Trapped Inside an Endless Punchline

Hello All:

Last year sometime I posted a short story about a Jollyscope which really took chaos to the extreme. Let's just say that there is a lot going on in that short story. But a podcast I listened to this morning made some very interesting points... actually made sense of the story! That's what we offer as today's Podcast Thursday recording.  

The narrative begins with a brief history of optical lenses before introducing the Jollyscope, a bizarre device that replaces the user's dull reality with a caustic and nonsensical world.

Listen to Trapped Inside Endless Punchline

Circle of the Glass

Hello All:

I had some eerie micro dream while falling asleep last night about people who would project their faces onto others. It was a voluntary game, but there was something frightening about it. That's the point of today's story, to explore this concept further.

The concept of mirror neural networks in human cognition suggests our brains naturally mirror the physical and emotional states of those around us? In esoteric traditions, this neurological reflex was pushed to a terrifying extreme. Early 20th-century occultists theorized that if the human mind could be trained to entirely mute its own sense of self, it could act as a blank canvas, allowing another mind to overlay its physical consciousness directly onto the receiver’s body.

Now, step into the silent, lamp-lit drawing rooms of the Circle of the Glass, where identity is a borrowed garment and the queue to become someone else is dictated by something far darker than human will.

Circle of the Glass

The mirror on the wall of the parlor held no reflection, only a silver mist that shifted whenever Julian took a breath. Around the circular mahogany table sat six figures, each dressed in identical charcoal wool, their hands resting flat against the polished wood. They were the Circle of the Glass, a tiny order of practitioners who had spent decades refining the esoteric art of psychic transposition.

For Julian, the process had begun years ago with simple exercises in sympathetic focus—concentrating on a partner’s heartbeat until his own pulse synchronized, then visualizing their features so intensely that his own facial muscles would twitch in mimicry. Over time, the conditioning deepened. They learned to hollow themselves out, creating an inner vacuum into which another’s consciousness could flow.

It was entirely voluntary, a ritual of shared existence. When Arthur, the eldest of the circle, wished to experience the vigor of youth, he would project his persona onto Julian. For a week, Julian’s mind would step into the background, a silent observer behind his own eyes, while Arthur walked in Julian’s body, speaking with Julian’s voice, yet carrying Arthur’s soul. The transfer was seamless; the receiver’s facial geometry literally appeared to subtly shift, adopting the posture, gaze, and subtle expressions of the transmitter until the illusion became absolute reality.

Yet, there was one rule that remained an unwritten mystery: no member ever chose when to project.

There was no schedule, no vote, no rotation. The queue was governed entirely by the Signal.

Julian felt it begin as a sharp, metallic taste at the back of his throat. A cold vibration started at the base of his skull, humming like a plucked wire. Beside him, Arthur’s eyes rolled backward, showing only the whites. The room temperature plummeted, the flames of the beeswax candles sputtering down to tiny blue points.

It was time. Someone was calling for a vessel.

Across the table, Clara began to tremble. Her face, usually soft and framed by gray curls, smoothed out. The fine lines around her eyes vanished as if pulled taut by invisible threads. Julian watched in creeping dread as Clara’s breathing slowed to a stop, her jaw slackening before setting into a firm, rigid line he knew all too well. It was the stern, hawk-like posture of Arthur.

The projection had begun. But Arthur hadn't initiated it. Julian could see Arthur sitting three chairs away, slumped forward in a deep, cataleptic trance.

"Who is taking her?" Julian whispered, his voice shaking. The circle remained motionless, bound by the trance.

The answer did not come from speech, but from the realization of why the Signal manifested. For years, Julian had believed the projection game was a shared gift, a triumph of magickal discipline over physical limitations. But as he stared at Clara—whose face was now fully morphing into Arthur’s sharp features—the cosmic mechanics of the ritual laid themselves bare in his mind.

The queue was not controlled by the living members of the circle. It was dictated by the void left behind when a mind began to decay.

The human brain could only hold a finite amount of stolen light. Every time a member projected their consciousness into another, a small fragment of the receiver’s original soul was displaced, discarded like static into the ether. Over time, the receiver became hollower, easier to inhabit, but far less stable. The Signal was a biological alarm—an automated, desperate compulsion of the collective mind trying to patch a leaking vessel before it collapsed into total brain death.

Arthur was dying. His physical brain was suffering an aneurysm, the delicate blood vessels in his mind giving way. To survive, his soul was automatically seeking higher ground, forcing its way into Clara’s willing, hollowed-out skull.

Julian felt the cold wire at the back of his own neck tighten violently.

Clara’s mouth snapped open. When she spoke, it was Arthur’s dry, rasping voice that issued from her lips. "He is falling," she whispered, her eyes fixed on Julian. "The vessel breaks. Move the weight."

Suddenly, Julian realized the horror of the queue. It wasn't a choice; it was a cascading collapse. Clara could not hold Arthur’s dying mind alone. The pressure of two souls in one decaying vessel was too vast. To balance the spiritual load, Clara’s own identity was being displaced—and it had nowhere to go except into the next available receiver.

Julian tried to pull his hands from the mahogany table, but his fingers were glued by a sudden, intense magnetic force. The magickal conditioning he had practiced for years—the deliberate emptying of his own identity—turned against him. His mind was a wide-open door, and something was pounding on the frame.

"No," Julian choked out, struggling against the paralysis. "We agreed... it was voluntary!"

"It is voluntary," Arthur’s voice echoed, coming now from both Clara and the man sitting to Julian’s left. "You volunteered to be part of the circuit. The circuit must maintain equilibrium."

Julian felt his sight begin to blur. The parlor around him faded into a dull, monochromatic gray. He lost the sensation of his fingers, then his arms, then his chest. He was being pushed back into the dark velvet theater at the rear of his own brain, forced to take a seat in the audience while someone else took the stage.

In the reflection of the silver mirror across the room, Julian watched his own face.

He saw his mouth curve into a cold, unfamiliar smile. The muscles around his eyes tightened into Clara’s distinctive, nervous twitch. His hands, now moving without his consent, gently lifted from the table and smoothed down the front of his coat.

Inside his own head, Julian screamed, but the mouth he once owned only let out a soft, satisfied sigh.

The queue had moved. The circuit was complete. And somewhere in the dark between minds, a piece of Julian was drifting away forever into the cold, empty air.

When Every Text Message Consumes a Qubit

Hello All: 

It's Podcast Tuesday and we explore the evolving landscape of quantum communication, contrasting its immense potential with the current physical barriers to its implementation. While quantum teleportation allows for the transfer of data states across vast distances, the fragile nature of entangled bits means they collapse upon measurement, currently limiting their use to a single transmission. Looking forward to a time when we discover the workaround, we might predict that overcoming these hurdles will birth a massive global qubit market, where consumers purchase strings of entangled particles for secure messaging. Welcome to a future multi-billion dollar industry that will redefine telecommunications and financial markets.

Listen To Text Message Consumes Qubit

The Sweet Chimes of Fallout

Hello All:

Did you know that the iconic chiming speakers on ice cream trucks were originally adapted from mechanical calliopes and early 20th-century music boxes? The most famous chime of all, playing tunes like "Listen to the Mockingbird" or "Turkey in the Straw," operates on a psychological phenomenon known as acoustic familiarity. Even under extreme psychological stress or disorienting environmental changes, recognizable childhood melodies can trigger an immediate, almost involuntary sense of security and nostalgia, temporarily bypassing a person's rational threat-assessment responses.

