There are two edges of the world. The first is off the ocean. A wind laced with salt used to drop unknowing seafarers into nothingness. Nowadays, maps show the edge as a thick black line, beyond which are stars. Cruise ships go right to the edge so tourists can snap pictures.

The second edge is a family’s backyard.  It is not on a map and takes years to reach. The family gives lemonade to tourists and lets them tiptoe to the precipice. The parents never charge and their children always smile.

Contented, I do not dream of the journey to each edge until my mother’s ghost appears. She is sorrowful and blue with dusk. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I never showed you the edges of the world “she murmurs. Her eyes hold remorse for my smooth, seamless youth.

The First Edge

I am on a ship at the first edge of the world. When I peer over the railing, the air is cool and depthless. Vertigo leaves me shaking and small. My insides twist. The children are not afraid and lean over the railing like birds. One of them grabs my hand and whispers: “It’s just space. If you fall, you’ll only float.”

At home, I ask my mother’s ghost how she felt when she gazed over the edge. She shakes her head and says: “I only remember where I am right now.” I wonder if, like a ghost, it is better to see merely your piece of the world. I have felt raw as a newborn since I glimpsed the first edge.

The Second Edge

I travel the whispered path to the second edge. I carry years of supplies and my mother’s rueful eyes.  When I arrive, the family is friendly and nonchalant. The children run up to the edge, giggle, and scamper away. The smallest one grabs my hand and brings me closer to the precipice.

I cannot steady my pulse. I ask the parents if they are nervous about raising their children here.  “I am not nervous,” the mother says. “There is always an edge.” I ponder her words and stare into the perfect blackness. Perhaps this is why my mother regrets never taking me to the edges of the world. Perhaps if she had I would not be afraid. Perhaps if she had I would lean into the air.

You’ll need a quiet room and something soft that smells like childhood. A wool sweater. Frying oil. Strawberry-esque lotion. The laugh comes later.

Step one: Close your eyes and picture the hallway she walked down. The one where the floorboards sighed beneath her like even the wood missed her when she left the room. Smell that gardenia cleaner? That’s how you know it’s working.

Step two: Say her name three times- wrong. The way your cousins used to, juice-stained mouths, crooked teeth. Say it like they yelled it from the porch. Loud. A little desperate. A little scared of growing up.

Step three: Find a mirror that remembers you at seven. A cracked one is best. Fog it with your breath. Don’t wipe it. Let your reflection twitch once. Maybe twice.

Then—laugh.

Not a chuckle. Not ironic.
You need the kind of laugh that shakes the sharpness out of your bones.
The kind you gave up when you learned how to spell responsibility.

If you get it right, the air will buzz.
Like a forgotten TV channel.
That’s your portal. Step through.

You’ll wake up in her kitchen.

Plastic runners on the carpet.
A fridge magnet that says Kiss the Cook—
but the K has faded,
so it just says iss the Cook.

She’s there, stirring something
with a wooden spoon that’s seen more war than peace.

She won’t recognize you—
not yet.
But she’ll hum that tune.
The one you forgot the name of,
but your knees always remembered.

You’ll want to speak.
Don’t.
She’s fragile here—made of steam, lemon zest, and sighs.

Just watch. Listen.

When she laughs—really laughs—
you’ll feel yourself flicker.
That’s your exit sign.

You have one second to catch that laugh
and carry it home in your chest.

If you miss it, don’t panic.
The floorboards will teach you how to wait.

through glasses 
of oscilloscope memories, 
filaments color in edges 
as hindsight playbills 
Broadway me, 
cast as Gertrude Stein in twelfth grade, 
misled gene editing me, 
teal-lensed & pale & folded 

into awkward adaptations, 
basketball me, off-key Yiddish soprano, 
courtyard garden watercolor me, 
double-speed podcast addict street crosser, 
nibbler of flamed crème brûlée in Champs-Élysées bars, 
Kilimanjaro hiker me, braver of storms,
reckless shopping spree me, 
imbiber of Spanish dialects, 
globe trotter in Europe, 
connoisseur cultural chameleon me,
bruised-kneed rock climber me in Florida. 

Twist the kaleidoscope to contemplate  
tireless Gusher nosher on speedboats me
architecting splintered hatches  
out of bulldozed cities,
a wasteland infected 
by self-consuming viruses 
weighty with want, 
liminal me
hobbling in quicksand,
self-refugee null of nuclei,
vindictive accretion of numbness, 
Kafka prima donna me,
scrunchies of sympathetic nerves,
designer of variations thrown 
against blood-thirsty once upon a time wallpaper.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! It’s time for that treasured and timeless test, Where Will You Wind Up?”

