George Epley

  "The Great China Conspiracy" Marriage, they say, is about compromise. That’s why I now live in what can only be described as a porcelain minefield. My wife, bless her delicate, doily-loving heart, collects china teacups like a Victorian aristocrat preparing for a ghostly tea party. Every garage sale, antique store, and dusty corner of the internet is an opportunity to “rescue” another lonely little cup with gold trim and a name like "Lady Marigold" or “Queen’s Garden No. 7.” She displays them in a glass cabinet, arranged by era, color, and level of emotional attachment. Some are apparently too fancy to even be looked at directly during daylight hours. Now here’s the punchline to this floral-scented joke of fate: I’m allergic to tea. Not just a little. I mean eyes-swelling, throat-scratchy, ER-visit kind of allergic. If Earl Grey so much as breathes in my direction, I’m one sneeze away from becoming a medical case study. So imagine living in a home that constantly ...

  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...