Current Issue 2026

“The world sits in the palm of your hand. What do you do?”

As soon as the words settle, where a numb oblivion once drifted, a disoriented awareness floods in. 

Sure enough, there’s a solid weight in a hand—my hand—no bigger than an apple or a pomegranate. It’s smooth, like painstakingly sanded down and polished glass. A glance reveals a smattering of blues, whites, tans and greens on the illuminated side, and darker blues, blacks, and minuscule dustings of yellows and oranges on the shadowed side. I can’t see anything else beyond myself and the globe.

Instead of answering the question, I ask into the nothingness around me, “Who are you?”

“That’s not how this works,” the same voice that prompted me earlier chides. “Try again. The world sits in the palm of your hand—”

“Why is it in my hand? How did it get there?” I counter, concluding that my initial question isn’t something my unseen and nebulous interviewer is inclined to answer.

“I put it there, because I want to know what you’d do with it,” comes the blasé response, unperturbed by my interruption.

“Why me? Or have you done this with others?” I press, emboldened by the realization that answers might be provided if I just ask the right questions.

“Curious thing, aren’t you,” whoever they are observes almost absentmindedly. “I’ve lost count of how many I’ve posed my question to.”

“Did you get different answers? And were you satisfied with them?”

My followups seem to give them pause. “The answers I received varied, in as much as they could. There was inevitably some overlap. My satisfaction is both unrelated and irrelevant.”

“Then what did others do, with the world in the palm of their hand?”

A considering hum reverberates through the inky space surrounding me. “Some burned it to the ground.”

A chill runs down my spine at how unfazed the voice sounds. 

“Others clung to it, intent on keeping it. Others treated it like it was one wrong breath from collapsing in on itself. Some dropped it and handled it carelessly. A handful tried to fix or improve it. Some did nothing with or for it. Quite a few simply threw it away.”

I lower my gaze back to the world in my hand. Looking at it like this, it somehow feels too small, too light to contain the myriad expanses of skies and oceans and landmasses, and the countless lives that called it home. It’s my own thoughts and conscience that lend it a more appropriate, unfathomable weight.

“Since I’ve so graciously answered all of your extraneous questions, will you now return the favor? The world sits in the palm of your hand. What do you do with it?”

That is the question, isn’t it? What do I do with the world in my hand? Part of me wonders how many answered seriously and how many answered flippantly. Did it even occur to the latter how many they doomed and ruined with a single decision? Did the former agonize over and comprehend each and every impact and consequence of their choice?

This sort of thing, of responsibility and power and choice, could be enough to drive a person mad, if they let it. Something inside me tells me that some did.

After a few moments of consideration, I extend my arm and carefully hold the world out to the empty space before me. “I suppose I give it back.”

A prolonged stretch of silence precedes my interviewer’s bewildered echo of, “Give it back?”

“Well, the world’s certainly not mine, and you yourself said you put it in my hand. So maybe it’s yours, and you just wanted to show it to me. I’m done looking, now, thank you. You can have it back.”

Bright, unfettered laughter fills the void, and the world lifts from my hand like a bubble adrift on a soft swell of air. “I don’t think I’ve ever received an answer quite like yours. How refreshing!”

Their laugh nearly proves infectious, but when the underlying meaning of their proclamation registers, it extinguishes the encroaching mirth rather mercilessly.

“What happened to the others you asked?” I find myself wanting to know.

When their laughter subsides, they hum again. “Those that wanted to burn the world down were instead burned by the world,” they confide, a note of humor still evident in their voice.

My stomach sinks with dread.

“Those that tried to keep it were kept long after they wanted to leave. Those that treated it like it was glass were treated like glass in turn. Those that dropped the world or handled it carelessly were in turn dropped and handled carelessly by the world. 

“Those that tried to fix it—well. The world does not need fixing, just as a person does not need fixing. They struggled to accomplish something both unneeded and unfeasible, and suffered for the lack of perceived success. On the brighter side, those that tried to improve the world found their lives improved—most of the time, at any rate. The misguided ones looking to improve the wrong things weren’t so fortunate. 

I can feel sweat pooling in my blessedly empty hands. “And what will happen to me?” comes my next question, raspy and hoarse and weak from how dry my mouth and throat became during their revelation.

“I don’t know.” They sound all too delighted by their admission. “That’s something we’ll both have to look forward to finding out.”

It’s almost a relief when the numb oblivion creeps back in to pacify my mounting dismay and horror.

The last thing I hear them say is a soft, paradoxically callous and heartfelt, “I bid you live well.”