These words pelt Ryan’s ears, followed by a cacophony of roars, tinks, and claps. What the hell is going on?

Ryan remembers the crash. The stomach-somersaulting collision before an oncoming car pulverized his ankles, before the steering column punched through his chest, before he died. But until three seconds ago, he assumed the bright aura overwhelming his vision led to paradise.

Nope. Stage lights. Under which, a man (at least, he looks like a man) stands. Hair carved from mahogany and suit crisp as scorched bacon. Impossibly tall, teeth impossibly white, he gestures from behind a podium to a crowd Ryan can’t see. “Yes, ladies and lads, giants and germs, it’s the gem of intergalactic game shows. For those who just entered existence, or my single-celled celebrators who lack the capacity to recall, I am your humble yet honored host, Vinal Verisimilitude. And on this auspicious occasion, we are here to find out the fate of…”

This guy–Vinal, apparently–flicks a hand in Ryan’s direction. Tugs on his immaculate collar, grave-black eyes a shove rather than a nudge.

“Oh, uh, what? Me?” Ryan taps his chest. Peers beyond the lights. But no matter how hard he squints, he can’t spot those responsible for the mounting giggles. “I’m Ryan. Ryan Klein. But I don’t know what’s happening. Could you–”

“Excellent enunciation! Let’s not linger. Through a series of serious yet silly pursuits, utilizing your undeniable ingenuity, you will determine your destiny. Are you prepared to play?”

“What? No.” Only after his eyes adjust does Ryan realize he’s standing on a platform in front of his own mini podium. Buzzer in hand and, if he’s not mistaken, surrounded by nothing but gaping space. Stars glittering underfoot, planets in the distance, and scant inches separating him from oblivion.

Throughout his life, Ryan never made a fuss. Think things through, then act. That was his motto. But with the universe nipping at his heels and the rumbling audience, Ryan’s heart lodges in his throat. Short-circuits his brain. “What the hell is going on here? Am I dead? Is this a dream? Answer me!”

But Vinal’s sleek voice continues to boom. “Alright all, let’s lock in. First and foremost, we have a little look into our captivated contestant’s childhood. Please settle your senses upon the screen.”

What screen he’s talking about, Ryan can’t say. Until a throb begins behind his eyes. Expanding, blossoming, cracking. “Ah! Stop!” Pain rivaling the moment his skull ricocheted off the dashboard, beams radiate from Ryan’s head and morph into an undulating screen.

Ryan. Helping a frog with a broken leg, only for it to die in a shoebox under his bed.

Ryan. Spitting vitriol at Karen Ollis because she couldn’t afford new shoes.

Ryan. Sneaking a twenty and a cigarette out of his mother’s purse.

Ryan, Ryan, Ryan.

Vinal hisses air in through his teeth, accompanied by slurps and grumblings from the crowd. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. That wasn’t necessarily nice, now was it? Show us the scores!”

Brain piecing itself back together, Ryan hears a lilting ding. Leans over, cautious of the platform’s unprotected edge. “Wait, what? I have negative 174,586 points?”

“You are correct, my competing companion!” With a laugh like an ingrown toenail, Vinal waves at the crowd. “But there’s a chance to change. Now it’s time for…” While Vinal mimes a drumroll, metallic creaking prowls from the sidelines into Ryan’s brainstem. “The Big Time Barter!”

Voices, if one can call them that, join in the chant. Some jagged and mechanical, others ethereal and mellifluous. Unfazed by Ryan’s befuddled O of a mouth, Vinal presses on. “For this amazing assessment, you shall surrender a section of your soul. Pick a percentage.”

“A percentage of what?”

“Your questionably qualified quintessence, of course!” Smile twisted by fangs and, if Ryan isn’t mistaken, delight; Vinal chuckles until the floor shivers. “So what shall the sacrifice be? Ten percent? Twenty? Three hundred and thirty three?”

Eyes pinging off starlight, Ryan mumbles, “Um…I don’t know. Fifty percent?”

Vinal rummages in his pocket. “If you say so, my supercilious sidekick!” Producing a coin, Vinal’s thumb hoists it into the air. Instead of spinning end over end and landing with a clink and a decision, the metal sphere hovers. A voice seeping from within.

“Ryan! Ryan, what are you doing? Stop it! I said no!”

