Vicky is Jesus by Raluca Comanelea

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Surrounded by bamboo trees, Molly lounges in her stained oak rocking chair, observing her spotted male cat and wondering which Goddess showered the boy with the gift of true patience. But not the kind exhibited by humans, who simply fall into a momentary lapse of reason and stare with vacant eyes at their immediate surroundings. It’s the kind of patience which defines rules of a social game.

Molly turns into intrigued spectator in her own backyard. She knows that her spotted male cat doesn’t hate birds. The word hate is too big for him. Rather, play has become his adaptive survival tactic. Cat and bird are encouraged to test their limits in a sacred space: the playground. That is, Molly’s backyard.

“A sense of play is an expression of love, or, at least sympathy from the cat,” Molly tells herself. The sparrow begs to differ. The whole experience is frightful for the eyes. Her head is at stake and, boom, the bird is dead! In testing the sparrow’s survival skills through play, the cat invites provocation and wit. Molly expected the bird to adjust her response to the cat’s provocative play by using a vast repertoire of tactics. But no! The bird responded with her usual sublime emotion: terror. It was the sparrow’s own terror which has paralyzed her senses to further carry the game on. And Molly was witness. The bird went numb. The annoyed cat ended the play with an unintentional murder.

“Unless the cat feels the real pangs of hunger. Then the big game is on,” Molly tells herself.

She sprung from her stained oak rocking chair to check on the sparrow. It was dead. Molly saw the confusion in her cat’s eyes. His ears quickly turned in the direction of a melodious voice which was breaking through the thick bamboo stalks.

In the neighbor’s yard, by the fire pit, the drunkard strums his guitar to celebrate A Boy Named Sue for the millionth time. Molly beholds Vicky’s eyes taking shelter in the drunkard’s guitar, in an effort to repress the scallop bits swallowed mechanistically. She sobs unconsolably, after which she takes comfort in the thought that her tongue will never again taste farm animals. Vicky is going to Cambodia. She takes comfort in the thought that the sanctuary will be cure to her enslaving taste for animal flesh—be that scallop.

“Give delusional Vicky two weeks upon return and her soul will die again under painted toes, red lipstick, beef, and bronzer,” Molly told herself.

Vicky is Jesus. She resurrects and dies again, buried in the putrid flesh of a dead animal carcass, which she calls dinner. But Jesus is not Vicky.

“You take a sip of water and pretend you taste everything,” Molly tells herself while she digs a hole in the ground to bury the 12th sparrow that her cat desired to make friends with.


Raluca Comanelea

Raluca Comanelea is a woman born in Romania and a female writer residing in Las Vegas.  She completed her graduate studies at UNLV, where she presently teaches a variety of English Composition courses. Her academic work in the field of American drama and theatre has been published in the Journal of the Far West Popular and American Culture Association. Raluca is also a creative writer. She widely experiments with various forms of short fiction, including flash and micro fiction. Her work centers on the deconstruction of Western myths and on the human drama which unfolds behind the closed doors of a dominant culture.

* Far West Popular and American Culture Associations: Popular Culture Review, vol.31, no.1, spring 2020: Archetypal Development in One Body, One Image: Female Theatricality in Tennessee Williams’s “A Streetcar Named Desire”

        Link: Archetypal Development in One Body, One Image: Female Theatricality in Tennessee Williams’s “A Streetcar Named Desire”

*Alpha Female Society website: Push, Woman!

           Link to blog: Push, Woman

Social Media Links

*Author’s Website:



Cover image by Free-Photos


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