annashay 
by Nicole Brogdon
HAVE YOU HEARD? Jesus is in town. Isaw him last night—Saturday, on Dirty 6th. I was trying to get into Midnight Cowboy—ringing that door buzzer everybody loves—without my ID. Arguing with that hairy doorman. Some redneck yanked me round by my shoulder—it was Blair!
‘You’re following me!’ he says.
He bit, right into my nose, chomp, likeit was a hotdog. Bloody tender thing gushing, bringingme to my knees. He kicked me, just once, with his pointy shit-kicker boots, men circling like a hunting party. Along came Jesus, gliding out from the shadows, full moonlight bouncing off his face. I’m serious. Leaning down, wearing a red cap with “Jesus” stitched over the bill. Sweet seventies hair billowing from his shoulders like yellow clouds. Looking like Tom Petty.
He stood, unfurling his fingers to the small crowd. ‘Back! Let he who is without sin cast the first stone!’
I expected stones. But Jesus took my hand, pulling me to my feet like I was a petite thing, my nose gushing red on his white shirt.
‘You’re too good for me, Jesus.’
‘Follow me.’ He clasped my hand. I followed, without glancing at that sociopath Blair, Jesus’ rope sandals padding the sidewalk ahead, his hair, his face, resplendent with rose water, angels, light.
We walked through the neon-lit bar district, groups of young women in bandage-style dresses calling to him, ‘We’ve been waiting for you!’ Drunken frat boys and cowboys jostling each other, ‘Ain’t he pretty?’ ‘Dude’s lookin’ so bright, we gotta wear shades.’ Someone harassed me about my ripped nose, my ripped clothes, my ripped soul—’Skanky slut!’ But Jesus sang over them in a harp-like-voice, ‘Let the lady pass.’
A deformed man, grape clusters dangling from his face, stumbled forward, gripping Jesus’ arm. Leprosy, right here in Austin Texas. ‘If you choose, you can make me clean,’ said the man.
I pushed him. ‘Jesus is busy, just now.’
But Jesus’ hand alighted on the man’s shoulder. ‘Be made clean!’ The bumps, lumps, cauliflower shapes fell from the leper’s face onto the sidewalk. He gasped, rubbing smooth skin, striding away. People gathered.
‘One of you will betray me,’ Jesus announced. A drum beat, somewhere.
Jesus turned to me. ‘Just let your light shine.’ Lofty talk, like that.
He held my hand gently, so I followed him down the steps to Town Lake—I’ve followed men to worse places. Last time I was down here, on my knees for some guy, it ended badly. I’ve lost so many men, I’m like a great flood. I’ve lost my mind, my money, my job, my self-respect. My tenderness. Under the Congress Avenue Bridge, beneath the large bat colony in the eaves, the chirp chirping multitudes of sharp-winged bodies swarmed, dotting the black air blacker, I followed Jesus to the water’s edge. He unbuckled my Goodwill sandals, massaging my calves, firing pleasure up my legs—Jesus couldn’t help that. His kind, solemn eyes reminded me of my mother’s, before she left—sunshine, even in the dark. He washed my feet in the lake, cleansing my wound—dabbing the teeth marks on my nose with his handkerchief. He’s just plain folks after all, this guy.
I giggled. ‘Can we walk on water now?’
‘Not now.’ He shook his head. ‘Women always ask for that.’
‘I’m hungry,’ I said. ‘Isn’t there something you can do about loaves and fishes?’
He stared over the manmade lake. Bending, finding a net, casting it expertly over silver liquid, fishes filling the weave quickly. Jesus hauled the slick trout in, scaling them with bare hands. Broiling them with his own fiery breath like a dragon, then cooling, handing me one. I had trouble smelling, due to my nose. But it was delicious—garlic sharp. Jesus blew hot air over the other fishes. ‘The homeless will devour the rest.’ It’s true, there are tarps and tents scattered on the waterfront, schizophrenic men and women lying inside, released from Texas psych wards—I never wanna go back there. People can’t afford city rents, city life.
‘Drink.’ He nudged me with his canteen. ‘Water, for you.’
I drank, something plain and clean that I recognized as cold water. My thirst quenched, I could now feel—hear—atoms, live minnows teeming, glowing in the muddy water, bats gliding, decorating the night air. Someone staring, through the bushes. A wet snake slithered past my naked foot into the reeds.
‘Jesus. Careful, there’s water moccasins.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not afraid of serpents.’ His hand squeezed mine— buttery skin, rounded nails. ‘I’ve got a van nearby,’ he said, voice like syrup. ‘Van Life, that’s the way. Traveling light, working farms. Healing the sick, turning water into wine. It’s what I do.’
I’ll believe anything that tumbles from a man’s mouth—that’s my disease. Looking for a savior, trying not to. But I was tired, bone-tired, my face throbbing. Rustling sounds, mosquitoes carrying viruses—there was evil all around us, shadowy beings with teeth, smelling blood. Biting and gnashing.
‘I’d like to take a handful of pills,’ I said, ‘and lie down in your van—for one night. If you’ll have me.’ I wanted his opalescent skin to rub off on me, his goodness to seep into my calloused feet and hands. With him, I felt something like safe. ‘Can you rescue me?’
Jesus shrugged. ‘Maybe no man is Jesus Christ.’
I elbowed him. ‘I’m learning that.’
‘You, make sure that no one leads you astray,’ he said.
‘Why do you help people, J.?’
A big orange moon shone in the dark casting citrus light over us. ‘Love,’ he answered. ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ He smiled, one gold tooth glinting under the miraculous moon. I’m not gonna tell you about his van, how clean it was. How heavy I slept flat under his army blanket, Jesus just inches from me, his closed eyelids curved like smiles, that yellow moon glow pouring in like juice, bathing us, through his curtains.
oOo
Nicole Brogdon is an Austin TX trauma therapist interested in strugglers and stories, with fiction in Vestal Review, Cleaver, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, Bright Flash, SoFloPoJo, Cafe Irreal, 101Words, Centifictionist and elsewhere. Her work has appeared in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Microfiction 2025. Connect at X @NBrogdonWrites! and Bluesky @nbrogdonwrites.bsky.social.