Ice coats Ryan’s entrails. Susan Meyers. Sophomore year. Over the decades, the memory mutated. Became a misunderstanding fueled by booze and the follies of youth. But here, in front of the jeering audience, Susan speaks from the coin and speaks the truth.

“Aw, too tragic!” Vinal boasts, capturing the coin and whisking it into his jacket. “Seems our guest was more gruesome than gallant. Let’s move on to the Morality Matters Matrix!”

Before a question can flee Ryan’s lips, he’s sitting in a padded armchair. Same ugly, washed out floral pattern as the one in his aunt’s house. But bizarre furniture or no, the maw of space threatens Ryan’s periphery. Vinal, perched upon a luxurious leather wingback, is undaunted by the possibility of toppling into nothingness as he consults his note cards. “Ryan, as outlined in the official orders, I will read the required query and you will have two minutes to retort.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ryan cranes his neck back, but the twinkles scattered through an ebony sky provide no answers. “What question? Why are you doing this to me?”

Lights lower and the audience ooh’s. Ryan can almost make them out. Figures and shapes with too many limbs, not enough humanity. All churning in anticipation.

“Ryan, were you to witness an injustice, would you be inclined to intervene?”

Blinking, Ryan swallows past the tumbleweed in his desert esophagus. “Oh, uh…yeah. I mean, of course. Who wouldn’t?”

“Time for our valuable viewers to vote.” Vinal flashes his dragon’s grin at the audience. “Valorous or Villainous?”

BOOOOONG! Vibrating into Ryan’s bones, a red dot pulses above his head and Vinal’s deadened laugh rings out. “Aha, I see we’re living alongside a liar!”

“No, no, that’s not true!” Ryan attempts to stand, but vines spiral out from the hideous flower fabric of the chair and hold him fast. “I would! I would help, I swear!”

Lights flicker. Audience silent. Vinal leans close, closer. “Is that a fact, my fated friend?” Voice a razor and eyes aflame, he taps the top of Ryan’s head. Opening the projector and closing his chances for bliss.

As much as Ryan doesn’t want to remember this day, he can’t forget. Not

with Vinal and the spectators and–hell, probably even the infinite abyss– watching. 

The clomping boots still invaded his dreams. A team of men, all carrying gunmetal bouquets. Dragging a woman out by her ankles. Ignoring her pleas in Spanish and her daughter’s reaching fingers. Prying her from the place she called home because of the color of her skin.

Ryan told himself they were just doing their jobs. That others were recording, would report. But in quiet moments, remorse gnawed at his gut. Why didn’t he do something? Say something?

Those same questions exit Vinal’s mouth. Seared by his stare, Ryan hangs his head. “I don’t know. I guess I was a coward. I thought it was more important to stay out of the way than do the right thing.” When tears sprang from his eyes, he doesn’t know. But Ryan wipes them away and mutters, “Dear God, what have I done?”

An ulcerating laugh sizzles through Ryan’s shame. “Oh my foolish friend, there is no God.” Red-faced, Ryan peers up, aghast. But Vinal elbows him and chuckles. “Just joshing you, jeez. There’s a glorious God. She just doesn’t give a damn about despicable demons like you.”

While Vinal’s mirth soaks the interstellar studio, Ryan can’t bear to check his score. He knows.

“Alright, now for the final round of our fair festivities!”

Again, Ryan materializes behind his small podium. Before him, a wall ripples and stretches into kaleidoscopic colors and blurred lines.

“Three different doors, one conscious choice.” Vinal sidles up to Ryan, arm dense meat around his shoulder. “You may doom yourself to dwell among the Damned, you may relinquish yourself to reincarnation, or you may be granted the gift of generous grace. Let’s see, you have…” Studying the score as if he doesn’t already possess all knowledge, Vinal nods. “Negative 519,739 points. With this tragically terrible tally, you have a single selection.”

Hurled by Vinal’s unyielding hand, Ryan takes a step, another. Reincarnation doesn’t sound so bad. Neither does grace. But what does he deserve?

Ryan walks to the center door. Grasps the knob. Inhales.

