I’d been running the machine for, oh, maybe a dozen years when Ang came in to check for a thing they were suspect of in her chest. “Routine,” I said, to make her feel better. But no one came in just for no reason. We were looking for the one big thing.

And I knew how to find it.

Little woman but the room changed as she walked in. Dark hair long that swayed and suddenly everything seemed brighter. First time in who knows how long I noticed the person before a scan.

She handed me her paperwork and I mumbled toward it, “What music you into? Jazz?” 

Better to maintain objectivity. 

She shrugged and I turned on some music as she lay in the machine.

“Just hold tight, ‘ll be over soon. Ten minutes max. Depending on how still you stay.”

She nodded.

It’s unmistakable to a trained eye, what we’re looking for. Dark masses. Vacuous spots where it looks like a piece of someone is missing.

Thing was, Ang’s body wouldn’t take on the image. Just wouldn’t read right. Even when she stayed still, the whole of her was a blur. Over and within her, an apparition, light, showed on the screen. Three times I tried and the ghost kept dancing, glitching out.

I’d never seen this in an image. My scan, like all the others who had the one big thing, looked like craters on the screen. Conclusive.

“Sorry,” I said through the mic. “A minute.” I ran diagnostics on the machine. All clear.

We’d been instructed not to panic in the case of irregularity. Not to read into it. 

And yet.

She winced. “What’s wrong?”

I could feel my voice shake over the machine’s hum. “Let’s try one more time.”

Her face softened and she held her breath. I pressed scan again.

The machine pulsed on. Again, the image everywhere seemed filled with light. No layers of tissue. No grey spaces where the air should fill her lungs. No deep dark craters. 

She got dressed. “You see anything?”

I pressed print and handed her the paper: Inconclusive.

I hoped she found the hope in this. She could live a life without the knowing. So beautiful where there are no answers. No name for what you have. Or are.

She looked down at it. “So what now? I just go somewhere else? Try again?” 

“Honestly?” I leaned into her. “I’m pretty sure it’ll show up the same way anywhere.”

“So then, what is it?”

I moved closer, closer. I could see something in her eyes then. An extra light. The apparition alive from within her. Like she had a doubled soul.

“What is it they sent you in for?” I said.

“A pain they couldn’t find a why for. I feel it though.” She put her palm on her chest. “Here.”

I reached my hand over, gentle, like touching the surface tension of a pool of pretty waters without making it break. Then, just an inch or so over her skin, there was a spark. A field. An edge to her. A magnetism.

“That,” she said.

She looked into me. Her eyes were backlit like she held a star inside. If it were the one big thing in her, she’d be empty and sinking. I knew that cold gravity. I felt the thing in me pressing against my bones.

But Ang glowed. An extra life in her light. Inconclusive.

“I feel it,” I said. I did. 

“Thank you.” She broke and crashed, crying. “I just needed to know it was real.”

If I had more days to give. Weeks to check on her records. If I could give her only this. 

“It’s real,” I said. “You’re real.”

Dana Jaye Cadman is a poet, writer, and artist. Her work recently appears or is forthcoming in Conduit Magazine, Four Way Review, The Glacier, Third Coast Magazine, and elsewhere. She is Assistant Professor and Director of Creative Writing at Pace University, Pleasantville. See more at danajaye.com.

My name is Baron Karl von Drais, and I aim to purge the horse from history.

I’ve got just the thing to do it, too.

But more on that in a moment.

First.

Horses: vile, repulsive, odorous beasts. There is no word strong enough for these devils. They foul our streets with their swamp-like waste and they toxify our already-charged atmosphere with their nasty temperaments. Horses are without virtue. A horse cannot love you. A horse cannot be tamed. A horse feels no pity when it flings you from its back.

So I shall bring the time of the horse to its end.

As I write this, the quill trembles in my hand and plops of my sweat dot this yellowed parchment. Two empty chairs sit across from me. One vacated willingly. The other unwillingly. The unwilling chair is a wooden child’s stool, with its seat removed. The seat is now outside, attached to my invention, baking in the hot German sun.

In this way, my boy will accompany me on my first ride.

In a few short moments, I will perform an inaugural journey from my home here in Mannheim to the Schwetzinger switch house. A nine-mile round trip.

I will complete this trek in mere minutes.

I will enlist the help of no odorous, dangerous beasts.

My journey will be a horseless one.

I will commit the journey on a transport of my own invention. A laufmaschine. A running machine. The English call it a draisine. I’m partial to the French term: draisienne.

