7-Eleven

The clerk stood up from behind the counter, jarred by the force of the earthquake. He’d been through many earthquakes back in his California days, but this felt different, somehow. It didn’t just shake him, it pulled him. Yeah, that was the word - it pulled.

A deep crack ran through the length of the convenience store, severing the Slurpee machine in two. Small sputters of blue and red goop plooped into the crack and disappeared.

A crack, he thought. More like total void.

Looking down into the fissure reminded the clerk of staring into space. There was no visible depth like you might see looking down the stairs into a basement, or into the vastness of a canyon. It wasn’t “just a crack,” he knew that much. Because even though he couldn’t see any depth, he could feel it. He could taste the hum of the purple edges (whatever that meant) that now stretched across the linoleum. He could feel that it was hungry. And he’d seen enough movies to know that he was not going to wait here to become dinner.

You can have all the Slurpee you want, Breach-Man. I quit.

Ploop.