Things I don't own:
The Snapester belongs the J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros. I only pretend.
The title originates from the musical "Fiddler on the Roof." I was forced to sing this song a few hundred times in eighth grade. It has recently lodged itself quite painfully in my brain once more.
puts a tingle in your fingers and a tingle in your feet.
to life!
What is the value of life? I make this inquiry in all seriousness. With less than five quid, one can purchase a nice, sharp, serrated implement and do the deed. Hell, with a rock, for Christ's sake, you can freely bash someone's head in. So we've established that even a muggle is able to snuff out another's existence with little to no expenditure besides a few calories and perhaps your eternal soul. And now we reach that crux, that point of real concern. Where do we go when we die? Are there fluffy cotton balls and shrill harp music awaiting us for all time, or will a man whose more than nutters ceaseless pursue us with an unpleasantly flaming pitchfork. Perhaps we just seamlessly emerge into a new life, kick, screaming, and biting. Or maybe, just maybe, we simply...aren't, anymore. With your lifeblood goes your loves, your thoughts, those bits of genius you were simply itching to share with the rest of the world.
I've reached the conclusion that all this contemplation means little. For me personally, at least. I'm damaged goods. My current social status would be officially referred to as "cold-blooded monster" or "wretch." If I floated up to the choir, dropped into a pit of flaming despair, or was reincarnated as a dung beetle, not a single soul would notice or care. Correction. My students would howl for joy and perform a few sprightly jigs. Even Albus Dumbledore, champion of losers and ingrates everywhere, would probably just simply bow his head for a moment. His mourning would be so rudely interrupted by his irrepressible cheerfulness, which would probably suggest to him some absurd thought relating to his famous lack of woolen socks. My family is dead. My friends are dead, or as good as. I've no illusions. My only contribution to the world before I tragically depart is an effort to dissuade others from following my entirely dignified and distinguished path.
The tenuous grip we all hold on existence is controlled by the gentle pulsing of a delicate mass of organic tissue housed within our brittle frames. When the black leather encasing the skeletal fist of death caresses my skin, I'll be prepared. Frigidity does have its benefits, you know. The true question is, when he comes calling for all the sentimental fools, will you?
For the love of the supernatural and all that is interesting, please review.