“I love you, man, but I am not reading this.”

George Patel had been writing science fiction for as long as he could remember. This was supposed to be his magnum opus, his pièce de résistance.

And nobody would read the darn thing.

“It’s 1,500 pages,” Buddy Wilder, his best friend, said. “I could barely sit still during Old Yeller, and this will take me ten times longer to get through. Make it shorter, and I’ll read it.”

“How short?” George asked.

“300 pages, max.”

George’s face turned a bright red. “300 pages? I’m writing deep science fiction, not a godforsaken comic book!”

“This is your problem,” Buddy teased. “You go into way too much detail. I don’t need to know what every characters’ daily routines are; just tell me how they’re important to the plot.”

“I need to describe the mechanics! The protagonist is a cleric from a distant planet who has a photon-powered spaceship, and if the audience doesn’t know how the ship works, they’re not going to understand the part where the ship loses energy and crashes on another planet made entirely of rock and an unbreathable gaseous atmosphere, and if I don’t explain that, the-”

“Shut up, George!” Buddy yelled, plugging his ears. “I get it, I get it. Maybe get a hard-core science nerd to read it, though. I’m not good with this kind of stuff.”

“Fine,” George huffed. “I’ll get it critiqued elsewhere.”

George stormed out of his apartment, taking a granola bar for sustenance. He needed to clear his head and think of where to find someone that would read his book.

As he walked along the sidewalk, chomping on his granola bar and looking curiously at food wrappers that had been littered on the floor, he noticed a peculiar piece of trash floating near his feet.

Ablar Charge Ports, the plastic bag read, for all your sustenance-related needs.

“Oh my,” George said to himself. “How did this get here? The charge ports are something I just-”

He looked up from the plastic bag. The sky had become a deep yellow, a contrast from the normal Earth blue. Instead of standing on a sidewalk, his feet were firmly planted on red soil as he faced a floating intergalactic gas station.

It was then that he remembered that the atmosphere on this particular planet could only support human life for about ten minutes. His face turned an unnatural shade of blue, and he dashed inside the station.

Running up to the counter, he shouted, “I need a suit! A space suit!”

A purplish woman wearing a bright orange vest looked up at him and handed him a set of keys. “Lockers in the back. Pay up front when you find one in your size. You can return them at any Ablar’s in this galaxy within 30 days.”

George snatched the keys and ran to the back, jiggling open the door handle and shoving on the first suit he found. Luckily, it fit perfectly.

“Ah, plot convenience,” George whispered to himself. “No one wants to see a protagonist try on clothes.”

He strode up to the counter and told the attendant plainly, “I don’t have any cash on me. I wasn’t expecting to end up here.”

Without looking up, she addressed George flatly. “You’re from Earth, huh? I’ll give you a pass this time. Now go before someone asks me why I’m not doing my job.”

Just then, a figure in a large, custom-made spacesuit sauntered into the room. George knew exactly who this was.

“Isnar,” the attendant stammered, her attention fully diverted from her screen, “w-what are you doing here?”

“Just picking up snacks,” Isnar’s deep, soft voice replied. “Got a long journey ahead.”

George’s mouth fell open. He was standing right in front of his own protagonist, and he was loving every second of it.

“Who is this?” Isnar asked, looking at George. “A new cleaning person?”

George was a bit put off by this statement. “I’m from Earth,” he said. “And I am not a cleaning person. I’m the Creator of this world.”

Isnar turned to the attendant, who was doing her best to stifle her laughter. He turned back to George.

“Okay, then,” Isnar said, “prove it.”

Even though no one could see it under the tinted lens of his spacesuit, George was smirking. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

“Give me your bag,” he said.

“What bag?” Isnar replied.

“Your clerical bag. It provides whatever item the holder needs, right? It’ll give me something that’ll prove to you that I’m the real deal.”

Reluctantly, Isnar handed the bag over to George, who reached his hand inside its vast limits. His hand settled on something large and blocky, and he pulled it out with a grin.

“It’s a book,” Isnar said flatly. “I’m confused.”

“Open it.”

Isnar opened the book. He read the first page or so, then shut it with a loud bang.

“This is about me. My world. My travels.”

George laughed. “I wrote it. I wrote you and your ship, the Pioneer. I wrote this gas station attendant, whom you meet in Chapter 46 when you get snacks at,” George said, smiling, “this very Ablar’s. I wrote the whole gas station chain. I wrote all the worlds you’ve ever visited and, you know what? I’m proud of that. It doesn’t matter how long the book is, and it doesn't matter how many people read it.”

Isnar chuckled softly to himself. “Clearly,” he said, “you are very dedicated to your art. Perhaps I will read this book.”

“Really?” George asked, grinning broadly.

Isnar looked at the gas station attendant. After a few seconds, they both broke out in raucous laughter. Through gasps, Isnar spoke to George.

“No way in the 42,000 worlds, man,” he said. “I have an actual life!”