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.

You tell me not to come, but I’m already in the car. You’re cursing under the sound of the ignition and heater starting and I’m switching on the radio, flicking through the stations, stopping on a Queen song, hoping you’ll shout out the lyrics and forget about shouting at me. My seat warmer’s on and it usually comforts me like a cup of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom, but all it does now is make me feel more shit. I don’t deserve Bohemian Rhapsody, I don’t deserve a warm back, and I sure as hell don’t deserve you. Because as soon as I felt love, I pushed and pushed, and fucked around until I discovered the terms that made our bond conditional. I turn off the seat warmer and pull my sweatshirt, then my tee shirt, over my head, trampling them with my combat boots. I’m sitting beside you in my burgundy bra, and you act as though you don’t notice, stare straight at the road ahead and nothing else. When we first started dating a year ago when we were juniors, that would have worked, you would have parked at the side of the road and turned to me and I would have climbed across the center console and onto your lap. That was before what I did with Tyler though. It will be harder to make you care now, or—terrifying to think it—impossible. I roll down my window and stick my bare arm out, the wind slapping against it. I glance your way, but you don’t flinch, your eyes still on the dark road that stretches longer than patience. I’m hanging out of the window now, the wind whipping against my stomach, my chest, and I’m yelling the words of a prayer my mother taught me, out into the woods for the squirrels and birds to listen to because you’re acting as though you can’t hear me at all. THE LORD IS MY PROTECTOR AND HE OFFERS ME FORGIVENESS AND LOVE. You twist the volume dial and Freddy Mercury bellows the lyrics over me and my prayers and I’m pine needle-small, pebble-small, so I whisper your name instead, laced with a string of futile words. You park at the mouth of a trail and I get out, step through the teeth of it, away from my sweater, my shirt, your car, you—eyes closed, head resting against your steering wheel, and I’m running, running, running through the thick underbrush you will refuse to chase me through. And the further I sprint the less I care.

Marie Hoy-Kenny attended the University of Toronto, where she earned her bachelor of arts in English, and professional writing and communication. Her work has been published in several literary magazines, including trampset, Cosmonauts Avenue, and FlashBack Fiction. Her debut novel, THE GIRL FROM HUSH CABIN, was published by Blackstone Publishing in 2023.

Mary was the first to do it. She used silver thread, and we admired the biblical resonance of her name, her tight straight stitch. She started with the left eye, at the corner away from her nose. It was painful and messy, the needle threading through eyelid, but eventually the blood dried, and there she was in our high school hallways, eyes stitched closed.

After that, it was a new girl every day. You could tell who was new by the crust of red at the stitches, by their bumbling walk and their reaching for every wall.

The boys wrote us off. They said there wasn’t anything political about it. It was just the latest fashion. They opened doors for us, guided us from one classroom to the next. They read our homework aloud and cooked us afternoon snacks: rice with broccoli or macaroni and cheese, whatever they liked to eat.

We had told them about the ways the world worked for us, about our bodies and how they felt always on display, too big or too small, too easy to comment on or whistle at, how some boys didn’t listen when we said no or stop or leave me alone. These boys we told: they ignored us too.

So we no longer watched their football games or returned their smiles from across a room. We stopped shopping at the mall. We wore sweatpants and tee-shirts and never any makeup. The boys said things to us like, You’re really letting yourselves go. And we smiled and noticed the different shades of light that danced upon our eyelids.

We learned to do tasks alone, to take care of our own needs, our own wants. We began to question the need for boys at all. We stopped dating them, began to find pleasure in each other—our bodies smooth and desirous, our laughter light and ringing in our ears.

Eventually, the principal got involved. There were too many girls with too many needs. He persuaded our parents that if our behavior continued, we wouldn’t go to college or find jobs. We wouldn’t get husbands and make babies. Too much thinking, he insisted, is not good for a developing brain.

Our parents agreed. They crept into our rooms at night and ripped out our threads stitch-by-stitch. We protested of course, but slowly, we woke up to see again. Except: there was nothing we could fully recognize from before.

We could see, but it was as if we were seeing for the first time. We saw each other most distinctly. Our limbs and waists and faces. Beautiful, we told the world. And we wanted to look at each other all day. So we did. We looked and looked until Mary took out her needle and thread again. Nobody’s listening to us anyway, she said, and then she stitched her top lip to her bottom lip and we followed, sealing our mouths shut.

Allison Field Bell is originally from northern California, but has spent most of her adult life in the desert. She is a PhD candidate in Prose at the University of Utah, and has an MFA in Fiction from New Mexico State University. Allison’s prose has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, DIAGRAM, The Adroit Journal, New Orleans Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. Her poems have appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Superstition Review, Palette Poetry, and elsewhere. Find her at allisonfieldbell.com.