George Epley

  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...

  "Where’s the Beef? Oh, It’s in a Museum Now." In the not-so-distant future — or possibly next Tuesday — the price of beef skyrocketed so high, it broke through the atmosphere, waved at the International Space Station, and just kept going. At first, people thought it was a temporary spike. “Beef’s just having a moment,” they said, like it was a trendy pop star or a crypto coin. But then ground beef hit $47.99 a pound. Families started taking selfies in front of steak displays at the grocery store like they were visiting rare artifacts. Ribeyes became a black-market currency. One man in Wisconsin traded a single T-bone for a used Toyota Corolla and still felt like he got shorted. Fast food chains adapted. McDonald's quietly changed the Big Mac to the “Big Cluck.” Burger King launched the “Whopper-ish,” made of 92% soy and 8% confusion. Wendy’s just put up a sign that said, “Don’t Ask.” Even dogs stopped dreaming of chasing cows. They knew the only beef they’d see was...

  The Scene: A quiet park on a sunny afternoon. An elderly man, Mr. Whitaker, is taking his usual afternoon walk. Each step is deliberate. His cane taps a rhythm slower than time itself. Behind him, a young jogger named Jane is approaching. She’s all energy and endorphins, earbuds in, ponytail bouncing, barely touching the ground as she runs. As Jane nears Mr. Whitaker, she smiles warmly. Mr. Whitaker glances sideways at the grinning blur, and their internal thoughts unfold simultaneously... Jane (smiling, jogging, full of pep): “Aww, look at him go! What a champ. I hope I’m still out here at his age. So inspiring. I should wave! No, just smile. Be the friendly neighborhood jogger. Okay, nailed it. Park goddess vibes.” Mr. Whitaker (not breaking stride, squinting at the high-energy human flash): “Ah, here comes another spring-loaded chipmunk. Grinning like she just invented jogging. Probably thinks I’m ancient. Hah. I’ve outwalked three generations of cocky cardio kids. Bet...

By day, Western Flyer Express was just another long-haul trucking company hauling freight across America’s vast highways — produce from California, electronics from Chicago, and everything in between. But by night, it was something else entirely. Beneath the chrome and diesel, beneath the DOT-compliant manifests and GPS-tracked routes, there existed a second operation. One that didn’t show up on any shipping schedule. One that saved lives. It began quietly — a single driver, Marcus “Big Rig” Benton, a Navy vet turned trucker, who spotted a terrified South American family at a rest stop in Arizona, bruised and dirty, running from something they couldn’t name but knew they couldn’t go back to. Marcus hid them in the sleeper cab and drove all the way to a underground shelter in Kansas City, and told no one. Word spread. Truckers talk. Especially the old-school kind — CB radio loyalists who still called each other by handle and trusted a firm handshake over a signed contract. Soon, more d...

  Once upon a time in a small, quiet town in Missouri, there was a metal sculpture of an owl that had been sitting outside a local art gallery for years. It was crafted by a renowned, though underappreciated, artist who poured his heart into creating the majestic piece, envisioning it as a symbol of wisdom and mystery. The owl, perched on a steel branch, had glowing eyes made of polished amber. It was truly a work of art — if you were into abstract, metal owls, that is. The artist, who had once won a small-town art contest for his elaborate sculptures, tried to sell the owl for a reasonable price, but for some reason, no one in the town seemed to appreciate its value. The townsfolk didn’t know much about art, but they did know a thing or two about practicality. And this owl, perched awkwardly at the front of the gallery, looked like it had just flown into a gust of wind, tangled up in its own wings, and got stuck in some metal scrap. Whenever tourists came through, the local gall...