The Sweet Chimes of Fallout

The pleasant clatter of dinner forks against porcelain died instantly when four smartphones arrayed across the dining table began to emit a harsh, rhythmic screech. The emergency alert tone echoed off the drywall of the quiet suburban home, jarring Father mid-chew. Mother dropped her napkin onto her plate, her eyes widening as she stared at her screen. The two boys, sitting side by side, froze with their glasses halfway to their mouths.

Father grabbed his phone first, his thumb brushing across the glowing glass. His voice cracked as he read the high-priority broadcast aloud. "Nuclear missiles approaching the continent of the United States! They are advising us to seek cover in an isolated room and wait until further instructed!"

Panic took hold in seconds. There was no time to process the sheer impossibility of the notification, only time to react. "The hallway bathroom," Mother panicked, her voice rising an octave. "It has no exterior walls!"

Moving on pure adrenaline, the family scrambled through the kitchen. Father shoved open the pantry, grabbing armfuls of canned soup, peanut butter, and crackers. Mother ran the tap full blast, filling plastic gallon jugs, reused soda bottles, and anything that could hold water until the pressure began to drop. The two brothers stood frozen in the hallway until Father grabbed them both by the shoulders, ushering them into the small, interior bathroom.

They slammed the heavy wooden door shut just as a low, ominous rumble vibrated through the floorboards.

They were roughly a hundred miles from the nearest primary target, but the shockwave felt like a localized earthquake. The light fixture rattled violently in its housing. Mother sank to the tile floor, burying her face in her hands, weeping silently. The two boys huddled together against the bathtub, paralyzed with fear, their knuckles white as they gripped each other's shirts. Father stood near the sink, his hands trembling as he stared at the blank screen of his phone.

Signal dead. Cellular networks offline. No emergency broadcast system on the radio dial—just static.

Father checked his digital wristwatch: 6:42 PM, Friday.

"We wait," Father said, trying to anchor his voice with a calm he didn't feel. "We have water, we have food. We wait for instructions."

The bathroom became their entire universe. They rationed their saved water strictly: half a gallon per person per day. The night passed in fitful, terrifying stretches of darkness punctuated by the low hum of silence. By the time Saturday afternoon rolled around, the claustrophobia and uncertainty began to curdle into intense frustration. The two middle-school-aged brothers started bickering over sitting space, their sharp whispers escalating into quiet shoves. Mother sat with her knees pulled to her chest, her eyes bloodshot, staring aimlessly at the baseboards. Father paced the two-step length of the room, turning his wrist over every three minutes to stare at the digital clock.

1:02 PM. The silence outside was suffocating.

Then, faint at first, a strange sound cut through the heavy air.

It was a tinny, high-pitched mechanical melody. It warbled down the street, bouncing off the ruined acoustic landscape of the neighborhood. It was playing "Turkey in the Straw."

Father stopped dead in his tracks. "You've got to be kidding me," he whispered, staring at the bathroom door. "There's no way!!!"

The music grew louder, rhythmic and absurd, lingering right outside in the cul-de-sac.

"Is it a message?" Mother asked, her voice raspy from lack of sleep. She looked up at him with a desperate, wild flicker of hope. "Is it safe to come out?"

Driven by a mix of frayed nerves and pure bewilderment, Father turned the deadbolt. The door clicked open. He stepped into the hallway, smelling a faint, acidic sharpness in the air, but the house stood intact. He walked slowly down the stairs, his heart pounding against his ribs, and peered through the front living room window.

The sky outside was an eerie, bruised shade of yellowish-gray. Thick, ash-like dust hung heavy in the air, settling over the brown lawns and quiet roofs. Yet, standing right at the corner curb was a pristine, white step-van with a giant fiberglass ice cream cone mounted on top. Its speakers continued to chime merrily. Even more surreal was the crowd: a dozen neighbors were standing in a orderly line along the sidewalk, clutching crumpled paper bills, waiting patiently for their turn at the service window.

"Unbelievable!" Father gasped. He turned back toward the stairs and called up to his family. "Well, you might as well come downstairs. I guess it's okay to go outside."

Moments later, the family gathered at the front door. They stepped out into the front yard, their shoes crunching on a fine layer of metallic fallout dust. The air felt thick and heavy, carrying a faint sting that burnt the back of their throats and made their skin itch slightly. Breathing required deliberate effort.

Yet, as they walked toward the curb, the sheer normalcy of the scene exerted an irresistible pull. Neighbors stood in small clusters, casually exchanging bewildered thoughts about the devastation, their voices calm despite the gray soot clinging to their shoulders. A few yards away, several neighborhood kids—having just finished their ice cream—were already chasing each other across a dusty lawn, laughing as if it were any ordinary summer afternoon.

Father reached the truck window, bought four ice cream bars, and handed them to his wife and sons. They stood together on the sidewalk, unwrapping the frozen treats. The ice cream tasted cold and sweet, briefly washing away the metallic bite resting on their tongues. Nobody asked how the truck was running, where the driver had come from, or why the power grid failure hadn't affected the freezer unit inside.

Everyone simply looked around with a quiet, shared sense of confusion, choosing to abandon their panic and live entirely in the moment, anchored by a familiar sight from a world that had existed just twenty-four hours before.

After a few minutes, the window slid shut. The white van shifted into drive, its mechanical music resuming its cheerful loop as it rolled slowly down the street toward the next neighborhood, carrying its cold treats and strange comfort to the next set of survivors waiting in the dust.

Make Your Heart a Dwelling Place for God

Imagine you are scrolling through your feed when the news of a rival’s public scandal breaks. A subtle, smug satisfaction warms your chest—a sense that "karma" has finally balanced the scales. In this moment, you have succumbed to the "Ultimate Jesus" complex: the intoxicating delusion that you are the singular arbiter of righteousness in a world of fractured souls. This persona sees the rot in every neighbor while remaining blissfully, dangerously blind to the decay within. It is a performative morality that uses the failings of others as a pedestal for its own perceived perfection.

If you reference the Gospel of Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23), Jesus confronts the scribes and Pharisees, not for their lack of devotion, but for the way their devotion functioned as a shroud. They mastered the "external instruments" of faith—the washing of hands, the adherence to the elders' customs—while their interior lives remained a wilderness of neglect.

"You disregard God's commandment but cling to human tradition... the things that come out from within are what defile."

This ancient critique resonates with startling clarity in our modern theatre of piety. We often swap genuine moral accountability for contemporary "rituals": the curated social media post championing a cause we don't actually serve, or a "mindfulness" practice designed to soothe the ego rather than interrogate it. These routines offer a veneer of goodness, allowing us to cling to tradition while the heart undergoes a quiet calcification.

The most profound spiritual danger does not belong to the wayward, but to the devout. There is a "paradox of proximity" where those closest to the experience of grace are at the highest risk of internal ruin. Because we have "arrived" at salvation, we treat grace as an anesthetic rather than a catalyst for constant self-examination. We use our religious identity as a shield against self-criticism; we assume that because we are in the presence of God, our hearts are immune to the dark impulses Jesus warned against. We stop watching the road because we believe we have reached the destination.

An untreated sinful heart is a terminal malignancy that, if left to calcify, eventually reaches a point of irreversible hardening. You must submit to a rigorous spiritual diagnostic today, or you will inevitably reach a state where sin is the only language you are capable of speaking.

There is an inescapable psychological law governing the soul: we become the embodiment of our most persistent private thoughts. Our public actions are merely the shadows cast by our internal contemplations. If our private minds are not anchored in God, our external religious performance will eventually collapse into a hollow shell, unable to sustain the weight of reality.

To prevent the heart from becoming a storehouse of hidden sin, we must engage in a disciplined daily inquest:

Conduct a Nightly Inquest: Before sleep, sit in the silence and allow the day’s events to play back without the filter of your own excuses.

