03-18-2026, 05:51 PM
Soggy boy, she says, and he glances down at himself, at the puddles gathering around his feet. Where is the water coming from? Is it leeching out of his skin? He thinks of the sinking, not knowing that what it had truly been was drowning. He cannot see the algae in his mane, he cannot see the milky white eyes, he cannot smell the stench of death that follows him.
All he knows is that there are puddles growing at his feet. He frowns.
Soggy boy, she says, but she offers him her name all the same. Starboard. The name calls to mind the sky, the stars, but she looks a thing made for the water. He takes a step toward her. Only one at first and then another and another, growing bolder as the space between them shrinks. He has no reason to be bold, the boy. He is a frightful sight.
What should she call him? Soggy boy is as good a name as any, he thinks. It’s certainly fitting. He remembers, vaguely, what his father had said to his mother before he’d spirited him away to the pond in the forest. ‘I’ll take the son,’ he’d said. So the boy opens his mouth and tells her the first thing anyone had ever called him, “Son.”
It’s not a name, but he is either too young or too stupid to know that. He had not been worthy of a name, not the way his sister had been. He’d lived long enough to hear their mother press a name into his sister’s temple, but she had not offered him the same kindness. Neither had their father. Their father had merely taken him into the forest and let him drown.
“Am I dead?” he asks, tilting his head, because she looks a heavenly thing, even if her calling him ‘Soggy boy’ seemed almost cruel.
All he knows is that there are puddles growing at his feet. He frowns.
Soggy boy, she says, but she offers him her name all the same. Starboard. The name calls to mind the sky, the stars, but she looks a thing made for the water. He takes a step toward her. Only one at first and then another and another, growing bolder as the space between them shrinks. He has no reason to be bold, the boy. He is a frightful sight.
What should she call him? Soggy boy is as good a name as any, he thinks. It’s certainly fitting. He remembers, vaguely, what his father had said to his mother before he’d spirited him away to the pond in the forest. ‘I’ll take the son,’ he’d said. So the boy opens his mouth and tells her the first thing anyone had ever called him, “Son.”
It’s not a name, but he is either too young or too stupid to know that. He had not been worthy of a name, not the way his sister had been. He’d lived long enough to hear their mother press a name into his sister’s temple, but she had not offered him the same kindness. Neither had their father. Their father had merely taken him into the forest and let him drown.
“Am I dead?” he asks, tilting his head, because she looks a heavenly thing, even if her calling him ‘Soggy boy’ seemed almost cruel.
- SON
@Starboard