I squealed and giggled in the thrift store until the clerk demanded my silence. Finally–finally, FINALLY FINALLY!–I would have all of the films needed to run a Reba Film Festival, the first of its kind in Tampa, a city that had so little in terms of natural resources.
That night, I put in the tape to test its quality. Under the soothing scnes of table side family prayer, I fell asleep, comforted more than any other film could ever do. When I came to, the television glowed blister bright, miles and miles of videocassette tape seeping from its pores and wrapping around my arms and legs, enshrouding my neck in acetate.
The television began to gurgle with Her voice. “Why play the film when you can have eternal life as the film?” I screamed but I sounded like Keith Carradine. “We’ll pay you scale plus ten and points for home video.” I nodded as best as I could in my new cocoon.
The tendrils began to draw me closer and closer to the VHS machine, its slot suddenly covered in thousands of canine teeth.
Keegan Shepherd 