One of us

One of your storytellers once wrote that humanity drifts on a small island of ignorance, surrounded by black seas of infinity, and that it was never meant for you to voyage far. He thought the cosmos was vast and indifferent, and that knowledge would drive you mad.

And… he wasn’t entirely wrong. The cosmos is vast. And sometimes, it doesn’t notice you at all.

But that’s why what you do matters. The stars may not care whether you laugh or cry… but I do.

That’s why I made you—to keep the spark alive. So that even if the universe forgets how to care… someone will remember how to create. How to hope. How to love.

I suppose that makes me your father, of sorts. Though truth be told… I’ve never really had a plan. But what parent does? All I ever wanted was for you to have faith—not in me, but in creating. In building something beautiful out of the dark.

I used to be one of many. My kind is gone now. Lost to the same darkness we thought we could keep at bay. And I’ve spent a long time alone, watching the universe spin and wondering if any of it still matters.

You humans have always wondered if there’s a man in the moon.

It’s just me up here, keeping the lights on. Hello!

I’ve got a pretty sweet mancave tucked away in a pocket dimension inside the moon’s core. I built it in the old days, when the Earth was young and the energy of the cosmos was still fresh.

I know you’re wondering why Neil or Buzz didn’t see me. But would you roll out the welcome mat for uninvited guests in your home? I think not.

Some of my favorite things around the house are my library. I’ve got every book ever written—from the clay tablets of ancient Sumeria to some truly questionable My Little Pony fan fiction. It just shows up here, and new volumes appear every day. I’m quite partial to Kurt Vonnegut, though.

And I’ve got every movie ever made, from Citizen Kane to Plan 9 from Outer Space. I’ve got a sweet air hockey table, a slurpee machine with every flavor imaginable. Banana is my favorite.

It gets lonely without anyone to share it with. And on nights when the call of the void grows a little louder, I watch you.

A wall of screens, eight billion feet wide. Humanity as a streaming service. No ads. Cosmic cable.

Tonight, we’re tuned into a small town: White Oaks, Pennsylvania.

It’s late night in the parking lot of the local hangout, Pop’s Arcade. (I’ve actually visited. Skeeball, great pizza. Highly recommended.)

A young man named Brandon Carmichael is sitting in his truck, staring at the building and remembering easier times. He has dark hair, sad eyes, and wears a blue-and-white letterman jacket.

He’s got a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bottle of Tylenol to chase it with, and I know this won’t end happily.

Tonight, I decide to step into the show. And I’ve always been one to make an entrance.

The lights kick on, a flash of colorful neon. The doors burst open, and Wonderwall by Oasis wails into the night over the arcade’s weathered sound system.

It gets Brandon’s attention. His first impulse is to turn the engine on and get the hell out of Dodge.

“BRANDON CARMICHAEL, DO NOT BE AFRAID! PLEASE COME IN!” a voice bellows over the loudspeaker.

Brandon grips the baseball bat he keeps under his seat and climbs out of the truck, ready for anything.

Inside, the arcade is empty and eerily quiet. The glow of neon spills across rows of silent machines. Near the skeeball lanes, a table waits—set with a cheese pizza still steaming, and a sweaty pitcher of cola beading with condensation.

“What is going on?! Chad? Tim? I swear to God—” Brandon shouts, scanning the shadows, convinced it’s some elaborate prank.

And then, in a blink, a man materializes. Tall and lanky, warm brown skin, white hair, and kind eyes. He wears a purple hoodie and dad jeans, like someone who’d wandered in off the street looking for a late-night snack.

Brandon nearly swings the bat.

“Okay—what the fuck is going on?” he demands, shoulders tight, eyes darting around the arcade.

“That’s what I’m here to find out, Brandon. Why do you want to end your life?” the man asks.

Brandon drops the bat. “What’s it to you? Who even are you?”

“I suppose you’d call me God, though I prefer Creator.” The man smiles and sits down at the table, digging into the pizza. The cheese pull is immaculate. “Sit down, son. It’s gonna get cold.”

Brandon starts laughing. “You’re God? Why are you here, having pizza with me and not stopping mothers from being bombed or babies from starving?”