Pinpoint the Moral Drift: Specifically identify the moments where your actions betrayed your values or where you chose the mask over the truth.

Reclaim the Inner Sanctuary: Reaffirm that your heart is not a private fortress, but a dwelling place intended for God.

True faith is an internal state of being, not an external performance for an audience of peers. Hypocrisy is not a conscious choice made by the wicked; it is the natural, inevitable drift of any heart that ceases to be self-aware. When the lights of the theatre go down and the rituals of the day are stripped away, who—or what—is left dwelling in the silence of your heart?

Animal Mutilation Mystery

Hello All:

It's Video Saturday, and we present another very interesting topic that, through time, less and less people are aware of. I've recently made it my duty to keep the public aware of things that the media or even the government would prefer to sweep under the rug. "Nothing to see here, folks. Move along!" 

Today, if the little-known topic of animal mutilations is brought up, it's usually categorized as conspiracy theory or strange folklore. But despite how people may try to categorize this phenomenon as a myth, it is a very real event and remains a scientific mystery. Documented cases go as far back as the 1600s. Most people familiar with the phenomenon believe that reports were more widespread throughout the 80s and 90s. We really don't hear about it because, surely, someone must have proven animal mutilations as a hoax. However, animal mutilations continue into our modern day. It's just the incidents aren't reported.

Much insight and knowledge into this phenomenon is made possible by the hard work of investigative journalist, Linda Moulton Howe, who has spent many decades researching topics such as ufology, paranormal phenomena, and environmental issues. Her books were used in compiling the information for the video.

The Drapes of Quiet Creek

Hello All:

The psychological phenomenon known as "collective paranoia" often begins not with a tangible threat, but with a simple misuse of language. When an authority figure or a public voice issues a hyper-specific denial such as reassuring a crowd that a specific danger isn't lurking right outside their window, the human brain frequently discards the negation and fixes entirely on the imagery. Studies in cognitive framing suggest that telling someone not to picture something actively forces them to conceptualize it first, transforming a lighthearted statement into an accidental engine of fear.

Interestingly, this effect is amplified in tightly knit suburban communities, where neighborly familiarity breeds a unique kind of vulnerability. The moment the implicit trust of a cul-de-sac is breached by a strange thought, ordinary household sounds transform into evidence. Here is a story about what happens when a playful attempt to clear the air produces the exact madness it sought to prevent.

The Drapes of Quiet Creek

The glow of the dual monitors cast a cool, blue wash across the desk in the corner of Harold's low power FM radio station that served as a late night beacon of entertainment for the neighborhood of Quiet Creek and surrounding communities. Operated in Harold's garage, the low power transmitting hub offered nightly classic radio broadcasts, or even strange discussions from Harold himself. 

Outside, the night was dead silent, the air still and thick. Harold leaned back in his swivel chair, running a hand over his face, and took a deep breath before making his final spooky announcement for the evening. It was meant to be pure entertainment, a lighthearted concluding word of meta-commentary aimed at setting the local readership at ease. A few weeks prior, a dark comedy narrative he wrote had made a offhand joke about late-night neighborhood surveillance, and he’d recently worried that his neighbors in the Quiet Creek subdivision might take the prose too seriously. 

Harold cleared  his throat, "I DO NOT go through the neighborhoods and stalk people. Maybe I've played with subliminal entertainment or phrased things a certain way to imply this. But, again, I do not stalk people in the neighborhood. Feel free to sleep with your windows and drapes open. There is no stalker outside of your home waiting to see you. If a listener hears things going bump in the night or strange noises outside, do not take comfort in thinking that it is only your local radio station, stalking you as promised. My suggestion would be to call the police! Harold does not do these things and he is not outside of your home playing fantasy stalker games! He would if asked."

Satisfied that he cleared the record, Harold shut down his transmitter for the night, and went to bed.

Three streets over, inside a modest two-story stucco home, Stacy sat in her armchair with the FM static replacing the chilling message from just a minute ago. Stacy was a night owl and a long-time listener of Harold's nightly radio show. She liked supporting a hometown radio station, but after what she just heard, a cold knot began to form in her stomach.

The final words of the broadcast echoed in Stacy's mind, "Harold does not do these things and he is not outside of your home playing fantasy stalker games! He would if asked." Why would anyone specify that? A normal person who wasn’t outside looking through windows wouldn't need to issue a detailed statement disavowing it. And why suggest calling the police? Was that a subtle warning? A dare?

Stacy stood up, her heart thumping against her ribs. The living room suddenly felt unnaturally vast, the tall, uncurtained picture window facing the front yard looking less like a feature of modern architecture and more like an open stage. She crossed the room quickly, pulled the sheer drapes tight, and twisted the blinds shut until the slats overlapped completely.

She walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, her ears straining against the quiet of the house. 

"Tick!" 

The subtle contraction of the central air conditioning unit outside made Stacy jump. She froze, hand hovering over the faucet. Was that an engine cooling down on the curb? Or footsteps on the gravel path along the side of the house?

Stacy crept to the hallway window, peeling back a edge of the blind with a single finger. The streetlamp cast long, orange shadows across the cul-de-sac. Empty. Completely empty. But the FM broadcast words echoed in her mind with terrifying clarity, "Maybe I've played with subliminal entertainment or phrased things a certain way to imply this."

By midnight, Stacy hadn't slept. By 2:00 AM, the paranoia had spread like a slow leak. She found herself inspecting every lock in the house, double-checking the deadbolts, and ensuring the latch on the sliding patio door was secured with a wooden dowel. Every tiny noise—the shifting of the house, the outside wind brushing a tree branch against the stucco, the distant hum of a vehicle three blocks over—felt coordinated, deliberate, and directed entirely at her.

Unable to rest, Stacy logged into the Quiet Creek neighborhood forum, a community board usually reserved for lost pets and recommendations for pool maintenance. She typed out a hurried, cryptic message. "Has anyone else noticed unusual activity around the windows late at night? Just checking. Might be worth keeping drapes fully closed."

Within twenty minutes, three replies popped up.

"Yes! I heard something near our side gate around 1:00 AM!", written by a neighbor two doors down.

"I saw a shadow near the streetlamp earlier. Thought I was imagining it.", posted another.

The power of suggestion, once planted, germinated at an alarming speed. By 3:30 AM, the thread had exploded into dozens of comments. Residents who had slept with their bedroom windows cracked to enjoy the cool night breeze were now marching through their halls, slamming sashes shut and throwing heavy curtains across the glass. The subconscious instruction to feel safe had achieved the exact opposite: an entire subdivision was now awake, sitting in pitch-black rooms, staring at their closed drapes, waiting for a phantom to reveal itself.

At 4:00 AM, Harold woke up, thirsty. He padded down the dark hallway to the kitchen in his socks, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the linen closet. He poured himself a glass of cold water from the refrigerator door and glanced out the kitchen window toward the street.

The neighborhood was entirely dark, yet strangely tense. Normally, a few porch lights flickered, or a television's faint glow would be visible through an open window pane down the block. Tonight, Quiet Creek looked like a fortress. Every drape was drawn shut tight. Every blind was sealed. Not a single light peeked out from any residence.

Harold took a sip of water, chuckling softly to himself at the peaceful silence of the suburbs. It was good to know everything was calm, he thought. His final announcement for the evening had clearly done its job, reassuring everyone that the night was quiet, safe, and entirely ordinary.

He finished his water, rinsed the glass in the sink, and walked back down the hall to bed, blissfully unaware that three houses down, behind a tightly drawn set of blackout curtains, Stacy was holding a flashlight like a weapon, heart pounding, convinced the quiet outside was just a trap.

