The Second Coming
It was a few days after Easter Sunday that Felicity saw Jesus. He was riding a bike, his long hair flowing like the robe around his shoulders. On one handle bar swung a Lidl bag. It was an odd sight, but his resurrection had just been celebrated in church. Why wouldn’t he go shopping?
She next saw him in the park, eating a sandwich and feeding the ducks. Hardly the five thousand and loaves and fishes, but Felicity knew he cared for all his father’s creatures. Felicity crossed the park to introduce herself, but by the time she reached the bench, he’d vanished, just like that.
On her way home later, there was a commotion in the High Street. Jesus was surrounded by hordes of people, just as he had been back in his day. He must be teaching, Felicity thought. Her heart pounded as she pushed herself forward, only to find Jesus giving CPR to an elderly gentleman lying on the ground. Felicity wondered why Jesus hadn’t just put a hand on the man to heal him like in the bible. Then the paramedics arrived and took over. Jesus slipped away into the crowd before Felicity could follow.
The following Saturday there was a group on the green. People dressed in long robes and colourful clothes wearing flowers in their hair, and there was Jesus, in the mix, holding a goblet in his hand. Mrs Parker came up to her. A woman who always had a nose for gossip.
‘This shouldn’t be allowed,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘Pagan weddings on the green opposite the church. What is the world coming to?’
Felicity ignored her and watched, waiting for Jesus to turn the water into wine, but she’d lost him in the crowd. Damn Mrs Parker for interrupting her.
She went to the vicar and told her Jesus was back.
‘The second coming, you mean?’
‘Well, what would you call it?’
The vicar pulled at her dog collar as if she was having trouble breathing, her face turning as pink as her blouse. ‘Well, we don’t actually know what Jesus looked like,’ referring to Felicity’s description.
‘Of course we do. We have the pictures,’ Felicity thundered.
‘Ah, they are only a representation of what we think he looked like, and of course his skin wouldn’t be white like in most pictures, and probably not angelic looking.’
Felicity was affronted. She had expected more from someone of faith. She left feeling down-hearted.
Two days later, she saw Jesus peddling a little boat across the lake in the park. The day was warm and sunny, yet he was the only one who had taken a boat out. This was significant. Even more so when Jesus waved to Felicity. This was her moment. He was calling to her. Her faith was strong. If Peter could do it, then surely she could.
Felicity stepped off the edge of the path and walked into the water. Shock hit her as she sank. The water was cold and slimy with green algae, but between her splashing she saw Jesus peddling the little boat towards her. He leaned forward and hauled her out with one hand and landed her like a fish on the path. Felicity coughed.
‘Jesus, you save me,’ she said between her coughing fit.
‘Indeed, I did. That was some slip. Are you okay?’
‘You waved to me and I….’
‘Actually, I was waving to my sister. That’s her coming now.’
Felicity sat up in time to see a young woman with long hair, not dissimilar to Jesus’s hair.
‘Gary,’ cried the sister.
Felicity turned to Jesus. ‘Your name is Gary?’
But Jesus, also known as Gary, ignored her as his sister arrived and asked Felicity if she needed an ambulance.
Felicity stood up, her dress and jacket wringing wet. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Thank God Gary was here. We only came to the village for a wedding at the weekend.’
‘Yeah, but we made a little holiday out of it, didn’t we, sis? We’re heading back to London later.’
Gary and his sister fussed over Felicity, but she couldn’t get away fast enough and come Sunday she didn’t mention her encounter with the Jesus imposter. However, Mrs Parker had got wind of it and said what a miracle it was that the pagan hippy had been there to save Felicity from drowning.
‘Someone remarked he looked a little like Jesus,’ Mrs Parker said.
‘Really?’ said Felicity. ‘I wouldn’t have said so.’
Heather Walker is a writer of poetry and short fiction. Her work has featured in various publications, including Banshee Lit, Underbelly and Popshot. Her first full-length novella is due to be published in the summer. She lives in London and blogs at storyandverse.blogspot.com