John Derevlany

Ryan nervously adjusted his clip-on tie. He had booked a table at The Boiling Point, a “romantic” bistro built over a geothermal vent in the Indian Springs Plaza of the Mall’s most desolate wing. Nebula sat across from him, her green skin shimmering as her third arm emerged from her shoulder to aggressively salt her lava-fries.

“Is this the part where we stare into each other’s ocular sensors until one of us glitches?” Nebula asked, her main hands folded neatly.

“It’s called a date, Neb,” Ryan said, trying to ignore a passing security drone. “I even brought you a gift.” He slid a box of Earth-style chocolates across the table.

Nebula’s third arm snatched the box, tore it open, and began sniffing the wrappers at 45 kHz. “Oh, Ryan. These smell like high-quality mating pheromones. Or floor wax. It is hard to tell with cocoa.”

Before Ryan could respond, the thermal vent beneath their table surged. The Mall’s tectonic stabilizers groaned. Dover, who was moonlighting as the restaurant’s entrance stairs, let out a metallic wail. “We’re all going down! The foundation is as unstable as my self-esteem!”

The floor tilted forty-five degrees. Ryan slid toward a pit of molten slag, but Nebula’s third arm shot out, grabbed his belt loop, and anchored him to a support pillar. Her other two hands remained casually on her chin.

“So,” Nebula smirked as Ryan dangled over the abyss. “Is this the romantic tension your species is always complaining about?”

Ryan looked at the bubbling magma, then at Nebula’s glowing eyes. “Actually, I think it’s just the Indium Springs Happy Hour special.”

Suddenly, Mr. Meankinder’s heads popped out from the kitchen. “Random! You’re on the clock! Stop flirting and start mopping up this lava!”

(This story created by an earthquake near California. Magnitude of: 3. 35 km WNW of Indian Springs, Nevada. URL: https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nn00923117)

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

Ryan ducked as a giant, sentient pile of negative self-talk flew over his head at the Ridge-Crest Retail Colony.

Everyone in the mall was reading The Galactic Secret, a self-help book that taught aliens how to manifest their desires into physical reality. Usually, this resulted in Nebula summoning endless boxes of spicy fries from El Pluto Loco, but the tourists were accidentally manifesting their subconscious anxieties. The food court was currently being overrun by thirty-foot-tall monsters made of Social Awkwardness and Fear of Failure.

Dover, Ryan’s escalator friend, let out a mournful mechanical groan. He had manifested a literal bottomless pit beneath his first step because he felt his life lacked depth. Ryan narrowly avoided falling into the abyss by grabbing a nearby kiosk display for Psychic Sunblock.

“You have to manifest peace, Ryan!” Nebula shouted, her third arm frantically swatting away a swarm of buzzing Regrets.

Ryan closed his eyes and tried to manifest a paid day off. Instead, because he had spent six hours doing inventory, his human brain manifested ten thousand copies of the Mall’s Triple-Ironclad Return Policy. The sheer, boring weight of the fine print crushed the psychic monsters instantly.

“It worked!” Mr. Kind cheered, before Mr. Mean slapped him.

Ryan sighed as the manager handed him a broom. “Great. Now manifest me a way to sweep up a literal hole in the floor.”

Dover’s stairs began to rotate backward. “Don’t bother, Ryan. I’ve already manifested a union representative to sue myself for emotional damages.”

(This story created by a California earthquake on August 8, 2026. Magnitude of: 3.38. 31 km NNW of Covelo, CA. URL: https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nc75414027)

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

Ryan ducked behind a fountain of liquid methane in the Needle Point Outlets, heart hammering against his security badge. The Spire-Stone Sector was usually quiet after three moons-rise, but tonight, something was breathing heavily through the vents of Abercrombie and Droid.

“I told you the clearance sale on Cloaking Capes was a security liability,” Dover groaned, his metal steps clanking as he compressed into a heap behind Ryan. “We are going to be shredded, and my warranty does not cover inter-dimensional predator attacks.”

A trash can near El Pluto Loco levitated and hurled itself across the concourse. Ryan pulled out his standard flashlight, clicking it on. The beam cut through the fluorescent haze, revealing nothing but flickering neon and Nebula Norris crouched on a roof, eating Glow-Fries.

“He is behind the pretzel stand, Ryan!” Nebula shouted, her third arm pointing frantically. “And he looks really hangry!”

Ryan lunged forward, not with a weapon, but with a stack of official incident reports. He tripped over a floor tile, sliding face-first into the Pod Locker. A shimmering ripple in the air lunged for him, letting out a blood-curdling screech that sounded suspiciously like middle-management.

The cloaking field flickered out, revealing Mr. Meankinders angry head. The other two heads were fast asleep, wearing matching silk nightcaps. Mr. Mean was tangled in a prototype invisibility scarf, his face purple with rage.

“Random!” Mr. Mean hissed. “I am not stalking you! I am testing the anti-theft tech! Also, why are these floors not waxed?”

Dover unfolded himself with a weary sigh. “Actually, sir, that is the Sentient Slime floor wax. It ate the maintenance crew an hour ago.”

Ryan looked down as the floor began to purr and wrap around his ankles.

(This story generated by a California earthquake on Aug. 6, 2026. Magnitude of: 3.26. 5 km NW of Pinnacles, CA. URL: https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nc75413432)

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