the symbol of the old U.S. Marshal’s badge. The other side? Blank.

“Flip it,”

He whispered. 

“Heads, he burns. Tails, he breaks.”

He flipped the coin into the air and caught it.

But he didn’t look.

Not yet.

Yet another episode to our story concludes. And, still no word on whether the moped is safe. After all, nowhere in this story is it mentioned whether Chester Finch parked it in a loading zone. It also doesn’t say if he used a 1-hour only parking space when he got to town. So far it hasn’t been used to his advantage in any of the dealings he has had. In Chapter Five, you will find out why. There is a secret method to getting about the town. It is about to unfold.

Red ‘Pinky’ Green: The Man Behind Marlow’s Legend – A Man They Called “Blue”

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

3–5 minutes

The Curious Legacy of Red “Pinky” Green, Known to All as Blue

The little town of Marlow’s Ridge was nestled between dusty hills and a river. This river had long forgotten how to rush. In this quaint setting lived a man named Red Green. His middle name was “Pinky,” a leftover from a grandmother who thought nicknames were good luck. But everyone in town—young, old, shopkeeper, sheriff, or schoolkid—called him Blue.

No one quite remembered how the name Blue came to be. Some said it was due to the denim shirt he always wore. It was frayed at the cuffs and patched at the elbows. Others swore it was because of his eyes. They were deep and stormy. They held stories no one ever heard him tell. Whatever the reason, the name stuck. And so did he.

Blue wasn’t what you’d call important. He wasn’t elected to anything. He didn’t own a business. He didn’t sing in church or march in parades. He wasn’t married and never had kids. He lived alone in a one-room shack on the edge of town. He built it himself, board by salvaged board. His house had a tin roof and a potbelly stove. The garden always grew more vegetables than one man can eat.

He was a fixture more than a figure. You’d see him mending a neighbor’s fence one day. The next day, he is fishing at the creek. Sometimes, he’d sit on the courthouse bench, whittling a stick into something halfway useful. He spoke little, smiled often, and always paid cash—exact change. Kids liked him because he had a knack for fixing broken toys with bits of wire and rubber bands. Adults liked him because he never asked for anything and always showed up when you needed another set of hands.

Blue was what folks called thrifty. He wore the same clothes for years. He repurposed everything. He carried a coffee can full of loose screws like it was a treasure. He never took credit, never owed money, and never once called attention to himself.

He died peacefully, in his sleep, sometime between dusk and dawn. So when he passed, the town mourned. They felt that soft, uncertain way people do when they realize someone quiet had been a cornerstone all along.

There was no family to speak of. The county handled the burial, and someone brought a pie to the service, which seemed appropriate. The people were about to scatter and return to their lives. Just then, the county clerk arrived with a letter in hand.

It was Blue’s ‘Will.’

Written in neat cursive on lined notebook paper, the will was short, but what it said stunned everyone with its unexpected generosity:

To the Town of Marlow’s Ridge,

If you’re hearing this, it means I’ve gone on ahead. It’s no use making a fuss, but I have a few things to leave behind.

First, I’ve set aside $20,000 for the school’s library. I want to make sure the kids get real books with pages they can turn.

Second, I’m giving $15,000 to the fire department. You’ve bailed me out more than once when I let that stove get too hot.

To Miss Delaney at the diner, you’ll find I’ve paid off your mortgage. You gave me free coffee every Monday for ten years. I figured it was time I returned the favor.

To the town mechanic, I left you my truck. It barely runs, but the toolbox in the back can come in handy.

The rest—over $300,000 in cash and savings—I want to put into a fund for the town. I want to fix up the playground, paint the church, and replace the town hall’s roof. You know what needs doing.

You were all my family. Maybe I didn’t say it, but I hope I showed it.

Thanks for everything.

—Red “Pinky” Green, but you knew me as Blue.

There was silence. It was not the kind that follows shock or grief. It was the kind that settles when truth lands heavy and sweet, like the last snowfall of winter.

