George Epley

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...

  When Cooper —Grandpa’s pride and joy—graduated from preschool, he didn’t just walk across the stage… he owned it . There he stood: cap slightly tilted like a cool jazz musician, gown billowing like a superhero’s cape, and those neon green sunglasses ? Oh, they weren’t just shades—they were a statement . The other kids looked adorable, sure. But Cooper? Cooper looked like he had just dropped his debut album, titled “Snack Time Legends.” Grandpa was in the front row, wiping his eyes with one hand and fist-bumping the air with the other. “That’s my boy!” he shouted, startling a few parents who clearly didn’t understand they were witnessing preschool royalty . After the ceremony, Cooper strolled up to Grandpa, hands in his robe pockets like he had just come from a business meeting at a juice bar. “Well,” Grandpa asked, grinning, “You ready for kindergarten?” Cooper pushed his sunglasses up his nose and replied coolly, “I was born ready. I know my letters, I count to 100, and I o...

Here are 7 reasons to use a ‘real’ camera instead of a smartphone , especially if you're serious about photography or video: 1. Larger Sensor Size = Better Image Quality DSLRs and mirrorless cameras have much larger sensors than smartphones. This means: Better performance in low light Greater dynamic range More natural depth of field (blurred backgrounds) 2. Interchangeable Lenses Real cameras let you choose from a wide variety of lenses: Wide-angle for landscapes Telephoto for wildlife or sports Macro for extreme close-ups Prime lenses for ultra-sharp portraits Smartphones use digital zoom and fixed lenses, which limit creative control and quality. 3. Full Manual Control Cameras give you total control over: Shutter speed Aperture ISO Focus Smartphones have "pro modes," but they're not as intuitive or powerful for fine-tuning exposure or motion. 4. Superior Autofocus & Tracking Modern mirrorless cameras have advanced autofocu...

    I eat at First Watch because it feels like a compromise between indulgence and responsibility. The bright, clean atmosphere, the little carafe of fresh juice, the avocado toast with just the right sprinkle of salt—it all screams "health-conscious adult," even if I'm secretly here for the million-dollar bacon and a stack of pancakes the size of a hubcap. I tell myself it's not junk food because everything comes with a sprig of parsley or a wedge of lemon, and they call things "power bowls" instead of “bowls of cheese with some kale for decoration.” I rationalize the giant skillet of potatoes by reminding myself it's brunch, not lunch, and that "brunch" has magical loophole energy. The menu has words like “antioxidant,” “organic,” and “superfood,” which must mean I’m doing something right—even if my fork keeps drifting back to the chocolate chip pancake I said I’d just “taste.” So, no, I’m not eating junk food. I’m nourishing myself—with arti...

 #1 The sun hangs low over the rolling fields of Missouri, casting a golden hue across the endless sea of hay. Each blade sways in rhythm with the warm June breeze, shimmering like waves on a quiet ocean. The scent of fresh-cut grass lingers in the air, mingling with the earthy perfume of rich soil and summer heat. In the distance, a red barn stands like an old friend watching over the land, its paint chipped from years of sun and storm. Fence posts lean gently along the edges of the pasture, and beyond them, rows of corn reach skyward, green and proud. The hay moves in gentle sweeps, rustling softly like whispers between old trees. It's a simple scene—honest, humble—but in its motion, there's poetry. The kind that speaks of hard work, deep roots, and the quiet beauty of a life lived close to the land. OR #2 The "field" was less field and more forgotten truckstop, half-swallowed by weeds and time. A rusted sign, barely clinging to its pole, read *“Big Pete’s Pit Stop”...

  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...

  "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...