George Epley

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...

  Once upon a time, in a world that looked suspiciously like ours but had slightly more dramatic sunsets, the human race found itself tied together by invisible steel chains. No one remembered exactly who started it—maybe it was the first person who said, “Let’s form a committee,” or maybe it was when someone invented the group chat—but there they were: chains stretching across towns, countries, and awkward family reunions. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. These weren’t the scary dungeon kind of chains. These were more like the kind you forget you’re wearing until someone reminds you—like “Hey, you forgot to reply to that email from last Tuesday.” Some links were made of friendship. Others were forged from shared office coffee and the universal agreement that Mondays are terrible. These chains helped people work together, raise kids, and survive long meetings that could have been emails. In these moments, the chains sparkled. They kept us from drifting too far apart—like cosmic f...

  The Last Long Haul For over four decades, the hum of diesel engines and the whine of tires on endless asphalt had been the soundtrack of Hank "Highball" Murdock’s life. A legend among long haulers, Hank was the kind of trucker you heard about in diners from Amarillo to Albany, his name etched in grease-stained ledgers and whispered like a myth over cups of burnt coffee at 3 a.m. He’d started driving in the summer of 1985, fresh out of the Army with nothing but a duffel bag, a CDL, and a hunger for the horizon. His first rig was a beat-up Kenworth W900 with more rust than chrome, but to Hank, it was freedom wrapped in steel. The road became his companion. He saw America through rain-streaked windshields and dusty side mirrors. From the icy passes of the Rockies to the sun-scorched highways of Arizona, Hank was there—always moving, always delivering. He hauled everything: beef, boots, machine parts, even a shipment of carnival rides once that made him laugh for miles. Ove...

  "Dreams of the Ice" Born beneath fluorescent skies, Not northern stars, not wind-whipped cries, She came to life on concrete floor, Behind the bars, beyond the roar. They named her queen of arctic white, Though she had never felt moonlight On snowdrifts vast or ocean's breath, Just glassy walls and rubber death. But when she sleeps, the zookeepers know, She stirs as if beneath the snow. Her paws twitch slow in frozen dance, She journeys far in dreaming trance. She dreams of blizzards howling loud, Of breaking through the icy shroud, Of hunger sharp, the scent of prey, A seal beneath the drifted gray. She feels the sting of wind so wild, The wilderness both fierce and riled. No keepers here, no midday feed, Just raw survival, tooth and need. She hunts, she fails—then hunts again, She limps through cold and bites through pain. Until one day, success runs red, A single kill, a seal now dead. She feasts beneath aurora fire, Flesh and bone, her deep...

  Crimson Hour The man stood at the edge of the crumbling pier, coffee in hand, steam curling like breath into the cold morning air. It was just past five. The world was still asleep, except for the crows and the waves and him. His name was Marcus Hale, a name that once regularly appeared on lecture bills and book covers. “The Rational Hammer,” they used to call him. Proud atheist. Philosopher. Debunker of celestial nonsense. Yet here he stood, motionless, gazing at the horizon that had caught fire. The sky bled red—scarlet, deep orange, bruised plum—colors so intense they seemed to hum. The clouds were not clouds, but strokes on a divine canvas. And the sun, not yet risen, seemed to be a secret whispered between sea and sky. Marcus squinted. His fingers tightened around the mug. He knew the science. The angle of light through the atmosphere, refraction, dust particles. He could quote the explanation like scripture, could reduce this beauty to a formula with his eyes closed. ...

  "The Watching Rock" In the heart of a bustling city, nestled between a tangle of walking paths and gnarled oaks, sat a rock. Not just any rock—this was Watcher , a smooth, gray boulder with a curious spirit and an unusual hobby: he loved watching humans. Watcher had been in the same spot for hundreds of years, long before the city rose around him. At first, there were only animals, wind, and rain. Then came carriages, bicycles, skyscrapers—and eventually, people in stretchy pants doing yoga and arguing about kombucha flavors. Every day in the city park was a new episode of Watcher's favorite show: Strange Humans Doing Stranger Things . He adored the early joggers, with their rhythmic puffing and red faces. He'd try to guess who would trip over the uneven paving stone that always caught new runners off guard. (He kept an imaginary scoreboard. The current tally was: Stone – 48, Humans – 3 .) The dog walkers fascinated him too. The humans always thought they were ...

  "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.