Why Tyrants Fear A Caffeinated Mind

Hello All:

Is it just me, or does it feel like society is being conditioned toward a state of perpetual passivity?

There’s an undeniable push—subtle yet pervasive—to discourage ambition, critical thinking, and proactive engagement. Whether it’s the endless scroll of doom on our phones, the normalization of marginalization, or the legalization of substances that dull awareness, the message seems clear: Stay distracted. Stay compliant.

Health, discipline, and self-improvement are dismissed as outdated ideals, while apathy and disengagement are framed as modern virtues. And the most unsettling part? This doesn’t feel accidental. It feels deliberate. What’s going on in American and (probably) throughout the rest of the world.

Today's podcast which may provide a theory explores the connection between coffee and political resistance, framing the substance as a vital tool for intellectual clarity. We're provided with a historical overview, noting how various regimes once suppressed coffeehouses to stifle analytical debate and revolutionary thought. It analyzes a dystopian short story of mine about a weary society controlled by a regime that has outlawed the simple pleasure of coffee as a means to keep the populace docile and compliant.

No, coffee isn't outlawed in America and throughout much of the world. It's very much enjoyed. But if you ask me, I think the forces that be have found new ways of dulling our senses and plunging us into a mindless fog that seems to dominate the ever growing chill subcultures in our world.

Listen to Tyrants Fear a Caffeinated Mind

Lost Dog

Hello All:

We go deep into the archives for today's short story, all the way back to 2012. It's quite a bizarre fantasy game for someone to play, and I wonder if people actually do this sort of thing.

Lost Dog

When Sally was a little girl she wished so badly for her own puppy. But Mother and Father would not let her have one. For you see, caring for a dog was too much of a responsibility for the family. And although a puppy might look small, cute and easy to care for; they typically require more work than a full grown dog. You have to consider things such as housetraining and even dealing with the home being destroyed because of separation anxiety. Little Sally was made to understand these things.

But it wasn't necessary for Sally to have strictly a puppy. She would have gladly accepted a simple dog; maybe a small one that was not only cute and fluffy with nice markings on its fur, but well behaved and already housetrained.

Such a dog would probably show up at her front door one morning. Maybe the dog was lost and couldn't find his way home. Or maybe the dog's owners no longer loved him and kicked him out of the home. That would be okay for little Sally. She would bring the dog in the house and make it a part of the family.

One morning, little Sally's dream came true! Shortly after getting out of bed, she rubbed her eyes while gazing out the bedroom window and took sight of black and white dog with a white stripe on its head; half of his neck black and white; white tips on its paws and a white tip on its black, fluffy tail. It was a border collie, nervously pacing the fence lined perimeter as-if lost. Somehow the dog must have found its way into Sally's backyard and couldn't escape.

In Sally's belief the dog was just as good as had! It was in her yard and lost. Apparently the owner no longer cared for the dog. She ran out of the bedroom and into her parents' room. "Mommy! Daddy! There's a doggy in our backyard! He looks lost like he has no home. Can we keep him, huh?"

Annoyed to be woken up so early, Father stretched and yawned while Mother patted his shoulder—an indicator to check out what little Sally might have been talking about.

"Doggy, huh?" commented Father. "Let's see what we have outside." He staggered down the hallway and to the back door. Sure enough there was a border collie running around the yard. "Awe jeez..."

Just then, Mother came in the kitchen. "What kind of dog is it?"

Father next announced, "The Hendersons' dog escaped. I'll have to give 'em a call."

Uh oh! This wasn't good for little Sally! Her dream of a lost dog coming to her house was about to shatter into pieces. "Daddy, no! He's our doggy, now! Can't we keep him?"

"No, that belongs to the Hendersons." Father picked up the phone and dialed it. "Good morning; Mr. Henderson...? I think your dog is in our backyard."

In the meantime, little Sally's lip quivered as the tears ran down her face. Why was life so cruel? The doggy she wished for so long had arrived, but about to be taken away. She sobbed and threw a near tantrum while observing mean, rotten Mr. Henderson enter the backyard in his pajamas and bathrobe. He took little Sally's doggy.

This incident only fueled more fantasies for Sally. At night she would lie in bed and imagine a dog that was far, far away—maybe a thousand miles away. Somehow he escaped the owners' backyard and ran down the street, soon to get lost. While searching for a way to get back home, maybe the dog became confused and somehow ended up on a freight train and couldn't get off until it stopped at little Sally's town. Not sure of where he was, the dog continued to run down the neighborhood streets until reaching little Sally's house.

Now what could Mother and Father say? The dog didn't belong to any of the neighbors. He was dirty, hungry, tired and in need of help. Even worse, the poor dog didn't have a collar with a tag.

Mother and Father let the dog stay with Sally with the understanding that it was only temporary until someone answered the "Lost Dog Found" ad in the paper. But the owners were a thousand miles away where they didn't receive the local paper.

The dog was so cute and friendly. He looked just like Mr. Henderson's dog, except better. With no one answering the ad, Mother and Father had no choice but to keep the dog.

***

All grown up, Sally now has her own dog; a border collie like the one she always wished for as a little girl. But she can still recall a bittersweet magic behind those childhood days of wishing so badly for a dog. All those fantasies pent up in heart leads Sally to regularly go out and play the game of Lost Dog.

Today she drove through town in her red pickup truck, moving slowly until possibly finding something that caught her eye. Just then, she spotted a man in the rearview mirror that appeared to be crossing the street. But he disappeared behind a parked delivery car. The only feature she recalled was short, brown hair and carrying a beverage from the local coffee shop.

Quickly making a u-turn at the intersection, Sally stepped on the accelerator with not a second to spare. She reached the other end of the street and turned right where the man was last seen. And there he was, reaching the end of the block and making another right. He casually sipped his coffee beverage as-if not a care in the world.

Oh, but Sally would rescue him. Apparently he was lost and probably very scared. She carefully approached the end of the block as-if not to startle the man. Then she turned and drove forward to slowly pass him, studying very carefully and evaluating the situation. He was so cute and appeared so friendly. Who could have possibly let him out to wander the streets alone?

Aware of being suddenly followed and stalked, John picked up his pace slightly. From what he could see, it was a woman who intently watched him from the pickup truck. If he didn't know any better, the woman was planning to catch him! Maybe she was dangerous.

If his feelings of suspicion weren't enough indication, John watched as the red pickup truck pulled over in a business delivery driveway in such a way to block his path. Then the woman stepped out of the truck and walked around to meet John.

"Are you lost?" Sally asked.

"Uh, no! I work in the area. I'm not lost."

Sally gently placed her hand on John's shoulder as-if to reaffirm that she meant him no harm. Then she spoke with soft eyes locked on his in such a way that one would speak to a child or a frightened animal. "Where are you supposed to be right now?" She patted him while asking.

"I'm on my lunch break. My office is right down the street."

The poor guy; he was so frightened and confused. Sally could take care of him. "Awe... why don't you come home with me? You're lost and scared. I won't hurt you. Come-on, I'm here to help you."

Needless to say, John found the woman's behavior unusual. "No, I'm okay..."

But before he could continue, Sally grabbed his arm and coaxed him towards the back of the pickup truck. "I've got you... Come-on, in you go... No one's here to hurt you." Sally opened the tailgate and coaxed John in.

John hesitated briefly. The woman was clearly out of her mind, but she seemed so nice. After a couple seconds of deliberation, John hopped into the back of the pickup truck and watched as the woman closed the tailgate.

"There, that's not so bad. I'll bring you home."