My draisienne is unlike a horse in every conceivable way. My draisienne has carriage wheels for legs. My draisienne has no bones nor meat nor sinew; she is housed in a clean, wooden frame. My draisienne does not respond to prodding ankles in the ribs; her back wheel halts with the simple pull of a cord. My draisienne does not produce excrement, nor flatulence, nor snorts. My draisienne is silent as a windless night. She is cool to the touch, as willow bark in the shade. My draisienne is safe. If one were to fall from her seat, the distance would be inches, not feet. The draisienne will not continue running if she leaves a small broken body behind her on the pavement. My draisienne will slow to a stop if there is no one to propel her forward.

My draisienne will not wander. She yearns not for food nor drink nor company. My draisienne will not leave me, even should we encounter tragedy together.

My draisienne exists for one purpose.

To expedite my travel to Schwetzinger switch house.

I hear the crowd outside growing restless.

I am aware that there are those who oppose me. Old women in the town call me a scoundrel and a cur as I go to retrieve my mail. Children throw their apples at me, saying they’ll soon have extras, won’t they, if I get my way. Anonymous threats have been made against my life. I find their scrawled notes slipped under my doorframe every morning.

Man’s connection to horse is a strong one. I admit this. The bond will not be severed overnight. But severed it must be. However painful it is for us as a society, our reliance on horses cannot be sustained.

Our lives are being poisoned by these wretched creatures. Every day, our bronchi blacken further due to the fumes of their waste polluting our streets. These beasts do not care for us. They dirty our earth and disrupt our lives with their recklessness. They cast off what is most dear to us. Our children. They fracture families. They have no awareness. They have no remorse. They snort and they piss and they chomp their apple slices.

So, their time has come. If, in one hundred years’ time, the metropolises of the world are overrun with horse ghosts, my mission today will have been a success. Horse ghosts are unobtrusive and clean.

Despite knowing it is time to go, I must admit, I cannot stop my hand from shaking. My heart performs a tremolo against my sternum.

One final thought.

If I were truly confident what I was doing was a simple matter, that rendering the horse obsolete as a being would right the tragedies of my past, and set me on a course for contentment… If I were confident in this, would my brow now be as damp as it is? Would my breathing be so shallow?

Strike that.

There is no room for doubt on the narrow path of progress. There is no estate reserved for reminiscing. If uncertainty creeps in, if melancholy threatens, well.

I’ll simply push the carriage wheels beneath me to go faster.

Andrew Graham Martin’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, MoonPark Review, Post Road, SmokeLong Quarterly, X-R-A-Y Lit Mag, and elsewhere. He lives in Indianapolis, Indiana.

Dadoo is his name. He arrived on our doorstep after a storm. Hat crooked, coat unbuttoned. Told us he was our Dadoo. You mean father? we asked, unsure, and he nodded, repeated Dadoo.

Dadoo crawled into our house, and we let him, because we were in need of a father, and what were we to do, when one miraculously appeared, but let him in and thank our lucky stars.

As we were thanking our stars—Philip, the brightest, and Marigold, shy, flickering—Dadoo slithered toward us, in between us, and shut the window. Bedtime? we asked. He nodded.

We did it, my brother whispered. All the wishing, wondering, waiting. We did, I agreed.

Dadoo woke us for school by cuckooing like a rooster, cuckooing until our eyes adjusted to the morning light, and our ears to the sound. Is this what a father sounds like? We looked at one another, my brother and I, then at Dadoo, his head tilted toward the ceiling. Yes, my brother and I decided, this is a father.

For the time he was with us, which, admittedly, wasn’t long, Dadoo was focused, determined to raise us. After waking, he scoured the kitchen for breakfast food then watched us eat. Watched us crunch each bite. Watched our jaws churn the food. Watched our throats carry it down to our stomachs.

We weren’t sure he was our father, exactly. We weren’t even sure he was human. He appeared to us more creature-like, but we accepted him just the same. We accepted when we got home from school and found him crawling up and down the walls, opening his mouth and shooting out his tongue, catching flies and swallowing them.

Dadoo is marvelous! we clapped.

The marvels were unceasing. When he ripped our front door off its hinges and held it over his head, we applauded. We watched him carry it down to the beach and looked at each other, my brother and I, knowing what our father was trying to tell us, what he was trying to teach us, so viscerally—to be open, to let people in. And we would, we would try. We would have to, now that we had no front door.