In the next weeks, the town changed. It didn’t change in the way bulldozers and scaffolding alter things. It changed in how people react when they realize they’ve misjudged someone. Children now whispered stories of Blue’s secret treasure. Adults spoke his name with a new reverence. The diner added a “Blue Plate Special” in his honor. Every kid at school got a brand new library card. His actions inspired a wave of kindness and respect that swept through the town.

The bench outside the courthouse where he used to sit remained empty. Someone carved his name into it, not his full name, just the one that mattered. A simple yet powerful tribute that ensured his memory would never fade.

BLUE

No title. No explanation.

This is just a reminder that sometimes, the quietest lives leave the loudest echoes.

Detective Clara Vale: Unraveling Pine Hollow’s Secrets

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–4 minutes

The morning sun had just begun to burn away the last wisps of fog. The fog clung to Pine Hollow’s deserted streets. At this moment, Detective Clara Vale stepped off the county bus. The little town—nestled between whispering pines and rocky hills—was where everyone knew your grandmother’s maiden name. In this town, no secret stayed buried for long. But something about the silent hush felt different today, as if the forest was holding its breath.

Clara’s boots crunched on the gravel. She walked to the crooked lamppost at the town square. There, a single bulletin board displayed the hand-painted flyer she’d come to see:

“Missing: Benjamin Hawthorne. Last seen at the Old Mill.”

Benjamin, a local schoolteacher, had vanished two nights before. He left only a trail of broken glass in his classroom. A smear of muddy footprints led into the woods. Clara studied the flyer’s edges—fresh tears around the corners told her someone had already pulled it down once. She taped it back in place and set off.

Her first stop was the Old Mill, its rotting wood groaning in the breeze. Inside, moonlight slanted through broken windows, illuminating desks overturned, and chalk dust still hovering in the air. Clara knelt by a desk. She noted the glass shards and a single, battered notebook. It lay open to a page filled with frantic mathematical equations. This was Benjamin’s lifework on the community’s crumbling dam.

Clara closed the book gently and pocketed it. The dam’s collapse would flood half the town; had Benjamin discovered a flaw and been threatened into silence?

As dusk fell, Clara meticulously combed through the Hawthorne farm. Benjamin’s aging parents stuttered about late-night visitors. Strange trucks idled on the gravel road, and their headlights flickered like watchful eyes. Their hands trembled as they described a low rumble, like a machine in the woods. Clara’s pulse quickened at the implication of clandestine logging or worse. She assured them she’d find Benjamin, her determination unwavering, then slipped out the back door.

By midnight, Clara was deep in the forest, tracking tire tracks that plunged toward the dam’s service tunnel. She shone her flashlight on fresh scuff marks along the tunnel walls. Heart pounding, she crept ahead until she heard a muffled voice. 

“Detective… over here.” 

Benjamin emerged from the shadows, bruised but alive, clutching the dam’s blueprints. 

“They wanted me to falsify the safety report,” 

He whispered. 

“When I refused, they locked me up.” 

Clara’s eyes narrowed as headlights flared above ground—masked men were coming back. Benjamin was by her side. She retraced her steps. She used the winding tunnel to slip past the guard trucks waiting at the entrance.

When they burst into the open, Clara raised her badge like a beacon. 

“State Police—step away from the dam!” 

Her command sent the conspirators scattering into the trees. Moments later, sirens rang in the distance—backup arrived earlier to secure the scene. In the stillness that followed, Clara handed Benjamin his blueprints. 

“Now the town knows the truth,” 

She said. As the first light of dawn filtered through the pines, Pine Hollow exhaled, its secrets finally laid to rest. 

The collective sigh of relief was relatable as Detective Vale boarded the morning bus, ready for whatever mystery came next.

The Burden of Inaction: A Haunting Missed Call

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

A Missed Call

It was January 28th, 1986. Tim was driving to an appointment, his car weaving through fifty miles of winding highways. The radio crackled with the morning news. The Space Shuttle Challenger was set to launch, carrying the first civilian teacher into space.

As the announcer spoke, a sudden, vivid image flashed in Tim’s mind—an explosion, fiery and bright. He gripped the wheel tighter. Then, just as quickly, the vision faded.