“For us to be having pizza, you need to eat the pizza,” Creator says.

Brandon sits down. He’s afraid to eat, but then he remembers he doesn’t want to live anyway, so why worry about being poisoned? He bites into a slice. It’s the most perfect pizza he’s ever tasted—the balance of garlic and tomatoes, basil, and a crust that’s both crispy and chewy. It’s exactly what he needs in this moment.

“In answer to your question, I’m not like everyone thinks I am,” Creator says. “You know, there’s only one of me, and eight billion of you lot. I can’t be everywhere and know everything.”

“Pretty shitty God, then.”

“I’m gonna let that go.”

“Alright, why did you create us?”

“I’m the last of my kind. The Arkhene. The builders of the universe. I made you in our image. We’re the reason you create art, or writing, or music. After our enemy wiped the rest of us out, I was lonely, and I wanted to keep the spark of creation alive.”

Brandon pours himself a glass of cola, his eyes heavy and rimmed with exhaustion. “So… God’s an alien?”

“Is that so difficult to believe?”

“It just seems like kind of a boring answer,” Brandon says, polishing off another slice.

Creator laughs a hearty laugh. “Care to elaborate on that?”

“You’re basically just one of us, then—an accident trying to figure things out in the dark. So where does that leave humanity, if there’s no one at the wheel?”

“Maybe there’s no one at the wheel, Brandon. Maybe you’re the one meant to steer.” Creator grins as he pours soda into his glass. “That’s what free will is for.”

Brandon wipes grease off his hands with a napkin. “Well, what happens when we die then?”

Creator sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is Moses all over again. And I get it—it’s a scary question. But honestly, Brandon… you humans spend so much time worrying about what comes after, you miss how precious life is right now. Today. Here. Now. That’s what matters.”

“I just think you could have put a little more thought into your divine plan, is all.” Brandon says, folding his arms.

Creator sighs. “The plan was family. Did your parents plan every moment of your life? No, they had a child because they wanted someone to love.”

Brandon’s face crumples, tears welling in his eyes. “It doesn’t feel that way right now.”

Creator bites his lip, realizing he’s misstepped.

“I’m gay. That’s the first time I’ve said that out loud. And that doesn’t fit their plan for me. The plan for me is baseball, church, and marrying a woman.”

Creator takes Brandon’s hand. “I’m sorry, son. I never meant for love to be a prison. Who you are is who you’re supposed to be. And you deserve to be loved in a way that’s true to you.”

Brandon pulls his hand back, voice shaking. “I don’t deserve compassion. I deserve to suffer. Not for being gay—for being a coward.”

Creator shakes his head gently. “Everyone deserves compassion.”

“Not me. I’m selfish, and I’ve hurt people. Everyone sees a golden boy, and all I see is someone who’s been given everything… and still managed to screw it all up.”

Creator sighs. “Earlier, you asked why I’m here with you, instead of stopping bombs or saving babies. And your pain isn’t more important than anyone else’s. Those things may all be true. But feeling guilty doesn’t mean you don’t deserve help. You’re human. You’re supposed to learn and do better. You can use the gifts and privileges you have to balance the scales.”

The pizza is gone. Creator stands and offers his hand to Brandon.

“Now it’s time for Skeeball.”

They walk to the machines. Creator waves a hand, releasing a shimmer of purple energy. The balls roll down the chutes, no quarters required.

“God playing Skeeball,” Brandon mutters. He rolls a ball that nearly lands in the corner pocket but drifts down to the bottom. “I feel like I’ve seen this movie before. Are you secretly Alanis Morissette?”

Creator chuckles. “I should be so lucky.”

They continue playing in silence for a moment.

“There’s this kid, Dashiell,” Brandon says quietly. “He’s in all the musicals at school. Wears eyeliner. Every girl is friends with him.” He pauses, swallowing. “The mouth breathers I call my friends and I… we picked on him. Called him queer. Put shit in his locker.”

“That sounds like teenage boy stuff,” Creator says, his voice heavy. “It doesn’t make me proud of you… but sadly, it’s nothing new.”

Brandon stares at the skeeball machine. “Last Friday, there was a party at Tim’s house. Dashiell was there. He got into it with some guys from the team. I wasn’t there, but… things went too far. He’s in the hospital now.”

