George Epley

  Houston, We Have a... Uh-oh. Barry “Buzzcut” Jenkins wasn’t your typical astronaut. He was actually a substitute gym teacher from Nebraska with an unhealthy obsession with freeze-dried ice cream and vintage space movies. Thanks to a suspiciously unregulated billionaire sweepstakes called “Ride to Mars, Baby!” Barry found himself aboard the janky, barely-tested spacecraft Elon’s Gambit on a one-way trip to the Red Planet. Shockingly, Barry landed. Well, more like bounced. But he was alive, and that’s all that mattered. Armed with a plastic rake, a metal detector, and a backpack full of Lunchables, Barry began his “scientific exploration,” which mostly involved poking red rocks and shouting “SCIENCE!” every ten minutes. On day 6, something extraordinary happened. While digging a shallow trench (to hide his used pudding cups from future alien lawsuits), Barry uncovered a strange, wriggly, neon green blob with googly eyes and a suspicious resemblance to a sentient jellyb...

  Out in the shed, past the garden hose, Dad’s calling “CQ” in his radio prose. With headphones on and mic in hand, He’s chatting with strangers in faraway lands. The lawn’s overgrown, the dishes can wait, He’s chasing a signal from Paraguay State. We ask him for help—he just gives a grin, “Not now, kids, there’s DX rolling in!” He’s got more wires than a NASA display, And half the attic’s now Yagi array. His shack glows blue with knobs and light, Like a disco for nerds every Friday night. “Breaker-breaker—wait, that’s CB!” “Get it right, son, it’s ham, not TV!” He says with pride, as he logs his QSO, Drinking cold coffee, putting on a show. So here’s to you, Dad, on this Father’s Day cheer, May your signal be strong and interference clear. Your jokes may be static, your shirts may be loud, But you’re the best ham dad—and we’re dang proud!

  There once was a silly old man named Tom Twillinger—though everyone in town just called him “Twinkle Tom.” Why? Because he had a glow-in-the-dark reindeer tattoo on his left calf and kept Christmas lights in every room of his house… year-round . Even the bathroom. Tom loved Christmas more than he loved his dentures, which he once left behind at a chili cook-off but didn’t even notice because he was busy testing out a new peppermint cocoa recipe. Every December, his house became a local landmark, blinking and sparkling so bright that low-flying planes used it for navigation. The local electric company had a special hotline just for him. But this year, June rolled around, and something in Tom just snapped . Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the way the neighbor’s inflatable pool looked like a sad snow globe, or maybe it was because he heard “Jingle Bell Rock” playing at the grocery store and took it as a divine sign. Tom decided he couldn’t wait another six months. On June...

  In the back of Mabel’s Marvelous Meals —a diner older than jazz and more reliable than the mailman—there sat a kitchen freezer with a latch so ancient it may have once cooled dinosaur steaks. The latch had a name. Not officially, but everyone just called it “Old Snap.” Old Snap wasn’t just any freezer latch. It was a legend . Worn smooth by the fingers of four generations of fry cooks, busboys, and teenage dishwashers with dreams of becoming TikTok stars, that latch had been flipped open over a million times , each time releasing a blast of cold air and the smell of decades-old mystery meat, frozen peas, and love. Every creak and snap of that latch was like music to the staff. “That’s the breakfast pop!” Mabel would yell at 5:30 a.m. sharp, when the cook reached in to grab the bacon. Lunch had a double click-thunk around noon. Dinner was a slightly more reluctant eeeaaarrk-snap , like even the latch was tired by then. The freezer itself was stubborn, loud, and leaked like a g...

  In a forgotten corner of the world, tucked behind sleepy towns and winding roads, there was a trail that locals called “The Whispering Path.” It wasn't on any map. If you asked about it, people might smile and shake their heads like they weren’t sure it was real. But one quiet morning, as the sun began to pierce the mist like golden spears through velvet, you found it—your bike tires crunching over soft pine needles, the scent of damp earth in the air. You didn’t plan to go far. Just a little ride to clear your mind. The woods welcomed you with silence—not the empty kind, but the full kind. Birdsong wove through the canopy like an unseen orchestra tuning up. Shafts of sunlight danced between leaves, flickering across your arms like nature’s Morse code. Your bike felt light beneath you, like it wanted to ride itself. Every pedal stroke seemed guided by something older than thought. Then you reached the bridge. It was wooden, arched, and moss-covered, stretching over a stream t...

  It was a normal Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day when people argue outside hardware stores like it’s an Olympic event. He wanted the vertical blinds. She said vertical blinds were for "soulless corporate vampires." They stood on the sidewalk outside Curtain Kingdom , the man gripping a sample book like it was a holy text, the woman gesturing wildly with a color swatch that had names like “Cream Whimsy” and “Mushroom Bliss.” “You never even LOOK at the blinds when you cook!” she snapped. “I look at them ALL the time!” he shouted back. “I just… don’t comment on them every five minutes like I’m on HGTV!” From across the street, I raised my camera. The scene was too good. I framed them in the golden light, just as a pigeon fluttered by like it had emotional stakes in the argument. I clicked the shutter. That’s when it happened. She froze. Mid-rant. Mid-sentence. Mid-pointing at her husband’s face. And then, slowly, she turned her head. And stared directly at me. N...