He broke us down again—this time the entire back wall of the house. Carried the wall down to the beach as we clapped. We knew what this meant—we admitted to ourselves, my brother and I, that we knew. That sometimes, as Dadoo so eloquently demonstrated, you have to look back. The past has shaped us and, sometimes, we must look back.

Thank you, Dadoo, we said to him as he scurried back into the residence. It was cold without the back wall of our house, but the past can be cold.

As he put us to bed, for the fifth night, our beloved Dadoo ripped off the sheets, first from my brother’s bed, then mine. He bundled the sheets in his arms and stormed off with them.

My brother and I gazed at each other from our respective beds. Yes, we said to each other with our eyes, we must take off our protective layerings and expose ourselves to life.

We woke to the sound of distant cuckoos. We hurried awake like Christmas morning, excited to find where our Dadoo was hiding, what lessons he would teach us today. In our pajamas, we ran down the stairs and out the hole where our front door used to be.

There he is! My brother pointed.

We went hand in hand to the shore and saw Dadoo standing on the back wall of our house, the front door propped up atop it, our sheets billowing like a sail.

Dadoo has made a boat! We clapped at this lesson, unsure what it meant. We watched Dadoo push his house boat into the water. We watched as the ocean took him in its arms, watched as he waved at us. We waved back. The greatest lesson of all, my brother and I agreed—letting go.

Goodbye Dadoo, whispered my brother. All the wishing, wondering, waiting. Goodbye, I agreed.

After trying and failing to swim out to him, we really let go. My brother and I cried into each other, sand crabs biting at our toes. A big sand crab crawled up my leg, and my brother snatched it up. We looked into its eyes, its monster sand crab eyes, so familiar, so distant, so longing. Mother? we asked the crab.

Skyler Melnick has an MFA in fiction from Columbia University. She writes about sisters playing catch with their grandfather’s skull, headless towns, and mildewing mothers. Her work has appeared in Pinch, HAD, Scoundrel Time, Terrain, and elsewhere. She was also awarded 1st place in Fractured Literary‘s 2024 “Ghost, Fable, and Fairy Tales” contest.

They say hello to me, I say hello back although I don’t know them, nor do they know me. How well I look, I lost weight haven’t I, they say, even though it’s the first time they see me. They send their greetings to my sister and ask me to convey them to her. We look a lot alike, they say, even though I only have a brother. Our parents know each other, they insist, they’ve been neighbors, even though we grew up in different cities. They ask how much time I spent in Madrid, even though I have never been to Madrid. They say they saw me strolling in the park, even though I was at home, they say they saw me on the street with a stranger with his arm around my waist and he looked at me with love in his eyes, who is this stranger, tell us about him, even though no one put his arms around my waist and no one looked at me with love in his eyes. Only a stranger, I reply, after all it’s probably a stranger. I spoke engagingly on the radio, they say, even though I never was on the radio. They bring me layered honey cake because they think I like it and offer me a spritzer to return the favor from last time, but I have no idea what they are talking about. They read what I had posted on my message board, what post, I ask. They liked the photo series about me, they can’t recall the name of the magazine, I should remind them which one, it appeared a few weeks ago. Sometimes I just keep nodding when they tell me what a nice chat we had last time, even though it’s the first time I’ve met them, and I only turn in their direction by mistake when they shout her name. By the way, her name really suits me, it’s not my fault that it’s not mine. When I tell them that it wasn’t me, they get confused, leave me quietly while whispering something to their friends while looking at me, or start laughing and say how funny I am. Sometimes they get embarrassed and apologize. I assure them that I am often mistaken for her. They accept this and from then on keep their distance. They say I gave a beautiful rendition of that song, and I only nod. They ask me to sing something, and I have to come up with different excuses, for example, I say that I can only sing on Saturdays or on Mondays, if it happens to be Saturday. Sometimes I apologize when I tell them that they have mistaken me for her, and they answer that it’s no problem. Sometimes I wish I liked jazz, then I would enjoy this concert to which they invited me because I supposedly liked jazz and the pianist. Sometimes they’re right about what I like and at those times I let them mistake me for her. For example, if they bring me a cinnamon bun, I thank them and eat it, or when they take me to a place where I really want to go. I promise to write a song about them, it will be on my next album. They go home and anxiously wait for the album while telling everyone that a song will be written about them.