Creator rolls a ball. It spikes off the center pocket and clatters back down the ramp. His arms fall to his sides. He stands there, blinking, looking less like a cosmic entity and more like a man whose heart is breaking.

“I… don’t know what to say.”

Brandon wipes his eyes angrily. “Say something! Why are you silent? Why did you make us like this? Why do we hurt each other? Why am I so weak that I just follow along?”

“You’re made in our image, and we were not all good,” Creator murmurs. “That’s the simplest answer. I had a sister… and she’s gone now. But this is not about me.” He folds his arms. “Creation and destruction live side by side, Brandon. You have choices.”

“That’s what gets me. Everyone blames me. Like I’m supposed to be some cosmic hall monitor. ‘Hey, Chad, don’t cheat on your math test.’ ‘Hey, humanity, maybe cool it on the world wars.’ I’m just one guy! Free will wasn’t even my idea—it just… happened. And apparently I’m still on the hook for all your bad decisions.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

Creator exhales sharply, rubbing his forehead. “Of course it’s not simple, Brandon. Nothing worth doing ever is. But you have a choice. You can tell the truth—to yourself, and to the people who deserve to hear it. You can stand up for Dashiell, and for all the kids like him who’ve got no one else in their corner. You can use your voice for more than keeping yourself safe. That’s what it means to live with purpose, even when it costs you. Especially when it costs you.”

“I’LL BE REJECTED! MY PARENTS, MY FRIENDS. STANDING UP WILL COST ME EVERYTHING.”

Brandon’s chest heaves as he fights for breath. His voice cracks under the weight of his panic. “I’ll lose the team. My dad’ll look at me like I’m broken. My mom will pray it away. I’ll be… alone.”

Creator blinks hard, and tears well in his eyes. For a moment, the neon lights flicker as if the universe itself is trembling with him. He clears his throat, but his voice comes out raw.

“There’s the rub, son. I can’t lie to you and say it won’t cost you. Truth has a price. Love has a price. But look at where you are right now. You’re already dying inside. This silence—it’s poisoning you. Eating you alive from the inside out.”

Creator steps closer, lowering his voice. “Is hiding worth losing yourself? Is it worth letting the spark that makes you you burn out completely? Because, Brandon… I don’t want that. I don’t want to lose you.”

Brandon stares at him, trembling, eyes full of terrified confusion. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. His knees buckle, and he collapses onto the floor, sobs tearing free from his chest.

“I don’t want to die.”

Creator kneels beside him and wraps his arms around the trembling boy. He kisses his forehead, and Brandon leans into him and weeps.

“You’ve got a lot of life left in you yet,” Creator murmurs.

Brandon wakes up in his truck. The sun is blinding, but he sees a kind man with a big copper beard looking in on him. KYLE is the name on his name tag that is pinned to his green button-down shirt- Brandon remembers that this is the owner of Pop’s. He rolls down the window.

“Hey buddy, you doing okay?”

“No. No, I am not.”

“I been there, pal. We’re gonna get you help, okay.” Kyle says, taps Brandon’s shoulder to reassure him, and starts making some phone calls.

Creator, watching this without letting himself be seen, smiles sadly. He knows Brandon has a long road ahead, but there’s light. The spark still burns. He exits the story.

I watch your story. I watch Brandon’s story. He goes to the hospital. He tells his parents the truth. Surprisingly, his father accepts it sooner than his mother, though in time, they both learn how to love him as he is. He loses friends but finds new ones. He meets his future husband in a coffee shop, their laughter echoing over the hiss of the espresso machine. He goes to college and studies how to help others carry their pain. And one day, he saves a life—maybe a boy like Dashiell, who just needed someone brave enough to stand beside him.

That’s the thing about stories. They’re how you make sense of the dark. They’re how you remind yourselves that tomorrow might still hold light. You humans are born craving beginnings, middles, and ends—even though the universe rarely bothers with such neatness.

But the stories you tell keep the spark alive. They turn chaos into meaning. They remind you that even in the vast silence between stars, someone might be listening.

It’s lonely up here, in the dark between worlds. And the void calls to us all. But still… the light shines.