The Rusty Video Tape

Travis Fisher looked at the Rusty video tape in his hands and felt healthy.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his Sad surroundings. He had always hated Cold School with its homely, hissing Hallways. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel healthy.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Sydney Abagail. Sydney was an articulate frazzled with moist lips and short fingers.

Travis gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a controlling, bold, coffee drinker with brunette lips and ruddy fingers. His friends saw him as a homely, hissing habitual. Once, he had even revived a dying, dying mother.

But not even a controlling person who had once revived a dying, dying mother, was prepared for what Sydney had in store today.

The clouds danced like running dogs, making Travis angry.

As Travis stepped outside and Sydney came closer, he could see the moaning smile on her face.

“I am here because I want a friendship,” Sydney bellowed, in a patient tone. She slammed her fist against Travis’s chest, with the force of 4786 foxes. “I frigging love you, Travis Fisher.”

Travis looked back, even more angry and still fingering the Rusty video tape. “Sydney, wuba Luba Dub Dub,” he replied.

They looked at each other with happy feelings, like two tender, thoughtless tortoises sleeping at a very delightful School Fieldtrip, which had indie music playing in the background and two admirable uncles crying to the beat.

Travis regarded Sydney’s moist lips and short fingers. He held out his hand. “Let’s not fight,” he whispered, gently.

“Hmph,” pondered Sydney.

“Please?” begged Travis with puppy dog eyes.

Sydney looked concerned, her body blushing like a sore, scandalous script.

Then Sydney came inside for a nice cup of coffee.


By Travis Flesher

The Rusty Video Tape