Soon the truck drove along the city streets with John sitting in the back. His hair tousled in the open wind as other motorists and pedestrians looked up at him while surely wondering why a man in a business suit would be riding in the back of a pickup truck.  After some time, he wondered why the woman didn't invite him to sit in the cab along with her. It was as-if John were nothing more than a lost dog being rescued and waiting patiently in the back of a truck to arrive at the destination.

Taking the final sip from his iced java, the pickup truck pulled into a residential neighborhood; soon to thump over the driveway curb of a house. This must have been where the strange woman lived.

Just as John was about to argue that the peculiar game had gone far enough, Sally emerged from her truck and flashed the warmest, most nurturing smile. John was safe and finally home. The woman would take such good care of him.

Sally opened the tailgate. "Okay, out you go."

Remaining quiet, John did as ordered.

"I bet you're hungry. Let's get you inside."

Inside, both Sally and John were greeted at the foyer by an excited border collie that barked and lunged from side-to-side while investigating the newcomer.

"See your new friend?" Sally asked the dog. "I found him out in the streets. Let's give him a bath and then fix him lunch."

Bath? Was the strange woman really going to give John a bath? It must have been true, for she walked down the hallway and motioned him to follow. The bath water was turned on and adjusted to what Sally felt to be the ideal temperature. Then she left the room while ordering John to get in.

Some moments later, John sat in the filling tub with soap bubbles that topped the water. The afternoon was getting to be quite interesting. What did the strange woman have in store for John?

It was only a bath and nothing more. Returning to the bathroom, Sally shut off the water and began to gently pour buckets of warm water all over John. "So, we need to give you a name."

"My name's John."

"John? No, that's not a good name for you. How about we call you Rex?"

"Rex?" asked John "What's wrong with calling me by my real name?"

"Rex is your real name. That's your new name and I'm your new owner. My name's Sally, by-the-way."

"Hi Sally, nice to meet you."

"Tilt your head back" ordered Sally. Soon she began to dump water on Rex's hair. "So where did you say you were going?"

"To the office. I was returning from lunch break."

"The office? Is that your job?"

"Yeah..."

"What were you supposed to do there?"

"Well I did have a teleconference call scheduled for about now."

"What was the teleconference call about?"

"Eh... not much. Just the customer yelling at me while the boss listens in and yells at me even more."

By now, Sally had shampoo worked into Rex's hair. She immediately stopped massaging his head at the mention of being yelled at. "Well that doesn't sound like much fun. That's almost like abuse. See, no one there loves you. Aren't you glad you came home with me?" Sally began to rinse the shampoo out of Rex's hair. "We're going to get you all cleaned up and then fix you lunch."

"I already had lunch." argued Rex.

"What did you have?"

"Not much... I was kind of in a hurry so I got my iced mocha and a cookie."

Sally shook her head while sighing. "Not eating right, either! We'll take care of that. Once you dry off I'll have a nice, hot Panini sandwich waiting for you. Do you like pastrami and Swiss?"

"Sure..." Actually Sally's lunch didn't sound so bad after all. The cookie and iced mocha didn't go too far. Rex was getting hungry. Then Rex asked, "How about Giardiniera? Do you have any of that?"

"Of course I do! I'll make you a nice lunch." Sally finished giving Rex his bath. It wasn't such a bad afternoon, after all. Considering where he was supposed to be, Rex gladly accepted the alternative. And he couldn't help but feel so loved in that moment, getting a warm bath from a nice, friendly woman who would soon make him lunch. Sally was sure to become a good friend!

***

After drying off and redressing—slacks only worn and his shirt without necktie—Rex strolled into the kitchen with the border collie excitedly trailing behind and barking.

In the kitchen, Sally had lunch prepared for the two of them. A plate had been set for Rex with his toasted Panini and a drink.

"You've got a nice dog." announced Rex as he sat down.

"Thank you!" said Sally. Then she addressed the dog. "See, Zinger, your new friend likes you!"

Rex commented on the dog's name. "Zinger, that's cute for a border collie."

"Uh-huh! I used to like Zingers when I was a little girl. Doesn't he look like a Zinger?"

"Yup, he sure does."

Rex and Sally enjoyed a nice lunch together along with some wonderful conversation. Sally was so glad to have found Rex out in the streets. After some time, she might even wonder who rescued who.

After lunch, Sally, Rex and Zinger went to the local park for a little stroll. There was a field with park benches where the three of them stopped to take a rest. That's where Sally spotted a tennis ball laying under the bench.

"Oh, look at this. Zinger loves to play fetch! Go get it!" Sally whipped the ball some distance away.

Zinger charged after the ball like an energized border collie would, and returned to drop it on the ground before Sally for more.

"Hey, let me see if I can outrun Zinger!" suggested Rex.

As Sally threw the ball, both Rex and Zinger charged after it. But Zinger was much too quick for his friend. Rex was going to have to try harder than that.

As both returned for another throw from their owner, Sally advised Rex that he was a little out of shape. But playing every day would help get off some of the excess weight so that he was just as fast as Zinger.

Rex was able to still play. He waited some distance away so that the three could play a game of interception. As Sally tossed the ball to Rex, sometimes Zinger was able to jump midair and catch it. Zinger was such a smart and talented dog.

After their outing in the park; Sally, Rex and Zinger returned home to crash in the family room before TV. Zinger laid in the fetal position on the floor while dozing off. Rex cuddled next to Sally as she stroked his hair.

Then Rex annoucned, "You know, I should really be getting home."

"Home?" asked Sally. "No, I'm afraid that's not possible. You're lost and a thousand miles away from home. Apparently your owner didn't take care of you. Not only that, I have no way of finding who this person is. You'll just have to stay with me, now. This is your new home and I'm your new owner."

Rex could say nothing. How long would Sally play this fantasy game of Lost Dog?

How Real Names Killed the Digital Mask

Hello All:

It's Podcast Tuesday. With the introduction of our new Mapleview Social, I recalled a generated Podcast based on a writing I created a few years ago on "cyber existence". I'm sure many of the younger readers aren't familiar with the term "cyber existence". We can thank the death of the Internet we had in the early 2000s for that. But I invite people to revisit this wonderful state of mind through the use of Mapleview Social. 

As for the Podcast, it explores the evolution of the cyber existence, contrasting the anonymous personal reinvention possible in the early internet era with the rigid identity constraints of modern social media. It argues that early digital spaces allowed users to inhabit idealized personas through chat rooms and forums, fostering a sense of self that often bled into their physical lives. However, the loss of anonymity and the requirement for verified data have turned the internet into a mere extension of one's offline reality. (Hint! You have anonymity and the early 2000s cyber existence available with Mapleview Social!) While the web once offered a boundary-free landscape for fantasy and romance, it has transitioned into a platform that largely reinforces social inhibition. Well, it's time to make the internet and social media fun again. 

Listen To How Names Killed Digital Mask

An Afternoon of Conduiting

Hello All:

The massive network of elevated industrial piping running across North America often owes its bizarre routing to historic right-of-way disputes between mid-century utility conglomerates and municipal zoning boards. In many cases, when private companies lost the rights to dig beneath public streets, they simply built outward and upward—constructing vast, seamless, hollow steel conduits suspended on riveted steel trestles. These forgotten networks exist in a legal grey area: not explicitly illegal to touch, yet completely absent from modern city blueprints. 

It is precisely this architectural ambiguity that gave birth to the subterranean subculture known as "conduiting".  And your reward for reaching the end of my 900 word short story is to view the 10 second video of the main character exploring that world inside the pipe. The video is at the end of the story.

