The angel Reba howled into the night, her crystal tones shattering planets into space gravel.
‘Oh but why. Father,’ Reba cried into the glowing sky. ‘Why must I, your most divine creature—your truest and most yearning of angels—why must I be chosen for the cruelest of obligations?’
God shrugged with two galaxies. ‘To everything, turn, turn, turn, yadda yadda yadda. Didn’t you read my book?’
Reba bent the rings of Saturn into a knot. ‘Why not Cilla Black? Shirley Basset? The most wretched cherubim Vonda Shepard?’
‘Now, now, my ruby warrior,’ God chided. ‘You know all three have busy touring schedules. Besides, Lisa Stansfield told me you were feeling bored.’
Reba fiddled with a dual star between her fingers. ‘I suppose I have craved a new hobby lately.’
God handed her a Polaroid: ‘What truer way to know eternal joy than to dole eternal pain?’
Reba smiled—and that is where rainbows first emerged.
Somewhere, my nose began to bleed.
Keegan Shepherd 