Brandi Wells

i find a shop that sells false legs. hello, i say, i’d like to buy a false leg. they measure me, examine the indentation of my stump, and give me a false leg. at home i notice they haven’t given me a false leg but a tuxedo. i don’t need a tuxedo, i think. i go back to the false leg shop every day for two years. every day i arrive home to discover i’ve been outfitted in a new tuxedo. why do you keep going back? my wife asks. i won’t let them keep fooling me, i say. my wife tries to put my tuxedo in the closet with all the others, but the closet is full. the bathroom and kitchen and living room and sunroom are all full. they’re very nice tuxedos, she says.

the secret parade is the last parade. there will never be another. they agreed. they all agreed. voted and tallied up their votes and shredded the votes and simply agreed. in case you haven’t noticed, the secret parade is not secret. anyone who doesn’t attend will be shunned. the shunned have to live at the mall, next to a chicken place that smells like burnt chicken and a fabric store that doesn’t smell like anything. everyone at the mall is very sad. the secret parade is held downtown, next to the river. people want to swim in the river because it’s hot, but they are afraid of the parade monitor. the parade monitor is tall with broad shoulders and carries a whip. he is using a megaphone to say, the secret parade is going to last forever.