Darkness beckons, Ryan’s whisper a faint mist on the surface of his shame. “I’m sorry.”

my body is an empty train station
early in the morning late at night
it’s hard to tell in the dark with
my form   shadow    ever-changing
optical illusion    you squint your eyes

people passengers    here for a ride
they may know me for a time    they may
hold me close   lick me   spit   grab   tear clothes
press open kisses to   warm neck   mouth   hair but

when the sun rises I’ll melt into the dawn
and they’ll forget I was there    dripping morning
dew   sticky    wet    sweat   gleam   they’ll wake up and
      remember the taste
but not the dream

Hello! Thank you for calling the Interdimensional Relocation Hotline. This call may be recorded for quality assurance purposes.
            For English, press one.
            Para Español, pulse dos.
            For the Forgotten Tongue of the Great Cosmic Wanderers, press three.
            Para portugués, pulse cuatro.

You have selected “English.” Let’s begin with some brief affirmations.
           There is nothing wrong with your life.
You are as real as the air you breathe.
The individuals who tell you that they love you mean it, in some way or another.
Transcendence begins when the spiritual meets the mundane.
There is probably nothing living under your skin — besides yourself, of course.

Would you still like to continue the Interdimensional Relocation process?

You have opted to continue the Interdimensional Relocation process. Please select which of the following most describes your current emotional state.
            For Fear, press one.
            For Hope, press two.
            For Depression, press three.
            For Dissatisfaction, press four.
            For Wanderlust, press five.

You have selected “Fear.” Do you feel as if a powerful entity is currently pursuing you and/or closing in on your location within this dimension?

Just to confirm, a powerful entity is currently pursuing you and/or closing in on your location within this dimension, yes?

Okay. Thank you. Let’s narrow down your experience so as to provide with you the best possible Interdimensional Relocation services.
            If you saw an angel at the corner of Times Square on a rainy June evening, press one.
            If you saw an angel outside of the Whole Foods Market in Belmont, Michigan, press two.
            If you saw a state or federal legislator remove the false skin disguising their reptilian body, press three.
            If they were a member of the Green Party, press four.
            If you were abducted by a UFO and managed to escape, press five.
            If, before you escaped, the aliens allowed you to briefly pilot the UFO, press six.
            If it actually wasn’t that dissimilar from driving stick in your dad’s 1998 Toyota Tacoma and they allowed you to pilot the UFO for a sustained period of time before you escaped, press seven.
            If a blackjack dealer at your local casino dealt you an Ace of Souls, press eight.
            If your dog led you to a ring of mushrooms in the junkyard near your childhood home and told you something that he was absolutely not supposed to tell you, press —

Okay. Thank you. If it is safe for you to do so, please describe exactly what your dog told you.

Alright. I just have a few more questions to determine if our Interdimensional Relocation process is a viable option for you.

Please look out your window towards the singular streetlamp on your cul-de-sac. Can you see a figure standing within the lamp’s narrow cone of amber light, as if waiting for you? 

Okay. I will now route you to one of customer service representatives. Thank you for calling the Interdimensional Relocation Hotline.

 —

Are you still there? Great, good.

So, you got into some water, eh? Need to get out dodge, so to speak?

No, don’t tell me the specifics. I don’t want to know and it’ll only make this process more difficult. You explained it during the phone tree, right? Then it’s already on file.

It sounds like you’re a hot case, pal. Like time’s probably running out. Let me guess, there’s a figure beneath the streetlamp across from your window?

No, don’t tell me anything else.

Okay. Alright. Gimme a second here to type some things in.

…

Okay… I think I got this set up. I just have to read this next part to you, for legal reasons.

…

If you choose to continue the Interdimensional Relocation process, your stream of consciousness will be transferred to an alternate dimension that may vary substantially from the one you’ve come to know. We will try to match you with the dimension that most closely mirrors your own, but there will likely be inconsistencies in the behaviors of the people you love, the branding of products you enjoy, and the historical foundations of political systems you’re accustomed to. You must not acknowledge any of these inconsistencies. You will be monitored and if you fail to maintain discretion in regards to the Interdimensional Relocation process, we reserve the right to transfer your stream of consciousness back to your original dimension regardless of any potential harm that may risk for you.

Okay. Say “yes” to acknowledge that I read you that.

…

Cool. One more thing, and I don’t have to tell you this but I feel like you ought to know, but the Interdimensional Relocation process is essentially a swap. We’ll take your stream of consciousness and put it into a body resembling yours in another dimension, and the stream of consciousness in that body will be moved into yours in this dimension. Get it?

So, whatever problem you're facing here becomes theirs.

…

I don’t know, man. I’m a customer services representative, not an ethics professor. How badly do you want to get out of this situation?

Yeah. Okay. That’s what I thought. Let’s start the process, then.

