‘Reba,’ that bartender coffee. ‘Why we haven’t seen Reba around here since nineteen thirty-two.’
The glasses around me began to melt. ‘Nineteen thirty-two?’
‘Ayup, she judged our dance contest—the winner got a Model T and fifty cans of tomaters.’
The walls began to sneeze. A locust burrowed out of the bartender’s nose.
‘B-but who won?’
His eyes contained the secrets of decay and rebirth. ‘Silly boy, ain’t nobody gonna win when the Angel Reba makes you and yers dance.’
Keegan Shepherd 