How It’s Named; Sonboy ~ fiction by Jim Meirose

Down to breakfast, sit. And late again, to boot. Ah, you and you, Sonboy—all you do is sleep on, and sleep on. But; how you got named—did we ever tell you how you got named, Sonboy? Did we? All spinning down from atop our attic apartments, it came. Listen. I am going to tell it again, Sonboy. It is clear you need to know it again.

Ready, Sonboy?

Oh, yes, oh. Please!

Good. Know how at dog pound, people say show me the dogs, ah, spin that roulette wheel after putting the money down?

I, no. Go on.

Well here’s how it is; okay, spin and spin, dogs after dog, slot after slot, dogs, slots, dogs, all whirl spinning ‘round, ‘round like everything’s a gamble, all Russian, all roulette, slide one bullet in this cage, slide two bullets in that cage—the steel ball bouncing ‘round the cagewhirls, slam the cylinder home, jump in bed, eck, eh let’s play baby, let’s play the odds, though it may be sickly dog after pound dog spin spinning spun, though it may be stillborn, the big chrome rattling rolling, bouncing steely cold silvery ball, pumping and pushing, ballspin may lose us our money eck, cock back the pistol, this cage, no next cage—though that next may turn out insane, spin this—push in baby, push this cage, no—though that one may be perfect, all next ones may be crippled, stunted, deformed, or worse—worse after all, push, pull, pound that dog this poison this persons or persons hey, uh, no—push this one hey, that poison, no—push the cold muzzle to your headbone, here she comes yes, no, this dog so fingerpull; coldsteel; closed eyes; here it comes; yes, yes, cock the cocked ballspin-bounce, and; let go—let it go—click it back—come inside. That one. There. That dog. Yes, push hard press the trigger come inside that one, and, click. What? And, the ball’s in which ballslot? Yes—thank God, oh. Something’s won lucky. Superheated fluid flow comes, sometimes known as the quench, you see, Sonboy—making that dog all creation of one boy—thank God, oh. Yes, how wonderful. Making that child—thank our sweet savior God, eh, ho, oh. Yes! How wonderful! Causing that pistol chamber to be—yes, praise God; empty. No, it’s not nothing too large, too evil, totally non-housebreakable or stinky, plus, praise God above, we get to live on, too; luckysmart honest healthy trainable fully formed perfectly perfect dog-baby, coupla’ bucks too perfectly trained, Jesus-like superclean doggie-wag supergreat buddy pal doggie-babe, baby boy, perfect over perfect so after that what to name it is not important. Nothing after all that is important at all. We bit the big one together, and lived on, so, hey—son, a son, yes son, a boy, yes, so, what better sense to make than he’s a Sonboy? And flip that over and see it that way—Sonboy. Sonboy? With us this far eh?


Good! And so now here’s the wax. The child lay there ordering—as each new child does—as each new dog does—ordering us to name you. Each child does this. And each child must be obeyed. After all, that led up t’—best to do simple and safe. After what had led up to now, there’s no more gas left. Nothing more to say, than the truth. The truth’s always simple. Good God—what else is there to say now son? Do you see now why you’re Sonboy?

Okay. Yes.

Think? Ack! Wind back a few, listen. Simple. Safe. Boy. Son. Simple safe boy son. Get it? See now why you’re a Sonboy?

Sure. Okay. I said I do already.

Now? What?

I just do. Like I always do. But look, eh. Breakfast’s all cold again.

Oh—is it?

I am kind of sick of this happening every other day. You know?



Jim Meirose’s short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books). Info at and @jwmeirose on Twitter.

Show Jim some love via PayPal at jmeirose(at)optonline(dot)net.