John Derevlany

Ryan had snuck out a back door of the mall with Dover the sentient escalator. Both were taking a well-deserved break in that industrial, trash-filled area behind every shopping plaza where customers NEVER go. There were plenty of “Employees Only” signs, but the reality is: the area was just too gross for anyone to visit, with the exception of harried workers… and extremely depressed elevators.

Dover sighed his usual sigh of despair. Ryan nodded and smiled. He was used to his pal’s forlorn moans. Just then, he noticed a familiar-looking trash bin. “Hey, remember that time I found you out here, Dover?” Ryan chirped. “You were halfway inside that dumpster.”

“I was moments away from sweet, metallic oblivion,” Dover groaned, his railing-appendages twitching. “Then you had to ruin it with your misplaced sense of optimism and ruin everything.”

Two years ago, Ryan was assigned to clear debris near the Gerlachian Wormhole Terminal. He had found a crumpled pile of yellow metal weeping oil into the dust. It was Dover, who had been discarded after a mid-management head — specifically Mr. Mean — decided the mall’s stairs were “too judgmental.”

A Scrapyard Sentinel had been hovering over Dover, its plasma-torch humming. “Organic unit, move aside,” the droid droned. “This conveyance unit has exceeded its warranty of existence.”

Ryan did not have a blaster, but he did have his employee handbook and a roll of Out of Order tape. “Actually,” Ryan shouted, slapping a piece of tape across Dover’s emergency stop button, “this isn’t scrap. It is a permanent structural installation under renovation. Moving it violates Mall Policy 404-B regarding unionized hardware.”

The Sentinel’s processors whirred. Faced with the terror of cosmic paperwork, the robot simply powered down and fell over.

“You saved me,” Dover had sighed back then, sounding profoundly disappointed. “Now I have to endure an eternity of teenagers spilling soda on my treads.”

Back in the present, Mr. Meankinder’s Kind head was beaming at them from a passing shuttle. “Ryan! There you are! I have decided to promote you to Senior Dust Shoveler!”

“And I have decided to fire you for being late!” screamed the Mean head.

The Er head just yapped with a big smile: “Dust? Yum!!!”

Dover began to sink into the salty asphalt behind the mall. “See? I told you death was the better option.”

(This story created by an earthquake NEAR California on Sept. 16, 2026. Magnitude of: 3.79. 20 km WSW of Gerlach, Nevada. URL:https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nn00924508)

Ryan stood outside The Inner Singularity bookstore in the Catalinian Trench Retail Colony, watching a six-eyed guru lead a seminar on Cosmic Manifestation. Master Glarp claimed that if a species visualized a desired reality hard enough, the universe’s atoms would rearrange to provide it.

Dover, the sentient escalator, groaned to Ryan Random. “I manifested a Closed for Maintenance sign an hour ago,” Dover sighed. “Yet here I am, still carrying three-ton Glorgons to the food court. The universe is a cruel landlord, Ryan.”

“Don’t believe the hype, Dover,” Ryan responded. “I heard this stuff only works if everyone chants together.”

Suddenly, a crowd of frantic shoppers began chanting together. “We want free parking! We want free parking!” they shouted.

“Uh-oh,” Ryan whimpered. “I knew those new parking fees would be a problem.”

The collective psychic energy of the shoppers hit a resonance frequency. The mall’s atmospheric stabilizers sparked. Instead of creating a spread of complimentary spaces for their interstellar spacecraft, the shoppers started phasing in and out of reality.

“Ryan! Help!” Nebula shouted, dodging a floating patron who had turned into a literal cloud of optimistic vapor. “They’re doing SOMETHING — it’s just not what they hoped for!”

“Too much manifesting!” Ryan shouted. He checked his tattered map. He couldn’t help them get free parking. But he knew human pessimism was a more stable force than alien optimism. He grabbed a megaphone from his security scooter.

“Hey! Everyone!” Ryan yelled. “Think about how much you hate taxes, long lines, and damp socks!”

The collective shift in focus from infinite abundance to mundane annoyance caused a massive psychic recoil. The shoppers solidified instantly, falling onto Dover’s steps. They groaned in despair.

“You saved us,” Master Glarp gasped, rubbing his many eyes. “How did you master the Void-Self?”

“I didn’t,” Ryan said. “I just reminded everyone that even in a perfect universe… you still have to pay for parking.”

(This story created by a California earthquake on Sept. 12, 2026. Magnitude of: 3.40807971450025. 26 km ESE of Avalon, CA. URL:https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/ci41545880)

The Quantum Scone from Dunkin Donutoids had Ryan’s master keys embedded in its blueberry-flavored singularity, and it was currently hopping down the escalators at Mach one. Ryan sprinted past a group of lava-beings in the Steam-Vent Sector of the Obsidian Crater Mall, his baggy security uniform flapping like a defective parachute.

Dover, the sentient escalator, groaned as Ryans boots clattered over his metal teeth. “I’m just a bridge to nowhere, Ryan,” Dover sighed, deliberately slowing his treads to a mournful crawl. “If I stop, the universe stops. Just let the pastry go.”

“I cant let it go! It has the keys to the Employee Nap Lounge!” Ryan yelled, leaping over a steaming fissure that smelled like sulfur and cinnamon.

Nebula Norris appeared from behind a kiosk for Poly-Dimensional Sunglasses, her third arm sprouting from her neck to snag a passing hover-tray. She used it like a frisbee, gliding toward the rogue scone. “Step aside, Earth-boy,” she smirked. “This muffin-adjacent fugitive is mine.”

They cornered the scone near the Geyser-Gorge Food Court. The pastry hissed, vibrating at a frequency that shattered a nearby window at Bed Bath and Way Beyond. It leaped toward a massive steam vent, aiming for the open atmosphere of the volcanic asteroid.

Ryan dove, his fingers brushing the sticky glaze. He caught the keys, but the scone used his head as a springboard, launching itself into the deep space vacuum.

Mr. Meankinders Kind head leaned out of a nearby office. “Excellent hustle, Ryan! Youre getting a sticker!”

His Mean head shoved it aside, screaming, “You let the breakfast escape! Thats a company asset! Youre fired!”

The Er head just stared at the empty space where the scone had been. “Does this mean we don’t get coffee?”

(This story created by a California earthquake on Sept. 10, 2026. Magnitude of: 3.15. 10 km WNW of Cobb, CA. URL:https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nc75433297)

Watch a scene from this story on Instagram or TikTok.