The plane was going down. Screams of the now damned and distressed banged on your eardrums, making you cover your ears.

There was no way anyone was going to survive. This was the last moment you would see another living soul, and yourself not horribly mangled in the accident.

You shut your eyes, not wanting to see the passengers dive around for some semblance of telling others goodbye.

Then, the crunching of the plane was heard. It was many hours before you had awoken, and you were laid on some kind of bed. You were definitely dead.

You groaned, sitting up. You were surprised if bones had snap and broken just from the smallish movement. Nobody was around. You had to get out of here. You got off of the bed, leaning on the walls of the makeshift place and walking to the outside.

Everyone in front of you—in this small makeshift village—had stopped. Stopped everything. They each fell to their knees, no matter where anyone was at the moment.

“Our god!” They cheered, all collectively. You sweated. What? A woman looked up happily to you, tears in her eyes.

“Our prayers have worked!” A man cheered. None of these people looked normal. The man got up from his knees, pointing to a picture on an altar in the middle of the village.

It was you, etched into stone and drawn into some ancient style of art. But how? This had to be some mistake, right?

Little did you know, you were a god. You never did find out—but you were a god. Their prayers had worked. Their prayers had brought the plane down—from you to them.