Anita Harag was born in Budapest in 1998. After finishing her first degree in literature and ethnology, she completed her graduate studies in Indian Studies. Her first short stories that appeared in magazines earned her several literary awards and prizes. In 2020, she was the winner of the Margó Prize, awarded to the best first-time fiction author of the year for her volume of short stories, Rather Cool for the Time of the Year. Her second volume of short stories, including this one, came out in September 2023.

Walter Burgess and Marietta Morry are both Canadian, and they translate contemporary fiction from Hungarian. In addition to stories by Ms. Harag (ten of which have been published), they also translate fiction by Gábor T. Szántó, Péter Moesko, Zsófia Czakó and András Pungor. Many of these translations have appeared in literary reviews in North America and abroad, including The Stinging Fly, The New England Review, The Southern Review, and Ploughshares. Szántó’s book, 1945 and Other Stories (six of the eight stories being translated by them), was published in May 2024.

James is main boy.

Atwood is second main boy.

Tomothy is neither tall nor short, but a secret third thing. He is also third main boy.

Notch is forth, but only in maths.

Frau Gruber is not a boy at all, but serves us supper and consoles us after exams.

Frail Misty is my secret love. The headmaster’s youngest daughter. I must not admit to this in public. And neither is she in the ranking of main boys.

Danovan is headmaster’s favorite although he is not even in the top ten of main boys.

Rickan was once main boy, but no longer. He has fallen out of favor. For shame, Rickan.

Mark and Other Mark are fine friends who care not for rankings. I celebrate them.

Welsh Jonathan admitted to loving Frail Misty last year, during the Feast of St. George, and he has not been the since same. The same since. Poor, unfortunate Welsh Jonathan. He is sixteenth main boy and shan’t rise any higher.

Hankus was the main boy in the 1932/33 term. He lives in the dream attic.

On Walking Day, Chauncey becomes main boy for exactly three hours and may do as he pleases.

On Whitsunday there is no main boy. There must never be a main boy on Whitsundays.

All headmasters were once main boys. This is known as The Main Boy’s Curse.

Despite all headmasters having once been main boys, not all main boys go on to become headmaster. We have asked both Professor Steinmetz, our maths tutor, and our own Notch whether this is representative of contraposition or modus tollens, but have received no satisfactory answer.

Ex. “If it is raining, then we shall not play bowls,” therefore “if we are not playing bowls, then it is raining.”

Yet this cannot be true. We do not play bowls frequently. Or more correctly, we frequently do not play bowls. Such as on Whitsunday last, when the sun shone brilliantly and yet there we were once again not playing bowls.

The bowls pitch is named after James’s grandfather who in his day was also main boy, but never became headmaster.

As Secretary of Boy Rankings I am tasked with compiling this record. I am told it is an honor to do this, that Secretary of Boy Rankings is an honorable position. But I must admit that it does not feel honorable. The Secretary of Boy Rankings is exempted from appearing on the list and this feels to me as though I am not a part of my own life. That I am at best an observer, perhaps. A Recording Angel. I find this quite upsetting despite being treated by the other boys with all deference due my position.

Despite being exempt, I believe I would very much like to hold a position in the rankings. Though not the position of main boy with all its attendant pressure and responsibilities. But to appear somewhere on this list, to have my own name put down here so that it will not be lost to history. Our bodies fade, our contemporaries die, even our eventual children will pass from this Earth, and one day the last person to remember any of us will also cease to exist. But to be on the list of boy rankings is to live on. It is to not be forgotten.

Logic deserts us all, in the end. Frequently. Poor Notch. Poor Mr. Steinmetz.

Holm is final boy. In the end, he shall outlast us all. He shall be the last person to keep us in living memory. Long after we are gone, he shall be mute uncomprehending witness to horrors the rest of us can scarce now imagine.

But, oh Holm. Oh, friend Holm. Remember me well. I beg you. Not as a Secretary or Recording Angel, but as a mere boy who lived and played bowls and wrote letters to his sister and looked forward to Whitsundays and communed with Hankus in the dream attic and asks you now for one final kindness.

Poor Holm. Poor glorious Holm.

Oh, Frau Gruber. What is to be done? I am in need of your consolations, I think.

Tack is the median boy, appearing exactly midway on my list. He is exemplary at nothing, but well-liked by all. Spoken ill of by none. Kudos, Tack. Well done. Well done.

Andreas Trolf is a writer and director living in New York. His fiction has been published in Joyland, The Cincinnati Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. He is also the co-creator and writer of the Emmy-nominated Nickelodeon series Sanjay and Craig.