George Epley

  "The Legend of the .01-Mile Man" There once was a man named Carl. Carl was a big guy—not just in size, but in personality. He loved donuts, detested stairs, and had long ago declared war on anything labeled “low fat.” One day, while polishing off a family-sized bag of chips meant for six (Carl considered that a serving suggestion), he watched a documentary about hikers conquering Everest. Inspired, he declared, “If they can climb Everest, I can walk .01 miles!” Now, .01 miles is roughly 52.8 feet—about half a basketball court. But Carl didn’t pick just any sidewalk. No, he chose the steepest, hilliest, twistiest park trail in town. A place where even squirrels walked sideways from the incline. On Day One, Carl strapped on his brand-new walking shoes (which still had the price tags flapping), stretched dramatically like a pro athlete, took five steps… and sat on a bench wheezing like an asthmatic accordion. He blamed the incline. And the humidity. And the mysterious grav...

  Every morning at exactly 7:42 a.m., the silver hatchback would glide into the farthest corner of the parking lot at Rosewood Corporate Center. Its driver, a wiry man in his late fifties with a salt-and-pepper beard and a pressed navy windbreaker, always chose the same spot: between two massive semi-trucks that idled silently like sleeping beasts. The man’s name was Walter Klein. To his coworkers in Building B, Walter was a quiet data analyst who rarely joined lunch conversations and never missed a deadline. But in the parking lot, he became a legend. Once parked—always equidistant between the trucks—Walter would emerge with the same solemn routine. From the hatch, he would carefully extract four orange traffic cones, each one wrapped in a soft cloth. One by one, he’d place them around his car: front left, front right, rear left, rear right. A gentle tap on top of each cone, as if blessing them, and then he’d walk away. Speculation flourished. “He used to be a stunt driver,” ...

  Charlie was a wildlife photographer with a dream: capture the perfect shot of a bird perched gently on his outstretched hand, a symbol of trust, harmony, and extreme patience. Unfortunately, Charlie had none of the latter. Armed with a Leica Q3 that cost more than his car and an optimism that defied reality, he set off to the local park every morning at dawn. He’d stand statue-still with birdseed in his palm, his eyes wide with anticipation and mild desperation. “Come on, little guy,” he’d whisper as chickadees flitted around him like caffeinated confetti. “Just one of you. One brave, photogenic bird.” But they never landed. Day after day, week after week, the birds mocked him—chirping, dive-bombing his hat, and pooping suspiciously close to his lens. One robin even sat on a nearby bench and watched him with what Charlie swore was judgment in its beady eyes. Charlie tried everything: coating his hand in peanut butter, humming bird songs he found on YouTube, even smearing him...

  A picture of an abstract rock can symbolize many ideas, depending on the context, artistic style, and viewer interpretation. Here are several meaningful representations it could hold for humanity: Endurance and Timelessness Rocks endure for millennia. An abstract rock might represent humanity's search for permanence in a world of change. The Foundation of Civilization Rocks are literally foundational—used in tools, buildings, and monuments. Abstracted, they can evoke the deep connection between human progress and the natural world. Inner Strength or Resilience The roughness, mass, and unyielding nature of a rock can symbolize personal strength, emotional resilience, or collective fortitude in the face of adversity. Mystery and Interpretation An abstract form leaves room for imagination. A rock, shaped beyond realism, might suggest the unknowable aspects of nature or the subconscious. Transformation Rocks evolve—eroded, shaped by time and elements. The abstract ver...

  "The Morning Haul" Old Jeb had been on the road longer than most truck stops had been in business. His face was leathered from years of sunrises seen through windshields, and his smile—when it came—was gummy, his last tooth surrendered to a chunk of beef jerky somewhere outside Amarillo five years back. Didn’t bother him none. He always said, “Teeth don’t steer a rig.” That morning, he eased open the heavy sleeper door of his maroon cab, the hinges squealing just like his knees. The scent of diesel mixed with prairie air, and he grunted with approval. He shuffled down to the pavement, steel thermos in one hand, chipped enamel mug in the other, and filled it with jet-black coffee that had been steeping since 4 AM. He looked up. The tanker beside him gleamed like liquid silver in the morning sun, proudly stamped with “LBT Transport, Buffalo Center, Iowa.” The sky was a masterpiece—big cotton clouds chasing each other across a bright blue canvas. Jeb sipped his coffee, slo...

  So there you are, just popping into your local sporting goods store to grab some bait or maybe a new fishing rod, and you turn the corner into The Twilight Zone of Chiefs Kingdom. First thing you see is a guy who’s clearly the undisputed heavyweight champion of fandom, rocking a split Chiefs-Mizzou jersey and a hat the size of a small planet that looks exactly like a Super Bowl ring—bedazzled to the heavens. His face paint screams, “I take tailgating more seriously than most people take their jobs.” And flanking him? A young Mahomes-in-the-making who looks like he just finished an intense locker room speech, and a little cowgirl in Chiefs gear that’s clearly four sizes too big—but she's still somehow pulling it off like a boss. You don’t know if they’re about to head to a game, throw a BBQ that’ll shake the neighborhood, or storm a fantasy football draft. One thing’s for sure: nobody is walking out of that store without a high-five and a reminder of who runs the AFC West.