Go ahead  and get dressed if you aren’t already. No, you cannot leave any goodbye notes or make any calls. This is it.

Go outside.

…

Are you in your backyard now? Good. Lay down in the grass. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes and feel this Earth cradle your bodyweight. It’s the last time you ever will.

Open your eyes. Do you see the stars?

Count them. Start with the brightest and work your way one-by-one through the night sky. Say goodbye to each of them.

…

 Thank you for calling the Interdimensional Relocation Hotline.

Safe travels, pal.

—

Hi. Welcome to your new home.

I know, I know. You didn’t sign up for this. You don’t know what’s going on. You’re scared.

Listen, there’s a figure under the lamplight across the street. They’re coming for you, but don’t worry. I’ll tell you what to do next.

I ran my hands all over the walls of this house
looking for something to give my name to.

In all my dreams you are a cactus
standing motionless in the desert.
A red flower in your mouth, in each ear
arms akimbo.

My big red river,
what have I done to make you hide from me?

You said you would build me a house out of this earth
cemented with the spit on your hands
big woven rug, a television.

I painted your shadow backward and
it walked out of the frame without saying a word.

Go, go back to the land now
cross the border.
I will wash you down with roiling spools of rain.

Take the burnt umber
tumbleweed flung through it
take the ochre.

I pull light from the skin of things.

Leave me green
cross that border.
I will need it again come springtime.

Nothing to say that hasn’t been said already.

When everything blooms at once
the road, the rocks, the telephone poles

I wake up with sand in my mouth.

Learning to remember your dreams is a bit like learning to ride a bike. It takes a lot longer though. And you don’t have any stabilizers to help you figure it out.

I think part of the difficulty is that you only get to practice once a day. You get woken up in the morning, you scramble to remember as much as you can from the night before, inevitably realize you’ve already forgotten most of it, and then you’ve got another sixteen hours to wait until you can try again.

You’ve got to start small. Ask yourself: what was the weather like? Was it day, or night? Were you alone? Or was there someone else there with you?

Then, after a while, you’ll wake up holding onto tiny fragments from the dream. They might be colors, sounds, or maybe even a feeling (if you’re lucky). They’re like shards from a beautiful stained glass window that gets shattered every time you get woken up. On their own, they’re almost meaningless—but collect enough of them and piece them together in the right way, and you can start making sense of it all.

I don’t think it was always this hard to remember my dreams. Actually, it’s been so long, I barely remember what it feels like to dream naturally. They probably give us something to make it harder to remember our dreams in here. I think they’d have to—otherwise, pretty quickly we’d notice that the dreams we have here aren’t natural at all.

A few years of practice later, you might have collected enough fragments to identify your anchor. I call it an anchor because, once you see it, once you feel that connection you have to it, it suddenly becomes easier to bring memories back into the waking world with you. Discovering your anchor is like that brilliant moment everything clicks and you realise you’re actually riding a bike the way it was meant to be done: you can control it, ride it for as long as you want, use it to go anywhere you can imagine.

Your anchor is the single constant that they put in all of your dreams—it’s there in every single one, even if it’s hiding in the corner of your eye. Everyone has a different anchor. For some people, it’s an emotion: a complex one, like fury or jealousy or greed. For others, it’s a more literal object: like a house, a car, or a weapon.

But for me: it’s him.

He’s always there, somewhere. Sometimes he’s looking for me too; other times, he doesn’t know me at all. I take my rusty old bike and ride it over the infinite landscape of my dreams, searching for him, finding him, every time, without fail.

We treasure the little time that we have each night—and the more I practice, the more control I have over the dream. We live out entire lives together in a matter of seconds. We grow old together, die together, then rediscover each other all over again. We choose each other every time. I don’t let anything stand in our way.

And then I’m woken up. The stained glass lives that we’ve spent together are shattered into pieces once again. His face becomes blurred, his features unclear in my waking mind—but I know he’s still there, waiting for me to find him again.

“Good morning,” a synthetic voice echoes through a speaker. “Your reoffending risk score for the crime of: First Degree Moral Offence has been recalculated overnight. Your new score is: 100%. Your lowest score so far is: 100%. Your indefinite imprisonment will continue until your score reaches 0%.”

“Think on thy sins,” it commands.

I lie back on my cell bunk with a faint smile and begin the sixteen hour wait until I can see him again. I’m in no rush to leave. If I can’t spend a full lifetime with him on the outside, then I’ll settle for eight hours a night in here. I just have to wait.