The Parade of Corpses
by Brian Clifton
Because the crowd had gathered for quite some time, the babies were crying a sore-throat cry. Despite this, no one dared to leave. It is not everyday one’s town hosts the parade of corpses. Some believed the parade of corpses was magical—all the cemeteries’ graves, all the coffin lids creaking open. The bodies in all states of decay congregated into a complex structural hierarchy the living would not, or could not understand. The dead would march through the main thoroughfare. This understanding forked into two schools of thought.
Some believed the dead would be slow—they lacked muscle. This subcategory of believers forgave the delay. They said, It is natural for the body to break. And so they sat on the sidewalk in the sun with big smiles plastered over their faces. For them, the whole crowd believed what they believed. They were inspired by compassion.
Others believed the magic that revived the corpses also granted preternatural vivacity. They developed plots in their minds. The corpses must be delayed because they were busy pilfering houses, hanging out at the dingy Shell station, smoking pack after pack of Marlboro lights. The dead wailed in their minds on bone-trumpets and skull marimbas. They couldn’t help but frown thinking about all the fun the dead must be having while they waited there, sweating their asses off, for this bullshit parade. You want to head out? they asked. Are you kidding? they responded, and let those fuckers win.
The parade brought out a certain type of resentment among those who did not believe it to be magically derived. Of these, some thought ghouls, and human beings can be ghoulish, disinterred all the dead bodies to display in elaborate contraptions that accentuated the grotesque ways dirt warps a body. Some also believed the ghouls to be building a large float of human bones, pulled by a rented tractor. These people wondered where the ghouls gathered that type of scratch as they squinted down one side of the empty street.
Others thought of the parade as, and they did not like admitting this, a sort of Olympics of the afterlife. There must be a council that chose the town. The parade of corpses could help the area economically—with the tourism, the media, the leveling of businesses to make a large stadium on the taxpayer dollar, the kicking out of homeless people, the whole nine yards. These believers scanned the sweating crowd. They saw parents applying and reapplying sunscreen to their screaming children, grandparents complaining, their neighbors, old high school cliques... They looked for faces they did not recognize.
Others were convinced that the dead would not be so obvious in their choice of parade route. The dead, they reasoned, would stick to side streets, neighborhoods, at times of light traffic. These people nervously turned side-to-side, ready to dart at any moment. They felt inside themselves a great pain—like thrusting a limb into frigid water. They knew they must leave but questioned why so many others were also duped. The dead might only pretend to prefer side streets, etc. They certainly would not like all this attention, and aren’t we all alike when dead? They squirmed.
Another subcategory, mostly PhD. students, believed the parade of corpses would simply be a giant mirror, reflecting the crowd. Their eyes dragged purplish bags, their hair unkempt, their skin sickly. They waited taking mental notes, complaining about student debt and coursework.
Others believed the corpses were invisible to every sober eye, and so they began drinking early. The hour was late; the hangovers arrived. They saw nothing and spent the rest of their time calling for death. Others did not know why the crowd gathered. They had errands to run. Others remained steadfast in the devilry of reanimation. Others pirouetted with their phones held high, hoping to catch a glimpse of something.
Others, others, others. There will always be others in a crowd, murmuring about what it will be like, what death will be like when it comes, if it comes. Yes, it will come—don’t you hear? The bony heels striking and striking the hardening ground. Yes, I think so.
About the Author:
Brian Clifton is the author of the chapbooks MOT and Agape (from Osmanthus Press). They have work in: Pleiades, Guernica, Cincinnati Review, Salt Hill, Colorado Review, The Journal, Beloit Poetry Journal, and other magazines. They are an avid record collector and curator of curiosities.
About Weekly Flash Prose and Poetry:
CutBank Online features one work of flash prose or prose poetry every Monday. Submissions are free and open year-round. Send us your best work of 750 words or less at https://cutbank.submittable.com/submit.