by Paul Neilan
the falling, the drifting, the swirling and uplifting
when a wind blows it back to where it’s from
now winter’s come
and changed all the rain you used to know
and you have no idea what snow means
not really
but you feel it finally
and it’s not the kind of cold you thought it would be
∴
“This is the Ballad of the Salad Fork,” a guy in cowboy boots said into the microphone. “No! Nay! Not the mashed potatoes! Please! I beg of you! Hear my cries! I was born for salad alone! Forged in the fires of—”
“Would you shut the fuck up! You’re a fork! You do where I move you! And if you poke me in the mouth one more time, I’m throwing you in the fucking trash! Now give me my mashed potatoes!”
“Look what I found,” Evie said, pulling a silver key drive from her pocket and holding it up to the light.
“Mirror Mirror,” I said.
“The girl who had it was looking to make a deal,” she said. “She had quite a story.”
“I bet she did,” I said. I took a drink. “What are you going to do with it? Return it to the rightful owner?”
“Be hard to track him down, since The Accelerator’s in ashes,” she said. “I’ll take care of it in the meantime.”
“I bet you will,” I said. “How much of all this was Mirror Mirror’s idea?”
“You’d have to ask her that,” she said.
She set her elbows on the table, looked at me.
“The girl with the story,” Evie said, the key drive bridging her fingers. “She wasn’t cheap.”
“That’s the truth,” I said.
It was the same old song. I heard it. I knew. It happened anyway.
I let it go through me, come out the other side, take what it had to in passing.
I finished my drink. “Tell Clyde I said hello,” I said.
“Tell him yourself,” she said. “He’ll be in touch.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “You getting the old gang back together?”
“With a few new additions,” she said, slipping the key drive back into her pocket. “Now’s the time to strike. Lorentz is already in. How about you, Harrigan?”
I didn’t have to think about it. I already knew.
I stood from the table.
“Good seeing you, Evie,” I said.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she said.
I turned to go.
“Harrigan,” Evie said. “The girl with the story. Her name was Violet. She wanted me to tell you.”
“Good to know,” I said.
I walked away as another face I didn’t recognize bent to the microphone. I went through the door, back into the rain.
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Acknowledgments
So many thanks to the following people:
My parents.
My brothers.
Simon Lipskar, Maja Nikolic, Dina Williams, Celia Taylor Mobley, and everyone at Writers House.
Kassie Evashevski, Ryan Wilson, and everyone at Anonymous Content.
Wes Miller, Carmel Shaka, Ben Sevier, Karen Kosztolnyik, Joseph Benincase, Jordan Rubinstein, and everyone at Grand Central Publishing.
Paul Forti, Neil Gupta, Seema Dhar, Anthony Papariello, Jack Hamlin, Eva McGovern, Jason Pagano, Jessica Swenson, Melissa Castillo, Kenneth Ortiz, Brad Casenave, Jon Deasy, Edna Trujillo, Mark Downey, Adam Day, Cassandra Furlow, Mike Scutari, Carrie Moore, Nick Buzanski, Steve Oslund, and Siobhan Dooling.
About the Author
Paul Neilan is the author of Apathy and Other Small Victories. He lives in New Jersey.