This wasn’t the first time. During his years in law enforcement, Tim had experienced moments like this—flashes of insight, warnings he couldn’t explain. Colleagues had asked how he knew things before they happened. He’d only ever shrugged and said, “I’ve got a sixth sense, I guess.”

A commercial break interrupted the news. Tim leaned back, letting the hum of ads drown out the unease rising in his chest. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. There are engineers, scientists—people much smarter than me working on this. Who am I to question it?

Then the news returned, live coverage from Cape Canaveral. As the launch countdown continued, Tim felt it again. A deep, cold shiver passed across his neck. Then he envisioned the same haunting image of destruction.

He reached for the dashboard, then pulled his hand back. Should I call? he wondered. Would they even listen? The idea of calling NASA felt absurd. What would I say? he thought. That I had a feeling?

No one would believe him. He’d be laughed off the line—or worse. He pictured himself in a hospital gown, locked behind heavy doors for making prank calls to a national space agency.

So he drove on.

At the appointment, Tim entered the lobby and stepped up to the front desk. Just as he began to sign in, a man burst from his office, wide-eyed.

“You won’t believe what just happened!”

He turned on the TV. On the screen, the Space Shuttle Challenger rose into the sky—and then disintegrated in a plume of smoke and fire.

Gasps filled the room.

Tim stood frozen. The weight hit him all at once. Not just the horror of what had happened but also the hollow ache remained. He knew he had seen it coming… and done nothing.

In the days that followed, he replayed it again and again. The moment he didn’t call. The chance he didn’t take. The voice he silenced.

If he had picked up that phone, maybe nothing would’ve changed. Or maybe someone would’ve listened. Maybe someone smarter than him would’ve paused for just a second. He would never know.

One thing became clear to Tim that day. The burden of inaction weighs heavier than the risk of being wrong.

If he was able do it over, he’d make the call.

No matter how crazy it sounded.

This story is from actual events. The names of those in the story were changed to protect their privacy.

The Legend of the Wishing Tree: A Magical Tale

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

1–2 minutes

Deep in the heart of the Whispering Wood stood an ancient oak known as the Wishing Tree. Its gnarled branches stretched toward the heavens. The tree’s roots twisted deep into the earth. The soil received whispering secrets from it.

The legend passed from generation to generation. It told of the tree’s magic. The tree would grant a single wish to those who truly believed.

Many travelers sought the Wishing Tree. Only a rare few with pure hearts and sincere desires ever found it. The forest guided them. The wind carried soft murmurs. These murmurs led them down winding paths until they stood before the towering oak. Beneath its emerald canopy, the air shimmered with an almost otherworldly glow.

One such seeker was a young girl named Elara. She had heard the tales from her grandmother, who had once made a wish upon the tree as a child. With hope in her heart, Elara ventured into the forest. She followed the rustling leaves and the whispering wind. Soon, she stood before the grand tree.

Kneeling upon the moss-covered roots, she closed her eyes, her heart beating with anticipation, and whispered her wish.

“I wish for our village never to go hungry again.”

Elara’s voice carried the hope. It also carried the love of her people.

The tree remained silent, its leaves barely stirring. But then, a single golden acorn dropped into Elara’s hands. She gasped as warmth spread through her fingers.

Understanding the tree’s silent message, she carried the acorn home and planted it in the center of her village.

Days turned to weeks, and soon, a miraculous tree sprouted. Its branches bore fruits of all kinds—apples, pears, oranges, and even wheat grains. The villagers rejoiced, their hearts filled with joy and relief, never knowing famine again. Elara knew, in her heart. Now a guardian of the magical grove, she understood that belief and kindness were the magic behind the Wishing Tree.

And so, the legend continued, whispered among the trees, waiting for the next believer to find their way.

A Life-Changing Dilemma at Midnight

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

4–6 minutes

The letter arrived on a Wednesday, sealed with a wax insignia that Alex didn’t recognize. There was no return address, just his name scrawled in an elegant, old-fashioned script. The envelope itself was thick, the parchment that felt out of place in the modern world.

