George Epley

  I am writing as a concerned citizen and voter deeply troubled by recent actions taken by the legislature that appear to disregard the will of the people. Twice now, the voters of Missouri have spoken clearly through the ballot box, approving measures by majority vote. Yet, despite these outcomes, some of our elected representatives have taken steps to challenge, alter, or reverse what the people have decided. This raises a fundamental question: If the voice of the voters is not respected, then what purpose does a democratic vote serve? Our system of government is based on representation and the rule of law, but it is also built on trust. When that trust is broken — when officials dismiss the results of a lawful, democratic vote — it undermines the very principles of our republic. Because of this growing disconnect between the legislature and the will of the people, I see no alternative but to support candidates who will listen to and respect the outcome of the democratic proce...

  Grandma’s Jurassic Joyride It all started with a harmless trip to the museum. At least, that’s what Grandma Mabel thought it was. Her grandson Leo had begged her for weeks to take him to the “Dino Experience” at the local adventure park. She figured it would be like one of those pop-up exhibits with a few dusty bones and a plastic raptor or two. She even packed a thermos of tea and a knitting project. You know, just in case it got boring. But the moment they entered the park gates, Mabel knew something was off. There were warning signs, roars in the distance, and a disturbingly realistic animatronic velociraptor that snapped at a hot dog vendor. Leo was overjoyed. “GRANDMA, THIS IS SO AWESOME!” Mabel adjusted her glasses. “I thought this was going to be educational. You didn’t say anything about life-sized robot lizards!” “They’re not robots, Grandma! It’s virtual-reality-assisted immersion tech! It’s just like Jurassic Park!” “Wonderful,” she muttered. “Can we at least ...

  Back in the Old Days, When GM Built the Future Back in the old days—sometime between chrome bumpers and cassette decks—there was a moment when General Motors didn’t just build cars. No sir. GM built dreams on wheels. People still talk about the “GM-TI Train,” though nobody seems to know what the “TI” ever stood for. Some say it meant Transportation Initiative . Others think it meant Titanium Innovation . But most of us folks who remember just call it what it really was: The Future That Actually Ran on Time. It all started in the 1950s, when America was wide open and full of promise. GM had already conquered the road with Buicks and Cadillacs, but they had a bigger idea—why not build a self-driving, solar-powered, streamlined automotive train that could shuttle people across the country like a mobile hotel? Imagine a train made not of steel but of lightweight aluminum and fiberglass, styled like a jetliner and powered by a turbine engine that sounded like a soft whisper of sc...

  Columns and Shadows The columns rise like sentinels outside the hospital entrance—tall, cold, and too clean, like the bones of something ancient and uncaring. You step beneath them slowly, each stride heavy with the weight of what-ifs and maybes. The automatic doors hiss open with the sterile indifference of a machine that's seen too many stories pass through—some ending in relief, others in silence. Inside, the air is dry and smells faintly of antiseptic and old coffee. Shadows stretch long across the waiting room floor as the late afternoon sun filters through high windows, casting the chairs and plastic plants into exaggerated shapes—monsters or angels, depending on your mood. You hesitate at the threshold. Maybe it’s the pain in your chest, or maybe it’s something less physical, more like memory. The last time you came here, they said the word “serious” more than once. The doctor’s face was composed, but his eyes flickered—just a moment of truth peeking out from beneath hi...

At the corner of I-72 and Regret Avenue, wedged between a rusting Ford Pinto and an expired vending machine that only dispensed regret and root beer, there stood a tiny purple flower. Her name? Petunia. Her home? A crack in the concrete behind a Dumpster with a raccoon squatter named Gary. Petunia wasn’t supposed to grow there. According to science, logic, and three separate landscaping reports, nothing should have grown there. And yet, Petunia bloomed like she was the Queen of the Botanical Ball, putting on a floral fashion show for the squirrels and semi-truck fumes. The truck stop had seen better days. Maybe in 1973. Since then, it had turned into a strange mix of broken neon signs, lonely tumbleweeds, and a suspicious hot dog roller that hadn’t moved since Bush Senior was in office. Every day, Petunia watched the strange two-legged creatures who came and went—some wearing pajamas at noon, others arguing loudly about whether beef jerky counted as a vegetable. “Y’all seein’ this...

Wallace the penguin lived in the Cold Coast Exhibit at the city zoo. On the surface, everything looked fine. The pool was always clean, the zookeepers were kind, and the kids pressed their sticky faces to the glass like clockwork. But deep inside, Wallace was unraveling. See, penguins in the wild swim miles a day, dive for fish, dodge leopard seals, and gossip with each other in what scientists call “chaotic waddling.” Wallace did none of this. He circled the same fiberglass rock every day, again and again and again, until he started naming the cracks in it. “Good morning, Geraldine,” he whispered to a dent near the bottom. “You’re looking especially cracky today.” One morning, he stood in front of his favorite drain grate for ten straight hours, convinced it was trying to tell him a secret. By noon, he’d decided the bubbles in the pool spelled out Morse code, and by dinnertime, he was pretty sure the zoo’s intercom was just a government cover-up to hide the truth about Antarcti...