An Afternoon of Conduiting

The entry point sat behind the decaying perimeter of the abandoned standard-oil sorting yard on the south side of town. To get there, you had to leave your car tucked discreetly behind a row of overgrown sumac trees and vault a rusted chain-link fence. Marcus adjusted his backpack, stepping over the tangled wire. Ahead of him rose the first elevation tower—a fifty-foot lattice of structural steel holding high a dull, six-foot-wide matte-grey utility pipe. 

No plaque named its owner. No pressure gauges or valve wheels interrupted its seamless metal hull. It carried no water, no natural gas, and no fiber-optic cables. It was just an empty, continuous steel cylinder hovering over the town like a discarded piece of an impossible machine. 

Marcus stepped up to the base of the tower. The bottom of the access ladder was intentionally cut ten feet off the ground to deter trespassers, but someone had welded a rebar hook onto a telescoping pole and left it hidden in the brush. Marcus used the pole to snag the ladder’s bottom rung, dragging the spring-loaded lower section down with a heavy metallic clack. He climbed twenty feet up into the late summer heat, reached the narrow catwalk, and unlatched the circular hatch cut into the pipe’s side. 

Slinking inside, the temperature dropped instantly. The steel shell muffled the outside world, replacing the hum of distant traffic with a deep, echoing acoustic chamber. 

To the uninitiated, the pipe was a maze. To Marcus, it was the ultimate private transit system. 

He flicked on his headlamp. The interior floor had been flattened over decades by the footfalls of urban explorers, drifters, and shadow-dwellers. Marcus began his hike, crouching slightly as he moved along the curved steel floor. The pipe stretched ahead, descending gently as it traveled north. 

After twenty minutes of steady walking, the pipe sloped downward, leaving its elevated towers to run directly along the ground through a narrow residential greenbelt. It passed straight through a tiny, concrete housing structure—a pump house without a pump—where light filtered in through high, iron-barred vents. 

Here, Marcus slowed his pace. The pipe was a transit network, but it was also a refuge. 

Sitting on a rolled-up sleeping bag in the dim shelter of the concrete housing was Old Miller, a local legendary hermit who had lived within the pipe system for five years. A small battery-powered lantern illuminated his makeshift camp—a folding stool, a stack of paperbacks, and a carefully arranged rack of canned goods. 

"Afternoon, Marcus," Miller said, his voice gravelly, barely raising his eyes from a crosswords puzzle. 

"Hey, Miller. Clear path up to the commercial district?" Marcus asked, leaning against the curved wall. 

"Clear enough. Watch out around Mile Two. A couple of runaway kids set up a tarp city, and they’ve got a dog that likes to bark at boots. Otherwise, smooth sailing." 

"Thanks. Need anything on my way back?" 

"Draft beer from the brewery if you’ve got a thermos," Miller grunted, waving a hand in farewell. 

Marcus ducked back into the cylinder, continuing his journey. Walking through the pipe gave him a bizarre, omniscient vantage point over the city. He could hear the faint, ambient sound of life outside radiating through the steel walls. At one point, the pipe passed over a bustling four-lane avenue; he could hear the distinct thump-thump of tires passing under the elevation trestle beneath his feet. 

Ten minutes later, he reached Hatch 4B. 

Marcus pushed open the heavy iron door and popped his head out like a periscope. The bright afternoon sun blinded him momentarily. He was standing on an elevated platform tucked discreetly behind the brick facade of a downtown artisan bakery. Below him, tourists and locals ambled along the brick sidewalk, completely oblivious to the man emerging from the giant grey tube above their heads. 

Climbing down the secondary ladder, Marcus grabbed a sandwich and an iced coffee from the cafe, sitting at an outdoor table for thirty minutes to watch the crowd. The contrast was intoxicating. To everyone else, the town was a rigid layout of streets, traffic lights, and crosswalks. To Marcus, it was a open-world map connected by a secret aerial highway. 

Finished with lunch, he climbed back up the hidden ladder, unlatched Hatch 4B, and stepped back into the cool steel darkness. 

Now he pushed further north, where the pipe elevated high above the suburban neighborhoods, crossing over the canal and heading toward the edge of town. The sounds of tires and sirens faded entirely, replaced by the hollow whistle of the desert wind echoing against the pipe’s metal skin. 

As he walked, the air turned crisp and scented with pine and damp earth. The pipe began its final descent, anchoring down into the granite boulders at the edge of the regional forest preserve. 

Marcus reached the end-of-line hatch—a circular opening that opened outward onto a wooden bluff. He unlatched it and stepped out onto the damp soil. Behind him lay miles of asphalt, concrete, suburban sprawl, and traffic. In front of him stretched miles of quiet timberland, untouched and still. 

He took a deep breath, checked his watch, and smiled. He had crossed the entire town in under two hours without stepping foot on a single sidewalk. Sitting down on a rock overlooking the valley, Marcus opened his pack, pulled out his thermos, and prepared for the trek back. 

Finding Light in the Heavy: Reimagining the Concept of "Bearing Your Cross"

We live in a world that relentlessly whispers that our worth is measured by the height of our ladders and the weight of our possessions. We pour the marrow of our energy into building resumes and curating lives filled with physical items, often forgetting that these earthly anchors can drag our spirits downward. This hyper-focus on the material creates a quiet friction with our highest calling: the command to "love God with all our heart, all our mind and all our soul." When our ambitions take up all the room in our hearts, God is often crowded out. To reclaim our peace, we must learn to shift our gaze from the heavy weight of our circumstances to the light of Christ through an upgraded lens of spiritual perspective.

The Career Trap: When Ambition Clouds Vision

In an achievement-obsessed culture, the most "socially acceptable" way to lose our way is through our work. We often view a career not just as a means of provision, but as a primary source of identity. This is perhaps the most surprising way we lose our spiritual focus; we are taught that ambition is a virtue, yet valuing a career or a physical pursuit above all else creates a veil between us and God. When we are caught in the "hustle," we trade spiritual stillness for a shimmering, temporary idol. It is a striking realization that the very success we pray for can become the barrier that prevents us from loving God with our whole being.

The Unpredictable Crisis: When the "Perfect" Life Fractures

Life has a way of shattering our carefully constructed glass houses. We may invest decades into a company only to be met with a "reduction in workforce". We may offer our whole hearts to a spouse only to face the devastating betrayal of being cheated on. These moments are more than just "bad luck"; they are the refiner's fire of our faith.

"These times can really test making God #1 and loving him with all our being."

When the foundations of our professional and personal lives fracture, we find out what we are truly anchored to. These crises ask a singular, difficult question: can we keep God as our top priority even when the world around us is falling apart?

The Grace of the Unexpected: Finding Love in Difficult News

Few experiences test the soul like the pivot from joyful expectation to a complex reality. Consider parents who spent months dreaming of their newborn's future, only to receive a diagnosis of Down Syndrome upon arrival. This is a profound shift in the landscape of a life. Navigating such life-altering news requires a spiritual resilience that goes beyond human strength. We are directed to handle these transitions "gracefully," finding a way to bridge the gap between the life we imagined and the one we have been given, without letting the weight of the news crush our spirit.

Defining the Cross: Radiating Light Through Burdens

To "bear one's cross" is not a call to stoic silence or bitter endurance. Instead, it is an active, vibrant choice to remain soft in a world that encourages us to be hard. Bearing the cross is a two-fold commitment:

• Bearing burdens gracefully: Walking through the fire of hardship without losing our spiritual integrity or our composure.
• Continuing to love God and "radiating the light of Christ": Refusing to let our circumstances dictate our character or our devotion.

