John Derevlany

The Leandro Station North-Sector was usually foggy with ionized gas, but today it was choked with a tourist from the Quietude. He was a ten-foot-tall sentient sponge named Bob who had never encountered a commercial. To Bob, the blaring holographic ads for Abercrombie and Droid weren’t sales pitches; they were sacred, visual hymns.

“He is eating the jingles, Ryan,” Dover groaned, his metal steps shuddering with existential dread. “My motor is grinding because the silence is too loud. It’s unnatural.”

Ryan watched as Bob hugged a neon sign. Every time the sign buzzed, Bob released spores that neutralized all noise in a fifty-yard radius.

The mall went dead silent. Shoppers moved their mouths like goldfish, unable to complain about the price of ion-socks or the slow escalators.

“Look at him,” Nebula said, her third arm emerging from her ribs to hand Ryan a lukewarm space-slushie. “He thinks the Buy One Get One strobe light is a message from the Great Singularity.”

“It’s a corporate disaster,” Ryan said, checking his tattered map. “If people can’t hear the Flash Sale sirens, they’ll stop impulse buying. Mr. Meankinder is going to lose his middle head.”

Suddenly, Bob grabbed Ryan, lifting him toward a glowing billboard. The aliens telepathic gratitude flooded Ryans brain: Such beautiful, rhythmic retail! I shall help you project this divine art to the entire galaxy!

Bob plugged his porous body into the malls main broadcast antenna. Instead of silence, the alien accidentally amplified Ryan’s subconscious mind. Every speaker in the sector began broadcasting Ryan’s private, rhythmic internal monologue about how much he hated the malls itchy polyester uniform.

Mr. Meankinder’s Mean head turned a violent purple. “Random! Why is the entire customer base currently contemplating the chafing in your lower regions?”

(This story created by a California earthquake on August 13, 2026. Magnitude of: 3.84. 3 km N of San Leandro, CA. URL: https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nc75417557)

For an animated scene from this story, go to instagram.

A tectonic belch from the Geyser-Gorge Thermal Plaza sent a ripple of Stratum-Inversion gas through the mall’s ventilation system.

Suddenly, the shopping center’s hierarchy was completely inverted.

Sales clerks began filling dressing rooms, snapping their fingers at passing shoppers to bring them more outfits to try on in different sizes and colors.

The janitorial slime-molds were now in charge of marketing, which is why all promotional events involved soggy mulch and total darkness.

And, most importantly, lowly security guard Ryan Random was put in charge of the entire Mall of the Multiverse.

“You’re the High Arch-Duke of Retail now, Master Ryan,” Mr. MeanKindEr’s Kind head chirped, handing over the keys to the Executive Nebula Suite.

The Mean head was still relatively unpleasant as he grumbled… and frantically polished Ryan’s scuffed sneakers with his silk tie.

And little changed for MeanKindEr’s Er head, who never really had much status to begin with. “Errrr?” he said with a dependably-stupid grin.

Ryan blinked as a crown appeared on his head. Across the food court, Nebula Norris sat on a throne of frozen yogurt while her former manager fanned her with giant kelp leaves.

“This is terrible,” Dover moaned. “I’ve been promoted to a Golden Express Lift, but the view from the top just makes me realize how much further there is to fall.”

The escalator’s railing-hands trembled with existential dread as he ascended at Mach 2.

Ryan, now burdened with the crushing weight of interdimensional tax filings and a scepter that smelled like old copper, realized power was exhausting.

“I need a complaint!” Ryan shouted. “As an underpaid security guard, I was invisible. As a leader, I’m responsible for the stability of three retail dwarf planets!”

He sprinted to the main geothermal vent control, dragging a gold-plated Dover behind him. He jammed his flashlight into the manual override to trigger a reverse-burp. The vents hissed, the gas cleared, and the social order snapped back.

Ryan was back on his scooter, facing a purple-faced Mr. Mean. “You’re fired for touching the vents!” the mean head screamed.

Ryan smiled. “Finally, someone is yelling at me again.”

And all was well again for Ryan Random and the Mall of the Multiverse.

(This story created by a California earthquake on August 12, 2026. Magnitude of: 3.22. 6 km NW of The Geysers, CA. URL: https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nc75416682)

(To see an animated version of this scene on Instagram, click here.)

Ryan stood in the center of the Pinnacles Sector High Tribunal, sweating under the glare of three hundred floating judicial eyes.

Across the aisle, a gelatinous customer named Gloop-9 was weeping through sixteen different orifices. Ryan was being sued for emotional distress and lack of signage after Gloop-9 tripped over a Wet Floor sign in the mall’s Vacuum-Grip Atrium.

“Your Honors,” Ryan said, adjusting his baggy security shirt. “There wasn’t even a floor. It is a zero-gravity zone. He tripped over the concept of a warning.”

Mr. Meankinder near the defense table. Mr. Mean screamed for Ryan’s execution,

Mr. Kind offered the jury freshly baked space-cookies.

And Mr. Er stared blankly at a legal pad, trying to remember if he was the lawyer or the bailiff.

“The plaintiff demands forty billion Mall-Credits and your left pinky toe!” Mr. Mean shrieked, slamming two of his heads together.

“But look at his cute little uniform,” Mr. Kind whispered, patting Ryan’s shoulder.

Suddenly, Dover the sentient escalator rumbled into the courtroom. He had compressed his railing-appendages to look like a leather briefcase. “Objection!” Dover blared, his voice echoing with metallic depression. “According to the fine print on the back of every Mall of the Multiverse receipt, by entering the Pinnacles Sector, the customer waives their right to exist in three dimensions.”

The lead judge blinked all three hundred eyes. “He is right. Gloop-9, you are now legally two-dimensional.”

With a soft pop, the gelatinous alien flattened into a thin, purple puddle on the courtroom floor.

“Case dismissed,” the judge ruled. “Bailiff, please roll up the plaintiff and use him to mop up the coffee spill in the lobby.”

Ryan sighed. “This is why I prefer the night shift.”

(This story created by a California earthquake on August 11, 2026. Magnitude of: 3.94. 6 km NW of Pinnacles, CA. URL: https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nc75415717)

For an animated scene from this story on Instagram, click here.