He hesitated before opening it, but curiosity won out. The letter inside was written in the same exquisite handwriting:

Mr. Alex Carter,

Your presence is requested at Blackwood Manor at precisely midnight this Friday. Do not be late. Bring only your wits, and tell no one of this invitation. All will be explained upon your arrival.

This is not a request.

There was no signature.

Alex stared at the letter, his pulse quickening. He had never heard of Blackwood Manor and wasn’t in the habit of receiving cryptic invitations. A prank? Or a mistake? But something about the paper’s texture, the commanding tone, and the archaic penmanship made him doubt that. He felt he had just been drawn into something far more significant than himself.

He spent the next two days researching. There was no official record of Blackwood Manor. Late one night, he found a reference buried in an obscure historical forum. It mentioned an estate on the outskirts of town, abandoned for nearly a century. There were no photographs, no listed owners, just a footnote about a once-prominent family that had vanished without explanation.

At midnight on Friday, Alex stood before the imposing iron gates of the manor. His heart pounded in his chest. The estate, a grand structure that seemed to defy the laws of time, loomed in the darkness. Its ivy-covered walls and Gothic architecture were barely illuminated by the sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds. Despite their rusted appearance, the gates creaked open at his touch as though they had been waiting for him.

He stepped ahead, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. The air was thick with something replaceable, a tension that made his skin prickle. The massive wooden doors at the entrance groaned open before he knocked.

From a source unknown to Alex, a smooth and knowing voice called from within the manor, echoing through the night.

“Welcome, Mr. Carter. We’ve been expecting you.”

And with that, the door shut behind him, sealing his fate. The candles along the grand hallway flickered to life, casting eerie shadows on the walls. A sudden whisper echoed through the chamber, though no one was visible. Then, the voice returned, this time closer.

“There are three doors to which you must pass through to find what you have lost. If you can’t find your way through all three doors, you will not survive.”

Alex’s breath caught in his throat. He turned, expecting to see the speaker, but the hallway was empty. As he took another step ahead, the world around him seemed to flicker—like a light struggling to stay on. His head pounded, and suddenly, the floor beneath him dissolved. He was falling into a void of darkness, his senses overwhelmed by the absence of light and sound.

Then, a distant beeping noise. Faint voices. A feeling of weightlessness.

Somewhere far away, Alex lay in a hospital bed, his body unmoving. The monitors beeped steadily, measuring a life that hung in the balance. He didn’t know it yet, but the letter, manor, and voice were all part of something more profound. It seemed as though something was urging him to fight his way back.

The first door loomed before him, its frame flickering like a mirage. His hands trembled as he reached for the handle, knowing that whatever lay beyond was the key to his survival.

He entered and found he had to walk across a tightrope to reach the second door. Alex only saw blackness below. He was afraid of heights and not very well-balanced. Alex attempted to steady himself on the rope and inch across, but he couldn’t stay balanced. He returned to the first door and decided to belly crawl across the rope to the second door. It took longer, but he eventually got there. 

At the second door, he found it locked by a combination. Only two numbers would open it. Alex tried combinations endlessly, his heart pounding in his chest, until finally pushing in 00, and the door opened. Inside was a spinning floor with different sections that would align with the third door. If he chose the right section, the third door would open. If not, the floor would continue spinning. Alex attempted six different sections before choosing the straightway section that led him to the third door. At the door, he can push or pull. Depending on which way he opened the third door would decide if he lived or died.

Standing at the third door, Alex contemplated which way to open it. His life flashed before him from when he was a baby to his current age. He saw friends and relatives who had passed and noticed things he had forgotten. It would be a gamble. He knew he couldn’t go back. All the doors behind had disappeared once he went through them. His situation hit him with immense gravity. He realized that his decision would decide his fate. 

This was it. Would Alex pull or push? He decided to push. As he went through the door, a bright light appeared. Voices loudly chattered. It was as if Alex was opening his eyes for the first time. Then he heard his mother’s voice, 

“My God, his eyes are open; Alex, can you hear me?”

Alex, looking around at a sterile room trying to figure out where he had ended up, replied –––

“Yes, Ma, I chose to push through the door.”