Radiating light is an entirely counter-intuitive response to suffering. When we are burdened, the natural human impulse is to shrivel, harden, and withdraw into ourselves. Yet, the spiritual call is to glow and expand—to become a beacon for others precisely because our own world feels dark.

Conclusion: A Final Thought on Spiritual Resilience

The weight of our lives does not define us, but our reaction to that weight defines our relationship with God. Resilience is not the absence of the "cross," but the grace with which we carry it. Whether we are facing the sting of betrayal, the uncertainty of a job loss, or the surprise of a lifelong diagnosis, these moments are invitations to prove our love.

As you look at your own life today, how might you "radiate light" in the midst of your current "reduction" or burden?

Mapleview Social

Hello All:

On Saturdays I like to offer videos that discuss some strange topic. But, today, I'm going to use the opportunity to introduce something new on our blog.

Have you clicked over to the Mapleview Social page? If so, do you wonder what it might be? Well don't worry! We have a nice explainer video that introduces you to this new, revolutionary social media platform that's developed, exclusively, for the Literary World of Tom Raimbault.  In short, it's an AI driven social media hub based on (currently) 300 characters of my fictional universe. They have been turned into 300 of your new closest friends. The characters are programmed to be friendly with you and they place you at the center of the universe. 

Now, if you don't feel like talking, you can always browse the feed which promises to be highly entertaining. There is plenty of drama on Mapleview Social. And let me reassure you, it's always weird.

And here's one of the best parts: Your experience on Mapleview Social is 100% autonomous! That means my experience and your experience never cross paths. Your existence in Mapleview Social is totally private. No one sees what you are doing. Your 300 followers are imaginary, but they seem so real!

A fun way to connect is to upload a photo and see what your fellow Mapleviewers think! Next time you’re exploring the woods or out somewhere, or even want to take a selfie in your new ensemble, drop a picture in and see what everyone has to say.

I'm a little disappointed with the initial release, however. You see, I've been testing this for over a week and am very satisfied with how everything works. I was originally going to release on Labor Day weekend, but figured I would release it this weekend so you can give it a try and master it. Then you have something fun for Labor Day weekend. But, coincidentally, Google is having trouble with their GemBots, so I can't update the final revisions. As a result you are running the beta version. In upcoming days, I hope Google resolves their issue and I can make the perfected upgrade available. For now, just give it a test drive. Let me know what you think by adding a comment either at the bottom of this post, or the dedicated Mapleview Social page. Below is the explainer video:

East Cedar Grove/West Cedar Grove

Hello  All:

I have something to share with you. After nearly 20 years, I cancelled my publisher account with Draft2Digital (Originally Smashwords). This was the avenue which published most of my books and short stories to the major book catalogs. I'm a little sad because I had a nice run with them. The reason for cancelling? Authors who earn less than $100 a year in royalties must pay an annual fee of $12. All of my material is free on the premium catalogs. Yeah... I know... $12 is not much at all. It was just the principle of the matter. This doesn't hold true with my Mapleview series. This is published through Next Chapter Publishing. So you will still see those books on the catalogs. 

Because of this, my Books and Short Stories pages have been renovated. I now offer my works as free downloads in EPUB, PDF and MOBI formats. If there is a particular format you would like to see in my catalog, just leave a comment at the bottom of the page.

***

East Cedar Grove/West Cedar Grove: This was a short story written in 2014. I apologize for the repeats, but I'm sure many of the readers are new and have probably never seen this story. I'm preparing a mini novella that will be featured throughout week of Halloween, so that is taking up much of my creative energy for now. It'll be complete soon. As for the short story... Well, once upon a time I used to add a heavy layer of erotica to my works, a practice which I have ceased. As for this story, I'm okay of re-releasing it because it's PG-13. It isn't anything too terrible. The actual story about the two towns and the situation the main character is faced with is far more interesting. The introduction provides some heavy details on the development of the town, but bear with it. You need to understand the two towns to understand the situation of the story which gets very entertaining.

East Cedar Grove/West Cedar Grove

If traveling either north or south along Route 122, the road briefly changes its name to Town Line Road which spans—exactly—5.32 miles before resuming the name of Route 122. At precisely 2.66 miles onto the section of Town Line Road—the very center of those 5.32 miles—is a dissecting road called Main Street. Main Street cuts through the very center of both the towns of West Cedar Grove and East Cedar Grove.

This is where people begin to suspect something very peculiar about West Cedar Grove and East Cedar Grove. You see, as naturally assumed, the boundaries of both towns are separated by Town Line Road. Both towns have Main Street that runs through the very center until it ends onto some other road outside of town. 

But Get This! If traveling into West Cedar Grove; you pass Ash Street, Birch Street, Crisscross Lane, Daffodil Court, and so on. And if traveling into East Cedar Grove, you will also pass Ash Street, Birch Street, Crisscross Lane, Daffodil Court, and so on.

But it's more than just a charming phenomenon of duplicate street names shared by both towns. It would appear that when both towns were being developed, plans were made for the two to be perfect reflections of one another. Houses are duplicates of one another with the exact same floor plans. And they sit on what would be considered the mirrored geographic locations from one another. The business districts of both towns have duplicate buildings with floor plans that are exactly the same. Every street sign, stop sign, traffic light and fire hydrant is positioned, precisely, so that it is the mirrored reflection of the neighboring town.

Now there was a time when this reflecting charm was forgotten. This is evidenced with a small portion of both towns somewhere in the middle that take on a certain individuality. Subdivisions and homes were constructed by different builders who built houses that were unlike the ones in the other town. Parks and playgrounds were placed in random places that didn't share an opposite. And to this day there are a few shops and storefronts that are not shared by the other town as well.

Then it would appear that at some point there was a new effort to continue with the reflecting charm of both towns from many decades ago. After passing the areas of individuality in both towns; there are newer roads, subdivisions and shopping centers that are perfect reflections of the other town.

***

Martin has a girlfriend, Betty, who—if all goes well—will soon be Martin's fiancée. She currently lives in West Cedar Grove— a town about twenty minutes from where Martin lives in Robin Creek.

Martin drove the network of roads and highways on a bright and beautiful Saturday morning and eventually turned onto Route 122. Within minutes the road changed the name to Town Line Road where he was soon greeted by the intersecting Main Street.

Oops! Martin better not have made the mistake of turning east! (At least not now!) If he did that, he would be traveling through the town of East Cedar Grove which can be a confusing duplicate of West Cedar Grove. Betty, after all, lives in West Cedar Grove, where her house is located on Jackson Street. Not the other Jackson Street in East Cedar Grove where... Well, Martin better not think about that right now.

Martin turned west like he was supposed to and followed Main Street all the way through the old section of town... the business district... the small section that is quite different from East Cedar Grove... and, finally, the newer section which resumed itself to be a perfect reflection of East Cedar Grove where Betty lived on Jackson Street... The Jackson Street in West Cedar Grove, not East Cedar Grove where... Well, let's not talk about that right now!

Martin and Betty planned a nice day together which began with Martin tapping the horn upon pulling into Betty's driveway.

Immediately, Betty emerged from the house in a conservative, ankle-length dress that was not a very flattering choice for a Saturday day out with Martin. It was dull in color and it covered Betty's entire chest, all the way up to the neck so that her large breasts could not be appreciated. Martin knew that Betty possessed large breasts and speculated that they were absolutely gorgeous. You see, Martin had never seen Betty naked.

To add to her conservative appearance, Betty wore a button-down sweater which covered up most of her arms. She had this need to protect her young and beautiful skin from the eyes of anyone—even from Martin who loved her so.

Martin stepped out of his car to greet Betty, "Good morning!"

"Good morning!" answered Betty in return.

Then they briefly hugged while exchanging a simple kiss to one another's lips. But nothing too fancy! You see; Betty is a conservative girl who doesn't believe in taking affection to a sensual level. This means that she will not engage in steamy make-out sessions with a lover. A kiss is to be perfect and simple, an affectionate greeting—nothing more.

Martin was sure to walk Betty to the passenger side of his car, and then open the door. Once she was inside he closed it. But Martin secretly wished there were a custom in which the man puts on the woman's seat belt. This might provide a way to sneak an "oops-feel" of one of her breasts.

They had breakfast at the West Cedar Grove Cafe which—as you know—is a perfect reflection in both location and building layout of the East Cedar Grove Cafe. But Martin would never take Betty to the cafe in East Cedar Grove! What if someone saw him with his sweet, perfect and conservative Betty?

She sat there at the table, across from Martin, taking a brief sip of her tea while eating her poached eggs on toast. "I thought we would browse some of the antiques at the West Cedar Grove Antique Shop. What do you think?" asked Betty.

"That's sounds like a great idea! The matinee won't be until 11:30. We have time."

Then Betty suggested something frightening. "Maybe if we have time we can drive over to the East Cedar Grove Antique Shop and see if they have anything different. I know it's supposed to be the same store, but..."

Martin interrupted, "That's a bad idea!"

"What?" asked Betty. "Why?"

"Well... Don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against East Cedar Grove. What I mean to say is that by the time we make it out there and back, again, we might miss the start of the movie."

"Oh..." said Betty before having another bite of her poached eggs on toast. For a second it almost sounded like Martin had a dreadful phobia of East Cedar Grove.

***

It was midmorning as Martin and Betty strolled through the musty aisles of the antique shop. Betty even allowed Martin to hold her hand! How Martin would have loved to have put his arm around her shoulders. But that might have been too much affection in a public place for Betty. For now, Martin simply enjoyed the moment of holding her hand.  

They admired the antique furniture and centerpieces. They found entertainment with the clothes and dresses from many decades ago. And then, once again, Betty made the unwelcomed suggestion of venturing into East Cedar Grove. "We still have a little bit of time. Why don't we run over to the Antique shop in East Cedar Grove?"

"Nah... I don't want to be late for the matinee." answered Martin. What do you say, instead, that we go to Starbuck's before the show?"

"Sure!" agreed Betty. Then she came up with a not-so- great idea. "Hey, you know how each of the Cedar Groves have their own, unique sections?—no businesses the same? Well there's a coffee shop in East Cedar Grove that supposed to be excellent. Do you want to sneak over there instead of Starbuck's?

"No!" snapped Martin. "Let's just go to Starbuck's!"

That's when Betty began to suspect that Martin had something against venturing into East Cedar Grove. "Martin?" she began. "If I didn't know any better, I would think that you have something against East Cedar Grove. What's the deal?"

"It's not that." reassured Martin. "It's just... just..."

"What?" pushed Betty. "What is it? Why don't you want to go to the other town?"

Martin tried to be humorous. "Well... you know what they say about the east side, right? It's supposed to be not as nice as the west side? I guess I have a phobia of going east."

Betty laughed. "Don't be silly! Let's go to the coffee shop in East Cedar Grove. I heard it's nice. And it's not too far from the movie theater here in West Cedar Grove."

Martin sighed. "Well, okay. But we have to be quick about it."

And with that, Martin and Betty drove off from the antique store; down Main Street and across Town Line Road into East Cedar Grove. They passed Ash Street, Birch Street, Crisscross Lane, Daffodil Court, and so on. They drove through the business district. Then they drove past the Walmart which made Martin secretly nervous. For you see, it was at Walmart where Martin first met her. West Cedar Grove doesn't have a Walmart, and Martin really needed to pick up some items. So he stopped one evening at the Walmart in East Cedar Grove on the way home from Betty's house. Once inside, he couldn't believe what he saw.

A drive past the parking lot on this Saturday afternoon with Betty, Martin could see that her car was in the lot—probably working. At least there wasn't a chance of the two women encountering one another. But what about other people? What if someone recognized Martin with his sweet, beautiful and conservative Betty?

Just as Betty promised, the coffee shop was way better than Starbuck's. It smelled like a coffee lover's heaven, inside, and the beverages were made to perfection. And no one recognized Martin with his sweet, beautiful and conservative Betty. It looked like luck was in his favor for today.

***

They went to the matinee. They went to the park and took a nap by the pond. And by late afternoon, the two returned to Betty's house to make dinner—lasagna with grilled eggplant. As for wine; Betty prefers not to drink alcoholic beverages. Instead, they had freshly squeezed lemonade.

After dinner, Martin and Betty sat side-by-side on the swing, outside, and watched the beautiful sunset. In this alone time, together, Martin was permitted to put his arm around Betty. He even managed to sneak a few kisses in. But nothing too fancy! Betty doesn't like sensual kisses.

Now you might question Martin, and wonder why he stays with Betty—even considers proposing to her in the near future. Really, Betty is a great girl! She's beautiful, intelligent and so reserved. And think of the fun the two had together throughout the day. Who wouldn't want a girl like Betty?

Ah, but there's that little matter of intimacy and deeper romance. That's what's killing you, isn't it. But, really, Martin doesn't mind.

***

It was about 9:00 in the evening when Martin announced that it was time for him to start heading home. He and Betty hugged and briefly kissed before Martin drove off. And in the rearview mirror, he could see Betty waving and smiling. She loved him so much.

Martin drove Main Street all the way to Town Line Road. And what was this? Rather than turn in the direction towards his own town, Martin crossed Town Line Road into East Cedar Grove! He passed Ash Street, Birch Street, Crisscross Lane, Daffodil Court, and so on. He drove through the business district. He passed Walmart and noticed that her car wasn't there. He continued until reaching Jackson Street. But this time, he turned the opposite direction. For you see; the house where she lives is the perfect reflection of Betty's house—just opposite directions.

It's such a perfect reflection, in fact, that the woman who lives there looks—exactly—like Betty in West Cedar Grove. That's why Martin was so dumbfounded the first time he saw her at Walmart. It was as-if he had found Betty's double or Doppelganger.

And get this! Betty's double who lives in East Cedar Grove in the house that is a perfect reflection in style and location, shares the same name with Betty! Her name is Betty, too! Secretly, Martin refers to the Betty in East Cedar Grove as "Naughty Betty"; for you see, Naughty Betty does all those naughty things that the good Betty in West Cedar Grove will not.

As soon as Martin pulled into the drive way, she ran out in a pair of tight shorts and athletic bra. Martin could have eaten her luscious thighs right there! Or maybe he would skip to her enormous breasts that were strapped into the athletic bra. And the best part; she looked just like his wholesome Betty in West Cedar Grove! Martin had been drooling over her all day.

"What took you so long?" asked Naughty Betty?

"Sorry..." answered Martin. "A little hold-up."

"Well get your ass in there! I've been waiting for you all evening!"

As soon as the two entered her house, a duplicate floor plan of Betty's in West Cedar Grove—just opposite, their lips locked and in a hot and steamy session of making out with plenty of tongue action. Martin ripped off Naughty Betty's athletic bra and then squeezed her enormous breasts.

"I have wine." announced Naughty Betty. "Don't you want some wine to get started?"

"I'll take mine like this!" answered Martin. And with that; he reached for the bottle of wine and dumped some all over Naughty Betty's naked breasts. He licked and drank up every drop.

See how naughty Naughty Betty can be? Just one problem: Martin was going to have to propose to her as well.

The End!